The mock disaster was to have been for the entire county of Whisper Lake, which included the communities of Whisper Lake Crossing, Shawnigan at the southern tip and DeLorme in the north.
Of course, the disaster drill had been canceled due to the real disaster, something that the media was finding both ironic and newsworthy.
Stu decided that he’d had enough of a walking-around break. Time to get back to work. All morning he’d been trying to track down the elusive Peter Remington, former boyfriend of Anna Barker.
Anna had left California, “escaped,” she told him, from an ex-boyfriend who had “threatened” her. She’d given him Peter’s contact information, but the e-mails bounced. Stu had left countless messages to no avail.
Alec looked at Stu. “Any more on Anna Barker? You going to see her today?”
“Planning to. After I make a few more calls here.”
Because Stu had been the one who had found and rescued Anna, Alec had decided that he should be the one to keep in contact with her. This was fine with Stu. She was the pretty, dark-haired woman with the sad face who mostly kept to herself. She always looked so perfectly polished and therefore out of his league.
When the explosion happened and he’d seen a woman fall, he’d had no idea it was her. His adrenaline had kicked in and he ran to help. It had done something to his heart when he discovered it was her underneath that rubble.
But even with the scratches and gashes on her face, she looked beautiful to him. He had been saddened to learn that she’d been so hurt by a jerk in California. A jerk he was now having no luck tracking down.
He searched the guy’s name on the Internet and came up with accolades on his great special effects. The company he worked for had even been nominated for an Academy Award once. Stu had run the guy’s name through the police databases they had access to and come up with no information. He had no criminal record.
Stu sat down and called the studio in California where Peter worked.
“No,” a gruff female voice answered. “Peter Remington isn’t here. Who wants to know?”
Stu introduced himself.
“The police? Maine? He in some kind of trouble?”
“We need to talk with him about something.”
“All I can say is if you find him, you can tell him to get his sorry self back here. He’s the only one who knows the correct bomb sequence and we can’t pro duce this scene without him. He’s holding up editing. He’s holding up production.”
Stu straightened in his chair. “What do you mean by bomb sequence?”
“For the movie. He’s the one who’s putting it all together.”
“So Peter Remington knows a lot about bombs?”
“He’s the best.”
“And you don’t know where he is?” Stu was taking rapid notes.
“Nope. Not a clue.”
Stu thanked the woman and got her to promise to call him if Peter did show up.
Well, well, thought Stu.
He was finishing up his notes when a movement in the doorway caught his attention. A tall, hollow-cheeked young man with purple spiky hair and thick eyebrows stood there holding a black art portfolio. Since Stu’s desk was closest to the door, he got up. “Can I help you? Something you need?”
The man shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous. He wore shiny black boots, which came clear to his knees.
“Maybe,” he said. “I found something. Don’t know if it’s important or not.”
“What is it pertaining to?” Stu asked him.
“It’s about the bombing at the Shawnigan City Hall yesterday.”
Stu invited him over to have a seat at his desk. The young man did and coiled his long legs around the front of the chair, leaning in toward Stu. His patent-leather boots squeaked.
“My name’s Rodney Malini. I’m a friend of Anna’s.”
Rodney laid the portfolio down on the desk and proceeded to pull out sheets of papers.
“Well, actually, I’m one of Anna’s students. I am…was…good friends with Hilary and Claire. Our class was pretty tight. Anna’s a great teacher. And last night…well, last night I was just so upset over everything that I couldn’t even think straight. Couldn’t sleep at all. So I got looking around the Internet. I started reading Hilary’s blog. Don’t know if it means anything but I thought the police should see it, maybe.”
Scanning the top of the sheets, Stu asked, “You live in Shawnigan?”
The young man nodded.
“You drove all the way up here instead of going to the police station down there?”
“Shawnigan’s a crazy place. TV cameras everywhere, man. I don’t like the limelight so much.”
Stu stared at him. He had certainly dressed oddly for someone who didn’t like the limelight so much. “There’s a television crew outside here now,” Stu said.
“I managed to avoid them. But this is what I wanted to show you.”
Stu picked up the top sheet. Rodney pointed. “It’s that line there I thought you should read.”
I know she wants to hurt me, and even get me out of the way.
“And here’s another one,”
She threatened me again today.
There were a couple more printed pages like this. With entries like, She’s stalking me. I can’t take it, all highlighted by Rodney’s yellow marker.
Stu looked at him and then back at the blog sheets. “You said you were good friends with Hilary. Do you know who she was writing about?”
Rodney shook his head. “We, all of us were tight, but Hilary—she was a little different. Quiet. Didn’t talk much. I don’t know. I have no idea, in fact. I talked with some of the others, and no one knows. She kept to herself a lot. Hilary also kept a poetry blog. She also wrote poetry. She’s one of those people who writes everything down.” His eyes swam with tears when he realized the verb tense mistake he had made. He corrected himself, “She wrote everything down. I’m going to see Anna,” he said suddenly. “Do you know if she can have visitors?”
“I’m pretty sure she can,” Stu said. “But check with the hospital.”
Before Rodney left, Stu wrote down the Web site address and took Rodney’s contact information. Stu handed him a business card and said, “Anything else you remember, please call me. I wrote my cell number on the back of the card.”
Rodney left.
So Hilary could have been the target?
Anna decided not to tell anyone about almost being smothered the previous night—not her mother, nor her aunt, nor Deputy McCabe. Sara and Daphne, the day nurse, had convinced her that the pain medication had made her feel smothered.
In the morning, Daphne gently removed the bandages on Anna’s face, washed the wounds, as well as the rest of her face, and re-bandaged them.
“It’s healing nicely,” Daphne said.
“That’s good. In some ways my face hurts more than my arm.”
“That sometimes happens.” The nurse paused. “I heard you had an episode last night.
” Anna nodded. An episode. “It felt so real,” she