Once Burned (Task Force Eagle)

by Vaughan, Susan

  “Hey, Lani. Come aboard. I’ll be right with you.”

  She nodded dumbly as she stepped onto the deck, almost forgetting the reason she’d come. Until she saw sections of the identical newspaper strewn on the deck.

  “You already know,” she blurted when she heard his firm step on the cockpit deck.

  “The fire article, yeah.” He set down a tray laden with a thermal carafe, two orange mugs, and a pint container of milk. “Coffee?”

  She shook her head. “If I get any more wound, I’ll need an anchor.” She flopped into a deck chair and waited as he poured the steaming brew into one chipped ceramic mug. The rich aroma filled her senses.

  A black polo shirt covered his chest and shoulders. Just as well. Cargo shorts hung low on his lean hips. Just below the hem, she could see the tip of a nasty red scar amid the same burnished hair. He’d combed his unruly hair into submission, she observed with regret.

  “So are you wound up about being a person of interest?” he said.

  “You mean suspect, don’t you? Seeing it in the newspaper really bugs me.”

  He wagged his head as he tipped up his mug. “Whatever the arson investigator intended, mentioning you as a person of interest might take the heat off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re a suspect, any accusations you make are dubious. No matter what you think you remember. The arsonist might back off.”

  “Might. But if that’s true, I can put up with grilling by the fire investigator.”

  For want of something to do, she took him up on the coffee offer. Never mind that her nerves were already jangling like circus bells. And she hadn’t slept.

  With efficient movements he poured coffee, then glanced up, waiting.

  Milk, she told him. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the hot mug, and his fresh-washed scent came to her over the salt tang of the harbor. Surely she could ignore her senseless attraction. Did he feel the same sizzle? Or was he thinking of Gail? Outgoing, fun-loving Gail had been the popular twin, the one the guys flocked around. Not Lani, with her nose in a book and her one-line zingers.

  Was Jake still in love with Gail after all these years? The question still hung like a poisonous spider between them. Whatever the truth, she couldn’t let herself depend on him. She couldn’t count on anyone but herself.

  She noticed him leaning back in his deck chair. Left ankle on his right knee, he sipped his coffee and gazed at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Waiting for her to explain her presence, maybe. She averted her gaze from his startling blue one.

  “I was at Nora’s. She showed me the fire story. Then I stopped at the general store to pick up my own copy and came here.” She fidgeted, unsure.

  He stared at her hard, as if seeing inside her. “What else? Something else has happened. Not the news article. Give.”

  His intense scrutiny eddied heat through her veins. The deck chair squeaked in protest at her squirming like a guilty suspect under interrogation. “Well...”

  “Out with it.”

  She sighed. “Okay. You might as well know. Someone tried to break in last night.”

  “Dammit, Lani, you’re way out of the village. Remote. That old house isn’t safe.”

  “Tried, I said. Tried. Didn’t get in. I stopped him. Them. Whatever.” She managed a shrug to demonstrate her lack of concern. “No biggie.”

  “Bull. You’re scared, and you have every right to be.” One eyebrow inched up a fraction. “You stopped them. Exactly how?”

  She grinned. “Granddad’s shotgun. I fired a shot out the upstairs bedroom window. They ran away.” She wouldn’t mention she’d sat up the rest of the night with the weapon in her lap. She’d have crashed this morning except for gallons of coffee.

  He swore softly between gritted teeth. He scraped the fingers of both hands through his hair. “I don’t suppose you called the cops.”

  His tone was neutral but she caught the accusation loud and clear. She huffed. “Like Galt would care. He’d ignore it like the other threats.”

  “Maybe. But threats need to be on record. I’ll take care of it.”

  Her first reaction was to blurt something snarky like who died and put you in charge. Because she didn’t want to be dismissed by the police chief again, she said, “Go for it.” Maybe Galt would listen to Jake as a second party, an ATF agent.

  An outboard roared down the middle of the harbor past the No Wake Zone sign. Pascal yelled at them. A bunch of teenagers. They laughed. They so didn’t care. She remembered those days. Before the fire.

  She stood. “Well. Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

  Jake set down his mug and rose from the deck chair. He took her hands gently in his.

  His hands were warm on her skin and his clear blue eyes mesmerizing. The masculine smell of soap and aftershave nearly had her burying her nose in his neck. She swallowed.

  “Don’t go. After Robichaud verified my ATF credentials, he gave me a copy of the old arson report and all the other files. And there’s been a development in the Tyson fire. The fire marshal isn’t sharing that or our actual status with the media.”

  “A development? What?”

  The speedboat’s wake rocked the Amy Jo, sending Lani stumbling toward the side rail.

  He caught her to him. “Steady. Don’t want you taking a dive. Especially at low tide. Harbor’s supposedly clean but who knows what’s in the mud.”

  At his embrace, every cell in her body danced the cha-cha-cha. She swallowed and backed away. “Way to brighten my morning a little more, hot shot. What new development?”

  “Voices carry over the water. What do you say we take the boat out to Ragged Rocks? Seals should be sunning for another few hours before the tide’s too high.”

  Chapter 9

  Jake held his breath when Lani paused, studying him. He could almost see her skeptical brain turning over his offer. Was she questioning his motivation? She should question his sanity.

  “Sure,” she finally said. “Why not.”

  “Great!” He released her and set to getting ready to motor out.

  He let out his breath slowly as he cast off the bow line. She was so wary of him, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d run away. Except she was too determined to get answers.

  He hadn’t lied. Taking her out on the boat seemed the safest location for sharing his tale. But when he’d held her hand, the pull of attraction was powerful. She was brave and yet so vulnerable he wanted to tuck her in his pocket. He couldn’t seem to resist her. Stupid. No future in it. She sure as hell didn’t encourage him. But her eyes did darken and flicker with heat.

  As he released the stern line, two men back by the harbor office shed caught his eye. The harbormaster was talking to the workman named Brandon who’d spoken to Kevin at the Wheelhouse. The two men were staring at the Amy Jo but then turned away, still in conversation.

  Jake’s gut clenched. Ed Pascal had probably heard about the Cameron fire and this latest arson. A man with his finger on the pulse, the harbormaster. Jake had seen Brandon around the village a few times since the Wheelhouse. A little younger than Pascal, he had an amiable enough face, not hostile or furtive. If that meant anything at all.

  Brandon sucked the life out of the cigarette hanging from his mouth, threw it down and jogged up the hill. Pascal ambled down the dock toward the rowdy teenagers’ boat slip.

  Maybe Brandon had nothing to do with the fire. Either fire. Maybe the two men had been ogling the beautiful woman on his boat. Wouldn’t hurt to ask Donovan to add Brandon to background checks he’d requested. Pascal was already on the list.

  A few minutes later, he guided the Amy Jo slowly past Dragon Rocks, no dragon now, at low tide only a hazardous line of rocks. A double-crested cormorant, its black wings outspread to dry, perched atop one outcrop.

  Once past the lighthouse on the point, he opened the throttle and plowed through the water, wrinkled in the freshening breeze. Careful to steer around the string
of lime-green lobster buoys ahead, he inhaled the clean salt air and eyed the woman standing beside him.

  In a blue-and-white striped T-shirt and navy pants that reached just below her knees, she looked ready for yachting, not an outing on an old stink-pot. Retrofitted but still a noisy old lobster boat. She could’ve sat beside him on one of the padded stools his uncle had added to the cockpit but chose to stand off to the left. Away from him. The breeze blew a few escaped strands of hair around her face, softening her fierce demeanor. For the first time, she looked relaxed, even at peace, instead of defensive. Maybe being out on the water.

  “What?” Shoulders squared, she glared.

  “Chill. Just admiring your hair. Looks good that way.”

  “Oh. Thanks. Nora did the braid. Cooler off my neck.” She returned her gaze to the open waters, where two schooners from the Rockland fleet sailed downwind into Penobscot Bay. Looked like the Heritage and the three-masted Victory Chimes, their white sails fat-cheeked in the brisk breeze.

  He did like her hair. Liked the way pulling it back showed off her elegant neck, although he preferred it loose. Spread across his pillow, it’d—

  Don’t even go there. He was already losing the battle to maintain a distance between them. Not the way to adhere to his rule—he couldn’t fail someone if he didn’t get close. She might be able to blow off the attempted break-in, but he knew better. The scum meant business. He had to convince her to take more precautions.

  In a half hour they arrived at Ragged Rocks, a mussel-encrusted black ridge that barely peeked above the waters at high tide. He spotted the bobbing orange-and-white regulatory marker above the submerged rocks but checked his chart and the depth finder anyway.

  “Oh, look.” Lani edged nearer, pointed with one hand and laid the other on his forearm. “There are the seals. They’re so comical.”

  Almost every surface of the jagged outcropping had its temporary resident harbor seal, basking in the sun. The biggest males had the prime spots. Females and youngsters had to make do with narrow ledges or lumpier perches. Unafraid of the intruding humans or the boat, they fanned their flippers and stretched their necks.

  His hand itched to cover Lani’s. “They’re so fat, you wonder how they climb up on those rocks. They look like sausages.”

  She erupted in a rich low laugh. “Ick, I’ll never eat a sausage again. The seals remind me of balloons. You know, those balloon animals some guy always makes at the county fair.”

  “I never saw a brown or gray balloon animal,” he said.

  “You are so literal.” She turned on him, then blinked. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  When he air-chalked up a point, she laughed again, then seemed to notice her hand remained on his arm and jerked it away.

  Her reaction reminded him in a rush this was temporary. She was easy to talk to, understanding and not judgmental, and they still had that banter thing between them. Comfortable, but it meant nothing.

  “Jake, either you lured me out here under false pretenses or you have secrets to share. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the case report. Get to it or take me back.” Her protective thorns were back in place, judging from her wary gaze.

  “Some of this isn’t going to be easy to hear.” When she nodded, he drew a breath before diving into it. “The Tyson fire was started with spilled gasoline and matches.”

  “Like the fire that killed Gail.”

  “Right, as far as it goes. This one was supposed to look like Tyson tripped on the mower or a gas can and knocked himself out as he hit the barn floor. An accidental fire. Except for two things.”

  “The matches, for one. How did they survive the fire?”

  “Good call. Make that three exceptions. The remains of the matchbook fell between the floorboards into the dirt. Not unusual. Second, the wound on Tyson’s head showed he was hit by a blunt instrument considerably smaller than a floor.”

  “Like a two-by-four?” She stepped closer, leaning on the console.

  “Something like that. The weapon could’ve been burned up in the fire.”

  “You’re saving the third as your secret weapon. Give, Wescott.”

  “You know anything about cyclonite, or C-4?”

  A frown crimped her brow. “I’ve come across that in novels. Isn’t C-4 a plastic explosive used by the military?”

  He nodded, still trying to get his brain around this turn of events. “Military, yes, or in this case, bad guys who’ve stolen it.”

  “And that’s how the investigator cleared me? Because someone used C-4?”

  “They didn’t really suspect you or me before. That news story was a little inaccurate. Chalk it up to bad reporting. But the C-4 drives this arson in a whole new direction.”

  “Holy crap. Looks like I woke up a bigger dragon than I thought.” Seals forgotten, she sank onto a stool and waited, her summer glow paled to the color of a whelk shell.

  “The Mexican drug cartel wars have been in the news the past few years,” he began. “But what you probably don’t know is that at least one of the cartel leaders, a drug kingpin nicknamed El Águila—”

  “The Eagle.” When he gaped, she added, “Spent a summer semester in Mexico working with an NGO. Became pretty fluent in Spanish.”

  “You keep surprising me.” He continued, “El Águila moved part of his operation to the Northeast to escape the violence and the stricter border control. He smuggles both ways—drugs like cocaine, heroin, and prescription painkillers into the U.S. and illegal weapons out.”

  “Like the C-4.”

  “That and rifles, M240B machine guns, rocket launchers, to name a few.” No point in mentioning the explosion in New Hampshire was C-4. “The ATF and DEA and some other alphabet agencies have formed Task Force Eagle to cooperate on the case. We think one of El Águila’s men is using this coastline for the smuggling. Name of Hector Vargas. No description. It’s probably an alias.”

  “Maine hires Guatemalans and other Central American workers for summer harvests but not in D Harbor. Dark-skinned or not, a Hispanic would find it hard to hide out here.”

  “Exactly what’s making my job so hard,” he said. “We suspect a local must be working with Vargas. Only a local would know all the coves and islands and inlets, as well as places to store the weapons until they move them offshore.”

  His gaze tangled with hers for a long moment. The idling motor’s rumble and the sea’s wash battled with his thudding heart as he waited for her to reach the conclusion he had. She wrapped her hand around his forearm and her fingers held on tight. “Then Gail’s murderer, and Tyson’s, could be the same. And he’s somehow gotten involved in the gun smuggling.”

  He let out a long breath. “His career in crime didn’t stop with one arson-murder. Or this time he hired a pro with connections to the source.”

  She kept her thoughts to herself but left her hand on his arm. He figured she needed time to absorb the enormity of what she’d just learned. They watched the lounging seals until another craft came roaring up behind them. He turned to see the power boat casting up twin walls of water as it plowed through the sea.

  “Jake?” She stared at the other boat.

  “Damn idiot. He could ram us if he doesn’t turn. Hold on to the safety grips.” He spun the wheel, veering the boat to starboard.

  As rapidly as the intruder had zoomed toward them, it turned and zoomed away again. The giant wake nearly swamped the old lobster boat’s stern. Seals plopped into the roiling water.

  The turbulence rocked the Amy Jo like a Nor’easter.

  He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his body as he throttled forward to feed power to the diesels below. Hell, like the other night with the truck, he didn’t get the boat name or registration number. Except this time he would remember the hull’s conformation and the red paint job zig-zagged by silver lightning bolts.

  When the Amy Jo reached calmer water, Lani still stood in his embrace. He savored the bump of her hip at the boat’s movem
ent, the swell of her breast against his side, the lemony scent of her hair.

  A moment later, she must’ve come out of her shock because she stepped aside. “What the hell was that turkey doing?”

  His jaw cramped. “Maybe a warning. For me this time.” Before she could respond, he went on. “The arsonist must believe you saw him or know something that connects him to the fire. Why do you suppose he waited until now to attack you?”

  She dragged her gaze away from the seals, now clambering back up on the rocks. The pain had returned to her eyes, dulling their amber luster. “I’m not sure he did wait.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were a couple incidents I’ve wondered about. Years ago, not long after the fire. Mom came into my hospital room to find a strange man near my bed. He said he was a doctor but I was the wrong patient. He left in a hurry. When she described the man, the nurse said they had no such doctor.”

  “Can you describe the fake doctor?”

  She shook her head. “I never saw him. I was sleeping. Mostly that’s what I did those days. Meds kept me out.”

  He wanted to pull her back into his arms and leach the hurt out of her and into himself. Impossible. “You said a couple times.”

  “Yes, about eight years ago in Boston. An accident or I could’ve imagined it. Someone on the subway platform pushed me as the train was arriving, but a woman pulled me back from the edge in time.”

  “And nothing more until now?”

  “No. You think he decided I really didn’t remember?”

  “Maybe. You were far away and had put the fire behind you. He figured he was safe.”

  “But now I’ve come back to Dragon Harbor.”

  “And you’ve spread it around that you’re starting to remember.” He shook his head at her rashness. “Staying out of town in a house with old-fashioned, flimsy locks isn’t safe.”