Celia, get a grip. You dont even know thats a gunshot wound.
Butsomehow she did. A bullet, or maybe a knife-anyway, she knew that wound in the mans side, the wound her fingers had touched, was the result of violence-human, not animal-and that it had been deliberate, not accidental. And sure, the man lying helpless in the kelp might be a dangerous criminal, but something told her he wasnt.
And if he isnt a criminal?
More scenarios sped across the video screen in her mind. What if he truly was in mortal danger, but for some reason couldnt risk letting the cops know about it? Soap operas and television dramas and action movies were full of stories about good guys with good reasons not to involve the police. Just because those particular stories were fiction didnt mean it couldnt happen in real life. Well, it didnt.
She cleared her throat and gingerly touched the mans shoulder. Hey, listen-can you walk? She waited, but there was no answer, not even a moan.
O-kay, Ill take that as a no. Swearing under her breath, she pushed herself to her feet. Muscles and bones only recently healed screamed in protest, and she took a moment to placate them with some hurried shakes and stretches before, with a worried look back at the still, dark lump on the sand, she set off back the way shed come. After the first few plodding steps, she broke into a run.
It wasnt all that far to her place-perhaps a hundred yards or so, though it seemed like a mile. Her legs were on fire and she had a stitch in her side by the time she left wet, packed sand to angle uphill across the soft, deep powder toward the carriage lanterns shed left burning on the deck to light her way home in the fog. The lamps gave off a weird coppery glow that was more eerie than welcoming, and Celia couldnt suppress a shiver as she thought of the man shed left lying back there on the beach and the words hed spoken in a raspy whisper, like death: Dont tell anyonethey cant know.
At the bottom of the wooden steps she hesitated, put one foot on the first step, then hesitated some more. Donttellanyone. Well, dammit, she had to tell someone. She sure as hell couldnt do this alone.
She didnt consciously make the decision. But one second, she was standing there, about to go up the steps and into her house where there was a telephone and all sorts of trained help only a three-push-button call away, because that was what any sane person would do. And the next, she was doing an about-face, and jogging past her own deck and turning into the narrow canyon between the shadowy forests of wooden pilings that supported her deck and the one next door. She clattered up her neighbors steps and onto his deck and then she was pounding on his sliding glass door with her fist; it was too late to change her mind.
She waited, listening to the competing rhythms of the surf and her thumping heartbeat. Come on, Doccome on
She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the glass, and she could see a light from somewhere throwing furniture shadows across a woven grass carpet. Dammit, Cavendish, I know youre in there. He had to be-at three in the morning, where else would he go? And most likely asleep-or dead-to-the-world drunk-she thought, as she pounded again, then grasped hold of the handle and jerked it hard, prepared to go in and roust him physically, if necessary.
She was only mildly surprised when the door slid open a foot or so; Malibu Colony people were notoriously careless about locking their ocean-front doors.
She stuck her head through the crack and called hoarsely, Hey, Doc-you awake? Doc-
She broke off as a short, stocky bathrobe-clad figure shuffled into view, carrying a wine bottle and a glowing cigarette in one hand and turning on lights with the other as he came toward her.
She stuck her head through the crack and called hoarsely, Hey, Doc-you awake? Doc-
She broke off as a short, stocky bathrobe-clad figure shuffled into view, carrying a wine bottle and a glowing cigarette in one hand and turning on lights with the other as he came toward her.
Jowly cheeks covered with a quarter of an inch of reddish-gray stubble creased in a wry grin when he saw Celia.
Shoulda known itd be you-my lovely fellow insomniac, he drawled in a British accented voice that, thankfully, was only a little slurred. He pulled the door wider and flicked his cigarette in the general direction of the water. Come in, sweetheart, come in. Join me in a glass. He held up the bottle and frowned at it. Oh, hell-this bottles pretty well killed. But, theres more where it came from.
Thanks-not now-I cant. She spoke rapidly, breathlessly, as she caught hold of his sleeve and began to pull him across the deck. Come quick-you have to help me. I need you. Hurry!
Hauling back against the tow like a balky mule, her neighbor managed to slow her down enough to extricate himself from her clutches. As he huffily adjusted his bathrobe over his barrel chest, he peered at her in the lamp-lit murk, taking in her bare arms and torso, which, at the moment was covered only by a stretch-cotton sports bra.
Youve actually been out in this crap? Oh, dont tell me-whatd you do, find a beached seal? You dont want to mess with those things, sweetheart, they can bite your arm off. Come on in here and call animal control. Better yet, he added, doing a lurching about-face and heading back toward the doorway, wait for morning.
Not a seal, Celia gasped, grabbing again at his arm. Its a man.
He halted, staring at her along his shoulder as if he werent sure hed heard her right. Shadows made the bags under his eyes seem even larger than usual. A what?
She nodded rapidly. Hes hurt. Badly, I think. I need-
Oh, Lord. Celia. His face seemed to crumple like a deflating bag. He closed his eyes and lifted the wine bottle to press it against his forehead. For Gods sake, leave me out of it. Call nine-eleven. You know I cant-
Thats just it. He doesnt want cops or paramedics. He was insistent about that. Frantic, actually
Peter Cavendish, known to his Malibu neighbors as Doc-and to most of the rest of the world as the physician responsible for prescribing the drugs that had led to several well-publicized addictions and one tragic overdose, now permanently stripped of his license to practice medicine-heaved a sigh that was heavily mixed with swearing. He opened his eyes and leveled a glare at her. I dont believe this. You know what that means, dont you? Means the guys got to be either crazy or crooked.
But what if hes not? Celia said stubbornly. Come on, Doc, I figured if anybodyd understand about not wanting to get the cops involved
Sure. Right. Doc gave another sigh, this one of resignation. You know this is blackmail, dont you? Okay, okay. Ill have a look at the bloke. But Im warning you-if he looks like hes in any danger of dying right away, were calling nine-eleven and leaving me out of it. Understand?
Light-headed with relief, Celia nodded.
Pausing long enough to stuff the wine bottle into a potted bird of paradise plant, Cavendish followed her down the steps.
How far away is this guy? he asked when he caught up with her. Hobbling awkwardly as his bare feet made contact with shells or rocks buried in the sand, he hissed a sibilant obscenity and added, with a sideways glance at Celias feet, How can you stand to jog barefooted?
I have eyes in my feet. And, she panted, it beats getting sand in your shoes. Its not that far-only seems like it because of the fog. There. See? She pointed as, at that moment, an obliging air current parted the fog like a curtain, revealing several piles of kelp ahead on the smooth slope of wet sand. Including the one that was larger and bulkier than all the rest.
When she saw it, her heart gave a sickening lurch and fear rose in her throat. Oh, please, let him be alive, she thought as she broke into a run. I cant be responsible for another death-I cant.
The man was lying where shed left him-exactly as shed left him; he didnt appear to have moved at all. Chilled and shaking, Celia dropped to her knees beside him and pressed her fingers against the side of his neck. Against flesh that seemed to bear no more signs of life than molded plastic. She held her breath and then, deafened by her own heartbeat, groaned in anguish, Oh, God, I cant find a pulse.
Id be greatly astonished if you did, in that particular spot, Doc said acidly, taking her by the arms and moving her to one side. He dropped heavily to one knee beside the body and put his fingers just-shed have sworn-where hers had been. After a moment, he nodded to himself as if satisfied by what hed felt, and Celia let out the breath shed been holding.
Crouched in the reeking kelp, she watched the doctors hands move quickly and confidently over the mans body, following much the same path hers had taken so timidly a short while ago. The only wound I could find is on his side, there-on the right, she said when she was sure she could speak without squeaking.
Doc nodded brusquely and lifted one side of the sweatshirt Celia had spread across the mans back. After a moment he muttered, as if to himself, Okaythis appears to be a gunshot woundsmall entrance, by the feel of it. Cant seem to find the exit. Give me a hand here-I want you to help me roll him. Take his hipsjust like that.
Thrilled to be doing something helpful, Celia hitched forward, put her hands where the doctor told her to and braced herself.
Okay, nice and easy now. Taking the man by the shoulders he gently, carefully turned him. Thats good. Great. Now, lets see. Ah, yes. Here it is-see? Huh-damned odd place for an exit wound
Though she tried, Celia couldnt see much of anything in the foggy darkness. She shivered, conscious for the first time of the chill and the damp, and the fact that she was wearing shorts and a sports bra and nothing else. Hugging herself to keep her teeth from chattering, she said, How bad is it?
The former doctor grunted and sat back on his heels. Well, I suppose the good news is, its-as they say on television-a through-and-through. And, quite amazingly, the bullet-or whatever-doesnt seem to have hit anything vital. On the other hand, hes bound to have lost a good bit of blood, and floating around in the Pacific for God knows how long hasnt done him any good, either. To put it in terms youd understand, hes weak from blood loss, suffering from hypothermia, probably in shock, any one of which ought to have killed him and still could. The man needs to be in a hospital, love. Now. Yesterday. He lurched to his feet with another grunt and a groan. You need to call-