The rock shelf he hits is like a coffin, just wide enough to hold his frame. Below, he hears the crash of waves smashing against the cliff. He turns with care to look over the edge. With minimal light, his guess is a hundred-foot drop to the storm-whipped water of the bay. Shit! Mind racing, he lays still and stares at the cauldron-black sky. If I can make it to the canyon, I can hide. I’m glad I stashed my backpack there yesterday when checking out the caves.
He remembers the way Mick looks at Emma and knows his weakness. With that in mind, he’d set out to locate the perfect, yet private, place to hold Emma hostage while he drew Mick out. God damn that bitch Cynthia, and God damn that bastard dog!
The rain continues to lash his face. The next bolt of light serves to unveil tiny lichen and moss clinging to the cliffside with tenacity, like barnacles on a ship’s hull. As the storm brews overhead, each flash of light reveals more of his surroundings. Depressions, humus-covered rock shelves jutting out in varying shapes and sizes, and cracks splayed every which way—like on his mother’s gray-veined porcelain. It’s too bad I had to remove her from the equation, but she just wouldn’t cooperate.
In his mind’s eye, he rereads the headlines of The Plain Dealer, northeast Ohio’s largest newspaper.
“A Cleveland woman who was discovered dead Wednesday night has been identified. Sybil Berndt died from blunt force trauma to the side of her head, according to the Cuyahoga County Coroner’s Office. The incident is being ruled a homicide.
“The Cleveland Police Department on Thursday announced in a release that officers are investigating the death of a 70-year-old woman and a dismembered cat, found next to the body, according to a press release.
“Around 5:30 p.m. Wednesday, police responded to a welfare check in the 1200 block of Italy Street, where they found the deceased woman and cat. Neighbors reporting a ‘foul odor’ coming from the home, prompted the welfare check, police said.
“Neighbors said that Ms. Berndt was apparently the mother of adult sons—twins—who they never saw. One is allegedly incarcerated, the other’s whereabouts is unknown. These details have yet to be confirmed.
“‘It’s a tragedy, and we’re digging to the bottom of it. In the meantime, with Canada just across Lake Erie, we’ve also notified US Border Patrol, Immigration, and Customs Enforcement in connection with the incident,’ CPD spokesman Andrew Smith stated.”
Agonizing pain brings Jason back from his mental reverie. I won’t die! I won’t die until I’ve had the pleasure of sending McPherson to hell! Blind with rage, intent on revenge, Jason views the dips, divots, and outcroppings. In his mind, it looks like a craggy, pockmarked face. One that he can descend to freedom.
He’s done rock climbing on numerous occasions with his brother. He’s aware that even at his best it’s a physically demanding sport. But with a wounded arm and no equipment, it’s going to test every bit of his strength and resiliency. As he examines the prospect of what lays ahead, he grits his teeth. I need a stiff drink to calm my nerves, just a shot. He gathers his resolve, waits for the next flash of lightning, then makes his move.
“What on earth has gotten into Hemingway?” As he barks incessantly, Libby turns to Niall with a look of concerned surprise.
“Hold your horses,” Niall shouts as he makes his way through the mudroom to the outside door where the barking continues as if the house is on fire. As he opens the door, Niall steps back and catches himself on the deep sink when Hemingway rushes him, wild-eyed, continuing his frantic barking.
“What is it, boy?” Niall pats Hemingway’s rain-soaked coat, trying to calm him. The big dog’s skin flinches at Niall’s touch. Drawing a blood-soaked hand away, Niall yells for Libby. “Come quick, Hemingway’s hurt, and it looks bad!”
Always cool under fire, Libby makes a quick assessment and moves into action. “Niall, bring me the first-aid kit and help me lay him down.”
Backing toward the still-open door, Hemingway continues to bark.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Libby says in a soothing tone. When Libby reaches for Hemingway’s thick, leather collar, he bares his teeth and continues to back up.
“Niall, aside from the gaping wound, something’s terribly wrong. Mick lived with him from puppyhood and understands his every move. Call his cell phone and tell him to hurry.”
Still running high on adrenaline from his after-dinner conversation with Cynthia, Mick pushes Emma’s wheelchair through the rain to Austen cottage at almost a run. “When we get there, I’m making you a hot cup of tea, then tucking you into bed,” he says with a wolfish grin, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “But first I want to talk about what Cynthia said.”
The warmth of the cottage envelops them. Emma asks, “You mean about her work as a forensic intuitive to help solve cases?”
“Yes, even long forgotten cold cases,” Mick says as he brings two lavender towels from the bathroom and hands one to Emma.
As he dries his face and hair, his rich masculine scent fills Emma’s nostrils.
When Mick tosses the plush fabric over his shoulder, Emma notices that his wet shirt is stuck to him, like a second skin.
He walks into the kitchen, ignites one of the burners on the gas stove, fills the tea kettle with water, and places it over the low flame. While waiting for the water to boil, Mick forages for mugs in the cupboard.
“I find it fascinating,” Emma says. “I don’t know Cynthia very well yet, but what I do know, I like. She’s a straightforward woman who shoots from the hip. I appreciate that in a person.” Bent forward at the waist drying her hair, Emma sees rain-drenched jean cuffs resting
