Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  “Why didn’t we stop here before?”

  Kelly turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Traffic. Daylight.”

  “Hmm.” He couldn’t wait to get back to his hotel room and crash for a week.

  Kelly tapped his arm. “Wake up. I know the trip from Helsinki was hard, but you’ve got to be more alert, more careful.”

  Christ, he’d actually thought he was awake and fairly alert. He needed sack time bad. “You’re right.”

  “We’ll be at your hotel in ten minutes or less. For now, suck it up. Look around. We’re parked by a rickety pier that runs a hundred or more feet out into the bay. The middle of the pier is washed out.”

  He reached for his Maglite.

  “Leave your flashlight on the floor. I know how you always want to see everything, but it’s too dangerous for us if someone is watching.”

  He straightened and stared into blackness.

  “Large rocks line the coastline. Between them and the water is a narrow beach.”

  “How narrow?”

  “Three, four feet when the tide is all the way out. When it rolls in, it laps halfway up the rocks.”

  “This is where they found Rankin?”

  “Right. Half under the pier. Face down. A bottle of Jack tucked up like a football.”

  An ounce or two of whiskey had remained in the bottle and had tested out as pure Jack Daniel’s—no drugs or other extras. Jake and his dad disregarded the ruling of accidental death by drowning. The other evidence of murder was overwhelming when looking at the full picture. Randy Rankin was the most recent in a line of Compass Point deaths.

  Jake’s fingers curled into fists. It didn’t matter that Rankin had been his dad’s buddy, not his. He’d lost buddies in Iraq. More in Afghanistan. He forced himself to remain in the car, unable to see where land met ocean. He wanted to climb over the rocks, lie on the sand where Rankin had died, protect the man’s memory. And he couldn’t even see the place where his dad’s friend had taken his last breath. I’ll be back, buddy.

  “How can I find this pier in the morning?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. He cleared his throat.

  “One point eight miles this side of the parking lot at Flounder Bay, the restaurant where we had dinner.” Her soft voice held respect.

  On the other side of the road, the land rose up to a low hill topped by a small, unlit cottage. “What does that house look like?”

  “Yellow with white shutters and trim.”

  “Is that where Will Knox lives?”

  “No, but you’re following the path. I wanted you to fix the location of the pier in your mind first.” At the second street they climbed the hill and drove for two blocks. She turned left. “Third house down on the right.”

  “Go slow.”

  Lights from a white bungalow illuminated neatly trimmed shrubbery sheltered by an old live oak. A pickup stood in the driveway. By the side of the road, the eyes of a cat reflected the lights from Kelly’s car.

  “Would a murderer leave a body that close to home?” He knew the answer before he asked the question.

  “Some bury victims in their own backyards.”

  He rotated his head, first in circles then from one side to the other, stressed-out muscles clicking with his movements. They needed to find Rankin’s killer and learn why he’d killed the men of Solomon’s Compass. All of the men but one. Jake’s dad. The man who shared his name. The last surviving member of the original Compass Points.

  But finding the killer wasn’t enough for Jake. Six months earlier, two weeks after Thanksgiving, his dad got sick. And scared. Jake got sick and scared, too. Both for his dad’s health and because his dad was troubled about something beyond his illness that he wouldn’t talk about. Jake caught his worried looks, and once when he walked into the den, his dad shoved a folder into his desk drawer just a little too quickly.

  While his dad was in the hospital for surgery, Jake found the file. He had to pick the lock on the drawer, but he was as good at that as Kelly. Their dad had taught them both. And he hadn’t been surprised when Jake told him what he found. His dad was afraid he would die without knowing why the Compass Points were in the bull’s eye—and who was targeting them.

  With Jake’s assurance of help laid out on the table, his dad opened up. And entrusted Jake to carry out his wishes. After keeping the details to himself for more than four decades, it took him several days to tell Jake the complete story. Although Jake was scared that he wouldn’t be good enough to keep them from being killed, he had determination on his side. He and Kelly would succeed unharmed. He would not allow his dad to suffer another loss.

  His dad was ill, but the illness didn’t keep him from being a grueling taskmaster. Months of work and preparation followed. And months of convincing his dad to bring in Kelly. Six weeks ago, his dad agreed. Kelly found and sent reams of data based on the general information he gave her. His dad poured through it all, pulling out only what he deemed appropriate. And Kelly went back to work, digging deeper.

  His dad might be the last man standing, but instead of being the winner, he was the target. With any luck the game would end in Rock Harbor, and Jake would live to tell about it.

  As if reading his thoughts, Kelly sighed. “I won’t let you down. You need rest, and so do I. We’ll be at your hotel in two or three minutes, depending on the traffic light at the highway.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t leave a trail when you reserved our rooms and cars?”

  She laughed. “Aces! Exactly like Dad. Nobody is ever as secure as they believe. Except maybe CPI, ’cause they’ve got me. And one or two government agencies. Why do you think Dad is choosy about what I do? And for whom?”

  “You wouldn’t be prejudiced.”

  “Stating a fact, bro.”

  Kelly was smart, and Jake was tough. Together they would be unbeatable because they were fighting for their dad.

  Right now Jake’s head pounded and his body ached. He needed sleep before jet lag kept him from being of use to anyone. Kelly dropped him off, and he watched as she pulled out. She waved back to him without turning around, knowing he would stand guard until she was out of sight, no matter how long it took. He’d been doing that all her life. When the taillights of her rented beige Ford rounded the curve, he followed the sidewalk around the side of the building toward the parking lot to make sure Commander Campbell was still in.

  Kelly had given him the license plate number for the rental, and he spotted Taylor Campbell’s rental car on the first row, but gave it no more than a casual glance. No shadows moved. No sounds broke through the hum of traffic.

  He continued around the building to the front door, just a man getting in a short walk before returning to his room. Or so it would appear to anyone who didn’t know him. He smiled at the male clerk behind the desk and strolled to the elevator.

  Given that security was his business, he took extra care when he traveled. Three motion-activated cameras covered every inch of his room. One was obvious to anyone who knew what to search for. The second could be found by a diligent professional. The third camera would only be recognized by someone with a recent special ops background.

  If the motion sensors had been triggered, his smartphone would’ve rung, enabling him to view the break-in in real time. If someone had tampered with the sensors or tried to destroy them—either physically or with a virus attack—Jake would’ve received an emergency text. No one had been inside his room. All the same, he checked each camera upon entering, then put them on snooze.

  Nobody messed with Jake Solomon. Neither of the Jake Solomons. Or their family.

  Tomorrow he would install cameras in Taylor Campbell’s room and outside in the hall to watch her door. His dad had promised Randy Rankin that if anything should happen to him, he would keep an eye on his niece, Taylor Campbell. Jake promised his dad that if anyone tried to harm Taylor, they would have to go through him first.

  And Jake Solomon, father or son, never broke a promise.
r />   Taylor had hoped for a bright, sunny Monday for her first visit to Randy’s house. The Weather Mama had other plans.

  Beneath low, leaden clouds, a beige something-or-other behind her had its signal on and turned to the right. A small midnight-blue SUV followed a block behind. She must have seen seven or eight dark-colored SUVs before she turned on Church Street—the uniform car of Rock Harbor, most of them more suitable in color for a funeral procession than life at the Texas coast.

  They had been plentiful on her drive from Corpus last night, too. Before checking in at the hotel, she’d checked in with her GPS and found the white bungalow at 209 Amberjack. Even though it was midnight, she’d been prepared to dig. The steel gray pickup with fancy wheels and a vanity plate—WILL U—sitting in the driveway dissuaded her in a heartbeat.

  She had come to Rock Harbor with two objectives. The first was to find or confirm the absence of her Uncle Randy’s treasure and say a final goodbye.

  Her second mission was to decide the disposition of her uncle’s estate. Randall Dallis Rankin, owner of Rankin’s Marine Salvage, had died last June with a gut full of bourbon and two lungs full of seawater, drowned in his own beloved Copano Bay. He passed out on the meager beach and never knew when the tide came in.

  Gusty winds twisted palm fronds this way and that, the same way dementia had twisted Randy’s mind. If she made it inside his house before the storm arrived in full force she’d be happy.

  Stilt houses thinned to a few scattered buildings, a church. After the American Legion Hall, Church Street curved to the right, and Oyster Bank Road teed into the middle of the curve on the left. The SUV turned into the American Legion lot. She turned onto Oyster Bank, and the bay appeared straight ahead, pale green against the stormy sky.

  Oyster Bank was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Rankin Marine Salvage and the asphalt parking lot were on the right. The old metal building, twenty years older since her last visit, had held up well, except for shrinking from the never-ending cavern of her memory to a structure measuring closer to twenty by forty feet.

  She could still hear Uncle Randy telling her to get out of the salvage yard before she got hurt. The mountains of anchor chain, mounds of trawling nets, and a derelict boat or two had proved irresistible. She hadn’t known what all the items were, but the salvage had sent her imagination spiraling.

  Rain peppered down in fat drops as she followed the road to the right.

  Randy’s house faced the bay about fifty feet away from the shop building. The metal roof was rusty, and two screens on the side hung on by one clip. A chain-link fence separated the house from the shop and the empty salvage yard, but the back side of the fence lay mostly on the ground. Randy’s lawyer said the inside would be worse. She would be in Rock Harbor for ten days, and probably all she’d have time for was compiling a comprehensive list of projects that needed doing and getting recommendations for the right people to do them.

  A lock hung on the gate. Rather than getting soaked, she pulled to the shoulder beneath one of the big live oaks lining the road in front of the house and cut the engine to wait out the squall. She’d loved climbing these trees and tossing acorns to the seagulls, wondering with each toss why the seagulls never caught them. Randy had loved these old live oaks as if they were his children.

  Across the street was a boatyard that hadn’t been there twenty years ago—Copano Boat Works. Several boats in various stages of repair stood in travel lifts, nestled in blocks or on trailers. As boatyards went, it appeared neat and tidy. And busy. The owner must do good work.

  Lightning flashed, and thunder followed an instant later, rumbling loud and deep. The hair on her forearms sprung out. Over the boom of thunder, Taylor heard a sharp crack and looked up. The moonroof framed a lightning bolt as it struck the massive oak limb and snaked down the tree. The edge of the limb ripped from the trunk. Shredded bark burst into the ozone-heavy air.

  “Crap!” She unsnapped her seatbelt and flung open the door. Her feet hit the pavement at full speed. Midway across the road, leaves and branch tips fell against the backs of her legs. Metal screeched. She turned her head. The limb lay atop her rental, and the smashed roof was level with the hood.

  Lightning flashed again, and Taylor counted all the way to one before thunder boomed. The gates to Copano Boat Works stood open, and she raced to the nearest building—a ships’ store bulging with parts and accessories. She splayed her fingers across her chest in a futile effort to calm her pounding heart.

  “May I help you?” The melody of Texas played in the female voice.

  Taylor wiped the rain off her face and shook her arms and legs like a dog before running her fingers through her short hair—more to stop their trembling than to do anything about the inevitable frizzies. A woman in her early twenties with golden skin and black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail stood behind the counter at the back. Curiosity filled her almond-shaped brown eyes.

  “Will you call somebody for me? My car’s across the street—”

  A man wearing a Cowboys ball cap burst through a door near the counter. “Hey, Trinh, call A.J. and tell him to get his wrecker over here. A limb blew down from one of Rankin’s trees and smashed through the roof of some poor bastard’s car. I’m going to see if I can help.”

  Trinh pointed at her while reaching for the phone.

  Taylor produced a weak smile. “Thanks. That poor bastard would be me. I’m alone, but my stuff is inside the car.”

  He pulled a red shop rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands as he walked toward her. “Sorry. You all right? Need a doctor? I’ll get you a chair.”

  “I don’t need to sit. I’m fine. Lightning struck the limb. I got out before it landed.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s obvious.”

  He smelled of boats and the sea, oil and salt. Scents she lived with every day.

  “Rankin loved those trees. Wouldn’t trim them. Said as long as he lived, they’d grow as God intended. But he died last year. The property is just sitting here. Scuttlebutt says he left everything to some out-of-state relative. I can give you the lawyer’s name.”

  “Not necessary. The owner would be me, too. Taylor Campbell. Randy Rankin was my uncle.”

  “Will Knox.”

  Trinh interrupted. “A.J. says if you’ll adjust his prop tomorrow, he’ll get right over here. Otherwise, he’s going to haul in a paying customer from the highway. Three-car pile-up.”

  “Tell him it’s a deal and to get himself over here. Let somebody else make the big bucks.” He turned back to Taylor. “Sorry about your uncle. Are you here to inspect the place?”

  “You might say that. I’ll be around until next week.”

  “I liked Rankin, but his place is a pigsty. Be prepared.”

  “His attorney told me both the house and salvage shop are a mess, but I can take inventory of needed repairs, things like that.”

  Will’s cell rang. “Excuse me.”

  She walked over to Trinh, her sandals squishing water with each step. “Thanks for calling a tow.”

  “No problem. A.J. will probably be here before it stops raining.” Trinh pointed at her. “Love your shirt.”

  Taylor looked down. Today she’d worn Doc. Besides travel clothes, all she’d brought were work clothes—old shorts, a couple of even older Coast Guard tees, and a set of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs tees she’d bought on a port call in San Juan several years before. Height appropriate, she thought. “Thanks. Makes me smile.”

  “Me, too.” Trinh tilted her head. “You’re calm for almost getting killed.”

  Taylor had trembled, but her training prepared her to perform under stress. Fear hadn’t taken hold. “Anytime I don’t have to worry about something ripping a gash in the hull and sinking us before everyone gets out, I’m good to go.”

  “You must work on the water.”

  “Coast Guard.”

  “They have a group in Aransas Pass. Are you going to be stationed there?”

  “No. I
’m on a cutter in Charleston. South Carolina.”

  “Too bad. They have boats around here. And helicopters. Do you do one of those?”

  “Boats.” Taylor grinned. “But my boat has a helicopter.”

  “Your boat?” Trinh’s eyes widened. “Are you the captain?”

  “I am.”

  “Cool.” A big smile split Trinh’s face, and her head bobbed up and down. “Will won’t believe you. He can be old-fashioned. Especially about boats. He thinks they’re totally a guy thing. No matter how much I tell him otherwise. My grandfather taught all of us how to operate a boat. He believed it was necessary since we live by the water.”

  “Good for your grandfather. It’s not always easy being a woman.”

  “But it’s fun.”

  They shared a laugh and became instant friends.

  Trinh waved her arm behind her. “The boats in Aransas Pass are pretty big—about a hundred feet. Yours must be bigger.”

  “My cutter’s almost three hundred feet.”

  Trinh’s eyes grew large. “I thought only the Navy had ships.”

  “No one gives us a second thought.” Or remembers cutters. “Besides, most of the Navy ships make even our large cutters look like bathtub toys.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Will. Why do you call them cutters?”

  “Way back when, the Coast Guard was called the Revenue Cutter Service.”

  “Oh.” Trinh bobbed her head, then paused. “Mr. Rankin was your uncle, huh?”

  “My mother’s brother.” From acting as her only male role model growing up, to becoming her life raft at the Academy, Randy had been the most real and normal person in her family until two years ago when his emails began making less and less sense.

  “I remember your mother from his funeral. Black dress. Big black hat with a veil. And really high heels. I never saw her face.”

  Rest assured there were no tears beneath that veil. Taylor’s mother was a train wreck camouflaged by a pretty smile. One of Taylor’s jobs growing up had been to clean her mother’s bedroom and closet. The woman didn’t know a duster from a toilet brush, but she could spot Louboutins or Jimmy Choos from two blocks away. She cared more for shoes, bling, and herself than she did for anyone else. Including Randy and Taylor.