Against the Tide (2 page)

“Who are you?”
she gasped with what little breath was left. “What are you do—”

“Shut up!”
he said. Then he slapped her across the side of the head—so hard that her head smacked into the floor and she could almost see stars. The only thing she could do was pray.

TWO

G
arret hadn't wanted to leave Rory's daughter like that. She'd looked so lost and alone, standing in front of the newspaper office. With her long auburn hair and somber eyes, she reminded him of a sad little girl. Troubled and fragile and broken. Yet, he could tell Megan was trying to appear strong. Garret remembered Rory's high praise for his only child, portraying her as a smart, strong, independent young woman.

Garret knew from his frequent chats with Rory that Megan had gotten a job with a big Seattle newspaper a couple years after finishing college, and that she'd diligently worked her way up to a good position. Rory had been extremely proud of her, but he'd also missed his girl. And it was no secret that Rory had hoped Megan would eventually return to Cape Perpetua to take over the family newspaper. “That way I can go fishing whenever I like,” he'd joked to everyone at his recent birthday get-together. Now it was too late.

As Garret entered Beulah's Café, he was still thinking about Megan. Wishing he'd stuck around long enough to walk her through the deserted building. He knew she needed someone to talk to. She had so many questions. Many of the same ones he'd been wrestling with since yesterday. But he also knew that she needed this time alone. She had to process Rory's death in her own way, on her own terms. Just like Garret had done last night down at the docks where Rory used to keep his boat. It made sense that Megan would tell her father goodbye in the newspaper office. And yet the idea of her alone over there made him uneasy. As he looked around the crowded café, he had to admit there was a lot in this town that was making him uneasy.

Going toward an unoccupied stool at the counter, Garret waved to Jeanie as she emerged from the kitchen with a burger basket in each hand.

“Hey, handsome,” the middle-aged waitress called out to him as she set the baskets in front of two teen girls. “How ya doing?”

“I'm okay,” he said as he took a seat.

“What can I get you?”

“Just a bowl of chowder,” he told her. “When you're not too busy, that is.”

“You got it, honey.” Jeanie waved toward the door. “Hey, Barry,” she called out warmly to a newcomer. “How's the crabbing today?”

“Not bad.” Barry took the stool next to Garret. “Hey, man.” He slapped him on the back. “What's up?”

“Not much.” Garret smiled at the burly fisherman.

“So...who was that pretty gal I saw you yapping with across the street?” Barry had a twinkle in his eye. “A real looker, that one.” He playfully elbowed Garret. “You got yourself a woman we don't know about?”

“That's Rory's daughter,” Garret said somberly. “Megan McCallister.”

“Oh.” Barry's smile faded. “So how's she doing?”

“Not so good.”

“Hard losing a parent.” Barry picked up a plastic-encased menu, wiping it with his sleeve. “Lost my old man last year. But he was in bad shape with his diabetes. And a lot older than Rory, too.”

“Yeah.” Garret nodded. “Megan wasn't ready to see her dad go yet.”

“I was surprised to see the newspaper office open tonight.” Barry tipped his head toward the front window.

“It's not open,” Garret corrected him. “Megan just wanted to go inside and look around some. No one else is there.”

Barry looked slightly perplexed. “Wonder why she left the back open if she's there by herself.”

“What're you talking about?” Garret felt uneasy.

“Well, town's so busy that I parked behind the newspaper. That's when I noticed the back door ajar. Figured someone was working late. But it seemed kinda odd, this being a Friday, and with Rory just passing away.”

Garret frowned. “You saying the back door was open?”

“Yep.” Barry nodded. “Propped with a trash can.”

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it wasn't. But as Garret slowly stood, he knew he needed to find out. “Hey, Jeanie, hold off on that chowder for now. I need to go check on something.” And without saying another word, he hurried outside. It was possible he was just overreacting. Or looking for an excuse to talk to Megan again. But it didn't really matter. As he jogged across the street, he knew, even if he was being melodramatic, there was no way he wasn't going to find out why that back door was open.

* * *

With her attacker's knee still painfully pressed into the middle of her back, Megan could barely breathe, let alone speak. Not that she knew what to say, besides plead for her life. With the side of her head flattened against the gritty floor, she could see, just barely, from one eye. And unless she imagined it, she detected a bluish light on the wood plank floor. Like the light from a cell phone.

In the next instant she could hear what sounded like the thug above her sending a text message.
Really?
Who was he texting and why? “Are you on your phone?” she gasped.

He swore at her, pressing his knee down even harder. She tried to think of reasons a thug would text someone while pinning down his victim. Was it possible he was asking someone for instructions—like what he should do with her?

As impossible as it seemed, she suddenly wondered if he might be a security guard. Perhaps he'd assumed she was an intruder and he was simply doing his job. Although it seemed unlikely, it was preferable to the alternative.

Still messing with his phone, the thug eased his knee slightly from her back, allowing her to take in a bigger breath and speak. “I'm Rory McCallister's daughter. I didn't break in. My father owns this—”

“Your father's dead!”
he growled, pressing his knee so hard into her midsection that she imagined her ribs cracking.

With him still distracted with his phone, she strained to look at him from the corner of her eye. He had on black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. The hood was pulled low over his face, but she could see that his skin was pale. Ghostly pale. And pock-marked. He looked to be in his twenties. She didn't recognize him. She saw him slip his phone into his sweatshirt pocket and suddenly he struggled to reach something from behind him. Was he trying to extract something from a back pocket or maybe from his belt? A firearm perhaps. The pressure from his knee eased up as he worked to get whatever it was he was looking for.

“Why are you doing this?” she said quietly, hoping to reason with him. “You don't even know me and—”

Swearing at her, he used his free hand to smack the back of her head again. This creep was no security guard.

“Please, let me go,” she begged. “Please.”

Just then, she heard the swishing sound of metal, almost like a sword being extracted from a sheath. Probably the weapon he was trying to get out of his belt. From the corner of her eye, she saw a metallic flash and when he raised his arm in the air, she could see what appeared to be a large hunting knife in his hand.

“Please, don't,” she cried. “Whatever you're about to do—
stop
!”
She tried to think of a way to dissuade him. “I have money! In my purse!” she shrieked. “You can have it all and I can pay you more if you let me go. My father just died—I'll have even more money.” An exaggeration, yes, but she was desperate. “Please, don't kill me. I'll give you whatever—”

He swore again as he grabbed a fistful of her long hair. Jerking her head back so hard she thought her neck would snap, he let out a low, guttural chuckle, so evil-sounding that her flesh crawled in raw terror. This monster would enjoy murdering her. She knew it was hopeless. He planned to slit her throat.

But she would not go down without a fight.

THREE

E
xhausted after what she now realized was a futile struggle, Megan racked her brain for another way out. She tried to catch her breath as she braced herself for her assailant's next move, but a noise from the front of the building distracted him. Knowing such an action could give him reason to finish her off, she decided to take the chance, anyway. With what little air remained in her lungs and her last ounce of energy, she let out a shrill scream for help.

Her cries were answered by the fast clomp of footsteps. Someone was running this way, and in the next moment she felt the weight of her attacker's knee lifted from her. Gasping for breath, she spun away and, scrambling across the gritty floor, she ducked under a staff writer's desk. Cowering in the knee-space, she listened as a scuffle ensued. She wished she had her phone, but her purse was still on Barb's desk. And she wondered about her rescuer. Who was he? And how could she help him?

As she felt around the top of the desk, hoping for a paperweight or something to use as a weapon, she heard the sounds of running footsteps and spied both men racing toward the back of the building, followed by the slamming of the back door—then silence.

Still shaking from head to toe, she could barely think straight. What had just happened? And why? As she hurried up front to get her purse and phone, she begged God to help whoever it was that had suddenly jumped into the fray. She'd just reached the front of the building when she heard footsteps in the rear—running toward her.

“Hello?” a male voice yelled. “Where are you?”

Megan was afraid to answer as she ducked behind Barb's big reception desk, wishing she'd grabbed her phone.
Who was it?
The man who wanted to slit her throat? Or the one who'd chased him away? Or could it be someone else? Someone connected to her attacker? Hadn't he texted someone, a cohort perhaps?

“Megan?” the man yelled from the center of the building. “Are you okay?”

Still feeling shocked and confused, Megan tried to think. Who was calling for her by name?

“It's Garret Larsson,” the voice declared. “Are you still here, Megan?”

She barely poked her head above the desk, peeking over the edge to be certain it was Garret. “It's you!” She stood in relief, trying to control her shaking knees.

“Are you okay?” Garret hurried toward her.

“Yeah, I guess, just shaken.” She brushed the dust from the front of her shirt and pants as she looked at him. “What happened?”

“That's what I want to know.” He took her hand, leading her to a chair by the front door, helping her to sit down.

“What happened to that—
that guy?”
She heard the tremor in her voice.

“I chased him, nearly caught him.” He paused for a breath. “But I lost him after a couple blocks. I just called 911. Police are on their way.” He sat next to her, looking intently into her face. “What happened?
Tell me.”

She took in a steadying breath, trying to appear calm, but knowing that she was close to breaking. “I heard someone in here. I thought it was Arthur. He cleans the press at night sometimes. I went to see.” She shuddered. “And then this—this guy jumped me, pinned me down. He—he had a knife.” She felt herself shaking uncontrollably as she remembered that feeling of total helplessness.

“You're probably in shock.” Garret removed his fleece jacket, slipping it over her shoulders. “Just take some slow, deep breaths.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, comforted by the warmth and his words. And taking his advice, she breathed slowly and deeply, reminding herself she was a strong woman. “It all happened so fast. So frightening. I just don't understand. Why did he want to kill me?”

“I don't know.” Garret shook his head with a serious expression.

She studied him more closely now. In the bright light of the office, she could see that his dark brown hair was wavy and long enough to curl around his ears. And his eyes, a rich shade of teal-blue, looked very concerned.

“I'm so thankful you came when you did.” She shuddered to think what might've happened if he hadn't shown up right then. “What made you come back here?”

“A friend mentioned seeing the back door open. It didn't sound right to me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Th-thank you.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I—I don't know what I'd have done if you—if you—” It felt like the dam had broken as she crumbled into sobs.

Garret slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders, holding her closer. “It's okay,” he said gently. “You have the right to cry. You've been through a lot.”

She leaned into him, letting her emotions and tears flow freely, until she finally started to feel self-conscious. As always, she wanted to be strong, in control. She was
Rory McCallister's daughter, after all.
Sitting up straighter, she squared her shoulders. “It's just that—well, first Dad is gone. And then
this
happens. It's all so shocking.” She wiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands. “So frightening. I feel so confused.”

He was still looking intently into her eyes. “That's not surprising. You've been through quite an ordeal. And you could've been killed.”

Her hand went to her throat as she remembered that moment when she expected to die. “I was so scared. I've never been that scared before. I still don't know why he wanted to kill me. I even offered him money to let me go.”

“Really?” Garret frowned. “And he wasn't interested?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Isn't that odd? Most criminals are looking for cash.” She took in another deep breath, hearing the sounds of sirens approaching. “How'd he get in?”

“Looks like he used a crowbar to jimmy the back door.”

He nodded toward the front windows, where red and blue lights were flashing outside. “The police are here.” With his arm still around her shoulders, he helped her stand, guiding her toward the front door.

By the time they got outside, a couple of police cruisers were double parking and to her relief, Lieutenant Michael Conrad was getting out of the first one. Although he was a few years younger than her dad, the two men had been good friends for as long as Megan could remember. Lieutenant Conrad was a good guy.

“Megan McCallister,” he exclaimed as he approached the building. “Is that really you?”

Megan confirmed this as they shook hands, then Garret quickly explained about the criminal getting away and the route he may have taken.

“The dispatcher already sent someone that way,” Lieutenant Conrad told him. “So you interrupted a robbery in process?” he asked Megan.

“I thought that was it,” she told him, “but when I offered him money to let me go, he didn't seem interested.”

“He threatened her life,” Garret said solemnly.

Megan explained about the knife and how Garret had arrived just in time. But because a curious crowd was gathering, Lieutenant Conrad urged them to go back inside.

“The perpetrator broke in through the back door,” Garret explained as they went inside. Lieutenant Conrad paused, calling out to the other officers to check out the back of the building.

“Did you get a look at his face?” he asked her as they entered the building. “Can you identify him?”

“He was Caucasian, looked like he was in his twenties. Bad complexion. And he was dressed in all black. Black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt.”

“Height? Weight?”

“Maybe six foot?” Megan said with uncertainty.

“He was a little shorter than me, so six foot sounds about right,” Garret confirmed.

“Medium build,” Megan suggested.

“Did you see a vehicle?” Lieutenant Conrad asked Garret.

Garret shook his head. “I lost him while he was on foot. Those dark clothes were hard to see at night. I didn't see a vehicle speeding away, but the town's pretty busy. Lots of traffic out there.”

“Let me get this info out.” Lieutenant Conrad pulled out his phone and, stepping away, began to relay what they'd told him.

Megan glanced out the window, looking at the blur of flashing emergency lights and the busy street. “Do you think the break-in was related to the holiday weekend?” she ventured quietly. Although she didn't really think so. Why would a random burglar be so intent on killing her?

Garret frowned. “Hard to say.”

“I do remember how our little town could get sort of wild during tourist season.” She knew she was just making idle chatter now, trying to wrap her head around all that had happened and feeling pretty lost.

Lieutenant Conrad finished his call and returned to them. “They'll be watching for the perpetrator all over town,” he assured them. And then he asked a few more questions. They both answered them as best they could.

“And you feel certain he intended to kill you?”

She just nodded. “His knife was ready. Garret got here just in time.”

“Could you see if anything was stolen?” Lieutenant Conrad asked. “Anything missing?”

“I didn't have a chance to look around, but it's not like there's much to steal in here,” she said. “Dad never kept much cash in the office. And that would be in Barb's desk up in front. Besides, the guy didn't seem interested in money.” She pointed to the other end of the building. “But it looks like he could've been in my dad's office. The light's on in there.”

“Did you look in there yet?”

“No, not yet.” Megan swallowed hard. That was why she'd come here tonight...to sit in Dad's old leather chair, to breathe in the dusty, musty air, to feel his presence one more time. She bit her lip, determined not to cry again.

“How about we take a look around,” Lieutenant Conrad said as he led the way back there.

As they walked past the area where she'd been pinned on the floor, Megan felt a little weak-kneed and off balance. But Garret, seeming to sense this, put his hand on her back as if to steady her.

Lieutenant Conrad used his elbow to nudge the door open, warning them not to touch anything. But to Megan's dismay, the office looked nothing like it should've looked. It was as if someone had turned it upside down. All the drawers in the desk and file cabinet were opened and dumped out. Even the pictures had been removed from the wall, many of them lying in broken shards on the floor. The place was a shambles.

Megan's hand flew to her mouth. She was unable to speak or even think. Why would anyone do this? What could he have been looking for?

“What about your dad's computer?” Lieutenant Conrad asked her.

“Computer?” She made a choked laugh. “Dad never used a computer. I thought everyone in Cape Perpetua knew that.”

“I know Rory hated electronics, but how did he run a newspaper without one?” Lieutenant Conrad carefully poked around beneath a pile of papers on the desk.

“Dad's writers had computers. But he always insisted on hard copies. For everything—from obits to advertisements. He ran this paper the same way his dad and grandpa had.”

Garret nodded. “Yeah, I thought that was pretty cool.”

“I used to give him a bad time about wasting trees,” she said sadly. “And he would just remind me that they were a renewable resource.”

“What do you think the perpetrator was looking for?” Lieutenant Conrad asked her.

“I have no idea.” Megan slowly shook her head. She didn't like to be such a weakling, but this whole thing was making her feel sick to her stomach. “I—I think I need some air,” she said quietly. “Please excuse me.”

She rushed out of the office, trying to compose herself. If losing Dad wasn't hard enough, why did someone have to do this—to break in and make such a big mess? And to threaten her life? It all felt like such a cruel violation...nothing made sense.

“Are you okay?” Garret joined her out by the staff writers' desks.

“Not really.” She scowled. “I'm scared and I'm angry...and I'm exhausted.” She sat down on one of the desks and folded her arms in front of her in exasperation. “I hardly slept after the call about Dad late last night. Then I went into work early this morning. Just to manage some things so I could get out of there. And then I drove nearly nine hours to get here.” She pursed her lips, willing herself not to cry again. “I—I just want to go home.”

“To your dad's place?” he asked gently.

“Yeah.” She sniffed, desperately trying not to fall apart again.

“Do you think you'll be safe out there?” Garret made a concerned frown. “I mean, considering what just happened here. Aren't you worried?”

Lieutenant Conrad was coming out of the office with his cell phone in hand again. “I've got a couple more officers on their way,” he told them. “We'll go over everything in here and then secure the place before we leave.” He peered at Megan. “Feel free to go. You look pretty worn out.”

“I'll get you a key, Lieutenant Conrad,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You're old enough to call me by my first name, Megan.” His smile looked sad.

“Okay. Thanks...
Michael.”

She sighed as they walked to the front of the building, still trying to wrap her head around all that had happened, realizing once again how she might've been dead right now. They could've held a double funeral—her and Dad. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine as she picked up her purse from Barb's desk. Then, remembering Michael would need to lock up, she opened the top drawer of Barb's desk and, just like always, the spare key was in the far right-hand corner, right beneath the paper clips.

“Please keep me in the loop about this.” She removed one of her business cards from a side pocket of her purse, handing it over with the key. “This has my cell number on it.”

“Thanks.” Michael slipped them into his pocket. “I'll be in touch.”