Jack Beale 00 - Dangerous Shoals

Sitting in the shadows under the bridge he considered his options. Abandoning the canoe here and walking to his car on the north side of the harbor was quickly ruled out. Too easy to be spotted. No, the canoe would have to be hidden before he could make his escape and that meant risking exposure again as he retraced his route back into the marsh and its relative safety. He took a deep breath, pointed his canoe toward the marsh, and paddled as hard as he could, hoping that no one would notice him.
    Ignoring the increasing pain in his hand he stroked on, and a full plan began to evolve. He would follow the channels across the marsh toward the wooded areas on the southern side. From all the time he had spent bird watching, he knew there were several houses in that area, barely visible from the marsh. He reasoned that if he couldn’t see them, then they probably couldn’t see him, either. The area was overgrown and he had never seen any obvious access to the marsh. That’s where he’d sink the canoe. Then, on foot, he’d work his way back to his car. It was still very risky, but much less so than trying to drag and paddle his canoe across the harbor at low tide.
    As he neared the shore, he could see lights on in the large homes whose properties backed down to the marsh. Because of the exclusivity of that area, the homes were spaced far apart, leaving wide dark areas in between. “Perfect,” he thought to himself as he stroked with increasing confidence toward the largest dark area.
    The woods were thick and there was nothing to indicate that anyone had been near the marsh where he chose to land. He was going to have to get wet for his plan to succeed, even though that would create some risk later. When the canoe nosed against the shore, he placed his bag over his shoulder, eased himself out of the canoe and his feet sank into the muddy bottom. The water was cold and he grunted as he moved his feet, slowly and with care, so as to not lose his shoes to the muck. He capsized the canoe and it sank. Then he gathered as much grass, sticks, and whatever else he could find to further hide it. The night remained dark because the moon had not yet risen and this gave him some comfort. Satisfied that the canoe was well hidden, he waded ashore and began working his way through the woods and toward the road, where he became just another tourist walking home from a late night on the beach.
    As he walked along the boulevard, he saw the blue lights of a police cruiser parked by the bridge. He kept walking, forcing himself to remain calm. His plan was working. He smiled as he began to relax a bit. In about ten minutes he would be in his car and on his way to safety. His hand was throbbing, but he forced himself to ignore the pain as he walked along. As he reached his car, he looked across the harbor one last time. The blue lights stopped flashing as the cruiser drove toward the commercial pier. He climbed into his car and slowly drove off.

CHAPTER 72
    TOM WATCHED AS Max and Jack backed down the drive and then heard gravel spitting out from the tires as they sped away. Every event has a beginning and an end point, and, in this case, he knew that both had to be outside. The middle was here, inside. Before going downstairs, before going to get the camera with which he would photograph evidence, Tom stood and surveyed Jack’s apartment, trying to visualize what had happened. The cut screen and the blood, on the floor and then by the secretary, where Cat was found severely wounded, spoke volumes about what had happened, but it did nothing to answer the why.
    He walked over to the window and looked at the cut and pushed out screen and his gaze was drawn outside. “This was where it ended,” he thought. To escape by dropping to the ground from a second-floor window was an act of desperation; it could not have been planned. Whatever the intent, something must have gone horribly wrong. Turning away from the window, his eyes returned to the blood.
    When he had first arrived, Jack was just pulling Cat out from under the secretary. She was covered in blood. He shook his head and said under his breath, “What kind of sick bastard would break in and go after a cat?”
    The blood trail diminished as he moved away from the secretary and toward the bedroom. He looked at the two smears of blood on the floor. The larger of the two appeared to have been made when someone stepped in the blood. This had left a partial imprint of a shoe’s sole. It