The Edge

Chapter Four

Rob Morrison lived in a small wooden clapboard house tucked in among a good dozen spruce trees about two miles south of town. A narrow dirt road, posted as Penzance Street, snaked through the valleys and hills, and his house was at the end of the road. A wide gully lay just beyond. I turned when I got out of the car and stared over the western horizon. I felt a moment of deep envy. When Rob Morrison awoke in the morning, it was to an incredible view of the Pacific Ocean through the skinny spruce trees. It felt like being at the edge of the world.

Maggie knocked on the unpainted oak door. "Rob? Come on, wake up. You'll be on duty again in another four hours. Wake up."

I heard movement from within the house. Finally, a man's deep voice called out, "Maggie, that you? What are you doing here? What's going on? How's Jilly?"

"Open up, Rob, and I'll tell you everything."

The door opened and a man about my age stood there, wearing only tight jeans with the top button open and a heavy morning beard. The sheriff had been right, this guy was in awesome shape. Thank God he'd been there at exactly the right moment. "Who are you?"

I stuck out my hand. "Name's Ford MacDougal. I'm Jilly's brother. I want to thank you for saving her life."

"Rob Morrison," the guy said and took my right hand in a very strong grip. "Yeah, hey, I'm sorry it ever happened. How is she?"

"Jilly's still in a coma," Maggie said. "Can we talk?" I said. Rob stood back and waved us in. "Mr.

Thorne was here just two days ago so the place is still as clean as a virgin's memories."

Maggie said to me, "That means there isn't anything of interest anywhere, particularly dirt." "A blank slate," I said.

"An unsoiled blank slate. Right. I'm making coffee. Any for either of you?" At my nod, he said, "Black and strong as tar?" "That's it."

"Maggie, Earl Grey tea for you?" She nodded. Both of us followed him through the painfully neat living room to the small kitchen just beyond.

"Nice place," I said. "Who's Mr. Thorne?" Rob turned and smiled. "He's my housekeeper. Comes twice a week, keeps me from living like a pig. A retired salmon fisherman from Alaska. He calls my place his petri dish."

We sat on bar stools at the kitchen counter that separated the kitchen from the small rectangular dining area in front of two wide windows looking toward the ocean.

Soon the smell of coffee filled the air. I breathed in deeply. "The coffee at The Edwardian tasted like cheap watered-down instant."

"It was," Rob said. "Mr. Pete loves instant, makes it with lukewarm water, but only when Pierre Montrose, the owner, isn't there. I wouldn't be surprised if he stirred it with his finger." He poured the coffee and gently shoved a cup over to me.

He poured a cup of hot water over a tea bag. He added a single bag of Equal, stirred it, and gave it to Maggie.

We drank. I sighed deeply. "The best ritual in the world."

"Why don't you go get a shirt on, Rob?" Maggie said. "Mac and I won't move a muscle."

Rob just shrugged his superbly muscled shoulder. "Nan, I've got to take a shower. Let's talk. I can get dressed after you guys leave."

I not only felt like a slab of cold oatmeal, I felt really pathetic. This guy could probably shove me over with one hand and walk away whistling. It was depressing as hell. At least the coffee was waking me up, aches and pains and all. I still wanted that nap, but with Rob Morrison sitting across from me, his legs crossed at the ankles, holding his coffee cup against his bare muscled belly, I wasn't about to slouch or yawn.

At least the guy had to have a housekeeper to keep from living like a slob in a cave.

"Rob," Maggie said, leaning forward, cupping the tea mug between her hands. "Tell us everything you can remember, every detail. I'm going to record it, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, but you already know everything."

"Let's do it again. I want it on record this time. Mac needs to hear it too." Maggie made preliminary comments into the recorder. After a couple of false starts, Rob sat forward and said slowly and very clearly, "It was nearly midnight on Tuesday, April twenty-second. I was cruising north along the coast road. I didn't see anybody or anything until I came around a deep curve and saw Jilly's white Porsche in front of me. I saw the car go toward the railing. It didn't slow, just kept going, right on through. Then the Porsche speeded up. I was right on its tail. When it went over the cliff I was there in just a couple of seconds. I saw the headlights through the water and dove in right at that spot. It went down about fifteen, sixteen feet, I'd estimate, before the car hit the sand and settled. The driver's-side window was completely open. I managed to pull Jilly through the window with no loss of time since her seat belt wasn't fastened. I kicked off the bottom and headed straight up. I estimate that she wasn't underwater more than two minutes, tops.

"I towed her to shore, made sure she was breathing. I climbed back up the cliff and radioed for an ambulance from my patrol car. They arrived about twelve minutes later arid took her to the Tallshon Community Hospital. At least it was close by.

"That's it, Maggie. I can't remember anything else." "Did you recognize Jilly when you realized it was a white Porsche?"

Rob nodded. "Oh, yeah, I'd know Jilly's Porsche anywhere, just like everyone else in this town would."

"What did you think she was doing?" I asked. "I didn't have a clue. I yelled and yelled at her but it didn't do any good. It was like she didn't even see me or hear me. Maybe she didn't."

"Did you see anything or anyone else?" "No, no one."

Maggie said, "In your opinion, was Jilly Bartlett willfully driving the Porsche over the cliff?" "It looked that way to me," Rob said. "Is there any doubt in your mind," I said, "that Jilly was attempting to kill herself?"

Rob Morrison raised weary eyes to my face. He rubbed his fist over the thick dark whiskers on his chin.

"No," he said finally, "I'm really sorry, but in my opinion, she was trying to kill herself."

"What about a mechanical problem that caused her to lose control?"

"Her car's still twenty feet under water, but I didn't see any signs of mechanical problems. No exploding tires, no smoke coming from the hood, no skid marks, nothing like that. I'm sorry, Mac."

Half an hour later, Maggie and I were sitting in her car outside Paul and Jilly's house.

"You look ready to fold in on yourself," she said. "Why don't you rest for a while before Paul comes home?"

"I don't have a key to the house," I said. "If it weren't for the big tooth convention in town I'd be at the Buttercup B and B. So I didn't think I'd be staying here with Paul."

"So no key?"

"No key. I figured I'd just curl up on one of those chairs on their front porch."

"You're too big to do much curling," she said, and drummed her gloved fingers on her steering wheel.

"Actually, since we're sharing information, why don't you just tell me your ideas about Jilly? You know, the ideas you told me you didn't understand. Then you can head for that porch chair."

"You've got a good memory."

"Yes. What ideas, Mac?"

"Even if I tell you, you'll think I'm a nut case, or you'll just dismiss it because I was in the hospital when it happened, and you'll think it was a psychotic reaction to a drug."

"Try me."

I looked away from her, then inward, back to that night. "I was in the hospital. I dreamed about Jilly being in trouble that night. Somehow I was with her when she went over the cliff." I wanted to laugh myself at what I'd just said, but I just shook my head. "You think I'm psychotic, right?"

She said slowly, staring at me, "I don't know what to believe. What did you do?"

"The next morning I called Paul right away, found out that my dream had actually happened. I've got no clue as to why I hooked up to Jilly like that, none."

"Jesus," she said.

"I had to come here."

"You shouldn't have left the hospital."

"There wasn't a choice. As it was, I waited another two days. The longest two days of my life."

She didn't say anything for a very long time. She rubbed her palm on her thigh. The crease in her tan pants was still sharp. The pants looked as fresh as if she'd just put them on.

"And you and Jilly never had any sort of link before this?"

I shook my head. "There are just us four kids now. Our folks have been dead for some time. Jilly's three years older than me. I'm the youngest. We weren't all that close really, both of us busy over the past several years, but that's normal I guess. Then this damned dream happened. The thing is, I feel like something made Jilly go over that cliff-or someone. She was alone in that car, but she wasn't, not really."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"I know," I said. "I know. At least it doesn't yet. You want the kicker? At the end of the dream I heard a man yelling." I drew a deep breath. "It sounded like Rob Morrison. I recognized his voice just now."

"Jesus."

"There's no way I can just accept this as a suicide attempt, not unless Jilly tells me it was."

I sipped a rich Pinot Noir from the Gray Canyon vineyard in Napa Valley.

"You like the wine?" Paul asked.

"It's darker than the deepest sin," I said, gently swirling the wine in its crystal glass, watching it glide smoothly over the sides. "I met Rob Morrison today, the man who saved Jilly."

"Yes," Paul said. "I met Rob just after Jilly and I moved here. He gave me a speeding ticket. I hear you also spent time with Maggie Sheffield."

"Yeah. I don't know what to think of her just yet, but she seemed okay, once she got over her gut suspicions of me as an FBI agent."

Paul sat forward, his hands clenching. "Watch out for her, Mac."

"What does that mean?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Please don't think that I'm being harsh or a woman hater. I'll just come out with it. She's a bitch, a ball-buster."

"I didn't get that impression at all." I cut another piece of the thick sirloin steak. It was even better than the lettuce and green bean salad at The Edwardian. "She wants to find out why Jilly went over that cliff. I appreciate that. You should too. What'd she do to you? Give you a speeding ticket like Morrison?"

"No, nothing like that. She wants to blame me for Jilly's accident. She's never liked me, believes I'm not good enough for Jilly. I don't appreciate that at all."

It was my turn to shrug. "She didn't say a word about you, Paul. She was waiting here in her car when I drove up. She wanted to talk to you."

"I'd have her fired if I could talk Geraldine into it. The woman's a menace. She doesn't like men in general, always giving them grief. Have you seen that damned gun she wears on her belt? It's ridiculous.

Edgerton is a small, peaceful little town. No one-man or woman- should be wearing a damned gun, but she does. Of course, I already spoke to her at the hospital after Jilly was admitted."

"It's not odd at all for a cop-male or female-to want to question someone more than once," I said mildly, surprised that Paul would spew out that sexist crap. I'd gotten no hint at all that she didn't like men. "In the excitement and stress of the moment, people tend to forget things. I'll bet even you will be able to tell her more now than you did then."

"About what, for God's sake? Jilly went over that damned cliff and I don't know why. She was a little depressed, but everyone's down once in a while. That's it, Mac. There's nothing more."

I took the last bite of my steak, sat back in my chair, rubbed my belly, and took another sip of my Pinot Noir. Paul looked pale, his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. He looked ill, frightened. Or maybe I was just seeing myself in Paul. Lord knew I looked sick enough. "Are you certain there's nothing else, Paul? What was Jilly depressed about? Was she taking any medication for the depression? Was she seeing anyone professionally?"

Paul laughed, a tight, constipated laugh. "Just listen to you. SuperCop with his load of questions. No, she wasn't. I'm exhausted, Mac. I don't want to talk anymore. There's nothing more to say. I'm going to bed." He shoved back his chair and stood up. "Good night. I hope you don't mind the double bed in the guest room. It'll be a bit on the short side for you."

"I'll do just fine, Paul. I slept some this afternoon on that big front porch chair of yours. I think I'll go to the hospital to see Jilly. Good night."

Ford was here again, holding my hand like he had before. The warmth of his hand was indescribable, just like before. Thank God I hadn't just imagined it that first time. I didn't want to lose my brain the way I'd lost my body.

But when was before?

It could have been this morning or last year for all I knew. It was odd, but I had no sense of time at all. I knew what it was, but it had no meaning to me.

There were other shadowy creatures behind Ford, then finally they left, and we were alone.

"Jilly," he said, and I wanted to cry with the sheer relief of hearing his voice, but I didn't know if this body I couldn't feel was even capable of yielding up tears.

I wanted to ask him if they 'd gotten my Porsche out of the ocean.

Ford said, "Sweetheart, I don't know if you can hear me or not. I hope somehow that you can. I spoke to Kevin and Gwen and gave them an update. They send their love and their prayers.

"Now, Jilly, tell me about why you were depressed."

Depressed? What was this about being depressed? I've never been depressed in my life.

Who said anything about being fucking depressed? I yelled it at Ford, but naturally, he didn't hear me because my words were only bouncing about inside my skull.

"I've got to find out why you drove your Porsche off that cliff, Jilly. I find it hard to believe that you were depressed. I can't remember when you were ever depressed, even when you were a teenager and Lester Harvey dumped you for Susan, that friend of yours who had the big breasts. I remember you just shook your head, said he was a worthless shit, and moved on.

"But things change. We haven't seen all that much of each other in the past five years or so. You've been with Paul. Dammit, Jilly, what happened to you?"

Ford was leaning his forehead on my hand. I could feel the soft whistle of his breath against my skin. I wasn't depressed, I wanted to tell him. He wanted to know what had happened to me so I said, "Listen, Ford, do you like sex? I didn't used to like it all that much, but then something happened. A wonderful something."

I wondered if my mouth was curving at all into a smile. Probably not. I heard Ford's quiet, steady breathing. He was asleep. Why had he fallen asleep? Then I remembered something about him being sick. Had he been injured somehow? I seemed to remember that.

I wish I could have run my fingers through his hair. Ford had lovely hair, all dark and longer than the FBI would like it to be. But it was his eyes I'd always liked best. Dark blue eyes, just like Mom's, at least I think they were like Mom's, she'd been dead for so very long. Yes, his eyes were deep and mellow and too intense on occasion. I remember hearing he was dating a woman named Dolores from Washington, D.C. Every time I thought of her name I pictured a Spanish flamenco dancer in my mind. I wonder if she liked sex with Ford.

When it comes down to it, who cares? I'm here, a prisoner, and Paul's alive, free to do whatever he wants. But it's not Paul I'm afraid of, goodness, never Paul. It's Laura. She was dangerous, wasn't she? I knew she'd betrayed me. She'd gotten into my head and nearly killed me. Oh, Ford, if she comes back, I won't be able to bear it. I'll die.

I'm lying here, just floating about, and I think of Laura. Laura, who betrayed me. Always Laura.

I woke up with a start some hours later at the touch of a nurse's hand on my shoulder. I raised my head, looked at her face, and said, "Always Laura. Laura betrayed her."

She arched her right eyebrow, sleek and black. "Laura? Who's Laura? Are you okay?"

I looked down at Jilly, silent, pale, her skin nearly translucent. "I'm fine," I said. Who was Laura? I looked up again at the nurse. She was very short, a tiny bird of a woman, and her voice was soft and sweet as a child's. I nodded at her, then looked at Jilly, whose features were barely visible in the dim light from the corridor. Evidently someone had come into the room, seen me asleep on Jilly's hand, and turned off the lights.

"It's time to turn her over," the nurse said quietly, "and to massage her. Bedsores will come eventually if we don't take care now."

"Tell me," I said, watching her untie the back of Jilly's hospital gown, "what you know about coma. The doctors spoke to me at some length, but it was difficult to understand exactly what to expect."

She began to rub thick white cream into Jilly's shoulders and back. "Remember that movie with Steven Sea-gal a while back where he'd been in a coma for seven years, then awakened?"

I nodded, remembering how much I'd admired Steven Seagal when I was a boy.

The nurse said, "He had a long beard and he was weak, had to practice to get his strength back, and of course he did. He was jumping around, maiming folk after just a week or so. Well, that's Hollywood.

Actually, if a person's in a coma for longer than, say, a few days, the risk increases dramatically that something will be seriously wrong when and if the person ever comes out of it. I'm sorry to tell you if you don't know, but all sorts of brain damage is possible-retardation, inability to walk, to talk-any number of dreadful things.

"Most of the time, people come out of a coma very quickly, and they're usually okay. If Mrs. Bartlett comes out of this in, say, the next day or two, her chances are good that there won't be any terrible damage; but it's very possible there will be some. We just don't know. We make assumptions and predictions based on statistics, but in the end, everyone is different. We can hope and pray, and little else.

"In Mrs. Bartlett's case, there was no major damage they could see on any of her test results. Actually, she really shouldn't be in a coma at all. That just goes to show that there's so much we don't know about this sort of thing. I'm sorry, Mr. MacDougal, there's nothing else to say about it."

She'd given me a lot to think about. I fell asleep again my head next to Jilly's hand. I dreamed about Maggie Sheffield. She was screaming that Paul was a bastard and she was going to run him out of Edgerton.