Greely's Cove Read Online Free

Trosper’s handwriting, and on top of that, I’m a little confused about the content. A professional opinion wouldn’t hurt.”
    Stu was on the verge of pleading, something he detested and almost never did. “Dave, Al, I knew Lorna Trosper. My wife was one of her closest friends. I—we loved her. If there was the slightest chance that she died because of foul play, I’d be screaming for an autopsy, and I’d be pounding on somebody’s desk in Olympia to get the State Patrol in here with a homicide team.”
    “The Patrol’s probably thinking about opening a branch office here”—Putney chuckled derogatorily—“since you’ve been keeping them so busy looking for your missing citizens. Death investigation might become the major industry of Greely’s Cove! Disappearances, suicides—all you need now is a bona-fide homicide, Stu, and you’ll have it all!”
    The chief ignored the crack. “Look, guys, I know Lorna killed herself, and I’m satisfied about the reason. My oldest buddy—her former husband, who still loved her a lot, by the way—is on his way here from back East to take care of the arrangements. Spare me the ugliness of telling him that Lorna’s body is in Seattle, being sliced open and chopped to pieces in a medico-legal autopsy. Can you do this for me? For old time’s sake? Please? ”
    Against their better judgment, after trading long and leery stares, Putney and Lonsdale acceded to the chief’s request. They affixed their signatures to official forms, certifying their findings that Lorna Trosper died by her own hand.
    And they ordered no autopsy.
    Mitch Nistler’s mind swam upward toward full consciousness, upward toward light and sound, guided by Dr. Hadrian Craslowe’s strong and reassuring voice.
    “... three, four, five—you are nearly awake now, Mitch—six, seven, eight...”
    He was ready to break through, and he was glad. The sleep of hypnosis was never a refuge for him, never a place of warmth and rest.
    “... nine, ten. There, now. You’re fully awake. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
    Mitch blinked several times, but he doubted that he was fully awake, for Dr. Craslowe’s face was still hazy and indistinct. Ripples of distortion floated through his field of vision.
    “Why don’t you have a sip of water?” offered the doctor, and what Mitch saw next assured him that he was not yet fully awake but still tied with dream threads to the hallucinatory world below. (Below?) An antique crystal pitcher ascended from its spot at the far end of the ebony table and glided through the air to the good doctor’s strangely deformed hand. The old man poured water into a long-stemmed glass and handed it across the table to Mitch.
    The cold water jolted him to full alertness, and he became aware of the horrid taste in his mouth. What in the hell have I been eating? he wanted to croak. Even before guzzling the water he had felt full, as though having just devoured a huge mound of rotting meat. The hellish taste coated his tongue and throat, extended up into his nasal passages. He tried unsuccessfully to flush it away with water.
    “You’re experiencing the taste again, I see,” said Dr. Craslowe, smiling his craggy smile. “Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”
    Mitch Nistler gulped a little more water, then set the glass aside. “It’s more than a taste this time,” he gasped, nearly gagging. “There’s a smell with it.”
    “Hardly abnormal, dear boy,” said the doctor in his broad.
    British accent. “Taste and smell are closely affiliated senses. You are merely experiencing a psychosomatic artifact of the hypnotic experience. It’s rather common, actually. The sensations won’t last long.”
    Mitch wanted to believe him, but the taste, the smell, and the lump in his gut gave no signs of leaving. Once he had gotten food poisoning—years before, while doing hard time in Walla Walla. A friend of his, who worked in the prison cafeteria, had smuggled three pounds of roast beef