Going Dark

by Monica McCarty

  Making a quick escape, she heard Julien explain behind her, “WC.”

  She’d forgotten that Jean Paul hadn’t spent much time in America. She’d learned from Julien that “bathroom” and “ladies’ room” didn’t translate well in Europe.

  For a Tuesday night the pub was packed, and Annie had to “excuse me” her way through the crowd of men in front of the bar—there were very few women—as she made her way to the “toilet.” Given the number of locals, she assumed it was a favorite hangout. Although from what she’d seen of the town, the Harbour (with a u) Bar & Guest House probably didn’t have a lot of competition.

  She had nearly made it past the long, glossy wooden bar lined with taps of ales and ciders, when the door that she’d been about to go through opened, and she had to step back to avoid being hit. Unfortunately she stumbled over someone’s foot and knocked into—nearly onto—a man who was seated at the end of the bar.

  Instinctively she reached out to catch herself before she fell on his lap. One of her hands found his leg, and the other . . .

  Wasn’t gripping rock-hard muscle.

  “Oof.” The grunt he made gave the location away. Even through the denim of his jeans, she could feel the unmistakable solid bulge of something else. She pulled her hand back as if it—he—were on fire.

  Or maybe that was just her. Her cheeks flamed with mortified heat as she hurried to apologize. “I’m so sorry! I tripped and didn’t see . . .”

  The man looked up from his hunched position over his beer, and the cold, steely blue eyes that met hers from beneath the edge of his faded blue cap cut off her breath like a sharp icy wind.

  Her first thought was how the hell had she missed him? Her second was What did I do?

  He was a big guy. Tall—even with him seated on a stool, she still had to look up to meet his gaze—and broad-shouldered, he wore an oversized sweatshirt and puffy down vest that, had she not felt the evidence to the contrary, she might have thought hid a little extra bulk. But that bulk wasn’t fat; it was all muscle.

  The guy was built like a tank. Or maybe a prizefighter. Beneath the heavy beard—what was with those anyway?—the face that met hers had the tough, pugnacious masculinity of a Tom Hardy or Channing Tatum. Sexy as hell, but maybe a little too much to handle.

  She liked men a little softer. And there was nothing soft about this guy. Not just his body, but the way he was looking at her. It might be the middle of summer, but the iciness emitting from those striking blue eyes made it feel like the dark days of December.

  Shiver. She managed not to do that, instead giving him a friendly smile. “I’m sorry again. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  Which hardly seemed possible, as he was about twice her size.

  She expected an immediate denial, a few assurances that it was nothing, and maybe even a return smile. That was what would have happened in any bar in America. In the South it would have been given with a lazy drawl, a charming twinkle, and no doubt a ma’am or darlin’ or two. In New Orleans, it would be “cher” or, as it was pronounced, “sha.”

  What she got was a shake of the head and a gruff grunt that she assumed was meant to serve as his acknowledgment, before he turned sharply around to hunch back over his beer.

  She stood there for a moment, staring at the broad back, hunched shoulders, and straight—maybe a little shaggy—dirty blond hair beneath the faded powder blue cap.

  What in the world?

  She shook her head at his rudeness. Maybe this was Oz after all.

  Two

  The chilly exchange the night before was forgotten in the warmth of a sunny new day as Annie made her way from the guest house to the harbor along the sunny waterfront street, walking hand in hand with Julien. Ahead of them she could see the distinctly shaped ferry terminal, which looked a little bit like a sombrero, that Julien told her had once been the site of the original castle in Stornoway. The pretty Victorian stone castle that dominated the opposite side of the harbor had been built a couple of hundred years after the original castle’s destruction. When she’d asked about visiting the new castle, the innkeeper told her that Lews, as it was called, wasn’t open. On prodding, she’d reluctantly added that it was being converted from use as a college to a cultural center.

  Annie couldn’t blame the Islanders for their standoffishness—or in the case of the man last night, outright rudeness—but she wasn’t used to her friendly overtures being rebuffed. She supposed it was something she would have to grow accustomed to. The activists were clearly unwanted, and the tension with the locals was only going to get worse with what they had planned.

  Something big. Something that will make a difference.

  Her stomach fluttered a little. The thought of what they were going to do made her even more nervous now that she was actually here. It will be fine, she told herself. Greenpeace did it all the time. Even Xena—Lucy Lawless herself—had done it. But climbing aboard a drillship in the middle of the North Atlantic to stage a sit-in had sounded much more exciting—and much less crazy—at home. But Julien was right. To draw media attention, they had to do something big. And sadly dramatic got attention—scientific articles didn’t.

  If she was suddenly having second thoughts, she pushed them away.

  Once they passed the ferry terminal building, another reason the locals were likely to become even more unwelcoming came into view.

  She winced at the sight of the Porta Potties, tents, and makeshift banners that filled the parking lot. With the daily influx of activists growing, and guest houses and campgrounds full, the camp was only going to get bigger and even more of an eyesore.

  Julien must have been watching her closer than she realized. “Is something wrong, ma belle? You are not still upset about last night?”

  “I wasn’t upset. I just hit the jet-lag wall,” she said, repeating the excuse for her unusual quietness she’d given him when they returned to their room. Not wanting to give him another opportunity to ask her impressions of Jean Paul, she motioned to the camp. “You have to admit, it’s a bit of an eyesore. We aren’t likely to rally the locals to our cause with that marring the chamber of commerce views around here.” She looked around at the blue skies, the boats bobbing in the idyllic harbor, and the green-covered hillsides that framed it. “All those tents and banners”—not to mention the toilets—“won’t make very pretty postcards.”

  Especially if the drilling went forward, and this turned into a permanent camp like the one on the Scottish mainland at the nuclear plant of Faslane, which had been there since 1982.

  Julien smiled reassuringly, perhaps intuiting that she needed it, and squeezed her hand. “The point is to be noticed, Anne.” She didn’t usually like her name, which was why she went by Annie, but if everyone pronounced Anne like Julien, she might change her mind. Instead of the hard a, it was soft with the emphasis on the long n sound. Ah-nnn. “The more unsightly and disruptive we are, the more they will be unable to ignore us,” he added. “That’s how it works.”

  Annie felt silly. She looked up at him apologetically, a lopsided grin turning her mouth. “I know. It’s just that”—she shrugged—“I didn’t expect this place to be so pretty.”

  “Which is why we are here. To keep it that way, oui?”

  He was right. The unsightly camp was much better than oily black water, a coastline of sludge, and dead wildlife. The exploratory drilling set to begin a scant seventy miles west of Lewis, Harris, and the dozens of other islands that made up the archipelago would be devastated by a spill. There were already over seven hundred oil fields in the North Sea east of Britain, but this proposed one to the west in the North Atlantic was too close. And she had the studies to prove it. But no one wanted to listen to her research when they had their own “experts.”

  “Oui,” she agreed.

  Julien waved to a group of activists he knew as they walked by, still holding h
er hand with the other. She supposed she should be glad they weren’t in such rustic conditions and that Julien had been able to find a guest room. But their time would come. They hoped to stay aboard the ship for at least a week. Long enough to bring attention to the issue.

  Buoyed by the beautiful summer day and the relaxing presence of the man beside her, Annie felt her spirits lift. Whatever strange funk she’d been in since arriving, she willed it away. It would be fine. There was nothing different about Julien. He was still the exciting, smart, passionate man who had swept her off her feet. If she thought he’d been acting a little strange last night, she attributed it to her reaction to his friend. It wasn’t like her to make instant judgments like that. She vowed to give Jean Paul another chance.

  Once beyond the parking lot, they turned onto the dock and moorings that fronted the town center. There were a few sailboats sprinkled in among the fishing boats and trawlers. It presented a charming picture, but on closer inspection she could see that many of them appeared to have seen better days. Chipped paint and rust seemed to be the order of the day.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Who are we looking for again?”

  “Island Charters.” Julien moved his head to the side to get a better look down the dock. “Jean Paul said there should be a hut and someone would be there to meet us.”

  “I’m surprised Jean Paul didn’t come with us.” Especially as he was the one to set up the charter that would take them on their “dive” near the exploratory drillship. Not that she was necessarily complaining about his absence.

  “He is taking care of other things—there are a lot of details to work out. With your experience, he thought you would be the best person to make sure we have everything we need. I know how, uh, particular you are.”

  Annie took the comment in the teasing spirit of which it was given. Her mouth quirked. He was right. She was very particular about her dive equipment, as he’d discovered the few times they were out together in New Orleans.

  But her diving and climbing skills were part of why Julien had been so insistent that she come to Scotland. They needed someone experienced, and according to Julien, the fact that she “looked like a model from that swimsuit magazine” made it even better. The cameras would love her. Annie didn’t like being reduced to a “pretty face,” but she was sure Julien hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. Subtlety could be lost in translation.

  “Point taken,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “Now, where is this boat?”

  A moment later they were standing in front of the small wooden hut about the size of a phone booth. On the wall beside it was a chalk information board with ISLAND CHARTERS printed across the top and hourly rental information down below with various dive and snorkeling packages.

  Docked in front of the hut was one of the most dilapidated-looking boats not resting on its side on a beach that she’d ever seen. With its chipped red hull and white wheelhouse, the MV Hebridean appeared to be an old tugboat that had been converted for dive use. “Old” being the operative word. She’d guess vintage early ’60s.

  She turned to Julien. “I hope that isn’t it. If it is, Jean Paul is being robbed. Two thousand pounds for a couple days in that pile of junk?”

  She caught a movement out of the side of her eye and spun back toward the boat. A man stood from where he’d been kneeling over the port side of the boat on what appeared to be a metal diver lift.

  One glance was enough to figure out what he’d been doing. Her mouth pressed into a tight line as she took in the greasy piece of machinery, still dripping with oil, in his hands. He’d obviously been cleaning it in the water.

  She reacted viscerally, prickling with anger that she knew was out of proportion to the offense. But anyone who’d seen what she’d seen over the past eight years would understand. Oil didn’t wash away. Eventually it ended up on the bottom of the sea, where its decomposition rate slowed to almost nothing. And cumulatively it killed and destroyed.

  She didn’t understand how anyone could look at something as beautiful as this water and treat it like a dump. Even before the spill, she’d been conscious of it. She’d never forget the visit to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco when she was eight, and she’d seen the seal with a plastic six-pack holder around its neck, cutting into it like a knife. The raw wound, and the knowledge that the seal would never be able to get it off, had made her burst into tears.

  It had broken her heart. It still did. She cared too much, her mother said. Maybe. But Annie didn’t understand how other people didn’t. How they could be so oblivious or ignorant like—

  She stopped—and jolted—finally looking up into the familiar steely gaze.

  It was him. The rude man from the night before, looking even more unfriendly and imposing in the daylight. He wore the same faded blue cap, but the bulky sweatshirt and vest had been replaced by a grease-stained once white T-shirt with ISLAND CHARTERS silkscreened in red across the chest. It was loose fitting, but unlike last night’s clothing, it didn’t hide the extremely muscular chest and arms.

  The guy was built, all right. Like a longshoreman.

  Why she was noticing, she had no idea. Big guys weren’t normally her thing. Not since high school, at least. A disastrous date with the captain of the football team had cured her of the primitive appeal. Since then, she’d stuck to intellectuals like Julien, who spent more time in the library developing their brains than in the gym developing their muscles. At five-eleven and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, Julien was tall, but not too tall, and lean without being overly defined. This guy, on the other hand, was at least a few inches over six feet and definitely defined, although “overly” wasn’t exactly the word coming to mind.

  It took her a moment to realize that she was staring. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

  “Was there something you wanted?” He spoke to her, ignoring Julien.

  From the sharpness of his tone, she wondered if he’d picked up on her anger and the reason for it. From his word choice, however, he’d definitely picked up on her staring, and she blushed.

  “Yes, I—” She stopped, suddenly realizing something. He didn’t have an accent. She frowned. “You’re American.”

  “Canadian,” he corrected, as if it wasn’t any of her business—which she supposed it wasn’t.

  But there went the excuse she’d given him for his rudeness. It wasn’t because he was a local; it was just him.

  Jeez. Weren’t Canadians known around the world for being nice? Clearly he hadn’t gotten the message.

  Julien edged in front of her, apparently taking umbrage at the other man’s tone and attitude. He wore an expression she’d never seen before. It brought to mind a medieval nobleman haughtily looking down his nose at one of his serfs as if he were the lowly piss boy. “We’ve come to pay for the charter arranged by our friend. For Anne Henderson.”

  Jean Paul had put the charter under her name? Annie supposed it was easier, as she would be the one ensuring that the tanks and diving equipment were up to snuff. Oddly, despite the disreputable appearance of the boat and its captain—if that was who he was—she suspected they were. This guy looked as if he didn’t mess around and knew what he was doing. Capable hard-ass came to mind. Grim, capable hard-ass. He looked like a man who hadn’t had anything to smile about in a long time. She couldn’t tell whether it was sadness or general grumpiness. Maybe a little of both.

  The captain gave no indication that he’d noticed Julien’s condescension, but something told her little got by those steely eyes.

  “Must be some mistake,” he said, as if he couldn’t care less. Customer service obviously wasn’t his strong point. “The boat isn’t available.”

  The lie was so obvious Annie almost laughed. “Yes,” she said, her gaze sweeping the empty dock. “I can see how busy you are.”

  His eyes turned slowly back to hers. There might have been the ba
rest flicker of surprise at her response. Clearly he wasn’t used to people challenging him.

  “It probably isn’t what you are looking for anyway,” he said with a long knowing stare.

  He’d obviously heard her pile-of-junk comment. A comment that on closer inspection might have been premature. The deck and what she could see of the boat were spotless. The dive equipment and tanks arranged neatly on racks in the center of the deck appeared to be in good condition and looked after by someone who knew what they were doing. There was precision in the way the tanks were ordered and the masks and regulators placed. Even the fins were stuck upright in tight pairs, presumably by size. She’d been on too many boats where everything was just thrown in different plastic bins.

  She studied the man before her with new, more appraising eyes.

  “What do you mean it isn’t available?” Julien demanded angrily. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him lose his temper before, but he clearly was about to do so. He, too, must have realized that the guy was lying and refusing to rent to them because of who they were. Julien’s dark eyes were narrowed to pinpricks, and his mouth had curved into an ugly sneer. “We had a deal.”

  “Not with me, you didn’t.” The man hadn’t moved an inch. There was nothing combative in his stance, but the threat was there all the same. Don’t fuck with me.

  Annie picked up on it, even if Julien didn’t. She knew that despite the idyllic look of some of these harbors, some hid a booming illegal drug trade. Was Island Charters a cover? And if so, was he the muscle? It wouldn’t surprise her; he had dangerous written all over him. Nor would it surprise her that Jean Paul would have hired a less-than-reputable charter company. What they were doing would be much easier without someone asking a lot of questions.

  “Come on, Julien. Let’s go,” she said, pulling him away. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”