alive!” He leaned close, peering at the woman’s face. Her eyes opened slowly and he stared into their clear gray depths. She gazed at him calmly for just an instant, and then the eyes closed and she sighed, very faintly.
“My God,” Sprang breathed. “You got any whisky aboard, Mort?”
“Sure. Just a second.” Watson moved to a locker.
George held the woman in his arms while Sprang placed the bottle to her lips. But she kept her mouth closed and the whisky spilled over her chin and down her neck, into the soft hollow between her breasts. “She’s too far gone,” Sprang said, dabbing at the woman’s chin with a handkerchief. “We’d better get her to a doctor—quick.”
Mortimer Watson scurried to the wheel. The motor roared as he swung the boat in a wide arc, away from Snake Island, and pointed the bow once more toward Harbor City, far across the lake. George Yundt, naked except for his shorts, held the woman’s head on his knees all the way to the harbor. For some vague and unknown reason he felt an odd tenderness for her. Maybe it was because she’d been so friendly and pleasant when he’d talked to her about her swimming progress during the classes at the Y pool. It had been obvious that she was afraid of the water, even in a pool, but she’d thanked him for his patience with her, and for his instruction. He had been pleased and flattered and had told her his name. She’d given him hers, Mrs. Somebody—he hadn’t caught her name because right at that moment Russ McClory, the physical director, had shouted to a group of teenagers that running along the edge of the pool was forbidden.
George touched the woman’s smooth, cool cheek and almost forgot what he must face in the morning—unless he did something about it before morning.
When the call came, Clinton Shannon, M.D., was enjoying a Sunday afternoon nap in a reclining deck chair beneath a maple tree in the back yard of his home on the outskirts of Harbor City. Sections of the Sunday edition of The Cleveland Plain Dealer lay on the grass beside his chair along with an empty beer can. The doctor’s five-year-old son, Jack, was playing nearby in a canopied sand box and a calico cat dozed in the sun on the top step of the back porch. The house was a one-story ranch style, brick, with a breezeway connecting to the garage.
The doctor’s wife, Celia, a small, pretty woman, dark-haired and blue-eyed, wearing yellow shorts and a short-sleeved blouse, came out on the back porch and called to her husband. “Clint.”
He opened his eyes and gazed at her sleepily.
“Phone,” she said. “It’s Mortimer Watson. He sounded excited.”
The doctor sat erect, rubbed his eyes, yawned, stood up and crossed the grass to the porch. The boy looked up from his play and called, “Daddy, if you go out, can I go along?” He was a black-haired boy, small for his age, with his mother’s blue eyes.
“We’ll see,” Shannon said as he followed his wife into the kitchen.
“I hated to wake you up,” Celia Shannon said, “but Mortimer said it was important.”
He grinned at her, patted her on one round hip, and picked up the phone from the top of the breakfast bar. He was a tall, slender man, thirty-six years old, with regular features, close-cropped brown hair and clear brown eyes. Usually he wore glasses with amber-tinted frames, but now they were folded in a pocket of his tan short-sleeved sport shirt. In addition to practicing medicine, he was also the county coroner. “Yes, Mort,” he said into the phone.
“Clint, I’m down here at the Yacht Club dock and I got a woman on my boat who’s pretty far gone. Can you come right away?”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She damn near drowned, I guess. We picked her up on Snake Island and she hasn’t moved since we got her aboard. She—”
“If she’s still alive,” Shannon broke in, “she’ll have to go to the hospital. Where are you calling from?”
“A pay booth in the Lake
“My God,” Sprang breathed. “You got any whisky aboard, Mort?”
“Sure. Just a second.” Watson moved to a locker.
George held the woman in his arms while Sprang placed the bottle to her lips. But she kept her mouth closed and the whisky spilled over her chin and down her neck, into the soft hollow between her breasts. “She’s too far gone,” Sprang said, dabbing at the woman’s chin with a handkerchief. “We’d better get her to a doctor—quick.”
Mortimer Watson scurried to the wheel. The motor roared as he swung the boat in a wide arc, away from Snake Island, and pointed the bow once more toward Harbor City, far across the lake. George Yundt, naked except for his shorts, held the woman’s head on his knees all the way to the harbor. For some vague and unknown reason he felt an odd tenderness for her. Maybe it was because she’d been so friendly and pleasant when he’d talked to her about her swimming progress during the classes at the Y pool. It had been obvious that she was afraid of the water, even in a pool, but she’d thanked him for his patience with her, and for his instruction. He had been pleased and flattered and had told her his name. She’d given him hers, Mrs. Somebody—he hadn’t caught her name because right at that moment Russ McClory, the physical director, had shouted to a group of teenagers that running along the edge of the pool was forbidden.
George touched the woman’s smooth, cool cheek and almost forgot what he must face in the morning—unless he did something about it before morning.
When the call came, Clinton Shannon, M.D., was enjoying a Sunday afternoon nap in a reclining deck chair beneath a maple tree in the back yard of his home on the outskirts of Harbor City. Sections of the Sunday edition of The Cleveland Plain Dealer lay on the grass beside his chair along with an empty beer can. The doctor’s five-year-old son, Jack, was playing nearby in a canopied sand box and a calico cat dozed in the sun on the top step of the back porch. The house was a one-story ranch style, brick, with a breezeway connecting to the garage.
The doctor’s wife, Celia, a small, pretty woman, dark-haired and blue-eyed, wearing yellow shorts and a short-sleeved blouse, came out on the back porch and called to her husband. “Clint.”
He opened his eyes and gazed at her sleepily.
“Phone,” she said. “It’s Mortimer Watson. He sounded excited.”
The doctor sat erect, rubbed his eyes, yawned, stood up and crossed the grass to the porch. The boy looked up from his play and called, “Daddy, if you go out, can I go along?” He was a black-haired boy, small for his age, with his mother’s blue eyes.
“We’ll see,” Shannon said as he followed his wife into the kitchen.
“I hated to wake you up,” Celia Shannon said, “but Mortimer said it was important.”
He grinned at her, patted her on one round hip, and picked up the phone from the top of the breakfast bar. He was a tall, slender man, thirty-six years old, with regular features, close-cropped brown hair and clear brown eyes. Usually he wore glasses with amber-tinted frames, but now they were folded in a pocket of his tan short-sleeved sport shirt. In addition to practicing medicine, he was also the county coroner. “Yes, Mort,” he said into the phone.
“Clint, I’m down here at the Yacht Club dock and I got a woman on my boat who’s pretty far gone. Can you come right away?”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She damn near drowned, I guess. We picked her up on Snake Island and she hasn’t moved since we got her aboard. She—”
“If she’s still alive,” Shannon broke in, “she’ll have to go to the hospital. Where are you calling from?”
“A pay booth in the Lake
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