The Woman Who Couldn't Scream

  Bertha slapped the bar. “Sonofabitch!”

  Bergen continued, “On the dock. We had a civilian who decided to capture the criminal for the incompetent cops. That is, by the way, what he shouted as he jumped out of his yacht. ‘Incompetent cops.’”

  “Yacht?”

  “A Marquis Sport Bridge.”

  “Big boat.”

  “Right. Our hero tripped, made a face-plant onto the dock at John Terrance’s feet and when he lifted his head, Terrance had a pistol pointed right at his bloody nose. We ceased pursuit.”

  Weston and Bertha were leaning toward the tiny speaker.

  “Go on,” Kateri pressed.

  “Terrance forced the civilian—tourist by the name of Henry H. Henning—back into the yacht, made him start it. The guy’s wife came up from the galley and screamed bloody murder. Terrance grabbed her, put the pistol to her head. Henry H. drove them out of the harbor. If I’d had a sniper rifle … but I didn’t.” Bergen had put in a stint with the Vegas police department. He didn’t talk about what he did, but Kateri knew he’d been on a sniper team—and returned to Virtue Falls hardened and weary. “The Coast Guard waited an appropriate amount of time, then gave pursuit. They found the Hennings floating without power close to the shore. Terrance had disabled the motor, took a scuba tank and mask, shot Henry H. in the hip and jumped into the water.”

  Kateri filled in, “The Coast Guard stopped to render aid to the Hennings and secure the boat. No sign of Terrance in the water.”

  “Are you giving this report or am I?” Bergen sounded humorous; he knew all too well her expertise acquired from years in the Coast Guard.

  “Terrance doesn’t have a dive suit, right? That would have taken too much time and effort to put on. Right now, water temperature’s running about fifty-three degrees. Hypothermia in ten minutes plus. Rough currents out there.” Kateri thought about the area outside the harbor, the tides, the terrain. “He’ll probably make it to shore, but it’ll be rough on him.”

  “Send armed deputies?”

  “Yes. Flood the area. Extreme caution, blah, blah. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Turning to Sean Weston and Bertha, she said, “You can take care of this?”

  “Go. Get. Him.” Bertha had an ugly twist to her face. “And for me—make him suffer.”

  Kateri owed Bertha the truth. “He’s going to get away again. Too much terrain, too rugged, too much cover, he knows every inch of it, and night is falling fast.”

  “Maybe not. I did shoot him in the ass.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kateri smiled.

  Bertha put her hand on Lacey’s head. “Leave her here with me. And try your damnedest to get John Terrance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The dining room at the Virtue Falls Resort matched the luxury of any world-class restaurant, but the table was not at all up to Benedict’s standards. It was small, set against the wall and close to the kitchen. He had to crane his neck to see the lavish view across the Pacific toward the setting sun. Even the maître d’ had apologized for their placement, but as he said, it was the tourist season and their late reservation had provided them with the last table in the house.

  Benedict had come within inches of making it clear he would take the table against the windows, a table set up and waiting for another couple. He had power and he knew how to get what he wanted.

  Yet Merida inclined her head with a smile. She chose the chair that put her back to the room, allowed the maître d’ to seat her, and signed, “Harold, this is perfect.”

  Harold was apparently the maître d’s name; of course Merida had somehow figured it out and remembered. Harold’s smile blossomed and he awkwardly signed back, “Very good, madam.” An apt skill for a man who worked with the public, and one he had cultivated as part of his job as maître d’.

  Merida’s smile stayed in place during cocktails and appetizers. As she signed, her every motion was graceful, and she showed no impatience when Benedict’s command of the language failed and she had to resort to her tablet. She was his hostess and clearly she had set out to make herself agreeable and put him at ease—which put his teeth on edge a bit, because it reminded him of her manner with Nauplius Brassard, and he did not like the association.

  After they ordered their salads and entrees, she signed, “The table is perhaps not what I would have chosen, but the service, the presentation and the food are exemplary.”

  “The wine list, also,” Benedict said. “If you will allow me to choose, this Sangiovese from Bella Terra is excellent and would go well with your salmon.”

  She nodded and touched her chest over her heart.

  “Excellent choice, sir,” the sommelier said warmly.

  He might be speaking of the wine, but he was looking at Merida.

  “We’ll have that.” Benedict handed the steward the list and waved him away. Putting his elbows on the table, he studied Merida. “You’re lying.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “About what?”

  “You prefer this table.”

  In the smooth, smiling lines of her face, he observed a shift. He had called her a liar; she had tensed. He had told her why he thought she was a liar; she had relaxed. Relaxed because a disagreement about the table was relatively minor.

  Very good. He had learned two things: Merida was a very good actress, and if he wanted to delve into the mystery of her past and personality, he would have to watch carefully. Her outburst the night before had been atypical; she scrupulously guarded her emotions. He said, “You like this table because it’s private, your back is to the room and no one can easily stare while you sign.”

  His insight surprised her, and that reaction she did not bother to hide. “Acute,” she spelled.

  “Now that we’re here, I prefer this table, also.”

  She gestured in question.

  “You’re so beautiful. The sommelier and the maître d’ are enthralled.” In fact, so was Benedict. Enthralled … and wary. “Having everyone stare at you would make you self-conscious, and I prefer you to be comfortable.”

  “And concentrate on you?”

  Now he nodded.

  Her smile became less gracious, more real. “I’m glad to do that.” She glanced around and moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “I don’t like being the center of attention.”

  “That’s why you changed your looks.”

  “Partly. But also to feel as if my youth had not totally passed me by.” Abruptly, she put her hands in her lap, as if she’d said too much.

  She’d been married to a rich man who showed her off like a trophy and demanded she maintain the beauty standards of his long-departed youth. Now she was free and she reveled in that freedom to dress, groom and behave as she wished.

  “I wonder why you married Nauplius Brassard.”

  Her smile disappeared. Her eyes narrowed on him. “My boyfriend forced me.”

  He never foresaw that answer, or the hostility with which she signed. “Forced you … how?”

  “He made it impossible for me to do anything but marry Nauplius. It was a matter of life or death. I chose life. I made an agreement, and I kept it.”

  Their waiter and Harold approached with the salads, and in unison they placed them on the table.

  She thanked them with the flat of her hand to her mouth, and they departed looking dazed.

  Benedict picked up his fork. “You’re a wealthy woman. Have you revenged yourself on this boyfriend?”

  Her smile was back, that gracious, blank, indecipherable smile. “I am in the process.”

  “I suppose I should feel sorry for the bastard. But he deserves it.”

  “Yes.” She ate a bite of her salad, put down her fork, pulled out her tablet and typed, then handed it to him. “This is excellent. The Stilton is perfect with these greens and the citrus dressing provides a lovely backdrop for the flavors.”

  “Yeah, mine’s good, too.” She had stepped away from the intimacy of sign language and returned to the mechanical form
of communication. Subtly, she was placing him into a category with everyone else.

  He couldn’t figure her out. Why she had suddenly approached him when before she had so clearly resisted? Maybe she was on the hunt for another wealthy husband and she was playing him? Or maybe everything about her reeked of deception. Maybe … oh, the possibilities were endless.

  The closer he got to her, the more determined he was to comprehend her. It almost seemed knowing her was more important than having sex with her. If he’d had a lick of sense, that realization would alarm him.

  Yes, like every other man in Virtue Falls, he was enthralled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Kateri stumbled going into Rainbow’s dim hospital room. She caught herself before she fell, but the stitches and sore muscles protested, and she gasped at the pain.

  Dr. Frownfelter turned away from the bed. He was rumpled, overweight, with bags under his eyes and he wore a white coat that needed to be ironed and white running shoes that needed to be cleaned. He was officially retired, and officially on duty whenever he was needed. “About time you got here. Let me look at those ribs.”

  Kateri didn’t move. “Rainbow?”

  “She’s still with us. Sit down. You look like hell.”

  Kateri took her time getting to the chair and sinking onto the seat. “Long day.”

  “So I heard. Unbutton that shirt.” Dr. Frownfelter pressed the nurse’s call button. “Peggy’s on duty. You two can catch up.”

  After the tsunami, Kateri had spent so much time in the hospital she knew all the nurses from here to Seattle.

  Peggy came through the door, and Dr. Frownfelter told her, “We need to examine Kateri’s injuries. I’m thinking pain relief, some disinfectant, a good-sized brick to knock some sense into her.”

  Kateri tried to laugh and winced.

  Peggy was sixty, tall, solid, practical and she didn’t crack a smile. “Of course, Doctor. Do you want the brick sterilized?”

  “Dirty as hell should do it.”

  Peggy headed out the door and Dr. Frownfelter sat down in front of Kateri. He watched her try to get out of the shirt.

  Her fingers were shaking too much to deal with the buttons.

  With a sound of disgust, he brushed her hands aside and finished the task. “Did you get him? I suppose not, or you would be less despairing.”

  “We didn’t get him. John Terrance has been sneaking around the countryside delivering his drugs. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s smart.”

  “Like a fox.”

  “That’s a slur on all foxes. But yes. Sly and well prepared.”

  Peggy returned with a tray covered with a white cloth, placed it on the small table and rolled it close to Dr. Frownfelter’s elbow. She knelt beside Kateri, carefully removed the adhesive, peeled the bandages back and muttered darkly.

  Kateri didn’t ask what she had said. She was merely glad to get the adhesive off.

  Dr. Frownfelter delved into his coat pocket and retrieved a bottle of Tums and a battered flashlight. He offered Kateri the bottle. “Want a Tums? Even if you haven’t got indigestion, they’re good for your calcium.”

  Kateri took one, popped it in her mouth and shuddered. “That’s awful.”

  “Probably a fruit flavor.” Dr. Frownfelter pointed his flashlight at Kateri’s ribs. “This looks better than I would have expected, considering. The stitches are holding this time. Whatever else you can say about the frog god, he gave you remarkable recuperative powers.” The doctor might not be Native American, but he knew the local legends.

  Kateri craned her neck to see the red, jagged wound over her ribs. “If only that included pain relief.”

  Dr. Frownfelter pulled on his gloves, lifted a syringe and prepared to inject it close to the stitches. “If the frog god had provided that, you’d simply do more stupid things to injure yourself.”

  “I didn’t injure myself,” she snapped. “I was shot.”

  “Most patients would lie down and recover. It is considered the wise move to make. Let’s use some pain relief and clean this up.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Again.”

  Peggy lifted the cloth off the tray and revealed an impressive array of instruments.

  Dr. Frownfelter placed the syringe in the disposal container. “Mike Sun called me about the autopsy he’s doing. Asked me about Monique Ries, where exactly the slashing was relative to her face and neck, wanted to know what I thought had been used to cause the injury.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “She was slashed along the jawline, right at the bone, with something incredibly sharp because she didn’t realize at first that she was being cut. That accounted for the clean line along the first two inches. After that, not even booze could dull the pain. Monique went berserk and the cut got ugly.” He went to work cleaning up Kateri’s ribs. “I thought the assailant had aimed for her throat and missed, but Mike said the slashing on the deceased was exactly in the same location—and then some.”

  “All around the jaw, up…” Kateri realized she’d better not visualize that again, not while Dr. Frownfelter was working on her ribs. “It was such a precise cut. About two hours ago, Mike sent me the report. I forwarded it to Garik Jacobsen, but I haven’t had time to read it. Did Mike tell you what was used to make the incision?”

  “He didn’t know. I suggested a scalpel, but he said no. Not a razor blade, not an X-Acto knife … How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”

  Kateri couldn’t remember. “Why?”

  “Because your stomach’s growling so loud we can hear it,” Peggy said.

  “Can you round her something up?” Dr. Frownfelter worked on the injury, dabbing and pressing. “She’ll need something in her gullet before she takes any medication.”

  “Gullet? Is that official medical talk?” Kateri asked.

  “Soup. Jell-O. Pudding. Rice. The usual for this time of night. Then I’ll call down to the cafeteria and have them bring up a meal.” Peggy whipped out the door.

  “Saw my old friend Bertha Waldschmidt and ordered her an X-ray,” Dr. Frownfelter chuckled and shook his head at the same time. “What a woman. Holds off a maniac with a machete, chases him out of her bar, shoots him in the butt, then fractures her hip jumping up on the bar in a rage.”

  “Is she going to have to have surgery?”

  “Hairline fracture. She saw the orthopedist. If she uses crutches, keeps the weight off of it, uses heat and cold and the X-rays show normal healing—no. But she’s older, so I give a fifty/fifty chance of it healing on its own. If it doesn’t, I don’t want to be the one who tells her she has to head to Seattle for a hip replacement.” He opened a wide package and pulled out a sterile dressing.

  “No.” Over Dr. Frownfelter’s shoulder, Kateri observed Rainbow’s still figure, her waxy complexion, the shallow rise of her chest. “Is she worse? I can’t tell.”

  “Still hovering on the brink. Every day someone from town comes in and sits with her, talks to her. That anchors her, I believe. Most nights she’s alone and she slips a little farther along the path.” He taped the dressing in place.

  Kateri wanted to go home, to sleep in her own bed with Stag and Lacey, but she said, “I can stay tonight.”

  To her surprise, Dr. Frownfelter didn’t argue. “We’ll bring a cot in.”

  Peggy came back with chocolate pudding and a cup of beef bouillon.

  Kateri drank the bouillon and burned her mouth. She used the pudding to soothe her tongue.

  Dr. Frownfelter stripped off his gloves and tossed them. “You got any other injuries that require attention? How’s the hip, the knee, the … how’re all the artificial joints?”

  “I’m stiff. But this food was amazing.”

  Dr. Frownfelter laughed creakily. “We don’t hear that every day.”

  “I’ve got a tray on the way,” Peggy said. “And a cot. Is there anybody you want us to call?”

  “Stag Denali. I can do it. He’s probably going to yell, and it migh
t as well be at me.” Kateri started to stand.

  Dr. Frownfelter and Peggy each grabbed an arm and helped her up.

  “Thank you.” Kateri limped over to the bed, leaned over Rainbow’s face, smoothed the hair away from her forehead. “Rainbow,” she called softly. “I’m here. I’m staying with you tonight.”

  Dr. Frownfelter shoved a chair under her knees. “Sit down before you fall down, at least until the cot gets here.”

  Kateri sat and held Rainbow’s cool hand between both of hers. “So much is happening, Rainbow. Did you hear any of what I was telling the doctor? It’s very exciting. My life is full of adventure. And you wouldn’t believe the stupid thing I said today about me and casual relationships. Or maybe you would.” She half expected to hear Rainbow laughing at her, booming out wisdom, talking so fast the words tumbled over themselves.

  Yet except for the whoosh of the door as Dr. Frownfelter left the room and Peggy’s careful cleanup of the tray, the room was silent.

  When Dr. Frownfelter returned, a mug in each hand, Peggy indicated Kateri, head resting on the mattress, sound asleep. “Still holding Rainbow’s hand.”

  “This is going to be a tough one for her.”

  Peggy took a blanket from the warmer and tucked it around Kateri. “Do you want me to call Stag Denali?”

  “I already did it. He’s a big guy. Young. When he gets here, he can move her to the cot.” Dr. Frownfelter handed Peggy one of the mugs. “Come on, old girl, let’s do our final rounds and when the next crew comes in, we’ll head for home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Benedict stared out the windshield at the dark, windy coastal road lit only by the sweep of the headlights. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman buy dinner for me before.”

  Merida was driving; she had limited herself to one glass of that very fine wine, so she couldn’t blame the alcohol. But without thinking, she lifted one hand from the wheel and signed, “Yes, you have. Remember—” Horrified, she caught herself.

  “Remember what?” His head turned toward her and he stared.

  Remember when I dragged you to the Hickory Barn for barbecue and I paid? “Nothing. I was thinking of … nothing.” She put her hand back on the wheel before she blurted out another word.