Читать книгу Not A Sound - Heather Gudenkauf, Heather Gudenkauf - Страница 11

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Gwen Locke. Nurses, the both of us. Friends at one time. Good friends. Once again my stomach clenches and I retch, but this time nothing comes up. Stitch’s trance has been broken and he paces in agitation, his powerful jaws opening and closing with what I’m sure are sharp yips and barks. I fumble with my FlipBelt, a tubular band with a series of pockets where I keep all the items that I have to carry with me when I’m on the river. Safely ensconced in a waterproof case is the cell phone that I promised my cop friend Jake I would carry with me at all times. Never mind that it would do me little or no good in emergency situations, like this one. Nine-one-one via text message hasn’t reached my silent little world yet so I dial the three numbers and hope for the best. I wait three seconds and begin to speak. “My name is Amelia Winn,” I say, I’m sure my voice is high and shrill and nasally. “I found a body. Please send help. I’m on Five Mines River, two miles north of Old Mine Road. I’m deaf and can’t hear you.”

Phone clutched between my fingers, I repeat the same message over and over before disconnecting. I found a body. Please send help. I’m on Five Mines River, two miles north of Old Mine Road. I’m deaf and can’t hear you.

Frantically, I turn around and around, my heart thrumming, the air squeezed from my chest. I try to swallow up each inch of the landscape with my eyes. The sway of switchgrass along the bank, each shiver of a tree branch, each shadowy crag and crevice in the bluffs could be concealing someone. Each whisper of a breeze across my neck, the killer’s touch. Nothing. No one there. The sun is slipping in and out from behind the clouds and every shift in light seems ominous. Finally, dizzy and exhausted, I sink to the ground and lean my back against the curly white bark of a paper birch. Though I’m afraid, I’m not fearful of someone noiselessly sneaking up on me. Stitch, snuggled up against me, his bearded chin resting on my lap, will alert me of any new presence. I just don’t know what I’m going to do if someone steps into the clearing to confront me. Do I run? Do I stay and fight? Would Stitch stay by my side to protect me? I don’t know.

Just when I think I have my breathing under control, the chills start in. Gwen lies only a few yards away from me. I pull the pepper spray that Jake gave me from another FlipBelt pocket.

Jake Schroeder is a Mathias police detective and best friend of my brother, Andrew, from when we were growing up. I’ve had a bit of a crush on Jake since I was eight. He thinks of me as a pesky little sister who still needs looking out for since my brother moved to Denver and my dad, fed up with Iowa winters, retired to Arizona.

Jake was the first one I saw when I opened my eyes in the hospital after a hit-and-run driver struck Stacey Barnes. Stacey was killed on impact and I suffered a broken leg, a severe head injury and the complete annihilation of the tiny bones and neural pathways of my inner ears. I was sure that the driver was the bastard who abused Stacey, but it wasn’t. So with no leads the case remains unsolved.

Two years later, I’m almost divorced, unemployed, profoundly deaf, probably an alcoholic and still a little pissed. Okay, an alcoholic. No probably. I still find it hard to admit. The only people in Mathias who haven’t given up on me are my stepdaughter, Nora, because she’s seven and I’m the only mother she remembers and Jake, who’s no stranger to heartache himself. Jake’s the one who hauled my drunk ass out of bed, got me to my first AA meeting, and made me take an American Sign Language (ASL) class at the local college with him. Even before my accident he was already proficient in ASL. Two counties over, a policeman shot and mistakenly killed a deaf teenager when he didn’t hear the command to stop. Local law enforcement, hoping to avoid future tragedies, arranged for training and Jake learned the basics. To top it all off he showed up at my house one day with a Czech dog trainer named Vilem Sarka and Stitch—a reluctant service dog.

Stitch came to me with his own baggage. A thick, zipper-like scar extends vertically from the bottom of his belly to just below his throat. Hence his name. “Some sick fuck. Over one hundred stitches,” Vilem wrote on a pad of paper when I asked what had happened.

I stroke Stitch’s head and wait for help, knowing that it could arrive in a matter of minutes or not for up to an hour. There are only three ways to get to our remote location: by boat, by four-wheeler or by foot. I focus my attention on Stitch’s ears; if they start to twitch I know he hears something. My bet is help will come via the river and a Department of Natural Resources officer with a boat. Up until now I have never been afraid around the dead and now I’m terrified.

I can’t believe Gwen is dead and I can’t help but think of my own accident, which I’m not convinced was an accident, after all. What if Gwen’s murder and my attempted murder are connected? Crazy, I know. But Gwen and I both treated patients who were abused by very bad, very dangerous people. Is it such a stretch to think they would come after the nurses who were trying to gather the forensic evidence to put them in jail for a very long time?

Stitch raises his head and looks at me with worry. I must have whimpered or spoken out loud. I do that sometimes without even knowing it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. My throat is sore and I figure I must have been shouting while I was talking to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. What if the person on the other end of the line couldn’t understand me? What if they don’t know where to send help and no one is coming?

I’m just about ready to call 9-1-1 again when Stitch scrambles to his feet and faces north and up the river. “Two if by sea,” I say, holding on to Stitch’s collar so he won’t run off.

Sure enough, a heavyset man of about sixty, steering a small boat with the Iowa DNR logo emblazoned across its side motors toward us. Stitch looks up at me for reassurance, and I gently pat his back. The boat slows and the DNR officer says something, but he’s too far away and I can’t read his lips.

“I can’t hear you,” I say, and the officer’s mouth widens in a way that tells me he’s shouting.

“No, I’m deaf,” I say, cupping my ear. “I can’t hear you. Come closer.” He looks at me suspiciously, hand on his sidearm. I can’t say that I blame him. I’m sure I sounded like a maniac on the 9-1-1 call. The dispatcher most likely added “approach subject with caution” when passing on the details.

“I can read lips,” I say. “I just need to see your face.”

He drives the boat up to the shore and with some difficulty climbs over the side and joins us beneath the birch. “Is he friendly?” the officer asks, glancing nervously down at Stitch.

“Very,” I assure him. I turn to Stitch and palm upward, bring my hand toward my shoulder. Immediately, he sits down. I reach into my pocket and pull out a dog treat and Stitch snags it with his long pink tongue. “Good boy.” That trick took three weeks to master.

The officer takes another cautious step forward. “I’m DNR Officer Wagner. Are you okay?” His lips stretch wide with each word. He’s overenunciating. I’m used to this when people first find out about my hearing loss.

“I’m fine,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “She’s over there.” I point to the maple tree. “Just over the ridge, in the water.”

“Stay here,” he orders. I pretend I don’t understand him and follow him up the incline, both of us grabbing onto low-hanging branches to avoid slipping on the slick decaying leaves that litter the ground. When we reach the crest my eyes immediately go to where Gwen’s body sways with the gentle current. Officer Wagner’s head swivels from left to right, searching. When his spine goes rigid I know he finally sees her. He gropes into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone and presses it to his ear.

I bend at the waist, again light-headed. I was an ER nurse for eighteen-odd years. I’ve seen people come in with injuries beyond comprehension. I’ve seen dead bodies before, have had people die from catastrophic injuries in my care. But always at the hospital, in a sterile, antiseptic setting.

I force myself to stand upright and take a deep breath. I feel useless. If there was a chance Gwen was still breathing I could have given her CPR, but it’s clear that she’s dead. Gwen is a bit younger than I am, and she’s fit—has the slim physique of a serious runner. Was she running or hiking the trails and then waylaid by a predator who dragged her off the path, raped and then killed her, finally tossing her into the river like trash?

From our vantage point, I can’t see any obvious injuries. No bullet holes, no gaping wounds, no scavengers have discovered her. She can’t have been in the river long. I think of the waves that knocked Stitch off my paddleboard and sent me to my knees just before I found Gwen’s body. I wish I saw what the boat looked like. I wish I had more information to offer the police. I wonder if her husband, Marty, has missed her yet. Or worse, could he have been the one to do this? I don’t know him well, but I met him several times. Gwen never mentioned having any problems in their marriage and he seemed like a nice man. And then there is their daughter, Lane. She will be devastated when she learns that her mother is never coming back home.

I swallow back my tears, pull my eyes from the body and scan the earth around me. Muddy footprints everywhere. I think I can discern three different shoe treads. Most likely my own and the DNR officer’s, and possibly the killer’s. There are also the imprints of Stitch’s large paws zigzagging the ground chronicling his agitation. Off in the brush is a discarded glass beer bottle. It could have belonged to one of the ever-growing number of weekend warriors who have discovered this length of river due to the opening of Five Mines Outfitters, located right next door to my house. The outfitter offers an array of outdoor services including canoe, kayak, paddleboard and in the winter, snowshoe and ice skate rentals.

Below us Stitch waits, wiggling impatiently while somehow remaining in a seated position. I gesture for him to settle and stay and he complies. Officer Wagner tugs on my sleeve and nods toward the woods below us. Emerging from the trees is a small troupe of four-wheelers. Unable to contain himself, Stitch leaps to his feet and begins to spin around in excitement.

Five of the six people on the ATVs are law enforcement officers, including Jake. The lone civilian I recognize as my new neighbor, the proprietor of Five Mines Outfitters. We’ve never officially met, but I hate him anyway. The day he opened his business he brought a steady stream of unwanted strangers into my backyard, disrupting my solitude. The four-wheelers most likely belong to my neighbor and the Mathias Police Department commandeered them and asked him to lead the way through the woods so they could get to the scene as quickly as possible. Jake and the four other officers slide from their ATVs and begin to move toward us, leaving my neighbor behind.

Stitch knows Jake so he greets him with an enthusiastic wag of his bottle brush tail and attaches himself to Jake’s side. When the officers reach the bottom of the bluff, Jake says something to the group and they remain below as he and Stitch make the short climb to where Officer Wagner and I wait.

Jake still has the same boyish good looks that he did thirty years ago. Seeing him in his detective’s uniform of a suit and tie makes me smile at the incongruity of how I remember him as a kid. He was a constant at our house, preferring ours to his own. His father was volatile, unpredictable, mean. Daily, he’d show up with his mussed sandy-brown hair, smelling of fresh cut grass and bubble gum, dressed in grubby jeans, scuffed tennis shoes and a purple-and-gold Minnesota Vikings T-shirt in search of my brother.

Jake’s normally cheerful face is now set in rigid seriousness and he’s oblivious to the mud that has caked his dress shoes and splattered onto his suit pants. He’s not even out of breath when he reaches us, a testament to the great physical shape he’s in. Instead of first asking where the victim is, he eyes me up and down. He winces at the sight of my bloodstained shirt, extends the index finger of both his hands and brings them toward each other, the right hand twisting one way and the left hand the other, making the ASL sign for hurt.

“I tripped,” I explain, holding up my hands. “It looks worse than it is.” He takes my hands in his and turns them over to examine my cut and scraped palms. His grasp is warm against my chilled fingers and I realize just how cold I am.

“Her name is Gwen Locke. I know her. We worked together. She’s been to my house,” I say. “I’ve been to hers.”

Jake looks surprised but doesn’t ask me if I’m sure of the woman’s identity. He releases my hands, and I immediately miss his warmth. He turns his attention to the DNR officer. Wagner points to the water, and a muscle in Jake’s jaw twitches and once again he becomes all business.

“Go back down by your paddleboard,” he signs. “We have to seal off this area. I’ll be right down to take your statement and Officer Snell will make sure you get home safely.” I nod, and Jake gives me a wisp of a smile as if to let me know that everything will be all right. I want to believe him.

Officer Snell, with his closely cropped hair and smattering of acne across his forehead, looks to be barely out of his teens. He’s waiting, pen and pad already in hand by the time I reach him. Cold has seeped through my pants, still damp from wading through the water and from my tumble to the ground and I begin to shiver.

“Just a few questions, ma’am,” Snell begins, but I quickly lose the thread and stop him.

“Maybe we should wait for Jake. Detective Schroeder,” I amend. “He knows sign.” Officer Snell nods his understanding and we stand around awkwardly until Jake makes his way down to us.

Jake knows how to talk to me. Not only does he know sign, he looks me right in the eye and keeps his sentences short. I answer out loud while Snell writes down my answers. He covers all the expected questions: name, address, phone number, age.

“You say you know her?” Jake signs.

I nod. “Her name is Gwen Locke. She’s a county sexual assault nurse and last I knew was a nurse at Queen of Peace and Mathias Regional.” I try to keep one eye on Stitch who grows bored and wanders away. His attention is on a black squirrel that looks curiously down from a tree branch at the drama unfolding before him.

“Do you have any contact information for her? Know her next of kin?” Jake signs as Snell flips his notebook to an empty page.

I haven’t used the phone number I have for Gwen in almost two years. After my accident she reached out to me, came by the hospital and to the house to visit but I refused to talk to her. To anyone. “Her husband’s name is Marty and she has a daughter named Lane. She grew up here.” I pull out my phone and find Gwen’s number. Snell adds it to his growing list of notes.

Jake has me take him, step by step, through my morning right up until Stitch discovered Gwen in the river. Beyond his shoulder I see Stitch wander toward my neighbor who is waiting next to a four-wheeler, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. He bends down to scratch Stitch’s ear. “Stitch, Ke mne!” I call. Ke mne is Czech for come and pronounced as khemn yea. Stitch leisurely trots back to my side. Stitch’s trainer, Vilem, who is originally from Prague, trained all of his police and rescue dogs using Czech commands, including Stitch and Jake’s K-9.

Jake shifts so that his face is once again in front of mine. “You going to be okay?” he asks. “Do you want me to call someone for you?”

That’s when I realize I’m late for my interview with Dr. Huntley. I’ve forgotten all about it.

“Oh, shit!” I say. I check my watch. It’s close to ten thirty. I’m already a half an hour late. By the time I get home, cleaned up and to the clinic I’ll be well over two hours late. I tell Jake about the interview and that I have to get home.

“Sorry,” he signs. “Officer Snell will get you home as soon as possible. You’ll have to come to the police station at some point and we’ll have you sit down with a certified interpreter to take your official statement. I’ll check in with you later.” Then he moves back up the bluff toward Gwen’s body.

I check my phone and find two texts from Dr. Huntley’s office manager. The first reading, Dr. Huntley is running behind schedule and will be about thirty minutes late for your interview.

For a moment I’m hopeful that I’ll still be able to get to the clinic in time to catch him but then I read the second message and my stomach sinks. Dr. Huntley has to leave for another appointment. He will contact you if he’d like to reschedule. Great. The professional equivalent of “don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

There’s a third text from David. It’s only one word but it speaks volumes.

Typical.