Sea Witch (7 page)

“So do I.”

48

“How about a life?”

She stuck out her chin. “This is my life. Anyway, you’re here.”

“I’m thirty-three,” Caleb said. Reasonable, as always. “You’re

twenty-three. You should be getting out more.”

Lucy didn’t point out that the ten-year difference in their ages didn’t

give him the right to dictate to her. He meant well. He always had.

“So should you.”

His face shuttered. “Not a priority right now.”

She shouldn’t push. Open communication wasn’t their family’s

style. Lucy hadn’t even met Caleb’s ex-wife—aka
the bitch
—before their

wedding, and she didn’t know any of the juicy details of their divorce.

But prying into her brother’s personal life seemed safer than discussing

hers.

“What about that woman you were asking about a couple weeks

ago? Margaret somebody?”

“What about her?”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“No. She left,” he added, before Lucy could ask why not.

“Oh.”
Oops
. This was why her family didn’t talk. Too many

awkward moments. She searched for something positive to say. “Well,

maybe she’ll come back. Like, to visit.”

“No,” Caleb said again in that
Drop it
,
Lucy
tone. “She’s not coming

back.”

She wasn’t coming back.

Caleb’s hands tightened on the Jeep’s steering wheel. Well, fine. He

was trying to build a life here. Pursuing another Woman-Who-Would-

Not-Stick, even one who looked like an angel and fucked like a dream,

was not in his plan.

49

Which didn’t explain what he was doing at nine o’clock at night

driving along Old North Road toward the point.

Maggie’s voice whispered in his brain.
I walk on the beach in the

evening.

Not for the last three weeks she hadn’t.

She was a tourist. A one-night stand. An aberration. A mistake.

And he was an idiot, because he wanted her again.

Caleb scowled at the darkness beyond his windshield. It wasn’t like

he didn’t have better demands on his time, more urgent claims on his

attention.

The warmer weather brought out tourists like a rash. Brightly striped

towels dotted the docks and hung from lines behind the rental cottages.

Boats—and sometimes boaters—hit the water. Vacationers locked

themselves out of their homes and cars, lost their dogs, their way, or their

tempers. In the past week, Caleb had dealt with two kayak accidents and

one fender bender, a petty theft at the Inn, and a handful of drunk and

disorderlies. He’d spent his “free” hours trying to instill some respect for

the speed limit in town and the ban against driving on the beach.

Whittaker had stood up at the last council meeting to argue for

extending the ban to walking on the beach, which had created some hard

feelings between the eel-grass lovers and the merchants who depended on

the summer season to get them through the year. Caleb’s offer to increase

beach patrols and fine anybody caught littering had quieted things down

some. But the extra hours away from his desk taxed his leg and left him

with a backlog of paperwork.

Another reason why he should go home, ice his knee, and try to

plow through his pile of trade journals.

He stared out at the night, an ache in his chest that rivaled the pain in

his knee.

His sister’s innocent question ate away at his defenses.
What about

that woman . . . Margaret somebody? Are you going to see her again?

50

He’d just make one more patrol swing, Caleb told himself. A lot of

people were on the road tonight after the end-of -year assembly. Once he

was sure they’d all made it home safely, he could . . .

Fire.

On the point. The glow struck through the scattered tree trunks lining

the road.

He felt the slow, heavy thud of his heart and shook his head in

disgust. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t there. Maggie. She hadn’t been

back any time these past three weeks. No chance in hell she had changed

her mind the one night he’d stayed away.

It was only kids again or clambakers. Still, Caleb had a

responsibility to check it out. Fires were allowed only in the camping and

picnic areas and by permit. He grimaced. Not to mention that if Whittaker

spotted the flames, the lawyer would raise holy hell.

The Jeep’s tires bumped off the road into sand and gravel. The

shoulder was deserted, the sky clear, the moon full and bright.

Caleb frowned at the empty shadows under the pines. There should

be other cars. Unless the party on the beach had come by boat?

He left his lights on and his motor running. In Portland, every police

car came equipped with a camcorder mounted on the dash. Not on

World’s End. Chief Roy Miller hadn’t bothered to keep up with

technology, and so far the town council had resisted springing for a piece

of fancy, newfangled equipment simply on the new chief’s say-so.

And maybe they had a point, Caleb acknowledged. He hardly needed

video of a clambake.

He eased out of the vehicle, feeling the muscles in his tired right leg

cramp and adjust as it took his weight. Something acrid tickled the back

of his throat. Something burning.

Burning, on the beach.

Not the clean fire of driftwood either, or the sea salt smell of a

clambake. This smell was awful, fuel and flesh, like the charred remains

51

of a Sunday roast or the smoldering wreck of his Humvee on the sun-blasted road to Baghdad.

Caleb broke out in a sweat triggered by smoke and memory. That

was okay, he was okay, he was riding beach patrol on World’s End, not

providing convoy security along the death corridor.

He reached for his gun anyway. Sucking in a very careful breath, he

entered the shadow of the trees.

Fire roared from a skeleton of blackened timbers: shafts of white

heat, tongues of orange flame. Red smoke boiled against a black

backdrop of sea and sky.

No beer cans. No blankets. No kids. No people at all.

There
. Wavering against the glare, outlined by angry flames, a

figure—a man?—tall and thin and oddly fluid, stooped to drag another

stick from the heap at his feet.

The heap shifted. Caleb’s heart accelerated. Not sticks, then. In fact,

that almost looked like . . . He’d swear it looked like . . .

Jesus.

He brought his gun up, instinct and training taking over from his

brain. “Police! Don’t move.”

The figure froze above the crumpled bundle at his feet.

Sweat slicked the grip of Caleb’s gun. Okay. So . . . okay. He

focused on the crouching guy, not daring to drop his gaze to the silent

heap at the edge of the fire. Smoke carried the stink of burning across the

sand.

He breathed through his mouth. “Stand up. Slowly. Hands in the air,

where I can see ’em.”

The tall, dark figure wavered against the flames, hands creeping over

his head. Empty hands, Caleb noted with relief. He took a step forward.

And watched in horror as the figure whirled and leaped into the fire.

52

Caleb yelled and lunged forward. His injured leg buckled on the soft

sand. He fell to his knees, and the night exploded in stars and sparks and

pain.

Breathe. Crawl.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear the guy.
The guy who jumped into

the fire
. But he could smell him burn. The stench seared his nostrils and

the back of his throat like swallowed acid.

He lurched to his feet, his heart drumming in his ears. Heat beat on

his exposed face and hands as he ran toward the bonfire, close enough to

recognize the heap on the ground as a body, a woman’s naked body fallen

forward on the sand, her skin orange in the lurid light. The image of

her—round, glowing, naked—burned his retinas.

His heart stopped.

Maggie
.

53

Five

CALEB PLUNGED TOWARD THE FIRE.

Maggie.

He reached for her. Heat scorched his hands and face. Pain seared

his knee. Grabbing her bare ankle, he dragged her away from the hungry

flames.

Her hair smoldered.
Shit
.

He hauled her into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He

hoped like hell she hadn’t broken her neck. In the bright moonlight, she

looked like the phantom of the frigging opera, half of her face a silver

mask, the other half blackened with blood.

Staggering to his feet, Caleb ran with her toward the water, pain

stabbing with every step. It didn’t matter, not with Maggie solid and

warm in his arms. Warm and . . . alive? He fumbled for a pulse. There,

just there beneath her jaw, he felt her life flicker against his fingertips.

Thank you, Jesus
.

The tide was out. He lowered her to the hard, damp sand, a sound

escaping his clenched teeth as his bad leg took their combined weight.

Methodically, he smothered the sparks in her hair with his hands. The

small pricks burned his palms.

Airway? Clear
.

Breathing ragged
.

Circulation . .
. The gash above her left eyebrow opened like a sullen

mouth. The blood didn’t bother him. Head wounds always bled. But her

loss of consciousness worried him. That bastard must have hit her hard.

He stripped off his jacket to wrap around her. The sea whispered

across the sand, soaking his pant legs, rushing over her bare white toes

and calves. Caleb swore.

54

But the cold water revived her. She moaned.

“It’s okay,” he reassured her, even though it wasn’t, even though she

was naked and bleeding and whoever the fuck did this had jumped into

the fire. “You’re okay.”

He reached for his cell phone.

She bolted upright and rolled away from him toward the fire.

“Hey!”

He threw himself on top of her before she burned herself. She fought

him like a wild thing in a trap, writhing and clawing under him. He

restrained her with his weight, trying not to squash her, trying not to hurt

her, trying to maintain calm.

“Easy,” he panted in her ear. “It’s me. It’s Caleb. Just take it easy.”

She turned her head and bit him.

Jesus
.

He clamped her jaw in his hand and squeezed. Not hard enough to

bruise—he hoped—but hard enough to get her attention.

“Knock it off,” he ordered.

And just like that, the fight went out of her. She lay under him, stiff

as a ten-dollar whore. As a corpse. Fresh blood oozed from the gash on

her forehead.

“Maggie—”

“Fire.” She squeezed the word through her teeth. “In . . . the fire.”

He’d thought she had missed her assailant’s dramatic leap into the

blaze. But maybe not. Maybe she was even worried about the guy.

Doubt wriggled, a nasty worm under the anger and the fear. She
was

naked. Maybe

55

“I’m going to look,” Caleb said. “But you have to stay here.”

She nodded—as much of a nod as she could manage with his hand

still gripping her face.

Releasing her, he limped up the beach to assess the blaze. It shot into

the dark night like a beacon, ten feet high and easily six feet across,

raging on the edge of control. He was surprised nobody had called the fire

department yet. Volunteers lived for shit like this. He scanned the beach.

At least the surrounding sand and rock provided natural insulation, and

the fire had been set far enough from the trees that escaping sparks

wouldn’t torch the whole island.

A log broke in the heart of the fire, releasing another gout of flame,

another rush of heat. No way could anybody have survived a jump into or

across that inferno.

So he should see a body, right? Remains. The human body didn’t

burn well. Too much water. Even cremation left large fragments of bone.

There should have been . . . something.

Instead, the fire burned clear and bright. He sniffed. Even the

charred smell he’d noticed when he arrived was mostly gone.

So what the hell had he seen? What the fuck had happened?

The sand was disturbed in all directions.

He didn’t have a prayer of processing the scene until morning.

And he had a naked, bleeding woman on his hands in need of

medical attention.

He scanned the fire again, glanced toward the trees. If he was back

in Portland, he’d have the combined resources of the city police, the fire

department, and an EMS squad to call on. If he was back in Iraq, he’d

have the support of his unit.

Or he could be pinned under a smoking wreck with his femur