Through the steam of her cup, Libby watches Chris flip open her notebook as she prepares to take her statement.
Jason, a strong swimmer, holds his breath when he shoves off the ledge.
Then he hits the frigid water.
It feels like glass cutting into his skin when he cannons beneath the crashing waves. Jason knows better than to fight the descent. As the current pulls him deeper, his heartbeat stabs his chest.
Once the downward progression stops, he uses powerful scissor kicks to follow the barely discernible phosphorescent bubbles from his plunge, back up. He realizes, too late, that being fully dressed is working against him. When his head breaks the surface, he empties his lungs and draws in deep gulps of fresh air.
As he treads the churning water with one arm, he gets his bearings and makes a quick assessment. His entire body hurts like hell, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken. From the surveillance he’d done while he was supposed to be writing, Jason knows he has to head south and stay next to the cliff where it eventually gives way to a heavily wooded hill. I’ll climb that and cut across Pines & Quill using the darkness as cover to make my way down behind Thoreau cottage into the canyon.
Exhausted and in pain, Jason crosses a patch of sand, skirting boulders and low rocks. Nearing Pines & Quill, the route roughens. Boulders are larger in spots, spilling at length into the Bay. Not one to discourage easily, he smiles when he thinks about the bottle of Jack and the Beretta that are waiting for him in the backpack he’d stashed in the canyon cave yesterday.
CHAPTER 18
“Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.”
—ANNIE DILLARD
Emma pushes the door-activation button and rushes into Austen cottage, rolling straight through to the kitchen. Grabbing a hot mitt, she yanks the now-empty tea kettle from the flame and sets it on a cork trivet next to the stove, then turns off the burner.
Shuddering, she tips her head back in relief. That could have been disastrous! In her frantic state, she half expected to see flames from her fiery cottage roof licking treetops when she rounded the bend.
When Mick enters the kitchen of the main house, he’s swarmed. Everyone wants to know everything about Cynthia. “Who, what, when, where, why, and how?” They pelt him with questions.
He looks around the room, his eyebrows knit in concern. “Where’s Emma?”
Fran repeats what she’d told Libby. “She’ll be right back. In her rush to get here, she thinks she left the tea kettle on a lit burner.”
“Right,” he says, nodding.
Shifting his gaze to Dr. Sutton, he asks, “How’s Hemingway?”
“With Libby’s assistance, he’s cleaned, stitched, and sleeping comfortably. At least until the anesthesia wears off. He’s going to be sore for a while, but he’ll recover. I told Libby that when he wakes up in the morning to put the Elizabethan collar on him, so he’ll leave the dressings alone.”
Clearing her throat, Officer Chris interjects. “We hate to interrupt, but Mick, we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, but can I have some coffee?” His gaze turns pleadingly to his brother-in-law.
“You bet,” Niall says. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.”
“And I’ll bring you one of Niall’s shirts,” Libby adds.
Opening her notepad, Chris asks, “Do you recall what Ms. Winters said when she regained consciousness in the ambulance?”
“Yes, she said, ‘It was Jason. He fell over the cliff, and he’s dead.’ And then she passed out again.”
“Libby told us that Jason’s last name is Hughes and that he’s from Cleveland. Have you seen him since he left after dinner this evening?”
“No. When we finished dinner, we all went to The Ink Well for drinks and dessert where we had a pretty intense conversation. After that, I thought everyone went back to their cottages. I haven’t seen him since.”
Herb asks, “What was the ‘intense conversation’ about?”
“Cynthia explained that she’d done work as a forensic intuitive for several police departments throughout the southwest. Mostly cases involving missing children, and even a few cold cases.”
Looking from Herb to Chris and back again, Mick continues. “You’re both aware that my partner’s killer has never been caught. It’s considered a cold case. As I’m sure you can imagine, Cynthia’s expertise is of particular interest to me, so I kept asking her questions about how a forensic intuitive works.”
Between bites of a biscuit, Mick asks, “Are you two ready to head out to the bluff?”
Chris and Herb look at each other, baffled, then back at Mick.
“What?” Mick asks. If Sam and I had responded to this call, we wouldn’t hesitate. We’d be out there in a heartbeat.
Chris answers. “There’s no point in going out tonight Mick. Not in this downpour.”
“Our flashlights will barely make a dent,” Herb adds. “They pale in comparison to the light of day.”
“We should try to find him,” Mick says.
“Ms. Winters said he fell over the cliff. There’s no way he could have survived on a good day, let alone in a storm,” Chris says.
Herb nods. “We’ll send a team to the bluff tomorrow once things have had a chance to dry a bit. We’ll also send a diving team to the base of the cliff where he fell over, and they’ll search from there.”
Chris stands. “Thank you. That’ll be all for this evening.” Closing her notebook, she adds, “If any of you remembers anything else that might be helpful, even the smallest detail, please call immediately.”
Turning to Niall and Libby, she adds, “Thank you for your hospitality.”
And with that, the two officers take their leave.
“I better get home, too,” Dr. Sutton says. “And remember, put that Elizabethan collar on Hemingway when he wakes up.” Then setting his cap, he
