In the Waning Light

by Loreth Anne White

  Blake cleared his throat. “It’s a crime scene for a bit, until they’ve checked it all out. And the windows are all shot out, so it’s cold, and it can’t be locked. And the broken glass has to be cleaned out, and the blood washed off the walls. It needs more paint again. It could be a few days before that house is habitable again.”

  He looked uncertain.

  “So—” Blake slapped his knees. “You okay if she stays in the spare room for a bit?”

  Noah looked down at his bare feet. “I suppose.” He glanced up slowly, met his dad’s eyes. Blake ruffled his boy’s hair.

  “Thank you, bud. I love you, you know that?”

  Noah lunged forward and threw his skinny little arms tight around Blake’s neck. Emotion burned into Blake’s eyes. He kissed Noah’s hair and was again reminded how it smelled like sunshine. “Now, how about some breakfast? You go get changed, and I’ll rustle up something downstairs. Eggs? Bacon?”

  “Waffles!”

  “You got it, bud. See you in five, downstairs.”

  Noah scuttled off, Lucy in tow.

  Blake exhaled, dragged his hands over his damp hair. He was one hundred percent in with both feet now. Hell alone knew how this was going to play out. He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, opened the small safe in the back of his bedroom closet, and removed his Glock 19 and a fifteen-round magazine. Inserting the magazine, he pulled the slide back, chambering a round. He hesitated, then took a spare magazine from the safe for good measure. From his drawer he removed a holster, which he threaded onto his leather belt, positioning the holster at the small of his back. He socked his pistol into the holster, and the spare ammunition into the adjacent pouch, before snagging a button-down shirt from his shelves, and punching his arms into the sleeves. He covered the holster with his shirt, and headed down to make waffles, his mind going back to the day he’d saved her life the first time. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, although he hoped it would not come down to needing a gun.

  THE STRANGER AMONG US

  By Meg Brogan

  BLAKE

  Black and oily is the sea, pocked with driving rain and veined with white foam. The closer Blake gets to the point, the more it heaves and seethes. Surf crashes against the man-made reef in a thunderous roar. He slows his little craft, waiting for a swell to crest, then he angles his prow and gooses the engine, riding the wave fast to a small wedge of sand between rocks. The wave breaks and boils around him. Water and foam fill his boat. But he keeps the engine gunning as long as he can before it floods and chokes, riding the angry froth. The lighthouse beam pans round, illuminating his path for a moment with stark white light. Rocks glisten black and surreal on either side of the sand. He hits the beach hard, and is tossed forward and flat onto his stomach, into the sloshing water at the bottom of his boat. He scrabbles quickly to his feet, boots squelching in water as he jumps out and strains to drag his boat up the beach, but the wave sucks back, and sucks hard, and his craft is weighted with water. It’s too heavy. He lets it go, and the sea grabs it away with gleeful greed. He scrambles up the sand beyond its reach in his heavy gear, breath rasping in his chest, rain plastering hair to his head. He staggers up into a wild run, his small headlight poking a faint beam into the storm as he aims for the spot where he believes Meg might go to hide if she’s in trouble. Given the news about Sherry, something awful must have happened.

  “Meg!” he screams into the wind. It snatches his words, tosses them away. The tide is still pushing in, coming higher. Rain lashes at his face. “Meg!”

  The lighthouse beam sweeps across the spit, high, refracting in cloud. He sees something. Down in the waves in a tiny cove. Something white that catches the light—shining fish-belly white. He freezes. A wave surges and the thing lolls like a dead seal. Except he knows—he knows with every fiber of his being. As much as he wants to find her, his mind recoils at this. No. Not like this. No, no, no.

  The wind whines through rock formations as he nears. The foghorn answers. Blake breaks into a staggering run, down into the cove. He trips, smashes down, scrabbles back onto his feet. He drops down the twisty little path, and stumbles onto sand. He reaches the water and falls to his knees. “Meg?”

  He rolls her body over. And his heart clean stops. Her clothes are torn, a breast exposed. White as a lily. Her face is alabaster, lips blue. A black, bloodless gash mars her brow. Her long hair is tangled with seaweed. A tiny crab scuttles over her face. Oh my God … Meg … Shit … Meg.

  Focus.

  He hooks his hands under her armpits, drags her limp body up the beach, sets her down gently on her back. He drops to his knees, angles her head back like he’s been taught in first aid class. He opens her mouth and scoops around with his fingers, removing debris. His mind is telling him it’s hopeless; his heart will not allow him to stop. A terrible kind of raw fear clutches and claws up in his chest, but he performs CPR. He keeps at it, counting the compressions, then touching his lips to her cold and lifeless ones. More compressions. More breath. More compressions. More breath. And suddenly her body stiffens. Her back arcs violently and she gags.

  A hatchet of hope strikes through his heart. Quickly he moves her head sideways, and she vomits a foaming slime. And again, and again, coughing, choking, convulsing. He gathers her upper body into his arms, tears streaming down his face. “Help! Oh, God. Somebody help! I found her! Help!”

  But his words are snatched away. Blake’s mind races. He shrugs out of his jacket, and wraps it around her. He shucks off his shirt, and balls it for a pillow. She’s unresponsive to his actions. But she’s breathing. She’s alive.

  Blake fumbles to open his kit belt. He frees the air horn, holds it high. He releases three short blasts, three long, three short. Waits a beat. Three short, three long, three short. Dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot. SOS. The sailor’s universal distress call. Then he unsheathes his radio, finds the channel he knows his dad and the searchers are using, keys the button. “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Anybody copy? It’s Blake Sutton. Mayday. Mayday.” Heart thumping, he releases the key, waits. Nothing. He keys again. “Mayday! Help! Anybody copy?”

  He waits.

  A crackle, then a voice. “This is Search Team Four. Copy.”

  Tears of relief flood him. With a shaking voice he replies, “Search Team Four, this is Blake Sutton. I found Meg Brogan. I found Meg.” His voice chokes. “She’s alive. Need help. Need medevac, stat. Do you copy?”

  “Copy, Blake, what’s your location?”

  He gives it, then drops to his knees, cradling Meg’s head, making sure she’s breathing. “Hang in there, Meggie. Please. Please hang in. Help is coming.”

  And that’s when he sees it. The sack. Up on the rocks.

  CHAPTER 15

  Drawn by the promise of coffee and a sweet pastry smell, Meg stepped into the kitchen. Noah sat on a stool at the counter eating a pile of syrup-soaked waffles. Blake was packing a school lunch. He glanced up sharply, and Meg saw his sudden worry at her appearance. She felt keenly that she was invading their space.

  “Morning,” she said to Noah, coming closer.

  “Hi. I’m sorry about your house.”

  “Thank you.” She shot a questioning glance at Blake. He looked good. Freshly showered. Shaved. Bronzed. The memory of his touch, his taste, surged unbidden into the warm kitchen. She felt her cheeks heat and she didn’t want to think about it.

  “I’m taking Noah to school,” he said. “Geoff is still asleep in the cabin, but I can get him to come up to the house and stay here while you get some more sleep.” He set a mug of steaming coffee on the counter in front of her.

  “No. I mean, thank you, but I need to go fetch my camper and truck.” She couldn’t stay in this house with this boy and his dad. It was plain as day in this kitchen. Not while they were struggling through Noah’s issues over his mother—Meg still hadn’t asked Blake properly about that incident at her house the other night. And she needed to work.

  “I’ve got an interview with
Ty Mack’s lawyer in Chillmook at noon. Could you possibly give me a ride to my house, on your way back from dropping Noah off?”

  He hesitated, his coffee mug in hand. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”

  “I doubt I’m going to be in danger in broad daylight, Blake. Or in talking to Ty’s retired legal counsel.”

  “We had a deal. Nothing risky on your own.”

  “Lee Albies is not risky. Do I have time for a quick shower before we leave?” Noah was munching away, observing them both as one might watch a tennis match.

  Blake set his mug on the counter. “I’m coming with you to meet the lawyer.”

  “Look, I really—”

  “I want my own answers. I want to hear myself what she says. And if you interview Ike Kovacs, I want to be there, too.” His eyes were narrowed, his posture unyielding. “And until they catch the shooter. Or shooters. Or until you have someone else with you,”—he paused—“you stay here nights.”

  “I’m not letting those vandals win. I refuse to be the victim you accused me of being.”

  “Don’t twist my words, Meg.” His gaze flickered to Noah, and he hesitated for an instant. “I was the one who found you half dead on the point that day. If the person who did that to you, to Sherry, is still out there—”

  “Fine,” she said crisply. “Time for a shower?”

  “Five, ten minutes tops. Noah, please will you show Meg where the guest room is.” He met her eyes. “It has a small bathroom en suite. Let Noah know if you need anything.”

  Eager to have a role, Noah scrambled off the kitchen stool. “This way, Meg,” he called from the base of the stairs, before clattering up.

  “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” Blake called after Noah.

  Meg showered in haste, amped on adrenaline. She was thankful she’d had the presence of mind to pack a proper change of clothing and clean underwear, and she dressed quickly in jeans, T-shirt, and sweater. She eased socks over her feet, still tender, but Blake had done a good job of extracting the glass. She rewound the white bandage around her left hand. No time to dry her hair. She made a quick job of trying to run a comb through the tangles, but heard Blake’s diesel truck engine rumbling to life outside.

  She hurried downstairs, found her jacket, grabbed her tote with her laptop, camera, recorder, and notebook, yanked on her boots, and pushed out the office door, little bells chinkling in her wake.

  The air was salty fresh. Cold. Sun had yet to crest over the ridge but the sky was clear, the bay still as glass. A silver Jeep Wrangler was parked in one of the camper sites near the railing above the water. California plates. She guessed it to be Geoff’s. Noah was already inside his dad’s truck, seated in back with Lucy. Blake held open the passenger door for her.

  “Your hair’s wet.”

  “It’ll dry in the cab,” she said, climbing up into the seat. “If we put the heater on.” She smiled. He stilled, held her gaze. And she was suddenly conscious of the intimacy they’d shared in this cab not so many hours ago. She closed the door.

  He geared the truck and they started up the gravel driveway. Geoff appeared up at the top of the drive in runner’s gear, and he jogged down to meet them.

  “Uncle Geoff!” Noah yelled.

  Blake slowed, wound down the window. Leaned his elbow out.

  “Thought you were still sleeping.”

  Hands on hips, breathing hard, Geoff grinned, his eyes light. “Been for a run. Does wonders to clear the head.” He bent down, peered in at Meg, then Noah. “You guys taking Noah to school?”

  “Yup. Catch you later?” Something in Blake’s voice caused Geoff’s smile to fade. He gave a small salute and resumed his jog down the driveway. But as they were about to crest the top of the driveway, a sheriff’s cruiser swung into their path, and came to an abrupt stop, barring their exit.

  Blake hit the brakes. “What the—”

  The cruiser doors swung open. Out unfolded Kovacs and the female deputy, Hoberman.

  “Great,” Blake muttered under his breath, winding down his window again. He kept the engine running.

  “Dave, hey, we’re going to be late for school, what’s up? You find who did it?”

  Kovacs looked beyond the truck and raised his hand. “Geoff Sutton! Whoa. Got a minute?”

  Geoff stalled, turned, hesitated, and came slowly back up the driveway. Hoberman, however, made her way down toward the Wrangler. She reached the Jeep, looked inside the windows.

  “It was bovine blood,” Kovacs said, waiting for Geoff to reach them, his thumbs hooked into his duty belt.

  “Cow?” Meg said, leaning forward in her seat to hear.

  Kovacs’s gaze remained fixed on Geoff. “Sutton,” he said as Geoff reached them.

  “Dave, hey.” He smiled, but his eyes were flat. “You look just like your dad these days—all business.”

  “That your Jeep?” He jerked his chin at the Wrangler. “With the California plates?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Can you tell me where you were around four a.m. this morning?”

  Geoff glanced at Blake. Noah sat wide-eyed, his hand going to rest on Lucy, as if for comfort.

  “I was driving around town. Taking a look-see at the old haunts.”

  “At four a.m.?”

  “Yes. Nice and quiet. Feeling introspective. Been a while since I’ve been back.”

  “And this introspection took you into the Forest End subdivision, into the back street along the woods?”

  Geoff regarded Kovacs. A beat of silence hung. “What is this about?”

  “A witness puts a silver Jeep with Cali plates on the street outside Meg Brogan’s house around the time she heard gunfire.”

  All eyes were on Geoff.

  “Were you on the street, Mr. Sutton?”

  “I drove around to see the old Brogan house. Yes, I was on the street. Briefly.”

  “Why?”

  Geoff caught Meg’s eyes. Her pulse quickened.

  “I told you,” Geoff said slowly, his face darkening, his eyes narrowing. “It’s been a long while since I’ve been home, and I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to see all the old haunts. I drove all over town, not just to Forest End. I had the radio on and when I got back to the marina, I heard the reports of gunfire in Forest Lane.”

  “And you assumed the shooting was at the Brogan house.”

  “No. They said it was at the Brogan house. It’s been the talk of the town for attracting graffiti and vandals, the radio announcer said. Everyone knows it. I woke Blake and told him, and he asked me to watch Noah while he went to see.”

  Kovacs eyed him. “Mr. Sutton, do you own a .22 rifle with laser scope?”

  Blake swung open his door, and dropped down out of his truck. “Okay, Dave, you’ve overstepped here. I need you to move your vehicle, so I can get my son to school—”

  “Yes, I do,” Geoff said.

  Blake spun to face his brother. “What?”

  “The one Dad gave me—hunting rifle. A .22 with infrared sight.”

  “You brought it with you?” Kovacs said.

  Meg’s pulse beat faster. “What’s happening?” Noah said, his voice rising. She reached in back, placed her hand on his knee. “It’s okay. Dave Kovacs is just doing his job.” The bastard. He was messing with them. There was no way Geoff had shot up her house and painted it with cow blood. Was there? Mistrust unfurled slowly in her belly. “Stay in here, Noah.” She got out of the truck, marched around to where the men stood.

  “I often take the rifle with me when I travel,” Geoff said.

  “You like to hunt when you travel?”

  “Yes, I like to hunt. I like to eat clean, wild food. I’m not one for factory-farmed crap. How about you, Deputy? You hunt your meat, or do you just hunt lowlife humans?”

  Blake clamped his arm on Geoff’s, steadying him.

  “Can I see the gun?” Kovacs said.

  Geoff marched down to his truck where Hoberman stood. Meg and Blake hurried
after them. Geoff fished in his pocket for keys, opened the back of his vehicle. He froze. What looked like a metal toolbox in the back had been forcibly wrenched open. Geoff lifted the lid. “It’s gone,” he whispered. “It’s all gone.”

  He turned to Kovacs and Hoberman. “It’s been stolen. The rifle and fly rods were in here. Someone’s taken everything.”

  Meg swallowed, glanced at Blake. His face was tight.

  Kovacs stepped forward. “I’d like you to come down to the station with me, Mr. Sutton.”

  “What for? I didn’t do anything. This is ridiculous. Why on earth would I want to take potshots at Meg’s house?”

  Kovacs motioned to Hoberman. She stepped aside to place a call.

  “We need to take in your vehicle, sir.”

  “Surely you need a warrant for that,” Meg said.

  “We’re getting one. Mr. Sutton, can you come this way, please.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “We’d prefer it if you came voluntarily, just to answer a few questions and to let us take some prints. For elimination purposes.”

  “Geoff, you don’t have to,” Meg said. “They need a—”

  “It’s fine.” He held his palms up. “It’s fine. I’ll go. I have nothing to hide.”

  Kovacs motioned to Hoberman, who killed her call, presumably made to secure a warrant. She joined Kovacs. “Take him up,” he said quietly.

  “This way, please, sir.” Hoberman touched Geoff’s arm and led him up to the waiting cruiser. She opened the back door, and placed her hand on the back of Geoff’s head, folding him in.

  “Dad!” Noah yelled out of the window he’d wound down. “Uncle Geoff—where are they taking Uncle Geoff?”

  “It’s okay, Noah,” Blake called, making his way back to the truck. “Geoff’s just going to help the police sort out some confusion. It’s going to be fine.”

  Meg made to join them, but Kovacs held her back, placing his hand on her forearm. She glared at him, then his hand. Slowly, he removed it.

  “What was in those file boxes on the table last night?” he said.

  She glowered at him.

  “Look, you’re reading me wrong, Megan. I want answers to this thing, too, now. And I want them fast.”