Marcia Muller: Games to Keep the Dark Away

I went back through the cypress grove the way I had come, then skirted the other side of the main building. Lights in the patients’ rooms were steadily winking out. I glanced at my watch but couldn’t make out the time. Either they went to bed early here-which would be logical, since the place was a sort of hospital-or I’d been moving through the trees for longer than I’d realized. I slipped forward to the edge of the foliage, where the mist-shrouded moon provided some illumination. The hands of my watch showed ten-twenty.

I’d been here nearly fifteen minutes and hadn’t spotted Snelling. Where was he?

In the closest room of the bedroom wing, about twenty feet away from me, the glass door slid open. I stepped back. The tree branches rustled.

“Over there,” a man’s voice said. “I could swear I saw someone.”

“Where?” The second voice was female.

“Under those trees. Someone was standing right at the edge, watching the place.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“They moved back when I opened the door. You could see the branches shake, couldn’t you? Someone’s hiding out there.”

“Why would anyone do that?” The woman’s voice was patient and somehow patronizing. A nurse, I thought.

“How should I know? But I saw someone. For all we know, they’re casing the place.”

“Why?” This time there was an edge of annoyance to the word.

“I don’t know! Drugs, maybe. Someone looking to steal drugs.”

“Well, it won’t do him any good no matter how hard he ‘cases.’ The drugs are under lock and key and only the pharmacist can open up. And I think now it’s time you went to bed.

“I tell you, I saw someone.”

“There’s no one out there.”

“Just you wait until you’re sitting out there at the nurses’ station and some crazed hophead bursts in and pulls a gun on you and tries to make you open up the pharmacy. Don’t say I didn’t warn-” The door slammed shut.

I moved deeper into the grove of trees and waited a full five minutes before I moved on. While the nurse claimed not to believe that the patient had seen someone, she might just have been allaying his fears. If so, she would send someone out to check immediately. Finally I decided no one was coming and made my way back toward the front of the grounds and the office wing

Snelling’s car was still parked at the end of the drive, as were the station wagons and Jaguar. I moved behind the Juniper hedges so I could see into the office windows. Just then the front door slammed and high-heeled shoes tapped down the flagstone walk. I peered over the hedge and saw Ann Bates getting into the Jaguar.

The personnel director was here very late. Was that part of her regular duties or something to do with Snelling’s presence?

Bates stopped, her hand on the door of the Jaguar. Then she turned and went down the drive to Snelling’s car. She looked it over without trying its doors. Then she shrugged and went back to her sports car.

So much for the idea that Snelling had confronted Bates, I thought. If the personnel director hadn’t seen him, then where was he?

The Jaguar’s engine roared and its lights flashed on. It swung up the semicircle, beams sweeping over the facade of the building-and over the bush in front of me. I ducked unsure whether I’d moved in time. The car continued down the drive, red brake lights flaring briefly before it turned in the direction of Port San Marco. I crouched in the bushes, my heart pounding. Ann Bates must be doing well as part-owner of the The Tidepools, I thought. The Jaguar appeared to be a recent model and, even used, they weren’t cheap to buy or maintain. No wonder she had caused so much tension at the hospice this past week; what with records disappearing and police and private detectives asking questions, she must be very worried that something would destroy her handsome livelihood. Perhaps that accounted for her late hours.

The conversation I’d heard between the patient and the nurse about a possible drug holdup had made me think about the hospice’s security system. It would stand to reason there must be some sort of alarm. Even if the drugs were kept under lock and key, someone who didn’t know that might force his way in and demand them. I inched forward, under the eaves, looking for an alarm box.

I found one, prominently marked with the security firm’s name. A large warning proclaimed that an alarm would also sound at the Port San Marco police station. The wires running from the box were intact. There was no way Snelling could have breached the system. I couldn’t even do it without the proper tools-and I knew a fair amount about burglar alarms from my days in security work.

The only place I hadn’t checked was the tool shed. And come to think of it, what was its door doing open anyway?

I hurried back through the trees, past the bedroom wing. Almost all the lights were off there now.

Into the cypress grove, down toward the sea. This time I was careful not to run into any branches.

The expanse of lawn looked as forbidding as before, but my motivation for crossing it was stronger. I glanced back at the hospice. The lights had been turned off in the living room. A soft glow emanated from beyond, presumably in a hall. Everyone was probably in bed but the night-time nursing staff, and I didn’t think any of them would be standing by a darkened window. I ran across the lawn and flattened myself against the wall of the shed.

Breathing hard, I stared through the darkness at the hospice. No lights came on. No doors or windows opened.

Then I heard a groan.

It came from inside the tool shed. I waited, but it was not repeated. My hand on my gun, I inched along toward the door. Inside, to the right, was a lawnmower. On the back wall, I could make out a row of rakes and hoes.

On the floor lay Abe Snelling.

He was on his back. The front of his light-colored shirt was darkly stained. But he was still breathing, shallowly in ragged gusts.

I moved through the door, saying his name. He didn’t respond. I said his name louder. There was blood, a lot of blood. Almost as much as when John Cala…

“Abe,” I said, “dammit, Abe. Not you too.”

I pushed my gun back into my bag and knelt beside him, started to feel for his pulse. A rustling sound came from behind me. Before I could straighten, something hit me from behind, and I dropped the bag and my gun. Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and I felt cold steel against my neck.

“Don’t scream,” Liz Schaff’s voice said. “Don’t scream-or I’ll cut your throat.”

I froze. For a moment all I was conscious of was the icy blade against my neck. Its tip was sharp and pressed my skin. I was afraid to move for fear it would penetrate. It had done that to at least three other people…

Other sensations returned. I heard Snelling’s shallow breathing. I felt the sinewy strength of the arms that pinned me. I smelled the mustiness of the tool shed and the fragrance of Liz’s perfume.

I tried to speak but my mouth was dry with fear. Snelling groaned again and I started to look that way, then realized the motion would put pressure on the knife. I swallowed twice, and managed to say, “It won’t work this time, Liz. You’ve got a witness.”

She laughed, an ugly sound like the cawing of a crow.

“He’s still alive,” I said.

“He’s unconscious. Dying. I’d have finished him if you hadn’t come across that lawn.”

She began dragging me backward, toward the wall opposite where the lawnmower stood. Her grip on me was clumsy, one arm around my shoulders, the other lapped over it, holding the knife. Still, one quick jab…

She backed flat against the wall and we stood there in the dark. I could feel her heart beating fast.