Mortal Remains Page 15

  Nell’s words reinvoked the slimy cold sensation he’d felt while standing in the desolate remains of that delivery room. It was all legal, though, charitable even, according to the times, and Nell probably wasn’t going to tell him anything that would explain his father’s interest in the home. Nevertheless, he settled back, sipped his tea, and continued to listen, just in case.

  “… even little things she found to be a humiliation, such as how her file was red, and all the other women’s were green, to tag her as a local. Someone told her, ‘It’s for your own protection, so we can keep your records in a special lockup, away from the prying eyes of any staff who live nearby and might know you.’ I suppose the idea made sense, but it just added to her feeling she had something to be ashamed about.”

  Mark shook his head at the sorrow of it all, then changed the topic to what he hoped would be more fertile ground, asking her questions about the week of Kelly’s disappearance, specifically if Nell had seen or heard anything of Chaz Braden being around when he normally should have been in New York. “Remember, it was the Monday we didn’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore,” he reminded her, knowing she was a staunch Democrat.

  Nothing.

  He inquired about Samantha McShane and if anyone had seen her in the vicinity around that time.

  Nell gave an indignant snort. “The woman hardly ever came into Hampton Junction. Like she was too good for us. The few occasions she did, when Kelly was little, I mostly saw her in Tim Madden’s drugstore buying medicine while going on about how sick her child was. One day word got around that she tried that act with your father, and he set her straight. Kelly seemed to be more visible after that set-to, riding her bike into town and playing with local kids as she got older. But once Kelly grew up, left home, and married Chaz Braden, her parents weren’t down here much, and eventually they sold the place. Probably because the Bradens virtually blackballed them from the social circuit. I used to play cards with a number of housekeepers who worked for that set, and they told me anyone who wanted a Braden at their party didn’t dare invite Samantha or Walter McShane. From what I heard she became pretty much a recluse in her New York place as well. But why are you asking about her? You think she had something to do with the murder?”

  “Now don’t you start that story, Nell.”

  And so it went. Nothing she told him even hinted at a lead.

  As it grew darker outside, snow flew horizontally against a double row of little squared panes that overlooked the Hudson Valley. He got up and peered outside. In the growing darkness snow clouds seemed to be building up over the mountains to the east, yet he could still see the river below, gray as a snake as it coiled through the hills. Despite the smallness and age of the cabin, it looked as solid as a well-made ship, and the wind driving the flakes couldn’t disturb the quiet coziness within. He returned to his chair, accepted another cup of tea, and their talk moved on to the coming of winter.

  “There were some funny things, though, come to think of it,” she said after a pause in the conversation.

  “Funny things?”

  “About that home. You’d think with all the charitable spirit behind it, they’d have done more to make the place a little bit nicer.”

  “How could they, with a forbidding building like that to start with?”

  “They had enough land to make it like a park in there, or at least put in a garden. I remember Ginny Strang, God bless her dear departed soul, telling me she suggested as much when she worked in the place. The women would have liked tending it for something to do, she figured. As it was, they only had a half-finished lawn to walk on and pretty much nothing to occupy them. Well, the idea was turned down flat.”

  All part of their punishment, he thought, more ghosts from the cryptlike rooms rising to stir his anger. “Obviously, you should have been running the place, Nell.”

  “I would have been glad to. But that’s another thing. The way they hired people. Very few locals. And they never took anyone full-time.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know why. Lots were willing to work from here, nurses trained in the war, but they only gave people two or three shifts a week, and mostly picked outsiders over us from Hampton Junction.” She sniffed as if freshly offended. “I guess once again we weren’t good enough.”

  “Now, Nell, it could be just as they did with your friend – their wanting to ensure the privacy of the mothers,” he said, trying to mollify her. “With different staff all the time, and none of them likely to have any social contacts beyond the place of work, the patients would probably feel more anonymous.”

  She puckered her face at what he said and continued to look miffed.

  “Come on, don’t get upset over nothing,” he pressed. Maybe he couldn’t “cure” her knee, but he at least should be able to get her out of a snit. “I know it backfired for her, but given the censorious climate of those days, it makes a sick kind of sense. It’s certainly the opposite of how we hire today, bending over backward to keep the same people around so the patients get to know who’s taking care of them.”

  “Then how come it was identical to what happened at that fancy-schmancy maternity center the Bradens ran in Saratoga? No need for women to feel ashamed there.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They hired a few former nurses from Hampton Junction to work there as well, but none of them could get a full-time job at that place either.” She finished with her scrawny head as erect as an eagle’s and a so-there glare.

  Snow made the dusk luminous. Even with four-wheel drive, whenever he topped thirty miles an hour the Jeep started to fishtail toward the ditch, and he had to wrestle the wheel against the pull of the slush. The road out to Nell’s place was so infrequently traveled it was the last priority for the plows.

  He rummaged through his CD holder and soon he crawled along to the breathy voice of Diana Krall singing “The Look of Love.” The car heater quickly warmed the interior of the Jeep to the point he could open his jacket, and the wipers beat a steady rhythm against the storm. With his headlights switched low to reduce their glare against the flakes, he easily distinguished the swell of the road from the steep drop of its shoulders on either side. Better straddle the middle, he decided, having the highway all to himself and not wanting to skid anywhere near the edge.

  He continued to feel disappointed that, pleasant as his visit with Nell had been, she’d told him nothing new about Kelly’s murder or why his father might have been interested in either the maternity center or the home. Somehow, after his initial good luck with Kelly’s old file and spotting Earl Garnet’s role in her life, he’d assumed he was on a roll, that he’d continue to round up leads at the same speed.

  Now he felt at a dead end, the next step as obscure and dark as the woods on either side of him.

  He hoped Earl had fared better today. He patted his cellular phone in the breast pocket of his shirt, wishing he knew Earl’s number, which lay safely buried in the wallet he was sitting on and would be hell to get out. No matter. He’d be home soon. The traction felt more secure now that he hogged the center of the highway, and he gently eased his speed up to forty miles an hour.

  Settling back, he watched the sweep of flakes across his windshield as Krall drifted into another song. She seemed to be whispering it into his ear.

  “… I get along without you very well…”

  A loud thwack sounded on his right, something stung the side of his face, and the glass immediately in front of him shattered into a silvery web of cracks around a small black hole.

  “Jesus!” He jumped in fright against the restraints of his seat belt and inadvertently floored the accelerator. The Jeep lurched ahead, immediately swiveling to the left. He instinctively jammed on the brakes, and felt the staccato pump of the antilock system, but too late. In the snow-spotted blaze of his headlights, he glimpsed the edge of the road as it flew under him and the hood of his car nose-dived down a ten-foot embankment toward a ravine of open
water lined with rocks. Amidst a deafening bam of impact and crunch of crumpling metal, he flew forward against the chest strap of his seat belt only to be pounded backward by the airbag exploding out of the steering wheel.

  He felt he’d been hit by a giant boxing glove and struggled to breathe. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he managed to suck in a breath.

  He sat in total silence except for the howling of the wind and the occasional ping from the remains of his motor as it cooled down. Though the engine had cut out, the dash lights remained on. He brought his hand up to his stinging cheek and felt it covered with tiny sharp fragments. He looked over to the passenger door, and instantly a searing pain shot through the corner of his eye. “Shit!” he screamed, covering it with his palm, but not before he saw a pattern of splintered glass around a central hole identical to the one in front.

  He’d been shot at! One of those fucking drunk hunters had taken a shot at him.

  The burning in his eye grew worse, but fury overruled pain. He snapped open his safety belt, and after a couple heaves with his shoulder against the door, managed to push it open and crawl out. “You fucking asshole!” he hollered at the woods on the other side of the road where the shot had come from. “I could have been killed!”

  A steady rush of wind through the trees, and the soft hiss of flakes striking the ground amplified the silence.

  “You son of a bitch, come and help me. I’ve got glass in my eye.”

  No answer.

  Christ, would the shooter just run away? “Help me, dammit!”

  Nothing.

  Son of a bitch.

  Still cupping his injured eye, he squinted with the left at the damaged Jeep.

  The right high beam, still shining bright, faced straight down into a shallow stream of water that he only then realized he was standing in. The ambient light showed him the front wheel on his side of the vehicle had become part of the doorframe. And he could smell gasoline, a lot of it. Pushing off from where he’d been leaning on the hood, he turned and started to climb back up toward the highway. But his boot slipped on a rock, and he pitched forward into the water, landing on his hands and knees. “Goddamn it,” he yelled, the pain in his eye trebling to the point he hardly noticed the burning cold up to his wrists and thighs. He quickly got to his feet and jammed his fingers under his arms, where they continued to burn. Some water ran down his legs into his boots, soaking the lower half of his trousers, but the all-important feet and toes stayed mostly dry.

  “You’ve got to help me!” he hollered one more time, knowing the gutless creep had probably run off, saving his own skin rather than facing up to his brainless act. He didn’t need his help anyway, he thought, reaching in his shirt pocket for his cell phone.

  It was gone.

  Oh God, he thought, looking down where he stood. By the reflected glow of the headlight, he saw the end of it sticking a half inch out of the water. It had fallen out when he fell.

  He snatched it up and flipped it open.

  Dead.

  He heard a soft whump behind him, and a sudden orange glow came from beneath the Jeep.

  Ignoring the pain in his eye, he started to run along the streambed. If it blew, he’d get a backful of steel.

  He cut right, and started scrambling up rocks coated in snow. He reached the road and, crouched low, made a beeline for the far side, slipping as he ran.

  The Jeep exploded just as he reached the far ditch. He threw himself facedown on the snow-covered dirt and heard bits of metal fly over his head. Peeking through his fingers with his good eye, he saw the entire forest light up in the glow, the trees and glittering ground between cast in flickering gold.

  That’s when he saw him.

  In a growth of young birch a man stood watching, as casually as if at a bonfire, his eyes fixed on the burning car, gun held at the ready across his chest. The peak of a camouflaged hunting cap hid his face.

  Mark’s insides crawled toward his throat.

  What kind of creep would deliberately shoot someone off the road, then hang around watching?

  A very dangerous one.

  The initial burst of light subsided, throwing the interior of the woods into darkness.

  Mark riveted his gaze in the direction where he’d seen the man. Could the guy be waiting to take another shot, the initial one intended to hit him after all? He’d obviously ignored the shouts for help.

  No, don’t go overboard here. The man’s hanging around didn’t necessarily mean he intended to fire again or meant to seriously injure him in the first place. The guy could be watching to make sure he got out okay. Probably he hadn’t even expected the car would blow up, and was now shitting bricks, not knowing whether his “prank” had ended up killing someone.

  Not that he, Mark Roper, was about to put the asshole’s mind to rest by standing up to show he’d gotten safely away.

  Metal groaned as it twisted in the heat, lightbulbs blew apart with loud popping noises, and a sickening perfume of burning paint, melting plastic, and rubber filled the air.

  But try as he might, Mark couldn’t ignore the darker possibilities running through his head. Icy rivulets of melted snow dripped down his back, and his eye throbbed more fiercely. The man could be a certified crazy. Having taken a potshot and done this much damage, he might decide to finish off his prey.

  Or an even worse scenario: This was no random act, and Mark had been deliberately ambushed.

  After all, in Chaz Braden he had an enemy with reason to want him out of the way. But how could that asshole or anyone else have known to lie in wait for him on this road at this time? No one followed him on the way out to Nell’s. There hadn’t been another car on the road.

  He continued to stare into the forest. Had the man with the gun seen him run to this hiding spot?

  Maybe not. He’d bent low and dashed to the shadows of the ditch before the blast illuminated the place he’d crossed.

  But the guy would only have to check around the remains of his Jeep to find boot prints in the snow. What if the idiot took a notion to follow him?

  Time to get farther away.

  He ran along the ditch. After a hundred yards, repeated spills into a creek that meandered under the snow had him soaking wet. As he put more distance between him and where the man had been in the woods, the wind cut through his clothing, making him shiver. He’d soon be in big trouble with hypothermia if he stayed out in this for very long.

  Yet the nearest house was Nell’s, ten miles back, and the first houses at the outskirts of town lay ten miles ahead.

  Normally an easy run, he might not make either because of the cold.

  His own home was less than three miles away, on the other side of a range of hills to his right. The distance wasn’t any big deal – a forty-minute walk in the city, plus he was in good shape – and the forest would provide cover, both from a pursuer and the wind. But it was across rough country, a trek difficult enough during the day, let alone at night.

  He peered up over the edge of the highway.

  Not a headlight in either direction. He could easily freeze to death waiting for someone to come along.

  He looked over toward the fiery wreckage again. The glowing orb of light encasing it created the impression of a macabre Christmas ornament suspended in the darkness. At the edge of the sphere he saw movement, and the silhouette of the hunter strode across the road.

  The man stood a few moments facing the fire, his back to Mark. He was as tall as Chaz Braden, but bulkier. Yet winter clothing under the camouflage clothing could produce that effect. Still cradling the gun, he reached into his outfit, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long drink.

  Enough trying to second-guess a creep, especially one who was all boozed up.

  Mark turned and, staying low, ran to the woods. A few yards into the trees he found it considerably darker, but could still see the pale surface of the snow on the ground and the trunks of the trees ahead of him. Holding his hands out to ward off any low b
ranches, he pushed deeper, balancing speed with stealth. His only hope would be to get as much of a lead as possible before his attacker found his trail.

  Glancing back over his shoulder and through the trees, Mark saw the man’s silhouetted form circle the car, then kneel where tracks would have been. The figure reached into his pocket, and, seconds later, a tiny beam of light shot out from his hand toward the ground.

  Mark pressed ahead all the faster.

  The floor of the forest sloped steeply upward, and his breathing quickly became labored. The trees overhead were old, big enough to have blocked the sun for the last hundred years, so there was little new undergrowth to ensnare him. But the rocks and wet leaves beneath the snow made traction difficult, and with each step forward he seemed to slide halfway back. Every now and then a branch caught him across the face, and the pain in his injured eye seared as hot as if a live coal were stuck in it.

  But up he went, able to use the left eye by squinting the injured one closed. Having adapted to the dark, he could see enough to grab low-hanging branches and pull himself along whenever his feet started to skid.

  Taking another glance backward, he saw the man with the rifle following his thin cone of light across the highway toward Mark’s first hiding place.

  He kept going up, figuring he was now a hundred and twenty yards from the road and had probably climbed a hundred feet of elevation.

  Two ridges lay ahead, each about five hundred feet high with a shallow valley between them, some of it open ground. But if he could reach the first ridge well ahead of the hunter, he could widen his lead going down the far slope, possibly even get out of rifle range. That might discourage his pursuer from following him.