Страница 21 из 78
She listened to the noises coming from his throat. She thought he was listening.
“I’d need to put on my snorkeling gear. I could also look for your nail clippers and favourite underwear-but I’m afraid they’re long gone. Maybe you’d like to go in after them?”
Kyle started shaking violently, his arms and legs hyperextending, drool ru
She returned and glanced into the cabin to see Kyle’s head lolling on the back of the settee. His eyes were wide open. His body was slumped partly onto the sole.
She slipped down the companionway and felt the side of his neck for a pulse. There wasn’t any; neither was there the sickening odour of his aftershave.
She turned on the VHF and picked up the mike. Cha
This time she got an answer. It was a sailboat west of Carter, from where she had come. She told them in a frantic voice that the captain was unconscious and she was an inexperienced mate. They responded that they would keep trying for the Bahamian Air Rescue. She told them she’d get her position from the GPS. She thanked them, her voice shaking.
Regina turned the boat into the wind, went forward and dropped the main, then returned to the cockpit and started the engine in neutral. She got out the GPS, locked in the satellites, noted her position, and got the waypoint for Carter on the route to West End. She adjusted her compass course and pushed the throttle forward until she had 2,000 rpm’s, as recommended. The engine was tuned perfectly, as Kyle always kept it. This was surely emergency use.
She knew the Rescue team would be there in no time to take Kyle’s body. She was on her way to Rodney, taking her chance, a big one, leaving her wealthy, conservative life behind. But without Kyle, Rodney didn’t matter so much. She didn’t need to think of his hand on her hair or his living room glowing in the sunset.
She went back forward, rolled the sail, and secured the ties with square knots. She knew it wouldn’t be neat enough for Kyle. She glanced down at his body, staring wide-eyed from the settee, silent for once. She hooked the GPS to the autopilot-no need for more steering practice-and went below. She pulled out the sail cover and tied it down one last time, over Kyle’s dead body.
Stepping back on deck she saw that the Dilantin bottle had caught at the port gunwale and was rolling along the deck.
She opened the bottle and took one pill to Kyle. “Here, I found them. They weren’t in their place.” She peeled the sail cover from his face, opened his teeth, and put a tablet on his bloody tongue. She closed his jaw. A tear dropped from her eye to Kyle’s cheek, but she felt no regret.
She took a beer from the fridge and went back to the cockpit and stretched out across a cushion. The engine soothed her with its loud rhythm. Regina relaxed, confident in her ability to safely make the two-day run to West End.
Joan Hess
It is not uncommon to encounter Joan Hess and immediately think she’s mad at somebody about something. This is a formidable-looking woman who isn’t about to take any nonsense, you bet. Of course, after a couple of seconds, it is entirely likely that she’ll have a great smile on her face, and she’s guaranteed to put one on anybody within earshot. She is, and there can be no argument about this, one of the fu
The story that follows is not comic, but many of her novels are, and she has developed a large and appreciative readership. With more than twenty books to her credit in a relatively brief time, she has still managed to find the energy to join and be active in a large number of mystery organisations, including Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, American Crime Writers’ League, and the Arkansas Mystery Writers Alliance; perhaps coincidentally, she lives in Arkansas.
Hess doesn’t only write a lot of books, she writes good ones, as evidenced by her many awards, which include the American Mystery Award, an Agatha, and a McCavity.
Caveat Emptor
The first time she came walking across the street, I pegged her for a whiner. Her shoulders drooped like she thought she was carrying a goodly portion of the world’s woes in a backpack, and from her expression, I could tell right off that she didn’t think it was fair. I had news for her: nobody ever promised it would be. If it were, I’d have been playing pinochle beside a pool instead of watching soap operas while I ironed as the world turned.
She came onto the porch. “May I please use your phone?”
“Long distance?” I said cautiously.
“I need to call Mr. Wafford. He was supposed to have the utilities turned on by today, but nothing’s on.”
I took a closer look. She was at most in her late twenties, with short brown hair and a jaw about as square as I’d ever seen. Her eyes were sizzling with frustration, but her smile was friendly. Smiling back, I said, “You bought the house over there?”
“I’m Sarah Benston. I signed the papers last week, and Mr. Wafford promised to arrange for the utilities to be on when we got here. It’s after nine o’clock. My son and I have been on the road for fourteen hours, and there’s no way we get by without water and electricity. I was hoping that he could still do something.”
“You bring your son inside and let me give him a glass of juice,” I said. “You can call Wafford if you want, but you’re welcome to camp out over here. How old’s your boy?”
“Cody’s ten. I guess it’s too late to call Mr. Wafford. He won’t be able to do anything at this time of night.”
I still wasn’t sure what to make of her as she brought in a listless child, rolled out a sleeping bag for him in a corner, and kissed him good-night.
“So you bought the Sticklema
She took a sip of coffee and nodded. “It seemed smart, even though my ex can’t remember to send his child-support payments. I never finished my degree, so I decided to move back here and take classes. I was going to rent an apartment, but then Mr. Wafford explained how I could buy a house and build up equity. After the three or four years it’ll take to graduate, I can sell the house and make a small profit. Cody’s used to having a yard.”
“How long since the divorce?” I asked.
“A year.” Sarah put down her cup. “I know this is an imposition, Mrs…?”
“James, honey, but you call me Dea
“As a teacher’s aide,” she said with a shrug. “It’s minimum wage, but the house payment’s not much more than what I’d be paying in rent. Mr. Wafford is financing the sale privately, since I probably couldn’t have qualified for a loan. Even if I had, I’d have been charged closing costs of more than three thousand dollars. This way, I only had to put down five percent, which left me enough to pay for the rental truck and the utility deposits.”
“It’ll work out,” I said soothingly, although I had my doubts. My daughter had needed food stamps and welfare and everything else she could get until she’d found a job. I would have helped her out, but all I had were my monthly disability checks.