“Hi, guys,” she said. “How about this weather?”
“Amazing,” said the tallest of the group. “Should still be winter.”
“Well, enjoy,” she laughed, sliding into her car, hitting the door lock as she engaged the starter. But she didn’t leave. She sat for a while after the boys had disappeared down the path. Then, on her way back toward Sandville, it hit her. It all came rushing back. The sound of the engine, the smell of cigarettes and beer. She pulled to the side of the road, shaken. A Jeep, rusty, with oversized tires. She and Terry had seen it cross the bridge. And a few minutes later, Sabotny and the others were upon them, surrounding her. Terry had grabbed a piece of wood and used it as a club, allowing her to break free and run.
Yes, the Jeep explained so many things. Terry’s body didn’t get dumped. He was hauled up to where his body was found. A Jeep with big tires could have gone miles on the beach early in the season with little or no notice, especially back then. The question was, did they kill Terry, or just leave him on the beach to die of injuries and exposure?
30
Ray’s brain was somewhere else when his iPhone emitted a text message tone.
Ray—need to kayak. H.
He looked out the window at the brilliant sunlight, noting the trees swaying in the wind. He went to the NOAA website to check conditions. Record high temperature for the date, 81 degrees, winds 15 to 25, gusts to 35. Waves 4 to 7 feet. Water temp. 40 degrees.
Conditions on big lake marginal. Suggest quiet water or a walk on beach. R.
Want to do big lake. Can we meet at ur place in 45? H.
Will do my best. R.
Ray’s rough water kayak, a boat with lots of rocker built into the hull, was already strapped to the roof of Hannah’s car beside her own boat. Dressed in a fleece jumpsuit, she was leaning against her car talking on her cell. Ray thought she looked tense, perhaps even angry. He heard her finish the conversation as he approached.
“How are you?”
“I’ll be better when we are on the water. Get changed,” she demanded, her manner not lightening.
A few minutes later they were rolling toward the big lake. Ray glanced over at the speedometer. “I can’t get you off if you’re pulled over.”
She looked over at him briefly, then back at the road. Ray felt the car decelerate.
“Worried about your boat or your reputation?” she growled.
“The kayak,” he responded. “That was a special order. It would take months to get a replacement.”
She smiled weakly. “You’re one of the few people I know with their priorities straight.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, sensing the softening.
“Paddle first,” she said. “Talk later.”
“Are you sure you want to go out in this?” Ray asked as they stood and looked at the tempest—foam and spray blowing off the crests of the breaking waves.
“Yes,” she yelled back, protecting her eyes with her left hand from the blast of sand being carried along the shore from the southwesterly winds.
At the car they pulled on dry suits and spray skirts. Then they belted on towropes, and clipped and tightened their PFDs. Finally, they strapped on helmets and returned to their boats, securing back-up paddles under the bungee straps on the front decks.
“Do you want me to help you launch?” he asked.
“I can do it myself.”
They stood for another few minutes and observed the wave sets, before dragging their kayaks forward. Then they waited for a lull before quickly dropping in their boats and attaching the spray skirts. Ray was looking at Hannah when a massive wave pushed up on the beach, broaching and flipping her boat. He could see that she had been knocked onto her back deck, the boat now on top of her in the water and sand. He pulled the release strap on his skirt, but before he could get out, her boat was over and she was positioning it again to launch into the surf.
Ray reattached his spray skirt, waited for the next large wave to float his hull, and fought his way into the surf zone, positioning his bow perpendicular to the breakers. At times, he had to separate the surges crashing over his boat with his broad paddle to keep from getting hammered in the chest.
Using almost vertical paddle strokes, he slogged forward, trying to get to the deeper water beyond the breaking waves, the boat rising up and crashing through the marching walls of water. As he neared the top of a large swell, it began to break, standing his boat vertically, then toppling it as the stern slipped violently backward, the end catching on the bottom as the full weight and force of the wave crashed into him.
Upside down in the swirling water, he attempted to roll, only to get hit halfway up by the next breaker. Submerged again in the sudden darkness and quiet, he reached for the release strap on his spray skirt and tumbled out. Catching the bow toggle with his left hand, he allowed the waves to carry him toward shallow water. When his feet touched the bottom, he walked toward shore, keeping the lake at his back and the boat to his front. He emptied the boat—now filled with water and weighing hundreds of pounds—on shore.
Then it was back out into the torrent, joining Hannah beyond the surf zone. Bracing on breaking waves, surfing toward shore, turning and paddling out into the safety zone for a respite, then searching for the next ride. Ray got capsized again, rolling up successfully. He saw Hannah get trashed two or three times, her finessed rolls bringing her back into paddling position within seconds.
Eventually, as they bobbed out beyond the surf, Hannah pointed toward the beach and paddled forward to catch a wave. Ray watched her progress and successful landing, and then followed her. He scrambled out of his kayak before he was broached and dragged it out of the water, falling to the sand next to Hannah.
“It’s starting to drop,” he said, after several minutes.
“I know. We got the best of it. You got tumbled.”
“Too shallow. Face in the sand. Couldn’t roll.”
After a while, Ray stood, grasped Hannah’s outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet.
They returned to Ray’s house in silence, both physically exhausted and Hannah not ready to talk. When Hannah emerged from the bedroom, dressed in fleece pants and top, her hair still wet from the shower, Ray was standing in the kitchen, opening and laying out his stash from Zingerman’s—farmhouse cheeses, bread, olive oil for dipping, and some Italian salami. She slipped into his arms, and he pulled her tight. After a long embrace, he could feel her begin to sob, gently at first, then violently for many minutes before beginning to regain control. Reaching past Ray, she grabbed a piece of paper towel, drying her eyes and blowing her nose, then slipped back into his arms.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything,” said Hannah. “This morning I was seeing patients when I was paged to the ER. Gunshot victim, a young woman six or seven months pregnant. She was flat-lining. Rolled her to surgery, opened her chest.” She pulled back from Ray and held out her hands. “Look at these: small, delicate, and very skilled. How many miracles they’ve given me.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “No miracle today. Too much damage to repair. I went to find the husband. He was in the ER too, a young deputy in the room guarding him, a nurse monitoring his vitals. The guy was comatose, drugs and alcohol. The deputy gave me the scenario. They were staying with the shooter’s mother. The husband had just been released from a downstate hospital, PTSD, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. Suicidal. He had OD’d on his meds, drunk a bottle of bourbon, and was trying to kill himself with a pistol his mother kept around for self-defense. He and his wife struggled for the weapon. She caught the bullet.