Rapid Descent. Gwen Hunter
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lot. She seemed to recognize her daughter’s anguish and so she stood there on the gravel lot above the Leatherwood takeout and rocked her, stroking her hair. Saying nothing at all.
Orson stood beside Nolan and the unmarked car, watching. The girl was pretty torn up, all right. But her black eyes and beat-up hands, and the wounds on her chest that his dad had managed to find out about from a gossipy contact at the hospital, made them both think about domestic abuse and murder. And about the money. There weren’t many people who wouldn’t kill for that much money. Self-defense? Greed for sure.
“I’ll talk to the blonde,” Nolan said. “See what I can learn from Nell Stevens’s little pal.”
“You’ve always said that sometimes there are benefits to the job,” Orson murmured. “And the cute friend looks like one of them.”
Nell and Claire sat in the RV together, listening to the reports that were passed up and down the gorge on the radio. Claire had forced her to eat, and when the meal wouldn’t stay down, had fixed her a cup of tea and held her hand while she drank. Her mother didn’t nag or push her own agenda, as Joe would have said. Not exactly. But her few quiet comments eventually wore Nell down and she consented to talk to the reporter, agreeing to issue a statement. Issue a statement. Joe’s kinda talk, not hers. But Claire played on Nell’s burgeoning worry and guilt to get her on camera, saying she should be thanking the searchers and all the auxiliary helpers, which might not have worked had Nell not been on SARs herself and known how much a simple thank-you meant.
Just before two in the afternoon, in time for the news update on local TV, just before the boaters reached the takeout, Nell, wearing her mother’s makeup to cover some of the bruises, emerged from the RV and let the production guy hook her up to a clip-on microphone while standing in front of the RV. It wasn’t the on-camera interview that the reporter wanted, but it was all Nell would agree to.
Fidgeting, uncomfortable with the idea of the mic clipped under her shirt, and still unable to speak in more than a whisper, Nell looked at the reporter, Bailey Barnett, with her perfect, bobbed brown hair and her false expression of concern and said, “I appreciate all the help of the volunteer searchers who are giving up their free time. And the park service and the sheriff’s deputies and the rescue-squad auxiliary members who are providing food.
“My husband, Joe, tried to rescue me when I was hurt.” The tears she had not wanted to spill while on TV fell over her cheeks, burning. Joe was going to tease her unmercifully about that. “And now the good people of several counties are helping to rescue him. Thank you.” Fingers fumbling, she un-clipped the mic, handing it back to Bailey while the reporter was asking her questions she simply couldn’t answer.
Waving away the attention, trying not to sob, Nell once again vanished into the RV and the anonymity and safety it offered. Claire made her another cup of tea and Nell stared at the river. Waiting.
From the open doorway, Orson watched his dad. The older cop leaned against the file cabinet in his office and watched the news. The little wife wasn’t holding up very well. Her black eyes, even under the makeup, were looking more purple, evidence that the bruises were a couple days old at least, though a doctor he knew had confirmed that the cool weather and cold river water might have slowed the speed of healing.
A little blonde stood behind Nell Stevens. Her mother. Orson had expected an older woman. She must have had Nell when she was ten, because she looked all of thirty.
Without turning around or giving an indication he knew Orson was there, Nolan said, “I’m getting old, Junior. The mother of a twenty-one-year-old looks good to me.” He swiveled his head and met Orson’s eyes. “You gonna stand in the hall all day?”
“No.” But the blonde did look good. All perky and bubbly and full of life. The kind of woman his father favored, a woman not unlike his own mother, who had died shortly after he was born.
“Claire Bartwell answered all my questions without a qualm when I approached her at the Leatherwood Ford. Unlike the wife,” Nolan said. “’Course, the mother didn’t know I was a cop at the time.”
Orson had heard all about that interview on the way up, and didn’t know whether to applaud the girl or convict her. Either way, she was good. “This what you called me off patrol and made me drive two hours for?”
“Yeah, come on in, Junior.” Nolan said. “Take a look at all this river crap.”
Squatting in front of the desk, he watched as his father laid out the dry suit Nell Stevens had worn, or claimed to be wearing, when she was caught in the strainer.
“It took some doing, but I tracked down the boat, paddle and some of the gear she had on when she made it to shore,” Nolan said. “Sorry about taking you away from your first day on patrol, Junior.”
Orson half grinned at his father’s insincere apology and dropped down, resting his weight on one foot, an elbow on the other knee, his spit-shined black patrol shoes grinding on the grimy office floor. “You’re not sorry.”
“Nope. I’m not. I need an expert and you’re the closest thing to it. What can you tell me about this equipment?”
Orson flicked the dry suit to him and studied the punctures. “These are consistent with being caught in a strainer.” He turned the water-repellent kayak skirt over and pulled off several of the upper layers of duct tape so he could examine it too. He lined the skirt up around the dry suit.
“Huh. The skirt fits up that high?” Nolan asked.
“Yeah. These repaired puncture sites in the skirt match up with two in the dry suit. This other one in the dry suit is higher up, in an area of the chest that would have been protected by the PFD. But notice the angle of the tears.” Orson stuck a finger through the dry suit. “All at an angle, up, as if a branch wedged up under her vest and caught her chest. She got wounds consistent with that?”
“E.R. doctor says yeah.”
“Crap,” Orson said. “You check the underside of the tape for fingerprints? If not, you’ll have to run them against mine.” His dad grunted, unconcerned. Orson pulled the PFD to him and examined the inside of the bright orange Kitty vest, a vest made for women, specially shaped to allow room for the extra padding God gave most females. He pointed. “Scratches are consistent with branches.” He pulled the rescue knife from its sheath in the front of the PFD. “You checked it for blood?”
“Clean.”
“It’s a Gerber. They make several styles of rescue knives.” Orson held the blade to the slashes that had opened the dry suit’s limbs and torso. “Whatever cut the dry suit looks like it had a few serrations on the blade, maybe up near the haft. See?” He offered the suit and Nolan fingered the ragged spot on the fabric. “This knife’s straight. No serrations. So unless she had another knife, she didn’t cut up her own suit, except for here. Looks like she cut a strop off. I wonder why.” He inspected the vest. “Someone cut the bottom strap. Maybe to get her out of it.”
Nolan stood, sat his butt against the desk and gestured to the other equipment. “What else can you tell me?”
Junior looked at the boat. It was a bright yellow and orange Pyrahna 230 Micro Bat. Not new but not beat all to heck either. He turned it over and a dribble of river water ran out. “Scratches indicate it’s seen a lot of use, but it’s not ready for retirement yet. It’s a fast, responsive creek-boat. It can take anything up through a class V if the paddler is any good. It’s too small for my tastes, but I like a more stable boat. It’ll roll easily, but if a small paddler gets into squirrelly water it’ll toss him around like a cork.”
“I could carry the wife around under my arm all day and not get tired.”
“Sounds painful for her,” Orson said. His dad snorted softly. Orson removed the rescue bag and went through the equipment. “Whoever packed the equipment was thorough.” He held the duct tape from the emergency