I tried to distract him from watching her by keeping my questions going. “So how long has Doctor Kern owned the cabin?”
“Oh, he don’t own it, Kern don’t. It belongs to some rich-ass friends of his.”
“Who’s that?”
“City friends of his. The Bridges family.”
Donna, who was still backing out into the rain, stopped. “The Bridges family?”
He looked at her. “Yeah. I say something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“How come she’s standin’ in the rain?” he asked me.
“Cold and rain, remember?” I said. “Two of her favorite things.” I got another whiff of the cabin. It was like flashing on your own death. “Well, gee, Jake, I sure hope you win that election.”
He raised his fist again. “Don’t you worry about that. Like I told Schleimer at the shopper, I’m gonna win one way or the other.”
Behind me, in the gloom, the car door closed. Even from where I stood I heard Donna burst out laughing. Thankfully, Jake didn’t seem to notice.
He put out his hand again. I didn’t have any choice. I said a Hail Mary and put out my hand, too. If things didn’t go Jake’s way in the election, he could hire out as a trash compactor.
“He was a reasonably nice guy,” I said as I got the car started.
“Right.”
“Well, he was civil.”
“Oh, that’s right, Dwyer. Maybe that’s why he reminded me so much of St. Francis of Assisi. Here all the time I thought it was his bike. You know, St. Francis had a Harley just like Jake’s.”
“You’re a snob.”
She finally quit laughing and said, “No, I’m not. I just don’t like bullies.”
“He wasn’t a bully.”
“Maybe not right now, he wasn’t. But I’ve had a number of bad experiences with bikers pulling into picnic grounds and onto beaches. They travel in packs because they want to intimidate people and that’s the only reason.”
This was one argument she was definitely winning. I changed the subject. “So the Bridges own the other cabin.”
“Which would explain why Evelyn knew exactly where she was going. Grandma’s.”
We were coming up to the asphalt road. The rain was drumming now. The wipers slowed perceptibly under the weight.
We got on the asphalt and drove the two hundred yards to the gravel road running west. That’s when we saw Evelyn’s car.
It shot past the final yards of pines fronting the gravel road, heading for the asphalt. She hit the main road hard enough that her whole car jerked when her front wheels hit the smooth surface. But she didn’t stop, nor did she look in either direction for oncoming cars. Obviously she was badly upset about something. She just swung the car onto the asphalt and started heading our way.
“Look,” Donna said, leaning up to the windshield so she could see through the downpour, “she’s got somebody with her.”
Indeed she did. I had to look through the mosaic of raindrops to make sure that my first impulse had been correct — that I was seeing who I thought I was seeing. As their car roared toward us, I knew for sure.
Her passenger was the mysterious Keech, my fellow actor in the O’Neill play.
I wondered if Evelyn Ashton knew what kind of company she was keeping. Or cared.
“Are we going to follow them?” Donna asked, excited at the prospect.
“I think we’d better check out the cabin,” I said. “They must’ve found something back there.”
She shot me one of her looks. “You really don’t watch ‘Magnum, P.I.,’ do you?”
11
Jake’s cabin could have served as a garden shed for the Bridges cabin. Two-storied, with a barn-style roof, the place looked like a small resort hotel, complete with a U-shaped drive that curved right up to the long porch. It was the only “cabin” I’d ever seen with mullioned windows.
“Just a nice little lean-to,” Donna said.
“Maybe if Jake wins the election, they’ll let him move in here.”
She laughed as we got out of the car. Then she waved for me to take her hand for the run to the cabin. The rain was cold and blinding. The ground was soggy enough to pull you down like quicksand.
“Boy, I’ll bet it’s beautiful out here when the weather’s nice,” Donna said when we’d reached the porch and were safe under the overhang.
She was right. Several hundred yards ahead of us was the river, lined with weeping willows. On the distant shore were steep hills and an impenetrable forest of pines. It was almost like being in the mountains. We turned back to the front door.
Now there was a man standing there. A tall, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit. He might have been a bank president in a TV commercial. Except for the shotgun in his arms. That was a very inappropriate prop for a bank president to be carrying.
Cabins in this area seemed to be inhabited by some really strange people.
He pulled the inner door open and said, “May I help you?”
“Is there a reason for the shotgun?” I asked.
“Unless you’re illiterate, you read several signs on the road leading here. They each say NO TRESPASSING. That’s the reason for the shotgun.”
Now that I could see him more clearly, I saw that he had a patrician face that had turned a bit jowly. He was in his early sixties or so. He had clear blue eyes that curiously held no expression, almost like a doll’s. I assumed that he was Dr. Kern, the guy whom Leonora Bridges had referred to as “a family friend” and the man the biker had said everybody was afraid of.
“I’m Jack Dwyer,” I said. “This is Donna Harris.”
He nodded. “My name is Dr. Kern.”
I tried to avoid Donna’s eyes when he said that. She’s got this Eureka! look that sometimes tips our hand.
“We don’t mean to trespass, Dr. Kern,” I said. “I guess we just kind of got lost in the rain.”
He nodded. He looked sad. The shotgun he held suddenly looked ineffectual. He didn’t scare me anymore. He just made me curious.
“So is there some way I can help you?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to say next. Donna, with great charm and even greater conviction, said, “We only stopped because I need to use a restroom.”
“Oh, of course,” he said. He indicated for us to come inside and pointed out the bathroom to her.
The interior smelled sweetly of log smoke. The rain on the roof made everything feel cozy and safe, with the big fieldstone fireplace, the rows of bookcases with a few hundred hardcovers, the simple elegance of the leather furniture. There was a TV set as big as my Civic and a dining table next to a huge stained-glass window. The table looked like it could seat about twenty people. A bouquet of red paper roses looked lonely on the long table.
“You’re from the city?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
He went over and laid the shotgun down on a desk. “I apologize again for the gun. The way things are these days... well, you understand.”
“Of course.”
He saw where my eyes had rested. His mouth. The blood.
“Oh, I banged myself on a door,” he said, daubing at the red stuff.
I smiled. I hope I looked sincere. He seemed a decent enough guy.
“Do you live here?”
“Oh, no,” he said, “I only bring some of my patients here occasionally. I have a clinic about a mile from here.”
“I see.”
“The patients appreciate getting out. In good weather, this is a very nice environment.”
“It certainly is.”
We both glanced up the long stairs. I wondered if Donna had taken a couple magazines in there with her. The doctor and I were fast running out of things to talk about. I was wondering if I was going to ask about the migration habits of squirrels when Donna appeared again. To me it was obvious that she was excited about something.