Sea Witch (29 page)

reply.
Counted
on his reply for their safety and their livelihoods. Caleb

ground his teeth together. He wasn’t sacrificing either one to some

asshole reporter.

“People need to be aware of their surroundings and take precautions

wherever they are,” he said carefully. “Excuse me.”

The microphone bobbed in his face. “What about the vicious attacks

on two women on your beaches?”

“CID is investigating both crimes,” Caleb said. “Lieutenant Jenkins

can give you a statement.”

Sidestepping the reporter, he shouldered past the guy with the mike.

“What do you know about the deceased?” the reporter called after

him.

Her name was Gwyneth. She had webbed toes. She was an immortal

sea creature who had been murdered by a demon.

Now
that
would make headlines.

“No comment,” Caleb said, and pushed through the door to the

kitchen.

238

Maggie stood at the big double sink, up to her elbows in greasy pots

and foam. She looked messy, hot, and human, her ivory cheeks flushed,

her hair curling in the steam.

The sight of her lodged in his chest like shrapnel. He bled internally.

Antonia slapped a row of frozen patties down on the grill. “Go away.

She can’t leave.”

“I know,” Caleb said quietly.

If you had your sealskin, if you could return to the sea, would you

stay here with me
?

His hands clenched at his sides.

Maggie raised one damp wrist to push her hair back from her

forehead. Her gaze sought his. “My shift ends at two,” she offered.

Her tentative overture made his heart beat faster. His nerve endings

flared to life.

Pathetic.

Caleb hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, awkward as a boy

hanging around the locker of his high school crush. “I’ll be back then. I

just stopped by to see how you were doing. ”

She shrugged, the gesture somehow encompassing every damn thing

that was wrong with this day. “As you see.” Her crooked smile cracked

his heart. “And you?”

If she could lie, so could he. “Fine.”

“Those detectives . . .” Her eyes searched his. “Are you still a—what

did you call it?—a person of interest to them?”

Her concern was almost enough to make him hope she might stay.

But he wasn’t focusing on his problems while her life was at stake. “I’m

fine,” he repeated. “I’m here.”

Maggie crossed her arms over her apron. “I can see for myself they

did not lock you up. What did they say to you?”

239

She was made of tougher stuff than Sherilee. His ex-wife had never

demanded he talk about his job. Had never wanted him to. Her lack of

interest in something as basic as his work had driven them apart.

Or was it his inability to share himself with her that had driven her

away?

“They’re not telling me much of anything,” he admitted.

“I’m closed out of the investigation.”

“They are stupid.”

Her fierceness made him smile. “Reynolds is all right. Anyway, they

have no idea what they’re up against. What they’re looking for.”

“So what will you do now?”

“My job. CID can’t stop me from talking to people. They’re

concentrating their attention on the cove, where the body was found. But

that night on the point . . . I saw something. All I can do is hope this latest

incident will encourage another witness to come forward.”

“Ticket up!” Antonia bawled through the pass-through. She turned to

Maggie, planting her hands on her hips. “And you can take the garbage

out. I’m not paying you to stand around making moony eyes at the chief.”

Maggie stiffened. “I do not make moony eyes.”

“I call it like I see it,” Antonia said.

“I’ve got it,” Caleb said, to keep the peace. “You’re not paying me to

stand around either.”

He hefted the bag from the can by the door.

“Take care,” Maggie said.

“He’s not going to drop it,” Antonia said. “Or are you worried the

door’s gonna hit that fine ass of his on the way out?”

Caleb glanced at Maggie, pink-cheeked with steam or— was she

actually blushing? “Easy, Mayor. That’s sexual harassment talk.”

240

“Ha. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Good advice. But . . .
moony eyes
?

“
I call it like I see it
.”

He was smiling as he hauled the trash out the back door.

Gulls yammered and circled over the alley as if the Dumpster were a

fishing boat at cleaning time. Caleb slung the trash bag up and in,

startling a chorus of protest from the gulls and a sudden, furtive

movement at the edge of his vision.

Sniper
.

His hand dropped to his gun.

Son of a bitch
.

He caught himself, his brain wresting control from his instincts. Not

a sniper. Only a rat or a raccoon after garbage. Or the cat, what was his

name, Hercules.

Caleb shook his head in disgust. Yeah, all he needed to boost his

credibility was to get caught discharging his weapon at the restaurant cat.

Still, something wasn’t right. He felt it, like the beat of his blood or

the rasp of his breath, an instinct honed in other doorways, other alleys

half a world away. He heard a scrape, caught a flicker of shadow just

around the corner.

Not a rat, not a rat, not a rat
, his pulse drummed.

He hugged the side of the building, using it for cover, his gun ready

at his thigh. He angled his head for a quick sneak peek.

And came face to face with the bleary-eyed, haggard visage of his

father.

Confusion robbed Caleb of breath. Of thought. “Dad?”

Bart Hunter blinked, thrusting his head forward like an old sea turtle.

241

Shit. Caleb’s fear blurred into anger. “What the hell are you doing? I

almost shot you.”

“Took the day off,” his father said. “I’m entitled, aren’t I? A man’s

entitled to a day off after forty fucking years on a boat.”

“Entitled, fine.” Caleb bit out the words. “What are you doing here?”

Bart dropped his gaze. “Came to see that girl of yours. Maggie.”

Maggie
.

Caleb’s blood ran cold. “Why?”

Bart drew himself up. At sixty-three, he was still tall, lean, and

weathered as a spar. Tough enough to go out day after day, year after

year, despite hangovers and fog. Vigorous enough to set his traps and

haul his catch.

Strong enough to overpower a selkie
? Caleb’s hands clenched into

fists.

“Since when do I have to give you reasons?” Bart blustered.

But Caleb was done with his years of lies and evasions. “What did

you do with the sealskin?”

Bart’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. “How did you find out

about that?”

Rage surged inside Caleb. “Where is it?”

His father must have seen the violence in his face, because he

stammered, “I don’t know. She found it. Your mother. She took it. I never

saw her again.”

Caleb’s fists loosened at his sides. “My mother found it.”

“Yes. That’s why she left us.”

“And you don’t know about another sealskin.”

“No.”

242

“Then what the
fuck
are you doing here?” Caleb roared.

The gulls in the alley flapped their wings, disturbed from their perch

atop the Dumpster. The smell of garbage— grease and beer and

cigarettes, spoiled meat and rotting vegetables—trickled down the alley,

covering the fresh scent of the sea like an oil slick.

“Came to see if Maggie was all right,” Bart muttered.

Caleb shook his head in disbelief. “So you decided to skulk outside

until you caught her taking out the trash.”

“Saw
him
,” Bart explained. “Stopped.”

“Saw who?” Caleb asked sharply. “Where?”

His father jerked his head in reply.
There
.

In the narrow space between the store fronts, sheltered from the wind

and shielded from the gulls, a man huddled among the clumps of weeds

and sodden paper cups like one of Portland’s homeless.

Caleb inhaled sharply. Dead or alive?

Something about that long, angular figure . . . “Whittaker? ”

Behind him, the birds circled and cawed. Cries of warning? Or calls

of distress?

The figure raised its head from its chest. Even in the shadows, his

face was very pale. His eyes burned feverishly in their sockets. Caleb

fought a shiver.

“Man’s hurt,” Bart said. “Needs help.”

Maybe
.

He didn’t appear injured. There was no sign of blood— his blood or

another’s—on his khaki pants and button-down shirt.

“Mr. Whittaker, can you hear me?”

243

The lawyer’s face twisted. “Of course I hear you,” he said in his

usual pissy tones. “I’m sick, not deaf.”

Caleb released his breath. He had to get a grip. Not everybody he

encountered was auditioning for a starring role in
The Exorcist
. “Can you

stand?”

“I’m not drunk either,” Whittaker said. He got awkwardly to his feet,

using the stone wall behind him for support. Just for one second, he

staggered. His gaze sought Caleb’s. “Help me,” he whispered.

The hair rose along Caleb’s arms and on the back of his neck. “What

do you want?”

How much had he heard?

Whittaker blinked rapidly. “Well, for starters, you can help me to

your car. I need a ride home.”

Caleb assessed the situation. This was his chance to get another look

inside Whittaker’s house. All he had to do was give a lift to a man who

might be possessed by a soul-sucking, flesh-shredding demon.

Not a problem. He had ridden with murderers in the back of his

squad car before. He’d dealt with other evil that wore a human face. He

had even lived through the desert hell of Iraq.

Keeping Whittaker in his peripheral vision, he walked around him to

the curb and unlocked the Jeep.

Whittaker balked at getting into the backseat. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Passengers ride in back,” Caleb said. “Department policy. ”

“You could make an exception.”

“He didn’t for me,” Bart contributed unexpectedly.

Caleb hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You want a ride or not?”

Whittaker grumbled and got in.

244

Caleb shut the passenger door with relief. Demon or not, he didn’t

think the lawyer was going to claw his way through the metal grid

between the seats.

Anyway, Caleb was armed. Whittaker wasn’t.

He was trained in combat. Whittaker wasn’t.

He was prepared—hell, he was
spoiling
for a fight. And Whittaker,

poor SOB, probably had no idea and no defenses against the thing that

had taken him over.

If the lawyer had been taken over.

Caleb got behind the wheel, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.

Whittaker slumped in the back seat, too weak even to sit up. His father

loomed on the curb like a chain saw-carved totem of a man. They looked

sick, stiff, unnatural.

But still human.

Caleb glanced down as he turned his key in the ignition. Maybe he

was wrong about Whittaker.

And maybe, he thought grimly, he was making the biggest mistake

of his life.

Tan’s gaze drilled a hole through the human’s thick skull. How he

would love to take this one over. Tan wouldn’t ride in the back then. Oh,

no. He could do . . . He smiled slowly. Whatever he wanted.

Opening his mouth, he breathed in the human’s mingled scent of

sweat and spirit. Tasting. Testing.

The man’s will burned like copper on Tan’s tongue, flat and bright

as an angel’s blade.

Tan pinched his lips together.

Perhaps he would not exchange bodies just yet. His current host was

still useful. Compliant. Tan did not want to expend energy establishing

mastery over a rebellious host with his mission still only half

accomplished.

245

Both selkies should be dead, their pelts destroyed.

Tan needed to act quickly before the mer discovered his

involvement.

He shuddered. Or Hell lost patience.

As much as it galled the demon to admit, there might be other, better

ways to use the man Caleb than by taking him over. He was not

completely unintelligent. He was clearly determined. He was close to the

selkie Margred. And judging from his questions in the alley, he, too,

sought the pelt.

What if Tan allowed him to find it?

246

Nineteen

THE AIR WAS HEAVY AND HOT, THICK WITH grease and

garlic, unrelieved by the whirring kitchen fans.

Margred wiggled her swollen toes inside her sneakers, pretending to

observe Antonia demonstrate how to cook clam strips in the deep fryer.

Really she was watching the door.

And the clock.