What the hell? Laurie turned her head toward the sound . . .
And found a boat, just yards away. A powerful, rumbling speedboat, bucking the current and bearing three figures within it.
“No time to be hanging around,” came the bellowing voice of one of the figures, torn by the wind.
Not for the first time in the last few minutes, Laurie wondered if she was dreaming as she looked down at a speedboat containing two coastguardsmen and Lieutenant Filmore.
“What say we get the hell out of here?” said Filmore, as one of the guardsmen threw a lifesaver overboard and told Laurie to jump.
Chapter Forty-One
Laurie got a glimpse of her reflection, grimacing as she caught sight of the swelling on the side of her head. She’d spent the last thirty minutes in and out of consciousness as she’d taken the improbable boat ride down toward the high school, where she was currently lying in a makeshift emergency ward.
“Follow the light,” said the doctor tending her.
Laurie looked away from the mirror, focusing her eyes on the penlight, the pain in her head now a dull ache.
“Any nausea?”
“Not at the moment.”
“OK,” he said, sitting up straight and swiping his palm wearily over his face. “I want you to stay here for the next few hours. We’ll need to monitor you for a possible concussion.”
Laurie tried to push herself up but her arms felt insubstantial. “I need to be—”
“What you need to be doing is resting,” said the doctor. “Someone will check in on you every twenty minutes, but please, try to get some sleep.”
So disoriented had she been that Laurie hadn’t even noticed the IV drip in her arm. She couldn’t remember leaving the boat once they’d reached the school or what, if anything, she’d told Filmore. It didn’t matter. What she’d tell him now was that a killer was out on the loose somewhere, and she needed to find him.
She tried to get up again, her body feeling like it was floating above the bed. Maybe he’s here, she thought as her eyelids began to lower. What would happen then, she thought, before finally succumbing to sleep.
The smell of coffee roused her sometime later. She looked up from her position on the bed to see David holding a cup, his look a mixture of happiness and concern.
“Is that for me?” said Laurie, not recognizing the dry rasp of her own voice as David sat down next to her on the bed.
David placed his coffee down on the side table. “No, this is for you,” he said, handing her a cup of water.
She winced as she sipped the tepid liquid.
“Umm, good, huh?” he said.
Actually, it was. She felt herself perking up as the liquid passed down her throat. When she’d finished it, she pushed herself up and looked around at the small cubicle. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty p.m.”
“How long have I been out?”
“You’ve been sawing logs for about ten hours.”
“Jesus, how did you let this happen?” said Laurie, reaching for the tube stuck in her arm.
David lunged for her hand and held it. “Whoa, cowboy. What are you doing?”
“I need to talk to Warren,” she said, grabbing hold of David’s arm with her free hand.
“OK,” he said, “I can get him, but you need to see the doc first. You’ve had quite a time of it, Laurie.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
Laurie matched her husband’s smile. “That might be so, but I need to speak to Warren now.”
David shook his head. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”
“This is about your dad, David.”
The lightness in David’s eyes died at the mention of his father. “I heard what happened to Maurice.”
“I’m not sure it was him, David,” she said, realizing as she spoke how absurd it sounded.
David frowned. “What? You don’t think Frank killed his brother?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not . . . I found some . . . evidence.” She couldn’t get into it all with him right now, certainly didn’t want to tell him about the letter just yet. “That’s why I need to talk to Warren.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
She sighed. “It goes back to the first murder, something I need to know more about,” she said, reaching out for David’s hand. “It might even prove that Frank didn’t kill your mother.”
David pulled his hand free and leaned away from her. He squinted sourly at her. “He sure did some job on you, didn’t he?”
“David, please. I’ll explain everything. I just need to speak to Warren first.”
“Fine,” said David, who stood up, his head still shaking. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me what the hell happened to you,” he added, turning away before she had the chance to respond.
Laurie looked at the IV drip, contemplating whether it would be safe to remove it. She felt much better, a newfound clarity washing over her following her sleep. Her resolve now was to find Frank. She was still a police detective and her investigation couldn’t simply grind to a halt because of a windstorm. She understood David’s misgivings, but she had to figure this the hell out. She owed it to so many people, David included, and she was sure he would understand in the long run. It was unfortunate that it had come to this so soon after they’d started talking about Milly again, but that couldn’t be helped. The hurt over Rebecca Whitehead was still fresh, even if David’s affair was imagined, but she’d managed to put that to the back of her mind. She hoped David would be able to forgive her in a similar vein, for what she had to do now.
When Warren pulled open the curtain of her cubicle, he looked so wiped out it hurt to look at him. He was usually so particular about his appearance that seeing him in mismatched sweatpants and a sweatshirt, his face dotted with silver-gray stubble, made him look frail and vulnerable. Hell, it made him look his age.
At least he could raise a grin. “You wanted to see me, little lady?” he said, doffing an imaginary hat toward her.
“How’s David?” she asked as he eased down on the seat next to her bed.
“He was worried sick about you. We both were. Thought we’d lost you.”
“And now?”
“Now, he’s a little pissed with you, for whatever reason, but he’s still worried. It’ll work itself out. More to the point, how are you? Filmore told me what happened. Said he caught you clinging to a lamppost like a drunk who’d got stuck up a tree.”
“His words?”
“I embellish.” In the glow of her table lamp, it was true that he looked every year of his age. His eyes were sunken, and his skin seemed scored with a fresh field of wrinkles. Still, his eyes radiated the same sense of strength she’d always seen in him. Despite those deep crevices in his skin, it was hard to believe he was some twenty years Frank’s senior. Put them side by side, and she would have sworn there was little more than five years between them.
“Is he here? Filmore?”
“Resting up. He took a knock too, rescuing some folks before he found you.”
“He tell you about Maurice?”