Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jaguar, coated with ash and barely visible in the fog, was parked beside the
cabin.
    Claire slammed on the brakes, and her engine stalled. She scrambled from the car and ran
across the clearing, leaping blackened spars and chunks of roof, heedless of possible danger from
smoldering embers. She brushed the ashes from the license plate. Palmer 1 .
    Frank had told her he never took the Jaguar down here, but this was his car, his vanity
plate. The driver's door was unlocked and the car empty. Keys lay in the console as if the driver
would return any moment.
    Stunned, she stared at what remained of Frank's cabin. Skeletons of walls rose stark and
irrelevant, supporting nothing. The roof had fallen in. A scorched metal stovepipe disappeared in
the fog, and a bit of stairway dangled from what must have been the front deck. She walked over
and tried to reach the lowest step, but it was too high up. And it didn't matter. No one could have
survived inside that.
    She rested her forehead against the car roof and gathered her thoughts. Jeanette had said
Frank and Hatch planned to go fishing in the Gulf, and they often stayed out overnight. They were
probably out in his boat and didn't even know there'd been a fire.
    The dirt track continued down toward the water. She followed it, walking faster, half
running now despite the thick fog and muddy ground. A protruding root sent her sprawling. She
struggled back to her feet, saw that she'd ripped her slacks, and proceeded more carefully. The
track ended at a bulkhead and a wooden dock. A white cabin cruiser was moored at the end of the
dock, looking like a ghost ship in the mist.
    "Hello? Hello, anyone there?"
    A seagull squawked the only response. It hovered overhead and scolded as she ran the
length of the dock and jumped on board.
    The cabin, like the car, was unlocked. Claire studied the elaborate control panel and pushed
the power button for what looked like a ship-to-shore radio. Nothing happened. She held the button
down--still nothing. She looked under the console. No switch, and all the wires appeared to be
attached. The dials and gauges told her nothing. She tried other buttons, but nothing responded.
Maybe the boat engine had to be on, but she didn't have the key.
    She trudged back to the fog-shrouded clearing and the burned ruin that had been Frank's
cabin. The pervasive smoke stung her throat, made her stomach churn and her eyes tear. Or was
she crying?
    It was the smoke. That's what they'd told her when she went to the morgue to identify
Tom's body. There were no visible burns. The damage was all on the inside where hot smoke
seared his lungs and stole his breath.
    Her unease intensified into apprehension and then dread, the sense of impending doom
that signaled the beginning of a panic attack. Her therapist had told her that most people's panic
attacks were metallic--the taste in their mouths, the chains around their chest, the weights on their
arms and legs. Hers were made of scorched plastic, a dark gray bubble that cut her off from the rest
of the world.
    She pulled the vial from her pocket and wrenched it open. The smooth container slipped
through her trembling fingers, spilling the pills. She dropped to her knees and sifted through the
ashes until she felt a small hard oval. Gratefully, she swallowed it. Ash coated her lips and gritted on
her teeth, but she didn't care. She found two more pills, swallowed one and put the other back.
    The bubble's not real. Inhale two three; exhale two three. It's not real. Hold on until the
pills kick in.
    The therapist had taught her to manage her panic by visualizing gentle surf. If she could see
waves breaking on a beach--one after the other, slow and steady--their rhythm would calm her,
guide her breath and help her regain control. She'd practiced until she could imagine waves in a
store, in a meeting or walking down the street, but not now. This morning, she could see only
ashes.
    The bubble began to contract, closing in until thick