A Killing Tide (33 page)

She sat down in the chair he'd vacated and reached for Chuck's hand. She held it for a long moment, trying to will some of her strength into him. Was it her imagination, or was his color better than it had been when she'd come in? She hoped so.

She used both hands to warm his. "Thank you," she whispered.

For a brief moment, his hand tightened on hers.

#

Zeke burst through the door of Michael's room with Kaz in tow, scrabbling on the linoleum as he leapt across the room. He launched himself at the bed. Monitors jerked and beeped, and the IV line swung wildly, almost ripping out of Michael's hand. With both paws on the bed, Zeke slathered Michael's face with dog saliva.

Michael laughed and scratched his ruff with his free hand. "Easy there, boy. I'm okay."

"Mawrooo, rooo."

Zeke then tried to climb into the hospital bed, and Kaz grabbed his collar, hauling him back. "Sit," she told him firmly, trying to avert disaster.

He grumbled, his expression accusing, but sat. He slapped a giant paw against the edge of the covers and grinned, his tongue hanging sideways out of his mouth.

"Zeke hasn't slept a wink, worrying about you," she told Michael. "I promised him I'd sneak him up here as soon as I could."

Michael grunted. "Good. Maybe the hospital staff will discover him and it'll get both of us expelled."

"Fat chance," Kaz said, but she secretly commiserated. "You're in here for awhile, at least until the pin they put in your leg starts to knit with the bone."

She could see that he didn't like the sound of that. "So," he said, his voice casual. "Since we've now slept together—"

"I beg your pardon?" Kaz interrupted, her eyebrows arched, a slight smile on her face. "I don't remember getting a lot of sleep."

"—how about, when I get out of here, I take you out on a date?"

She made a production out of hesitating. "A real date, huh? Like dinner, and maybe a movie?"

"Yeah," he said. "I could put the moves on you after the lights go down."

"That's
appealing." Her heart turned over. "I haven't necked in a movie theater since high school."

"Then you've been missing out," he said firmly. He reached out, took one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist. A small jolt of desire ran through her. "You'll stick around?"

"Of course. I've got the work on the
Anna Marie
, and Gary still needs help with the business. We'll have to recoup from our losses—" She shivered, heat flashing through her when he used his teeth on her palm. The man knew how to turn her into mush, thank God.

"I meant," he growled, "will you stay around for us? Because otherwise, we're trying out a long-distance relationship. I'm not letting go of you anytime soon."

A feeling of contentment washed over her. She smiled tremulously. "Yes."

She'd work out whatever she needed to with her business partner. She'd probably have to commute back and forth, but it would be worth it. There was no way she was going back to California on a permanent basis. This was where she belonged now.

"Yes, what?" he demanded.

"Yes, I'm sticking around." She leaned down and kissed him, placing her hand on his cheek. "For us."

The End

About the Author

RITA nominee and award-winning author P.J. Alderman has lived in the Pacific Northwest for more than twenty-five years, where she pursues her life-long passions of writing and native gardening.
A Killing Tide
was originally published in mass paperback format in December, 2006, and was nominated for the RITA for Best First Book.

Alderman also writes the Port Chatham Mystery Series, published by Bantam Books, which blends the fascinating history of Pacific Northwest port towns with present-day supernatural sleuthery.

Coming soon, the exciting sequel to
A Killing Tide
:

Phantom River

River bar pilot Jo Henderson knows all the myths and legends of her native Astoria, but her knowledge of the undercurrents in local events proves more deadly than she thought possible when an explosion dumps her into the Columbia's icy winter waters. On the heels of another co-worker's death and uncovered suspicious shipping activity, these "accidents" have gained the attention of the authorities. Now, the only thing Jo has to fear more than someone trying to kill her is the someone who's trying to protect her.

When Bostonian John MacFallon took the job of Astoria's police chief, he left evil behind—he thought for good. But with the suspicious "accidents" piling up, he uncovers a bioterrorist threat that threatens to cripple the regional economy and kill thousands. However, nothing could prepare him to deal with the growing feelings he has for the one special woman who's put her life on the line. He'll do whatever is necessary to protect her, even risk his damaged heart.

In
Phantom River
, mysteries of the past will resurface to haunt them both.

~~~~

Prologue

Tuesday, 12:00 AM

Astoria, Oregon

John MacFallon wrenched the steering wheel to avoid the sudden drop-off into howling black at the bottom of the hairpin curve. The pickup's rear wheels spun on the waterlogged shoulder, then found purchase. He kept his grip at white-knuckle level, focusing on the narrow ribbon of pavement that ran along the bluffs of the Columbia River. Not for the first time during the drive down from Portland, Oregon's Highway 30 struck him as an irresistible temptation for anyone looking to commit suicide.

The white fog line demarcating safety from oblivion had become a distant memory just outside Longview. Rain hammered the windshield, restricting visibility to the front hood of the truck. Mac had the wipers on high, and it was as if he'd never turned them on at all.

When he'd flown out to interview for the job of Chief of Police several weeks ago, his old pal Michael Chapman hadn't seen fit to warn him about the weather.

"Yeah, it can get a little wet out here in the winter," Chapman had said, looking unconcerned. They'd met at a fisherman's hangout to down a few microbrews.

What Chapman had failed to mention—and Mac had learned with one quick Internet search—was that Lewis and Clark had nearly gone insane their first winter at Fort Clatsop on the Columbia River, battling the darkness and the damp that never went away. Even the NOAA precipitation tables hadn't provided a clear picture. Sure, they'd documented the number of inches per month, which had—admittedly—given him pause. But this? This was a fucking river pouring out of the sky.

The road straightened, but Mac knew the respite wouldn't last. He rubbed his jaw, three days of stubble pricking his palm. The smart move would've been to stop in Portland for the night, then tackle the last leg of his journey during daylight hours. But he'd pushed all the way across the country, his own private demons nipping at his heels, and he hadn't wanted to stop a mere hour short of his goal.

Don't think, keep moving.
That had been his motto for far too long.

Leaning forward, he kept one hand clamped to the steering wheel while he held down the Scan button on the radio. He'd heard nothing but static since he left Portland—grating white noise that blended with the gray mist enshrouding the truck. And right about now, when it was easy to sink into the darkest corners of his mind, he could use a bit of human contact.

Surely he could find some local station. People lived out here, didn't they? A voice coming out of the night—any voice at all—would suffice. He'd take whiny, brassy, or slick and salesy—he really didn't give a damn. They could entice him to buy worthless products—at this point it would be a comfort. Hell, he wasn't even averse to listening to a prayer or two—

"If my grandmother were alive, she'd tell you I've never had much use for men who covet money and power."

The smoky voice flooded the dark interior of the truck, muting the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement. Mac froze, the tip of his index finger a hairbreadth away from the radio button.

With a throaty, contralto laugh, the woman continued. "
Actually, my grandmother would tell you I haven't had much use for men lately, period
.
But that's not up for discussion this evening, fellas, so don't head for the phones, trying to change my mind."

Mac snorted. There wasn't a man alive who could resist that challenge. The call lines had to be lighting up. His Boston S.W.A.T. buddies already would've had their laptops open, attempting to triangulate off the radio signal.

"When I was eight, my grandmother told me a story that has stuck in my head even to this day. It's the well-known Northwest legend of how Coyote stole Fire, but I think you'll agree with me when I say that's not what it's really all about…"

What the hell?

"You see, there was a time when people were always cold and hungry. Fire, which could have kept them warm and fed burned high up on a mountaintop, jealously guarded by three greedy men. Those men weren't about to let anyone steal Fire, because then everyone could be as powerful as they.

"But Coyote wanted all men, women, and children to have Fire. So Coyote crept up that mountain to watch and to wait for his chance."

Mac stared at the radio console, intrigued.

"At dawn the next morning, the man on guard stood and went into his tent, leaving Fire momentarily unattended. Lightning quick, Coyote seized Fire and leapt down the mountainside.

"With a shout, the man gave chase, catching the tip of Coyote's tail. Which is why the tip is white to this day. Coyote ran to Squirrel…"

Her voice faded on a surge of static. Mac leaned forward, straining to hear while he gunned the engine around the next curve.

"…so hot it burned the back of Squirrel's neck, which is why you can see a black spot to this day…Frog, who spit Fire onto Wood..."

"…after a while, the man gave up and climbed back up to his camp on his mountaintop where he felt safe. Coyote then gathered all the people around and showed them how to rub two sticks of wood together, releasing Fire.

"As they do to this day."

There was a moment of dead air, then a long, soft sigh.

"I'll leave you to ponder and dream on that one…it's time for us to wrap it up for the night."

Mac scowled.

"According to my friend Gary, all you fishermen made it across the river bar safe and sound on the flood tide. So I'm happy to report that we've got us another win against the Columbia River ghouls."

The ghostly hulks of three elk appeared out of the mist, trotting across the road. Mac slammed on the brakes, swearing when the truck fishtailed. Unfazed, they disappeared over the side, heading down to the river.

"Oh, and for any newcomers or tourists who are crazy enough to be driving down Highway 30 right about now, try to miss hitting the elk herd around Milepost 94. We don't know you yet, so we don't know whether to regret your passing. But those elk have been our friends and neighbors for as long as Coyote has. We wouldn't take kindly to you hurting one of them.

"You've been listening to KACR, Astoria's community radio at 90.7 on your FM dial, dedicated to helping all men, women, and children learn how to get Fire out of Wood."

There was a moment of silence, then static as the station went off the air. He was left with only the faint glow of the radio dial, the drum of rain on the roof, and the unsettling echoes of his own bleak thoughts.

His hand slapped the steering wheel, hard.

She hadn't mentioned her name.

#

In the basement of an elegant Victorian overlooking downtown Astoria, a man hurled his radio against the cement wall, shattering it.

She
knew.

He dropped to his knees, chest heaving, the heels of his hands pressed against his closed eyes. She'd poked her nose where it didn't belong, asking too damn many questions. Refusing to
let it go
.

She'd signed her own death warrant.

~~~~

Chapter 1

Thursday, 7:45 AM

"Wind's out of the south today."

The tinny voice screeched at Jo Henderson over the static in her headphones. In the background, the staccato whump-whump of the helicopter's rotors sounded like sub-woofers on amphetamines. Her feet were already numb from engine vibration.

Only moments ago, they'd lifted off in the
Seahawk
from Astoria Regional Airport, running blind. Thick fog streamed past the Columbia River Bar Pilots Association helicopter as they flew toward the freighter waiting in the Pacific, fifteen miles northwest of the CR buoy.

"Got a little fog, though." Tim Carter tapped the instrument panel of the helicopter with the blunt end of his finger.

Master of understatement, that was Tim. Jo exchanged a wry look with their young winchman, Erik Ewald. She rubbed the salt-etched glass of the window with her cuff, wishing she was back at the radio station broadcasting another Northwest legend. Wishing she was anywhere but strapped into a helicopter.

Given their current heading, the ridges of Saddleback Mountain would be behind her right shoulder, the town and the river in front of her. That is, if she could see them.

Glancing down, she forced herself to relax her grip on the armrests before she dug holes in the leather. The helicopter pilots contracted by the Association flew in almost any type of weather, and Tim, whom she'd known all her life, was one of the best. She knew that.

The helicopter hit an air pocket, snapping her teeth together.

"Oops."

Oops?

"Sorry." Tim frowned at the controls. "She's acting a little sluggish today."

Sluggish?
She raised her eyebrows at Erik, who shrugged, spreading his hands. Only a few years out of school, Erik was too young to have a sense of his own mortality, to realize he could be gone in the blink of an eye.

Tim caught her expression and chuckled. "Not to worry. I didn't expect this kind of turbulence, is all." His curly hair turned a burnished gold in a brief shaft of sunlight. "Since I bought the place up on Kensington, I can glance out the window for my weather report each morning. Can't beat that with a stick, now can you?"

He revved the engines, dropping below a layer of fog. Jo's fingernails dug back in.

"Course if Margie keeps bleeding me dry," he added, "I might not be able to make the mortgage payments."

"I heard about last night in the pub," Jo felt compelled to say. Tim and Margery's breakup had kept the whole town in gossip for more than a year now. They'd had, according to her friend Lucy who'd witnessed the event, one hell of a public row.

"Margie came in looking for a fight, that's for sure," he agreed. "It's almost like when I handed her the cash, it made her even madder. Lucy had to threaten her with an assault rap to get her calmed down."

"You paid Margie in
public
?" Jo shook her head. Men could be so clueless.

"Yeah, not my smoothest move, I guess."

As he angled the big chopper sharply to the left, Jo caught a brief glimpse of Youngs Bay through a break in the fog. In the thin winter light, the water looked cold and deadly. Her heart rate sped up.

According to Northwest legend, when Coyote had traveled to the Sky World, he'd been killed by his fall back to Earth. And wasn't she always admonishing her listeners to take those myths to heart?

She brought herself up short. What was her problem today, anyway? She made her living piloting huge freighters through the Columbia River bar, a narrow channel of shifting sand bars and forty-foot waves. And everyone who worked the big ships, whether they admitted it or not, relied on a combination of luck, skill, and superstition to get them safely back to port. On each crossing, she encountered more danger than she ever would in the short
Seahawk
flights. Her recent uneasiness on these trips made no sense at all.

"We had a heck of a storm while you were on the air at the radio station," Tim continued. "Gusts up to fifty knots, close-in surge over thirty feet, zip for visibility. Erik and I had no end of trouble holding this baby steady over the freighters. This fog looks like a piece of cake, considering."

"Right." She narrowed her gaze on the back of his head.

He glanced over his shoulder. "You doing okay?"

"Never a qualm, you know me."

He grinned, not fooled in the least. "Haven't seen you at the tavern lately. You develop an allergy for beer?"

"Been busy at the radio station." Since Cole's death, she'd buried herself in work at the community center.