Diamond Bay (3 page)

He really had it easy, Rachel thought as she cut across the yard
and took the path that wound down through the tall pines to the beach. He
wasn't often called on as a guard; few people came to her house, except for the
postman. She was at the dead end of an unpaved road that cut through Rafferty's
property and hers was the only house.
John Rafferty was her only neighbor, and he wasn't the type to drop in
for a chat. Honey Mayfield, the local veterinarian, sometimes came by after a
call at the Rafferty ranch, and they had developed a rather close friendship,
but other than that Rachel was pretty much left alone, which was one reason
she felt comfortable roaming around at night wearing only her underwear
and a shirt.

The path sloped down a very gradual incline through the pine
thicket. The stars were bright and heavy in the sky, and Rachel had walked the
path since childhood, so she didn't bother with a flashlight. Even in the pines
she could still see well enough to find her way. It was a quarter of a mile
from the house to the beach, an easy walk. She liked walking the beach at
night; it was her favorite time to listen to the ocean's power, when the waves
were black except for their pearly foam tops. It was also low tide, and Rachel
preferred the beach at low tide. It was at low tide that the ocean pulled back
to reveal the treasures it had brought in to leave on the sand, like a love
offering.
She had
collected a lot of sea treasures at low tide, and never ceased marveling at the
wonders the turquoise Gulf brought to her feet.

It was a beautiful night, moonless and cloudless, and the stars
were brighter than she had seen them in years, their light refracted on the
waves like countless diamonds. Diamond Bay. It had been well named.
The beach was narrow and uneven,
with clumps of weeds growing along the edge, and the mouth of the bay was lined
with jagged rocks that were especially dangerous at low tide, but for all its
imperfections the bay created magic with its combination of light and water.
She could stand and watch the glittering water for hours,
spellbound by the power and beauty of the ocean.

The gritty sand cooled her bare feet, and she dug her toes deeper.
The breeze gusted momentarily, lifting her hair away from her face, and Rachel
inhaled the clean salt air. There was only herself and the ocean.

The breeze changed directions, flirting with her, blowing strands
of hair across her face.
She put up her hand to push her hair out of her eyes and paused in
midmotion, her eyebrows drawing together fractionally as she stared at the
water.
She could have sworn she'd seen
something. Just for a moment there had been a flash of movement, but now her
straining eyes picked up nothing but the rhythmic surge of the waves. Perhaps
it had been only a fish, or a large piece of driftwood. She wanted to find a
really good piece for a flower arrangement, so she walked to the edge of the
waves, pushing her hair back so it wouldn't obscure her vision.

There it was again, bobbing in the water! She took an eager step
forward, wetting her feet in the foamy surf. Then the dark object moved again
and took on a funny shape. The sheen of the silvery starlight made it look just
like an arm, flailing weakly forward, like a tired swimmer struggling for
coordination. A muscled arm, at that, and the dark bulk beside it could be a
head.

Realization burst, and Rachel's entire body tingled with
electricity. She was in the water before she realized it, surging through the
waves toward the struggling man. The water impeded her progress, the waves
pushing her back with increasing strength; the tide was just beginning to come
back in. The man sank from view, and a hoarse cry burst from her throat. Wildly
she splashed toward him, the water up to her breasts now, the waves crashing
into her face. Where was he? The black water gave no hint of his location. She
reached the spot where she had last seen him, but her frantically searching
hands came up empty.

The waves would wash him toward the beach. She turned and
staggered back toward shore and saw him again for a moment before his head
disappeared beneath the water once more. She struck out, swimming strongly, and
two seconds later her hand closed on thick hair. Fiercely she jerked his head
above the water, but he was limp, his eyes closed. "Don't you die on
me!" she ordered between
clenched teeth, catching him under the
shoulders and towing him in.
Twice the
incoming tide knocked her feet out from under her, and each time she thought
she would drown before she could struggle free of the man's confining weight.

Then she was in water to her knees, and he sagged limply. She
tugged until he was mostly out of the water, then fell on her hands and knees
in the sand, coughing and gasping. Every muscle trembling with reaction, she
crawled over to him.

He was naked. Her mind barely registered that fact before it was
pushed aside by more urgent matters. She was still gasping for air herself, but
she forced herself to hold her breath while she put her hand on his chest to
detect a heartbeat, or the up and down movement of breathing. He was still, too
still. She could find no hint of life in him, and his skin was so cool….

Of course it was cool! She brought herself up sharply, shaking her
head to clear it of the cobwebs of fatigue. He'd been in the water for God only
knew how long, but he'd been swimming, however weakly, the first time she'd
seen him, and she was letting precious seconds tick past when she should be
acting.

It took every ounce of strength she had to roll him onto his stomach,
because he wasn't a small man, and the bright starlight revealed that he was
solid muscle. Panting, she straddled him and began the rhythmic push-pull
action that would stimulate his lungs. That was another thing her grandfather
had taught her, and taught her well. Her arms and hands were strong from the
gardening and swimming she did, and she worked on the man until she was
rewarded by a choking cough and a stream of water gushing out of his mouth.

"There you go," she breathed, not ceasing her efforts.
He went into a paroxysm of
coughing, his body heaving
beneath her; then he groaned
hoarsely and shuddered before going limp.

Rachel quickly rolled him onto his back again, bending anxiously
over him. His breathing was audible now. It was too rapid and too ragged, but
he was definitely breathing. His eyes were closed, and his head rolled to the
side when she shook him. He was unconscious.

She sank back on her heels, shivering as the ocean breeze went
right through the wet shirt she wore, and stared at the dark head that rested
on the sand. Only then did she notice the clumsy binding around his shoulder.
She reached to pull it away, thinking that perhaps it was the remnants of the
shirt he'd been wearing when he suffered whatever accident had cast him into the
ocean. But the wet fabric beneath her fingers was denim, too heavy for a shirt
in this weather, and it had been tied into a knot. She pulled at it again, and
part of the fabric came away. It had been folded into a pad and shoved under
the knot, and high on his shoulder was a wound, a round, obscene mouth where
there shouldn't have been one, showing black in the colorless light.

Rachel stared at the wound, her mind jolting with realization.
He'd been shot! She'd seen too many gunshot wounds not to recognize one, even
in the pale light of the stars that reduced everything to silvery gleam and
black shadows. Her head whipped around and she stared out to sea, straining her
eyes to see the telltale pinpoint of light that would warn of a boat, but there
was nothing. All her senses were alert, her nerves tingling, and she was
instantly wary. People didn't get shot without reason, and it was logical to
assume that whoever had shot him the first time would be willing to do so
again.

He had to have help, but there was no way she could throw him over
her shoulder and carry him up to the house.
She stood, scanning the dark sea again to
make certain she
hadn't missed anything, but the
expanse of water was empty.
She would have to
leave him here, at least for as long as it would take her to run up to the
house and back.

Once the decision was made Rachel didn't vacillate. Bending, she
grasped the man under his shoulders and dug her heels into the sand, grunting
with the effort as she pulled him far enough out of the water that the incoming
tide wouldn't lap around him before she could get back. Even in the depths of
unconsciousness he felt the pain she caused him by tugging on his wounded
shoulder and gave a low, hoarse moan. Rachel winced and felt her eyes burn
momentarily, but it was something she had to do.
When she judged that he was far enough up
the beach she let his shoulders down on the sand as easily as she could,
muttering a breathless apology to him even though she knew he couldn't hear
her.
"I'll be right back," she
assured him, touching his wet face briefly. Then she ran.

Normally the path up the beach and through the stand of, pines
seemed like a fairly short one, but tonight it stretched endlessly ahead of
her. She ran, not caring about stubbing her bare toes on exposed roots,
heedless of the small branches that caught at her shirt. One such limb was
strong enough to catch her shirt, halting her flight in mid-step. Rachel threw
her entire weight against the fabric, too frantic to pause to untangle it. With
a sodden ripping sound the shirt tore, and she was free to resume her wild
plunge up the slope.

The welcoming lights of her small house were a beacon in the
night, the house an oasis of safety and familiarity, but something had gone
very wrong, and she couldn't shut herself inside its refuge. The life of the
man on the beach depended on her.

Joe had heard her coming.
He stood on the edge of the porch with his
hackles raised and a low, rumbling growl
issuing from his throat.
She could see him
silhouetted by the porch light as she sprinted across the yard, but she didn't
have time to calm him down. If he bit her, he bit her. She would worry about
that later. But Joe didn't even glance at her as she bounded up the steps and
slammed the screen door back on its hinges. He remained on guard, facing the
pines and the beach, every muscle quivering as he placed himself between Rachel
and whatever had sent her flying through the night.

Rachel grabbed the phone, trying to control her breathing so she
would be able to talk coherently. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled through
the telephone book, looking for an ambulance listing, or a rescue squad – maybe
the sheriffs department. Anyone! She dropped the book and swore violently,
leaning down to grab it again. Rescue squad – they would have paramedics, and
the man needed medical attention more than he needed a police report made out
on him.

She found the number and was punching it out, when suddenly her
hand froze, and she stared at the phone. A police report. She didn't know why,
couldn't logically explain it to herself right then, but abruptly she knew she
had to keep this quiet, at least for now. The instincts she had developed
during her years as an investigative reporter were sending off steady warning
signals, and she obeyed them now as she had obeyed them then. She slammed the
receiver back onto its hook, shaking as she stood there and tried to force her
thoughts into order.

No police. Not now. The man on the beach was helpless, no threat
to her or anyone else. He would have no chance at all if this was more than a
simple shooting, an argument that had gotten out of hand. He might be a
drug-runner. A terrorist. Anything. But, dear God, he might not be any of
those, and she was the only chance he had.

Even as she dragged a quilt from the top of her bedroom closet and
bolted from the house again, with Joe right on her heels, jumbled scenes from
her past kept skittering through her mind. Scenes of things that weren't quite
right, where the glossy surface was accepted and neatly filed away, the real
story forever hidden from view. There were other worlds beyond the normal,
everyday life that most people lived, layers of danger and deceit and treachery
that were never even suspected. Rachel knew about those layers. They had taken
B.B.'s life. The man on the beach might be victim or villain, but if he was a
villain she would have time to turn him in to the authorities long before he
could recover from his wound; on the other hand, if he was a victim, the only
time he had was what she could give him.

He was lying just as she'd left him, the tide swirling just inches
from his feet. Gasping, Rachel fell to her knees in the sand beside him and put
her hand on his chest, shuddering with relief when she felt the steady up and
down movement that told her he was still alive. Joe stood beside her, his head
lowered and his ears laid back as a low, continuous growl came from his throat,
his eyes never leaving the man.

"It's all right, Joe," she said, automatically giving
the dog a reassuring pat, and for once he didn't shy away from her touch. She
spread the quilt on the sand, then knelt once again to brace her hands against
the man's limp body. She rolled him onto the quilt. This time he didn't make a
sound, and she was grateful he couldn't feel the pain she had to cause him.

It took her a few minutes to get him positioned; then she had to
rest. She stared uneasily at the sea again, but it was still empty. There was
no one out there, though it wasn't unusual to see the night lights of passing
boats.
Joe brushed
against her legs, growling again, and she gathered her strength.
Then she leaned down, gathered the two corners of the quilt
nearest the man's head and dug her heels into the sand. She grunted with the
strain; even with her entire weight thrown into the effort, it was all she
could do to drag him a few feet. God, he was heavy!

Maybe when she got him off the beach and onto the slippery pine
needles it would be easier. If it got much harder she wouldn't be able to budge
him at all. She'd known it would be difficult, but she hadn't realized it would
be almost beyond her physical capabilities. She was strong and healthy, and his
life depended on her. Surely she could drag him up to her house, even if she
had to do it an inch at a time!

That was almost what it amounted to. Even when she managed to get
him off the beach, although the pine needles were slippery and the quilt slid
over them more easily, her path was uphill. The incline wasn't steep, and she
normally walked it easily, but it might as well have been vertical for the
effort it took her to drag a two-hundred-pound man up it. She couldn't sustain
her forward progress for any length of time at all. She lunged and lurched,
falling to her knees several times. Her lungs were pumping and wheezing like
bellows, and her entire body was one big ache before she had him halfway up the
slope. She stopped for a moment and leaned against a pine, fighting the
inevitable nausea of overexertion. If it hadn't been for the tree supporting
her, she might not have been able to stand at all, because her legs and arms
were trembling wildly.

An owl hooted somewhere close by, and the crickets chirped on
undisturbed; the events of the night meant nothing to them. Joe hadn't left her
side, and every time she stopped to rest he crowded against her legs, which was
totally unlike him.
But
he wasn't pressing against her for
protection; rather, he was
protecting her, putting himself between her and the man.
Rachel took a deep breath and steeled herself for another effort,
patting Joe on the side and saying, "Good boy, good boy."

She reached down to take hold of the quilt again, and Joe did
something extraordinary; he caught the edge of the quilt between his teeth and
growled. Rachel stared at him, wondering if he'd taken it in his head to
prevent her from dragging it any farther. Cautiously she braced her shaky legs,
then leaned back and pulled with every ounce of strength left in her. Still
growling, Joe braced his legs and pulled, too, and with his strength added to
hers the quilt slid forward several feet.

Rachel stopped in amazement, staring at the dog. "Good
boy," she said again. "Good boy!" Had it been a fluke, or would
he do it again? He was a big, strong dog; Honey Mayfield had estimated that he
weighed almost eighty pounds. If he could be coaxed into pulling with her, she
could have the man up the slope in no time.

"Okay," she whispered, taking a better grip on the
quilt. "Let's see if you'll do it one more time." She pulled, and Joe
pulled, that low growl still rumbling in his throat, as if he disapproved of
what she was doing, but would help her if she was determined to do it.

It was much easier with the dog's help, and soon they were out of
the pine thicket, with only the dirt road and the small yard to cross before
they reached the house. Rachel straightened and stared at the house, wondering
how she would ever get him up the two steps to the porch. Well, she'd gotten
him this far; she'd get him in the house, one way or another. Bending, she
began tugging again.

He hadn't made a sound since that one groan on the beach, not even
when they pulled him across exposed roots or the loose rocks on the dirt road.
Rachel let the quilt drop
and bent over him again, crouching on the cool, damp grass beside him.
He was still breathing; after what she'd put him through, she
didn't suppose she could ask for anything more. She stared at the two steps
again, a frown puckering her forehead. She needed a conveyor belt to get him up
those steps. A growing sense of urgency gnawed at her. Not only did he need
attention, but the sooner she got him hidden inside, the better. She was
isolated out here at Diamond Bay, so chance visitors weren't likely, but anyone
who came looking for the man wouldn't be a chance visitor. Until he was
conscious, until she knew more about what was going on, she had to hide him.

The only way she had of getting him up the steps was to catch him
under the arms and pull him up them, just as she'd pulled him out of the sea.
Joe couldn't help now. She would have to lift the man's head, shoulders and
chest – the heaviest part of his body.