With me in my suit and slick-bottomed shoes, she now had an edge. I started running too.
I didn’t try for speed. I don’t do wind sprints, but I can keep a steady pace for a fair distance. She was running up the path, away from the lodge, toward the hordes of tourists filling the viewpoint and picnic area. I kept my hand on the concealed.357 as I passed a group of picnickers. I didn’t want them to raise an alarm, to cause a panic.
I saw her turn down a trail, one that veers steeply down the basalt canyon wall to the pool at the bottom of the falls. I had never been on it. I was sure it was the only way back up. Three different times I pushed my way around huffing sets of climbers. Two of them were large groups. The last was a couple, a retired couple, walking by themselves.
“Did you see a woman?” I gasped. “A woman in a red jogging suit?”
“She almost knocked Mabel here down,” he said.
I stopped, trying to catch my breath. “Are there any other people down there?”
The man shook his head. “There weren’t when we left.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my badge. “Stand at the head of the trail,” I said to him. “Don’t let anyone else come down.” He looked at me questioningly. I wanted to shock him, galvanize him to action. “She’s dangerous, armed and dangerous.” I took the.357 from my pocket then, for emphasis, to get his attention. It worked. He grabbed his wife’s arm and they hurried up the trail.
I stood for a few moments after they left, slowing my breathing, steadying my nerves. It was more than I could have hoped. We were isolated from the crowd above. I had bought some time. Maybe I could lay hands on her, shake some sense into her, talk her into surrendering. Before reinforcements arrived. Before someone called in a SWAT team.
I stood immobile, listening. Except for the roar of the water, the forest was silent. It was the eye of the hurricane. I was standing like that when the bullet hit me. It caught me full in the left shoulder and spun me into a tree.
The tree kept me from plunging headlong down the side of the canyon. I clung to it for support, my left side numb from shock. The.357 had fallen from my hand. Desperately I looked for it, expecting the next bullet to hit before I could find it. I saw it finally, lying out of reach to one side of the trail.
I looked up to see if I should make a grab for it. Anne was standing in the trail, my short-barreled.38 still pointing in my direction. We looked at one another, both lives hanging in the balance. It couldn’t have been more than a second or two in time, but I aged an eternity. Then, with agonizing slowness, she lowered the gun, turned, and disappeared around a curve in the trail.
I let myself slip to the ground. I hoped shock would last a little longer, staving off the pain. I crawled to where the gun had fallen. Once my fingers closed over the butt, I dared breathe again. Slowly I pulled myself to my feet, the world spinning crazily as I did so. I took a tentative step. The movement jarred me, starting shocks of pain pulsing through my body. I gritted my teeth and took another step.
Each movement was excruciating. The bullet, lodged against my broken collarbone, scraped along a nerve at every step. I walked. Slowly and painfully, but I walked. The descent was steep and slippery, the ground wet with slick green moss. Mist from the falls swirled around me like thickening fog. I strained to see. How much of the difficulty in vision was mist? How much was losing consciousness?
My subconscious framed the questions. I answered them aloud. “No. If I pass out, she’ll kill me.” Pain of realization dulled the pain in my body. I struggled through the last of the trees. There in a clearing, a flat, perpetually wet clearing on the bank of the river, stood Anne Corley Beaumont, her back to the water. The gun was still in her hand, aimed straight at me. She was waiting.
“Drop it,” I yelled.
She didn’t move. I heard the explosion. A bullet smacked into a tree behind me. I don’t know if she thought she heard something off to her left or if some movement caught her eye. She turned slightly, pointing the.38 in that direction. I raised the.357, aimed it, and fired.
I’m a crack shot. I aimed at the.38. I should have hit it, but just as I fired, she lost her footing on the slick moss and fell. I saw the look of surprise and hurt as the slug crashed into her body. The force of the bullet lifted her and spun her to the left, sending her sprawling into the turbulent water. I dropped the.357 and raced toward her, my own pain forgotten.
I reached the bank and saw the torrent fling her against a rock, then pull her away, sending her toward the bank, toward me. I had one chance to catch her before the water dragged her under. I threw myself lengthwise on the bank and grabbed. I caught one leg of the jogging suit. Barely. The force of the current, the deadweight, should have swept her from my grasp. There should have been no strength in my injured shoulder, but fueled by adrenaline, I worked her toward the bank. Inch by inch. At last, shaking with exertion, I dragged her out of the water.
She was coughing and gasping. Blood foamed in the water that erupted from her mouth. I cradled her head in my lap, willing her to live. The coppery smell of death was all around her. I tried to wipe the hair from her mouth, from her eyes. I was crying by then. “Anne, Anne, why?”
She tried to say something. I could barely hear her; the roaring of the water was too loud, the roaring in my ears. I leaned toward her, her lips brushing my ear. “You said…” she whispered, “…said given the same…the same circumstances…” And that was all.
I was still holding her when a Snoqualmie City officer charged into the clearing from the bottom of the path. He was young but his instincts were good. He came on strong, ready to haul me in single-handed. He held his.38 Colt on me and picked up my.357 with his other hand. I tossed him my I.D., letting it fall at his feet.
“Call Captain Powell at homicide, Seattle P.D.,” I told him. “Tell him I got her. Don’t let anyone who isn’t a cop come down that trail.”
He left without argument. I lay Anne Corley Beaumont down, closing her eyes, stroking the hair from her forehead one last time. I stood up, feeling the aching chill from my sodden clothes. It was nothing compared to the glacial chill inside. Sudden weakness robbed my legs of strength, forcing me to sit once more. I didn’t sit next to Anne. There was nothing more I could do for her.
The officer returned with a couple of blankets. He wrapped one around my shoulders and covered Anne with the other. “Powell says to tell you he’s on his way.” He looked at me closely. “You need an ambulance.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
I have no idea how much time passed before I heard the wail of sirens. Peters loped down the trail ahead of Powell and Watkins. How he managed to make connections back from Arizona that fast I’ll never know. I was glad to see him. Powell and Watty went to the blanket-covered figure on the edge of the river. Peters came to me. “I’m sorry, Beau,” he said.
I felt a sob rising in my throat. It took me by surprise. Peters put his arm on my good shoulder and left it there.
“A week,” I said when I could talk again. “I only knew her a week.”
“I know,” he said.
Powell came over to me then. “The officer says you’re hurt.” He lifted the blanket and looked for himself, then turned to Watkins.
“Get those ambulance people down here now,” he ordered. “Have ‘em bring a stretcher.”
Peters came with me. I was glad to be taken away. I didn’t want to be there for the ritual pictures and the measurements. I didn’t want to watch as the search for evidence started, as people who knew nothing about Anne Corley or J. P. Beaumont started trying to learn everything about us. They would. That’s a homicide detective’s job.
Peters pretty much took over. He directed the ambulance to Harborview. The doctors put me under while they removed the slug. When I came back around, Peters was there. I thought he had been there the whole time. It turned out he had gone back to Snoqualmie in the meantime and picked up the Datsun. The city of Snoqualmie had impounded the Porsche, pending completion of its investigation.
The doctor wanted to keep me overnight. I wouldn’t hear of it. I wanted to be home. Like an old snakebit hound wanting his own cave under a house, I wanted to go home to lick my wounds. The doctor finally relented only because Peters assured him he would stay with me.
Watkins was waiting in the lobby of the Royal Crest. The building manager had let him in along with someone I didn’t know, an eager young man Watty identified as the Snoqualmie homicide detective, Detective Means. Means
