Shore Tavern. It was closer than the clubhouse. Lew Sprang and George Yundt are with the woman.”
“All right. Now, listen; you call Lee Hoyt and tell him to get an ambulance down there, just in case. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, Clint.”
Shannon replaced the phone and said to his wife, “I’ve got to go down to the yacht basin. Sounds like a drowning, or a near drowning. If I don’t come back pretty soon, you can reach me at the hospital.” He picked up a black bag from the floor beside the kitchen door. His wife followed him out to the porch.
The boy, seeing the bag, ran up to the steps and asked eagerly, “Can I go along?”
Shannon smiled down at his son. “Not this time, Jack. I may have to go to the hospital. You stay here with Mommy.”
The boy protested, but Shannon tousled his short black hair and went to a new green Ford sedan parked in the drive. He waved to his wife and son as he backed out.
Mortimer Watson was waiting for him on the curb in front of the Lake Shore Tavern. “You got here fast, Clint,” he said as he got into the Ford. “Park in the club lot. My boat’s tied up right near there.”
“Do you know who the woman is?” Shannon asked as he made a left turn and drove toward the harbor.
“Nope, never saw her before, but George Yundt said he’s seen her at the Y taking swimming lessons. We were trolling for perch and when the storm came up we anchored off Snake Island. We didn’t see her until we circled the island and headed home. She was on the beach on the south side. Lew Sprang spotted her and George swam ashore and got her.”
“Any pulse?”
“Lew and George said not—I didn’t touch her. She looked dead to me, but George says she opened her eyes once, right after we got her aboard.”
Shannon said nothing and swung his car into a black-topped area and stopped before a sign reading Private—Members Only. Carrying his bag he followed Watson out on a cement pier past rows of moored cabin cruisers, sail boats, speed boats and a few pretentious yachts. They stopped before Watson’s boat, which was tied up between a forty-foot yawl and a gleaming white cruiser. George Yundt and Lewis Sprang stood in the stern of Watson’s boat and Shannon returned their nods as he stepped aboard and stooped to enter the small cabin. Watson followed him inside, but the other two men remained on deck. George Yundt said to the old lawyer, “I guess you won’t need me any more.” He was now wearing his damp shirt and slacks. “I’d better get some dry clothes.”
“Sure, son,” Sprang said, “run along. I’ll see you at the bank in the morning.”
“Yes,” George said as he stepped up to the pier.
Inside the cabin Shannon knelt beside the still form on the padded bench. Watson said apologetically, “We didn’t have anything but that old tarp to cover her with. All she’s got on is a skimpy bathing suit.”
Shannon nodded silently and placed two fingers on the woman’s throat, over the carotid artery. He could barely detect a slow feeble pulse. He gazed at the calm face, saw that she was an attractive woman, even now, without cosmetics and with the bright afternoon sun slanting into the cabin revealing the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. He looked up at Watson. “Is Hoyt coming with the ambulance?”
“Yep. Should be here now.” As Watson spoke, they heard the rising wail of a siren. “That’s him,” Watson said and added scornfully, “He’s even got the siren going—showing off on a Sunday afternoon.”
Shannon returned his gaze to the woman. “The hospital’s the place for her. She’s suffering from exposure and shock, probably swallowed some water.” He stood erect and pulled back the tarpaulin. His trained gaze went over the slender body and he noted that except for a bruise on the inside of her left thigh and a few minor scratches she appeared to be uninjured. He also noted the thin scar on her abdomen resulting from the removal of the vermiform
“All right. Now, listen; you call Lee Hoyt and tell him to get an ambulance down there, just in case. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, Clint.”
Shannon replaced the phone and said to his wife, “I’ve got to go down to the yacht basin. Sounds like a drowning, or a near drowning. If I don’t come back pretty soon, you can reach me at the hospital.” He picked up a black bag from the floor beside the kitchen door. His wife followed him out to the porch.
The boy, seeing the bag, ran up to the steps and asked eagerly, “Can I go along?”
Shannon smiled down at his son. “Not this time, Jack. I may have to go to the hospital. You stay here with Mommy.”
The boy protested, but Shannon tousled his short black hair and went to a new green Ford sedan parked in the drive. He waved to his wife and son as he backed out.
Mortimer Watson was waiting for him on the curb in front of the Lake Shore Tavern. “You got here fast, Clint,” he said as he got into the Ford. “Park in the club lot. My boat’s tied up right near there.”
“Do you know who the woman is?” Shannon asked as he made a left turn and drove toward the harbor.
“Nope, never saw her before, but George Yundt said he’s seen her at the Y taking swimming lessons. We were trolling for perch and when the storm came up we anchored off Snake Island. We didn’t see her until we circled the island and headed home. She was on the beach on the south side. Lew Sprang spotted her and George swam ashore and got her.”
“Any pulse?”
“Lew and George said not—I didn’t touch her. She looked dead to me, but George says she opened her eyes once, right after we got her aboard.”
Shannon said nothing and swung his car into a black-topped area and stopped before a sign reading Private—Members Only. Carrying his bag he followed Watson out on a cement pier past rows of moored cabin cruisers, sail boats, speed boats and a few pretentious yachts. They stopped before Watson’s boat, which was tied up between a forty-foot yawl and a gleaming white cruiser. George Yundt and Lewis Sprang stood in the stern of Watson’s boat and Shannon returned their nods as he stepped aboard and stooped to enter the small cabin. Watson followed him inside, but the other two men remained on deck. George Yundt said to the old lawyer, “I guess you won’t need me any more.” He was now wearing his damp shirt and slacks. “I’d better get some dry clothes.”
“Sure, son,” Sprang said, “run along. I’ll see you at the bank in the morning.”
“Yes,” George said as he stepped up to the pier.
Inside the cabin Shannon knelt beside the still form on the padded bench. Watson said apologetically, “We didn’t have anything but that old tarp to cover her with. All she’s got on is a skimpy bathing suit.”
Shannon nodded silently and placed two fingers on the woman’s throat, over the carotid artery. He could barely detect a slow feeble pulse. He gazed at the calm face, saw that she was an attractive woman, even now, without cosmetics and with the bright afternoon sun slanting into the cabin revealing the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. He looked up at Watson. “Is Hoyt coming with the ambulance?”
“Yep. Should be here now.” As Watson spoke, they heard the rising wail of a siren. “That’s him,” Watson said and added scornfully, “He’s even got the siren going—showing off on a Sunday afternoon.”
Shannon returned his gaze to the woman. “The hospital’s the place for her. She’s suffering from exposure and shock, probably swallowed some water.” He stood erect and pulled back the tarpaulin. His trained gaze went over the slender body and he noted that except for a bruise on the inside of her left thigh and a few minor scratches she appeared to be uninjured. He also noted the thin scar on her abdomen resulting from the removal of the vermiform
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