The Man Who Wasn't All There by David Handler (book recommendations website TXT) 📕

took us directly alongside of it. A wooden safety railing on the edge of the trail kept hikers from straying too close and falling. There was a deep stone gorge at the base of the waterfall. It was quite a breathtaking view. I’m sure I would have appreciated it keenly if I hadn’t been on the verge of passing out again. As I paused there, leaning my full weight against the safety railing, Lulu nudged my shin with her head.

That’s when I saw him.

Austin was lying on his stomach way down there on a large, flat stone in the gorge. He wasn’t moving. The tormented billionaire had chosen suicide as the only way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. Did a Brody off of the top of the waterfall. He was dead, it appeared, but I had to be sure. I climbed over the safety railing, my head spinning, and crawled, slid and tumbled my way down the hill to the base of the gorge as the waterfall roared and the spray soaked me. Soaked us, I should say. My faithful, fearless partner had managed to climb her way over the railing and was right there next to me as we waded into the river and I turned Austin over and …

He hadn’t jumped.

Someone had gone at him with a knife. There were deep, savage gashes in his throat from ear to ear. His jugular vein and carotid artery had both been severed. There are those who think of death as a state of eternal peace. The second richest man in Connecticut wasn’t at peace. He died angry, his wet face scrunched in a permanent scowl, his eyes bulging furiously.

Murdered. Austin had been murdered.

Meaning Lulu hadn’t been wrong when she’d gotten that whiff of somebody as we were hiking our way up the mountain. Not that I for one second thought she had been. Somebody was tailing us. Somebody who knew the mountain. Somebody who was a reasonably fit hiker.

Somebody who had a reason for wanting Austin dead.

As I knelt there in the chilly water, gazing down at him, Lulu began barking furiously. She’d heard faint voices off in the distance. I could hear them myself now. Husky male voices. Volunteer rescuers. Lots of them. And a couple of dogs started barking in response to Lulu’s bark.

Slowly, I climbed to my feet and waded my way back toward the riverbank. ‘Over here!’ I called out as loud as I could before I pitched over on to the bank and was gone again.

FOUR

When I came to I was no longer up on that mountain. I was in a bed in a hospital room with the lights dimmed. The sky outside of my window was a night sky. Had I been out cold all day? My head still ached and my ears were ringing. I had a needle in my arm and was hooked up to a couple of bags so I wouldn’t dehydrate, starve or any of those sorts of things. Lulu was lying on the bed next to me fast asleep with her face between two heavily bandaged paws. Dozing in a chair next to the bed in a creamy white turtleneck, herringbone slacks and ankle boots, was Merilee Gilbert Nash, trademark high forehead, magnificently sculpted cheekbones and all – who I could have sworn was supposed to be in Budapest playing Brett in that remake of The Sun Also Rises with Mr Mel Gibson.

‘May I have your autograph, Miss Nash?’ I asked hoarsely.

She blinked at me with those mesmerizing green eyes of hers before her face broke into a huge smile and she practically flew out of the chair to hug me and lay her head against my chest. I stroked her silky, waist-length golden blond hair and inhaled the scent of her Crabtree & Evelyn avocado oil soap before she raised her face to mine and kissed my mouth softly. ‘I’ve never been so scared in my life. I was afraid you weren’t going to come back.’

‘I always come back. I’m like Arnold in The Terminator. But where am I?’

‘Middlesex Hospital in Middletown. Let me get the doctor. I just saw her out in the hall a second ago.’ She darted out the door and was gone.

Lulu wormed her way up the bed toward me and nuzzled my neck. I put my arm around her and told her what a brave, brave girl she was. She let out a weak whimper and snuggled even closer to me.

A crisply efficient young Asian woman, Dr Cynthia Eng, strode briskly in, trailed by Merilee. ‘Welcome back.’

‘Thank you. Nice to be back.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Dizzy.’

‘I’m not surprised. You’ve suffered a concussion. Miss Nash informs me that you’re alert and aware but just for my own satisfaction, can you tell me what your name is?’

‘Maitland W. Montmaurency.’

‘Hoagy, be serious,’ Merilee said.

‘Stewart Stafford Hoag. You can call me Hoagy.’

‘Can you tell me what your address is?’

‘Um, that one’s actually rather complicated right now …’

‘OK, then who’s the president of the United States?’

‘William Jefferson Clinton of Hope, Arkansas.’

‘Good answer.’ She paused to check my pulse and blood pressure before she said, ‘That was quite some blow you took to the back of your head. What did he use?’

‘A hickory nightstick.’

‘I was concerned you might have a fractured skull in addition to your concussion and scalp laceration so I ordered an x-ray. It came back negative. You, sir, have one very hard head.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Merilee said. ‘I can assure you.’

‘It bled quite a bit. We had to staple it.’

‘Sorry, did you say staple it?’

‘I did. That’s what we use now instead of stitches. Surgical incisions and lacerations heal faster with staples.’

I fingered my head for the first time and found metal staples there. Also premature male baldness. They’d shaved off a section of my hair before they’d stapled the laceration shut. ‘At least it doesn’t hurt.’

‘That’s because I’ve shot you full of novocaine. It’ll hurt like hell when the novocaine wears off.