Read Online Elizabeth Zelvin - Bruce Kohler 04 - Death Will Save Your Life by Elizabeth Zelvin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Zelvin
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anyone.
How do you interrupt a woman with a sword? I cleared my throat and spoke her name. The bullfrogs drowned me out. I tried again, louder.
“Feather?”
The third time she heard me and lowered the sword. She didn’t so much stop as flow to stillness.
“Nice sword,” I said.
“It was my husband’s,” she said.
If she could swing a sword like that, a canoe paddle would be child’s play. I wondered where she’d been on Midsummer Night right before she went searching for Madhouse so conspicuously. She’d done a good job of convincing two hundred witnesses that she didn’t know where her husband was. She could have done it herself. And now we were alone, and she was armed.
The invisible web of tension between us collapsed as a party of senior citizens hove into view. They were decked out to assault the Matterhorn: stout boots, wide-brimmed hats, sturdy walking sticks, and, by the shine on their exposed patches of skin, enough sunblock and insect repellent to stock a medium-sized pharmacy. A prosperous-looking dude in an Aquarius blazer led the pack.
Neither contemplation nor interrogation could take place in such a hubbub. One of the little old ladies already crouched at the edge of the pond, tickling the nearest froggie with a cattail and talking baby talk. One red-faced gent patted his pockets, hunting frantically for a handkerchief, shades, or maybe his nitroglycerin. Another complained loudly and bitterly about his arthritic knees. I put my sweaty hands together palm to palm in steeple shape and sketched a bow over the tops of my fingers in Feather’s general direction. Then I got the hell out of there and made my way down to the lake.
The beach was deserted. But I caught a glimpse of movement in the water out by the raft. A red two-piece bikini identified the distant figure as a woman. She swung herself up onto the raft with an athletic economy of motion.
Squinting, I recognized Annabel. I waved my arm in a broad gesture.
“Yo! Annabel! Come on in and talk to me.”
“Come on out!”
“No bathing suit. Too many clothes.”
Her laugh rang out. She had a nice laugh.
“Take them off!”
No one had invited me to flirt in a long time. I stripped down to my shorts and waded into the water.
Barbara circled the campus in the afternoon heat, looking for Bruce. Jimmy had gone into town to get online at the library again. It amazed her that she had managed to keep him unplugged for so long. She had offered to go along, but Jimmy had vetoed that plan, rightly guessing that she wanted to ask the librarian embarrassing questions. He didn’t want to wear his welcome out and lose access to the library’s WiFi.
At the dining hall, a cohort of Aquarians trotted to and fro preparing for dinner.
“Has anybody seen Feather?” someone called out.
“Leave her alone,” someone else advised. “She has enough to deal with.”
Someone gave an earsplitting blast on the conch, and Aquarians converged on the dining hall. Neither Bruce nor Jimmy was among them. Maybe Bruce had gone for a swim.
Arriving on the deserted beach, she looked out across the lake. Two intertwined figures splashed around near the raft. Bruce and Annabel. What on earth were they doing? Making love? Even Bruce couldn’t be such a fool. As she watched, Annabel pushed Bruce’s head underwater with all the muscle power of her paddle- and tennis-honed arms.
“Hey! Cut that out!” she yelled.
They ignored her. A maelstrom of splashing meant Bruce was putting up a fight. But Barbara couldn’t see his head. She snatched up a small, hard lifesaving ring that she found lying on the shore and waded out into the water.
Barbara’s waterlogged clothes dragged at her body, but her sneakers were impervious to the muck on the lake bottom. It sucked at her as she clomped forward. The water rose to her waist. She let the canvas life preserver float behind her, tethered to her wrist by its nylon rope. She kept up a steady stream of curses at
How do you interrupt a woman with a sword? I cleared my throat and spoke her name. The bullfrogs drowned me out. I tried again, louder.
“Feather?”
The third time she heard me and lowered the sword. She didn’t so much stop as flow to stillness.
“Nice sword,” I said.
“It was my husband’s,” she said.
If she could swing a sword like that, a canoe paddle would be child’s play. I wondered where she’d been on Midsummer Night right before she went searching for Madhouse so conspicuously. She’d done a good job of convincing two hundred witnesses that she didn’t know where her husband was. She could have done it herself. And now we were alone, and she was armed.
The invisible web of tension between us collapsed as a party of senior citizens hove into view. They were decked out to assault the Matterhorn: stout boots, wide-brimmed hats, sturdy walking sticks, and, by the shine on their exposed patches of skin, enough sunblock and insect repellent to stock a medium-sized pharmacy. A prosperous-looking dude in an Aquarius blazer led the pack.
Neither contemplation nor interrogation could take place in such a hubbub. One of the little old ladies already crouched at the edge of the pond, tickling the nearest froggie with a cattail and talking baby talk. One red-faced gent patted his pockets, hunting frantically for a handkerchief, shades, or maybe his nitroglycerin. Another complained loudly and bitterly about his arthritic knees. I put my sweaty hands together palm to palm in steeple shape and sketched a bow over the tops of my fingers in Feather’s general direction. Then I got the hell out of there and made my way down to the lake.
The beach was deserted. But I caught a glimpse of movement in the water out by the raft. A red two-piece bikini identified the distant figure as a woman. She swung herself up onto the raft with an athletic economy of motion.
Squinting, I recognized Annabel. I waved my arm in a broad gesture.
“Yo! Annabel! Come on in and talk to me.”
“Come on out!”
“No bathing suit. Too many clothes.”
Her laugh rang out. She had a nice laugh.
“Take them off!”
No one had invited me to flirt in a long time. I stripped down to my shorts and waded into the water.
Barbara circled the campus in the afternoon heat, looking for Bruce. Jimmy had gone into town to get online at the library again. It amazed her that she had managed to keep him unplugged for so long. She had offered to go along, but Jimmy had vetoed that plan, rightly guessing that she wanted to ask the librarian embarrassing questions. He didn’t want to wear his welcome out and lose access to the library’s WiFi.
At the dining hall, a cohort of Aquarians trotted to and fro preparing for dinner.
“Has anybody seen Feather?” someone called out.
“Leave her alone,” someone else advised. “She has enough to deal with.”
Someone gave an earsplitting blast on the conch, and Aquarians converged on the dining hall. Neither Bruce nor Jimmy was among them. Maybe Bruce had gone for a swim.
Arriving on the deserted beach, she looked out across the lake. Two intertwined figures splashed around near the raft. Bruce and Annabel. What on earth were they doing? Making love? Even Bruce couldn’t be such a fool. As she watched, Annabel pushed Bruce’s head underwater with all the muscle power of her paddle- and tennis-honed arms.
“Hey! Cut that out!” she yelled.
They ignored her. A maelstrom of splashing meant Bruce was putting up a fight. But Barbara couldn’t see his head. She snatched up a small, hard lifesaving ring that she found lying on the shore and waded out into the water.
Barbara’s waterlogged clothes dragged at her body, but her sneakers were impervious to the muck on the lake bottom. It sucked at her as she clomped forward. The water rose to her waist. She let the canvas life preserver float behind her, tethered to her wrist by its nylon rope. She kept up a steady stream of curses at
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