Roche Harbor Rogue Read online

  Roche Harbor Rogue

  San Juan Islands Mystery Series

  Book Five

  **The Writer

  **Dark Waters

  **Murder on Matia

  **Rosario’s Revenge

  **Roche Harbor Rogue

  D.W. ULSTERMAN

  ©2019

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  Prologue Two

  About the Author

  If you run out of ideas follow the road; you’ll get there.

  -Edgar Allan Poe

  Dedicated to Larry and Judy Gilkerson.

  You gave this rogue the most amazing gift ever—your daughter.

  I remain forever grateful.

  Prologue

  “With intensive treatment, best case, you’ll have another year, possibly two.”

  “And without treatment?”

  The doctor’s mouth tightened. “Six to nine months.”

  “That’s it? Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. You’re welcome to a second opinion, but I’ve been doing this for some time. Seventeen years in my current position as head of oncology. I know this cancer well. It’s a particularly nasty one—highly aggressive.”

  “What do you recommend? By that I mean, if you were me, what would you choose?”

  The doctor leaned forward behind his desk. A window overlooking a small garden outside framed his head. It was raining.

  “We can initiate treatment immediately. You never know. Sometimes, well, sometimes the cancer is pushed into remission.”

  “But that’s not likely.”

  “Correct,” the doctor said with a nod. “The most probable outcome is what I’ve already outlined. A year or two with treatment. Six to nine months without.”

  “You know how I feel about putting poison into my body.”

  “And you know how I think poison is too strong a term.”

  The patient’s eyes narrowed. “No, it’s not. That’s exactly what chemo is. I’ll lose my hair.”

  “Hair grows back. The side effects are temporary.”

  “But death is permanent. How long would the treatments take?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “The first round will be two sessions per week for six weeks. Then we’ll reevaluate based upon how the cancer reacts. Most often a second round is initiated a few months later. The body requires time to recover.”

  “From the poison.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You want to give my body time to recover from the poison you’ll be pumping into it.”

  The doctor’s scowl lasted no more than a few seconds, but the smile that replaced it was forced. He ran a long-fingered hand through the shock of thick white hair atop his head.

  “I’m a physician. I consider it treatment. You’re the patient. You can call it whatever you like.”

  “How many patients have you treated for the same kind of cancer that I have?”

  “Twelve.”

  The patient’s brows arched. “You answered that quickly.”

  “I remember nearly every patient I’ve ever had, and each new case is a new challenge.”

  “And how many did you manage to save?”

  The doctor’s jaw clenched. He looked down at his folded hands. “None.”

  “They’re dead? All twelve of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not ready to die, Doctor.”

  “Indeed. None of us truly are. I’m very sorry I couldn’t give you better news. That said, I am confident the treatments will extend your life some.”

  “But at what cost?” When the doctor didn’t reply, the patient continued. “I’ll spend a third of that extra time you’re promising going to and from the hospital so you can stick a needle into my arm and inject me full of toxic chemo chemicals. And in the end, I still most likely die.”

  The doctor’s tone was cold. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “So, why bother with the treatment at all?”

  “It’ll give you more time.”

  “A few months? A year? Most of which I’ll spend sicker from the chemo than I would have been with just the cancer.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  The patient took in a deep breath and then let it out. “Exactly.”

  The doctor tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s not much upside to going through with the chemo. I don’t want to waste a single day cooped up in a hospital with a needle jammed into my arm, or on the floor of a bathroom puking my guts out or looking in the mirror and not recognizing the face staring back at me. I won’t do it.”

  “You’re refusing treatment?” the doctor said while blinking rapidly. “Perhaps you should give it another day or two before deciding. This has been a lot to take in. While I understand your reservations regarding treatment, I strongly urge you to give yourself more time to think it over.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “If you were me what would you do? Take the treatment or not? Don’t answer as my doctor. Answer as if you were the patient but with the knowledge a doctor like you has regarding side effects and likely outcomes.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “My job is to do everything in my power to heal my patients.”

  “But you’ve already told me I won’t get better. The cancer will kill me. It’s inevitable.”

  “Yes, but the treatment will give you more time. And you never know. Miracles do happen.”

  “But not to any of your patients. Not the ones who had the same cancer then as I do now.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Did any of those patients refuse the treatment you suggested?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No.”

  “Okay,” the patient said with a shrug. “This will be a first time then. I’m going to take my chances without the treatment. No offense but I’d rather be in full control of whatever time I have left.”

  “Even if it’s just six months?”

  “Yeah. If that’s it then that’s it.”

  “You won’t reconsider?”

  The patient stood. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to have been the cause of the news you had to deliver today. It can’t get any easier having to tell someone they’re going to die. I don’t envy this job of yours.”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be comforting you,” the doctor said while getting up. He shook the patient’s hand. “Where will you go?”

  “Wherever I want,” the patient said with a wide smile. “I have the means and I always feel better after a decision has been made.”

  “There’ll be times when you won’t feel better. You do understand that, right? Some days, and they may come sooner than you think, some days will be very difficult. The pain will be intense to the point of debilitation. I
t’ll consume you. At the very least let me write you a prescription for morphine. It’ll help to take the edge off.”

  “No need. I’ll manage. I want to keep my head clear. I don’t wish to waste a single day lost in the fog of medication.”

  “You should also consider the likelihood of facing the fog of considerable physical pain. Without treatment the tumors will continue to spread unchecked, particularly the ones in your abdomen.”

  “Fine. So be it.”

  The doctor stared directly into the patient’s eyes. “I’m not sure if I should admire your remarkable resilience in the face of such a grim prognosis or question your mental competence.”

  “Perhaps it would be easier to do both. Either way, I’ve made up my mind while it’s still mine to do so.”

  “That you have. Will I be seeing you again?”

  “No, I don’t think you will. My time might be small but that doesn’t mean I have to live like it is. In fact, I intend to live bigger than I ever have. Don’t worry about me, Doctor. I’m good.”

  “Yeah?”

  The patient nodded. “Yeah.”

  The doctor rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Okay. I guess it’s good luck to you then. Please do me a favor though. Regardless of where you go, if you ever need anything, or change your mind about receiving treatment or medication, or any questions you might have, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “I will. Thanks again.” The patient turned around and reached for the door.

  “Wait,” the doctor said. “Can you at least give me an idea as to where it is you intend to go?”

  The patient answered without looking back. “To the place of all our beginnings.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The water.”

  And with that final reply, the patient was gone.

  1.

  “G od, how I hate having to look at that thing staring back at me. It’s a monstrosity of arrogance. Why of all places did he have to build it there?”

  Adele wished to avoid delving too deeply into Tilda’s dissatisfaction over the location of Roland’s new home so attempted indifference with a quick shrug. “I guess he likes the views.”

  “Oh, does he? How nice for him that those views include looking down onto my hotel. Had I known the property up on the hill behind the resort was for sale I would have bought it myself to prevent the very thing that’s happening to it now. Shame on him. The size of it alone leads me to believe it’s nothing more than a desperate attempt at overcompensation. I mean really? What single man requires a home with seven bedrooms? All that ridiculous copper and that gothic tower—it’s absurd.”

  “I think it looks amazing.” Adele regretted the words as soon as they sped past her lips.

  The sound of hammering from the construction of Roland’s hillside home filtered into Tilda’s private quarters on the top floor of the Victorian-themed Roche Harbor Hotel. She put her teacup down. “Amazing? No. That certainly isn’t the word that comes to my mind. Then again, you’re much closer to Roland Soros than I’ll ever be. It’s only natural your tolerance for his showing off is far greater than my own.”

  Adele rolled her eyes. “Oh, Tilda, it’s just a house on a hill.”

  “Hah! There it is.”

  “What?”

  Tilda smirked. “There’s the loyalty you’ve come to be so well known for, particularly in matters concerning Roland Soros and Sheriff Lucas Pine. Ah, to be young again and in your position. Decisions, decisions . . .”

  “I came here for afternoon tea not to be teased.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago you were far too afraid of me to take such a tone.”

  Adele raised her cup. “Here’s to realizing Tilda Ashland is a woman with more bark than bite.”

  “Oh, you really are in a feisty mood. Could it be all that success with the newspaper is finally going to your head?”

  “No, I’m just far less patient than I once was. It’s most likely you rubbing off on me.”

  Tilda grinned. “Touché.” She took a sip of tea and a nibble from her cucumber sandwich. “Not that I wish to pry, but have you spoken with Roland recently? I haven’t seen him around.”

  “He’s still in New York.”

  “Really? What for?”

  Adele shrugged. “He didn’t say. I believe he’s supposed to be back tomorrow. Why do you ask?”

  It was Tilda’s turn to shrug. “Oh, no reason.”

  Adele scowled. “Tilda, what’s going on? Did you hear something?”

  “Why would you think I heard something?”

  “Because you just shrugged. You never shrug.”

  “That’s silly. Everyone shrugs.”

  Adele shook her head and pointed to her friend. “Not you. I remember when you told me once how shrugging made one appear indifferent or clueless, neither of which was acceptable for a person who wanted to be taken seriously by others.”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes, you most certainly did. Now, tell me what’s going on with Roland.”

  “It was a rumor, nothing more.”

  “Okay, what’s the rumor?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No,” Adele said. “You don’t get to do that. You brought it up and you’re not one to say something on accident, which means you really do want to tell me. Now I’ve twisted your arm enough, so you don’t have to feel guilty. Go ahead. Spill it.”

  “This is off the record. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Off the record? You think this is something that’s newsworthy?”

  “Yes, most definitely but promise me this stays between us. I mean it, Adele.”

  “Now you really have my attention. Okay, I promise.”

  Tilda crossed her legs and straightened her long skirt so that the bottom of the fabric brushed up against the tops of her shoes. “It has to do with the bank. It’s just a rumor and I really have no idea how much truth is behind it.”

  Adele waited. After pausing for a moment Tilda continued.

  “I was in Bellingham last week meeting with my financial adviser, getting some things in order and whatnot. Toward the end of our meeting he asked me what I thought about Mr. Soros accepting an offer to sell the bank in Friday Harbor. I told him that was the first I’d heard of it. Now you tell me Roland went to New York for reasons he didn’t wish to share with you and I can’t help but think the two things are very much related.”

  “Roland selling the bank? I don’t know if I can see him doing something like that. It’s his family’s legacy.”

  Tilda arched a brow. “Hmm. Yes, but it would also be a great deal of money and we both know how Roland favors cash. He’s certainly spending plenty of it on the construction of that eyesore on the hill. Do you intend to ask him about it when he gets back?”

  “Definitely. Say, why were you getting some things in order with your financial adviser? Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Just a bit of planning is all. I’m not getting any younger you know.”

  Though she would never say it out loud, Adele agreed that Tilda was finally starting to show the wear and tear of time. “But you are okay, right? No health issues?”

  Tilda stood and shook her long, silver-streaked red hair so that it fell behind her shoulders and covered much of her back. “I assure you I’m fine, but I also know that as sharp-eyed as you are these lines on my face haven’t gone unnoticed. I really don’t fret about old age but would rather not have to feel it. Would you mind if we finish our tea outside on the balcony?”

  Adele got up and smiled. “That sounds good. I think the sun is trying to crack through all the clouds. It’s just a few more weeks until spring and I’m more than done with all this cold rain.”

  The two women stood next to each other on the balcony holding their teacups and staring down at the marina below. In another month it would be scurrying with pre-summer activity but on this day, nobody moved on the docks. Even the typical early afternoon wind wa
s taking a break.

  “You’re looking as fit as ever,” Tilda said. “Are you still taking karate lessons in Bellingham?”

  “It’s taekwondo,” Adele answered. “And yes, I earned my green belt just last week.”

  “Green, is that good?”

  Adele smiled. “For me it is.”

  “Could you give someone a thrashing?”

  “I suppose. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not really why I’m doing it.”

  Tilda leaned against the white railing. “Oh?”

  “All the stress, the mind racing, it just melts away when I’m training. It’s become sort of an addiction, but the kind that doesn’t mess you up but rather makes you stronger. I’ve never felt better.”

  Tilda’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “And if the Russian mafia returns, you could defend yourself?”

  “Lucas hasn’t heard anything new regarding the Russians. He’s been in regular contact with the Canadian authorities and is almost certain that we’ve seen the last of them.”

  “As much as I appreciate the protective instincts of our beloved Sheriff Pine, I don’t think the Russians are in the business of announcing their intentions beforehand. You sent one of theirs to his death on the cliffs of Rosario, remember?”

  Adele’s eyes flashed her annoyance. “Of course. That’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

  Tilda put a hand on Adele’s arm. “I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory. I apologize. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “I worry about you. You’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a daughter.”

  “I never thought of you as the mothering type.”

  Tilda’s thin smile complemented the playful gleam in her eyes. “Don’t make me send you to bed without your supper.”

  Adele put her tea down and her fists up. “Hah! I’d like to see you try, old woman.”

  “Old woman?” Tilda’s features tightened. “How could you?”

  Adele’s eyes got big. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Tilda threw her head back and laughed. “I was kidding,” she said. “I may be old, but I’m not without a sense of humor. My goodness. Do you really think me to be so thin-skinned? C’mon, let’s go back inside. This air is chilling me to the bone.”