tightly around his wrist, the better to hold on. “Just a couple more feet and we’re there,” he said with a sudden rush of bravado. “Two, maybe three. We’re going to make it, right?”
Now he was trying to spur her on, even though both of his arms had to be ready to fall off. But he could tell that she was losing it.
“Almost there,” she croaked, slowly tilting her head upward, raising her eyes. She could see the flashlight up there. Five feet away. Might as well be five miles. “You… still my boy?”
“You know I am. Know something else? Your gas tank isn’t empty. You’ve got two more gallons left.”
She tried to smile but was too weak. “I-I do?”
“You come with an emergency reserve tank. I read about it in your owner’s manual. Listen to me… Des, are you listening to me?”
“Y-Yeah?”
“My turn to do the heavy lifting now. Soon as I get both feet up under me. All you have to do is move us up two more inches. Then I can push you the rest of the way, okay? Can you give me two more inches?”
Groaning, she started to climb again, positive her fingers were about to break right off at the knuckle. And now he had both feet under him on that little tree and he was pushing her upward instead of pulling her down, lifting her up, up, up the side of the cliff just like when she was a little girl and the Deacon would take her for a ride up on his shoulders, laughing and singing. And Des was grabbing for the top now and she was safely up and she was-
Until suddenly there was an awful cracking sound and that little tree gave way.
And Mitch was hanging on to her for dear life again, nothing under him besides blackness and death. But she could brace her knees against solid stone now, and he was making it up, up, and over and they were both collapsed there, alive, covering each other’s faces with kisses, grateful for life, grateful for each other, grateful.
They lay there for a long time, soaking wet, too exhausted to stir. The awful pain in Des’s left shoulder didn’t subside at all. She couldn’t move the arm one bit.
“Admit it,” she finally said weakly. “Admit that you’re glad I made you lose those ten pounds.”
“I will never, ever doubt you again,” he groaned, sprawled there beside her. “Only, what do I do now?”
“About what?”
“I just killed a man.”
“Don’t go there, Mitch. Will Durslag did that to himself.”
“No, that’s not what happened,” Mitch said with sudden vehemence. “You didn’t see it, Des. I smashed him in the head with a bottle. I killed him.”
“Before he killed you. Which, by the way, he almost did.”
“I know, but-”
“No buts!” Des said angrily. “Just forget about any buts and you listen to me, okay? You will need a story for Rico. And if you don’t stake one out and stick to it you’ll be looking at the inside of a criminal investigation. Will Durslag murdered two people, and he tried to murder you-it was kill or be killed, understand? Say you understand!”
“What are you so upset about?”
“Because I just saved your fool life and I am not going to throw you back. I worked too damned hard.”
He was silent for a moment. “Okay, I understand.”
“Thank you.” She reached over with her good arm and stroked his face. “You got his confession, right?”
“Tape recorder’s in my back pocket. Or it was. I don’t have enough strength to see if it’s still there.”
“Roll over.”
He rolled over on to his side and she smacked his butt with her fist, striking something squarish and hard. “It’s going to be okay. I can work with Rico.” Now she fumbled around for her cell phone.
“Hey, Des?”
“What is it, bod man?”
“Have I told you recently how much I love you?”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind if you tell me again. I’ve had a pretty hard night.”
The sun woke her early. There was no sleeping late on Big Sister. Not in July. Not even with the aid of multiple painkillers.
The morning was warm, but there was a fresh, lovely breeze off the water. Mitch made the coffee and poured them each a cup. She got herself into a tank top and gym shorts and they went strollingbarefoot together on the island’s narrow beach, sipping their coffee, neither of them moving very fast. They were the walking wounded. Des wore a sling on her left arm and bandages around all five fingers on her drawing hand. Mitch’s right cheek was scraped raw, and he had an angry welt on his neck where Will had kicked him. Will had also kicked him in the ribs, cracking two of them.
When they returned to his cottage he picked blueberries for their cereal while Des chilled in a lawn chair drinking iced tea with her long, bare legs stretched out before her and Quirt sprawled out on his back underneath her, his tail swishing happily in the grass. She was on medical leave for at least a week. She had nowhere to go and nothing to do. She could think of worse ways to do nothing, and worse places to do it.
Soave came rumbling over the wooden causeway just past nine, Yolie bringing up the rear in Des’s cruiser. They had taken a preliminary statement from Mitch last night at the falls. Soave had not acted the least bit leery. Perhaps a bit blown away.
Yolie had been a lot blown away. “Shut up!” she kept exclaiming as she listened to Mitch’s story.
The EMS people had hiked down by flashlight and found Will Durslag dead on the rocks in almost the same exact spot as Tito Molina had been. Will was even lying on his back the same way as Tito. Same head trauma. Same everything. It was eerie just how exactly he had followed the great love of his life into death.
Since it was the middle of the night and Des needed medical attention, Soave had held off on taking a more detailed statement until the morning, when Des assured him it would all start to make sense. Then she had accepted EMS transport to the twenty-four hour Shoreline Clinic in Essex. Mitch followed in his truck.
Everyone was very nice to her at the clinic. A chatty technician xrayed her shoulder. A kindly nurse plunged her torn, bloodied fingers into a disposable basin of warm soapy water. The orthopedist who was on duty scrutinized her X-ray and pronounced it an anterior subluxation, which was physician-speak for a partially dislocated shoulder. There was some ligament damage, but the boneswithin the joint were not fractured. He assured her she would not need surgery and would soon be as good as new. After injecting her with a muscle relaxant he manipulated her shoulder back into place, gave her a sling to wear, and told her she might need physical therapy to restore her normal range of motion and strength. He also warned her that when a shoulder has popped out once there’s a greater likelihood that it will pop out again under similar circumstances. Not a problem, Des assured him. She had no intention of ever again clinging to the side of a cliff with a grown man hanging from her arm.
It wasn’t until she was signing her release forms that Mitch happened to tell the orthopedist that he was experiencing sharp pains whenever he breathed. That was when they x-rayed him and found the cracked ribs. Which they did not tape. They just told him to take it easy.
There was a twenty-four-hour pharmacy in Old Saybrook where they were able to get their prescriptions filled. By the time they got back to Mitch’s place her shoulder was starting to ache again. She swallowed a pain pill and climbed into bed with an ice pack, sleeping off and on. Clemmie stayed glued to her hip the whole night, watching over her carefully. Cats were amazing that way. They always knew when you were hurting. Des just hoped Mitch didn’t resent this, since he was prone to jealousy in regards to Clemmie, thereby demonstrating that he still didn’t totally understand cats.
He himself had stayed downstairs watching a tape of his favorite boyhood comfort film, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and putting away an entire box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies that he’d had squirreled away somewhere.
Now Des remained on her lawn chair, gazing at the sailboats out on the Sound, while Soave and Yolie went in to talk some more with Mitch and listen to the tape recording of his last conversation with Will Durslag.
Soave strolled back outside first, smoothing his former mustache, and came over and crouched beside her, carefully averting his eyes from her shapely bare legs. “I’ll tell the media we’ve been madeaware of the existence of a confession,” he said slowly. “Meanwhile, we’ll go hard after some physical evidence to backstop it. Could be we’ll find remains of burnt clothing in his Franklin stove with traces of Donna’s blood DNA on them. Maybe even find one of his hairs on the bedspread at the Yankee Doodle. That’ll at least put him at the scene. As far as Tito goes, I
