Sea Witch (17 page)

to investigate. “You see this cat?”

“Yeah. So?”

“The people here feed it, do they not?”

“When Antonia’s not looking.”

“They let it come inside.” Margred scratched the cat’s chin. Purring,

the feline rubbed against her fingers. “It suffers me to touch it, to pet it.

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But they do not own the cat.” Her gaze met his. “Any more than you

would own me if I choose to stay with you.”

He rubbed his face with his hand. “That means you’re sleeping with

me, right?”

Her full lips curved. “Oh, yes.”

“Fine.” He was suddenly less tired. “Let’s get something to eat and

go home.”

After they left Antonia’s, however, he took her to buy the basics: T-shirts, toiletries, and shoes. The island shops didn’t carry a wide selection

of women’s clothing, but on the racks of resort wear at Lighthouse Gifts,

they found a flowing skirt and a pair of drawstring pants to get Maggie

through the next few days.

Caleb carried their purchases to the cash register.

Jane Ivey rang them up, her brown perm practically quivering in

excitement. She’d had the same tight brown curls—and maybe the same

sweater—twenty years ago, when Caleb used to stop in her shop on his

way home after school. This was what he’d come home for. This sense of

continuity. Of community. Of connection.

“Terrible thing last night, Chief,” she greeted him.

“Caleb, please.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to business if people don’t

feel safe vacationing here.”

He tried to reassure her. “I don’t think you need to worry just yet.”

“Most folks come to World’s End to get away from all that.”

“All that?”

“Violence.” She shot him a glance. “Of course, I suppose you’re

used to it, coming from Portland.”

She made the city across the bay sound like Las Vegas. Or Sodom or

Gomorrah.

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“People are pretty much the same wherever you go,” Caleb said.

“Crime, too.”

“Still . . . we never had anything like this happen when Roy Miller

was chief.” Her hand lingered on a box of condoms. “You buying these?”

Sometimes community was a real pain in the ass.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m too old to swipe them from the shelves like I used

to.”

“You never,” Jane said comfortably. “Is that her? The girl who was

attacked?”

Caleb followed her glance to where Maggie wandered the aisle of

MAINE key chains and shot glasses and shrink-wrapped shells from

Florida.

She looked completely out of place, her perfect body imperfectly

covered by his sister’s blue dress, her pale beauty shining in the dingy

store like the moon through clouds.

“Her name is Maggie,” he said.

“Poor thing,” Jane said. “Not from around here, is she?”

Maggie fingered a display of cheap shell necklaces, the kind

teenagers bought themselves on vacation. Her eyes were lost.

They tore his heart.

“I’ll take one of those,” Caleb said. “A necklace.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Whatever would ease that wistful look in her

eyes, the bleeding in his chest. “Whatever she wants. Charge it.”

He paid for the clothes, the condoms, the necklace, before he joined

Maggie standing in front of a wire cage of hermit crabs in gaudy shells.

He touched her gently on the arm. “See something you like?”

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She turned, her face set, her lips trembling. “No. Why are those

here? Why are they trapped like that?”

“They’re for sale. For the tourists.”

“They do not eat them?”

“No. They’re . . . pets, I guess you could call them. Souvenirs.

“That is horrible. Their environment is too dry.”

She sounded really upset.

“Uh . . . They’re
land
crabs,” Caleb said.

“I know what they are.” Her voice rose. Jane glanced their way.

“They are
dying
. You must stop this.”

“Yeah.”
Shit
. “The thing is, the store’s not breaking any laws.”

“They should be free.”

As a matter of fact, he agreed with her. He regarded the skittering

legs and beady little eyes of the creepy crawlies in the cage. But . . .

“Even if I bought them all and set them free, they’d die. The climate here

is too cold.”

Maggie’s stricken gaze met his. She bit her lip. “Yes. Yes, you are

right. I did not think.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, although he didn’t know what the hell he was

apologizing for. “What can I do?”

“It would . . . They would be better if they had water. A sponge. Can

you do that? Can you give them water on a sponge?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Feeling like a fool, he went to convince Jane she needed to water her

crabs.

Margred watched him walk away, broad-shouldered and logical.

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He was right. She knew he was right.

It didn’t matter. The stench of waste and decay wafted from the land

crabs’ cage, choking her. They were trapped. They were dying.

She was trapped and dying, too.

She couldn’t stand it. While Caleb spoke to the woman behind the

counter, Margred hurried from the shop. She needed to be outside, to feel

the air on her face, to smell the wind blowing from the sea.

Water. She missed the water.

Pink streaked the sky above her head. At the bottom of the hill,

beyond the clutter of boats in the harbor, the ocean rolled gray and

welcoming.

Pressure built in her lungs. She stood on the sidewalk, struggling to

breathe.

“Maggie.” Caleb spoke behind her, his deep voice patient and kind.

He could not help her any more than he could help the poor, doomed

crabs.

She turned to face him.

His green eyes were watchful. “Ready to go home?”

She could not go home. Not without her pelt. She was marooned in

an alien landscape, and the constant vigilance she needed simply to

survive wore on her nerves as much as the constant walking wore on her

feet.

Her throat closed. She nodded.

“This way.”

He escorted her along the sidewalk, one hand at her waist,

possessive and protective as a bull seal with a new cow. She should have

been amused. Annoyed. But there was comfort in that light touch,

reassurance in the way he steered her steps and opened her door and

disposed of her packages in back.

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He settled into the seat beside her, his big, square knee thrusting into

her space. His long-fingered hands were strong and gentle on the wheel.

Desire fizzled along her nerves, easing the pressure in her chest.

They rode to his house in silence.

Caleb lived on the east side—the ocean side—of the island, in a

solidly constructed cabin tucked under the trees, at once solitary and

completely a part of its environment. Pine needles released their

fragrance underfoot as he guided her to the front door.

Inside, one big chair and a bigger couch faced a wide, flat, black

screen. No pillows. No plants. Just dark, warm colors against pale,

smooth wood, and a stack of magazines piled by a chair.

He showed her his bedroom, tidy and a little bare. Margred stood in

the middle of the room, her gaze traveling from the neatly made bed to

the window. Through the wooden blinds, over the tops of the trees, she

glimpsed the sea, shining like a secret in the last light of evening.

Longing took her breath.

“You can lie in that bed and watch the sun rise over the ocean,”

Caleb said quietly behind her. “After Iraq, I . . .”

His silence tugged at her. “After Iraq, what?”

“Nothing.” He deposited her bags on the bed and nodded toward an

open door. “Bathroom’s through there. You can shower, change,

whatever. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

She understood he was giving her time to rest and regroup before he

joined her. She appreciated his consideration.

“Well.” He stuck his thumbs in his pockets. “Make yourself at

home,” he said, and left her.

She looked around the clean, organized space, the polished shoes set

side by side beneath a chair, the coins stacked by size upon the dresser. A

far cry from the magpie luxury of Caer Subai.

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She sank down on the mattress, momentarily overwhelmed. What

was she doing here? What was she doing?

Make yourself at home
, Caleb had said.

Her gaze fell on the shopping bags. All right, then. She could do

that. Opening the nearest one, she rummaged inside for shampoo and

lotions.

Something glinted at the bottom of the bag. She reached down and

closed her hand on it.

A necklace.

Her heartbeat quickened foolishly as she drew it out, a simple black

ribbon with tiny chips of coral and sea glass between two round silver

beads like pearls. She had admired it in the shop. In the middle,

suspended like a charm, was a shell. A Scotch bonnet.

Her fingers curled around it.

Caleb must have seen— He must have known— He must have

bought it for her.

She sat for a long time, the necklace in her hand and her gaze on the

sea beyond the windows. Her heart felt strangely full. Heavy.

She was . . . touched, she decided. He had touched her with his gift.

That means you’re sleeping with me, right
?

Oh, yes
.

Not from obligation, but because she wanted to.

Satisfied with her decision, she fastened the necklace around her

throat, fumbling with the clasp.

Squinting, she regarded the shell against her chest. Pretty, she

thought. A little hum started in her blood. Smiling in anticipation, she

opened the door.

And found Caleb asleep on the couch.

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Ah.
Well.

Her heart stumbled in disappointment. Her lips pursed. She could

wake him. She would wake him.

In a moment.

He looked so . . . not exactly peaceful, lying there. Even in sleep,

tension dug lines between his brows and compressed his mouth. His

short, thick lashes shielded his eyes. His beard lurked just beneath his

skin. The heaviness in her moved from her heart to her loins. She wanted

to test the texture of his jaw with her palm.

When had he last shaved?

When had he last slept?

She knew he had been on the beach last night and again this

morning. Searching the scene, Lucy had explained. Talking to people.

Had he gone to bed at all?

As she watched, his open hand clenched on the cushions of the

couch. He shivered, as if he were cold.

She was not used to denying herself. She did not like it. But Caleb

was obviously exhausted.

With a sigh, Margred went back into the bedroom, pulled the blanket

from his bed, and covered him.

140

Eleven

HIS DREAM STANK OF CORDITE AND METAL, BLOOD and

fear. Sweat ran under his helmet and soaked his arm-pits.

Caleb shouted. “Get in, get in!”

Specialist Mike Denuncio sprinted toward the Humvee and threw

himself into the tiny foam-cushioned backseat. A flurry of pops followed

him like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

“Go, go, go!” Caleb ordered.

The Humvee lurched. Panting and swearing, the driver— nineteen-year-old Specialist Danny Torres—engaged gears. The V-8 engine rattled

and rolled. The radio shrieked and squealed. Shouting. Shots. More pops,

louder. Closer.

From the turret, the 50-caliber machine gun sprayed the cabin with

dust and noise. Mike was reloading, slamming rounds into the chamber of

his M16. The radio squawked in English and Arabic. The Humvee

dodged and weaved.

“Look right. Right! On the roof.”

Heart pumping, Caleb returned fire. Through the bullet-pocked

windshield, he saw the vehicle ahead bounce and shimmy as they roared

out of ambush. The flat, featureless road ahead straightened out between

a line of concrete bunkers. The Humvee picked up speed.

“Okay?” Caleb shouted.

“Okay.”

Mike gave him a quick thumbs-up.

A green and white highway sign in Arabic loomed overhead. A horn

blared. A vehicle wandered the median.
Rush hour, Iraqi style
. Caleb

inhaled cautiously.

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And the road erupted in a blast of smoke and pain.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t think.

He lay choking on dust while asphalt rained down on him, sharp as

shrapnel. He covered his head. There, beneath his arm, was that a—?

Boot. Just a boot, and a foot, and a boot tag stamped with somebody’s

blood type, somebody’s social security number . . . His gunner. Jackson.

Jesus God
.

The stench of blood and burning rolled over him. His legs . . . His