The McKays didn’t live in the cottage. It was too small to accommodate four people, but her father used it as the office for his new charter company. He welcomed every tourist with the same greeting. “What a wonderful day to be at sea.”
Livvy liked to believe that if there was a ghost inside Sea Lantern Cottage, it was that of her father, silently encouraging her−silently guiding her to make the right decision−silently calling out, what a wonderful day to be at sea.
Bill McKay would love the mystery of the trunk.
She opened the shed door and dragged the cumbersome item out into the light, crouching down to run her fingertips over the globe insignia. The silhouette of a ship at its center revealed a distinctive sphere on top. A Doppler radar system. It could represent any number of sea ventures.
Dropping her knees to the cold turf, Livvy crawled around the trunk. No text could be found on any surface. With a huff of effort, she tipped the chest on its side to confirm the bottom was void as well. She sat back on her heels and frowned. Her only option was to begin a search of that emblem.
A glass of wine, a baseball bat, and an internet search sounded like a lovely way to spend the evening.
***
Sheltered in a thicket of trees flanking the entry to Gull Harbor jetty, Jack Morell studied the McKay woman through his binoculars.
Earlier, the sight of the trunk had startled him. He had been scoping out the coastline when he noticed the woman hauling a footlocker towards the lighthouse. His lame attempt to gain access to the property was thwarted until tomorrow, but he was desperate to get his hands on that trunk.
Had she opened it? Had she called the police?
A cryptic message from his uncle just moments before the MV Algonquin went missing made Jack frantic. Warren Pennington, the CEO of Pennington Marine Science Center managed a hasty call to his nephew, indicating that he had found something while filming Deep Weather.
“Listen to me, Jack. I only have a minute.” In the background Jack swore he heard gunfire.
“Warren−” The title of uncle had been abandoned since he was a teenager. It was an imprecise label anyway. Father, would have been better, except for the fact that the man had not conceived him.
“Don’t talk. Listen.” Warren’s voice was hoarse. “I have found something,” he rasped, “and it would appear that people are not pleased with my discovery. They are coming now. I hid what I could. Remember the panel beneath my desk? I tossed some overboard as well. But there is no time to tell more over the phone, and I don’t want to endanger you any more than I already have. Trust no one, Jack. Don’t go to the authorities. There is something about this that wreaks of conspiracy—”
Jack started to counter this madness, but the unmistakable staccato of an automatic weapon had him crying out his uncle’s name.
“God, Warren. What is going on?”
But the connection dropped.
Jack’s repeated attempts to redial went unfulfilled.
For two days, all efforts by the Coast Guard to locate the vessel had proven fruitless. Desperate, Jack conveyed his suspicions of foul play in the Algonquin’s disappearance, disputing their claim of rogue weather capsizing the ship. Even the authorities didn’t see the twisted irony in their theory that weather caught the Deep Weather crew unaware.
Jack didn’t reveal that his uncle had found something. That admission shouldn’t be needed to spur them on. Saving lives should be their only motivation.
Spanning the peninsula through his viewfinder, he saw that the road to the lighthouse was empty. Only one car was parked in the driveway. The McKay woman. She claimed that her black eye was an accident, but it didn’t sit well with him. From the urgency in his uncle’s tone, that trunk could be a harbinger of danger.
Jack’s cell phone blared.
He scanned the incoming number, but judged it to be spam by the abundance of digits. Nonetheless, he slapped it to his ear and barked, “Hello.”
“Is this John Morell?” A woman’s voice inquired with a slight lilt.
“Who is asking?”
“This is Amanda Newton from BLUE-LINK. I am trying to reach Warren Pennington. I was given your number by Pennington Marine Science Center.”
Jack’s mind raced. BLUE-LINK. BLUE-LINK. He came up with nothing. He’d never heard of it before. Yet another anomaly to set him on edge.
“I am not familiar with BLUE-LINK.”
“It is a global risk assessment company,” came the tolerant response. “Is Warren Pennington available? It is urgent I speak with him.”
I bet.
He glanced down at the numbers again and realized that they were prefaced with 011-44. Britain.
“Warren is not available. I am his nephew, and the CSO of Pennington Marine Science Center. I can answer any questions you may have.”
A lengthy pause.
“I understand that your uncle runs a research vessel,” she hesitated as fingers tapped on a keyboard, “around the 43rd parallel north in the Atlantic.”
He came alert. “Excuse me. Who are you again, and exactly what do you want?”
“Quite honestly, Mr. Morell, I need your uncle’s help. I believe he might have located something recently that will be valuable to our company.”
“Valuable enough for you to−” Curb it. Until he could figure out the game this Amanda Newton was playing, he had to rein in his anger and secure as much information as he could from her.
“Now it’s my turn to say, excuse me,” she stated coolly. “I don’t know what your tone infers. My call to you is purely to seek out a professional courtesy from your uncle as one business owner to another.”
“So you are the owner of this BLUE-LINK company?” Jack was hastily scratching down notes on a small spiral notebook.
“Founder. Owner. Yes.” She cleared her throat. “By the runaround that I’m receiving, I gather your uncle is not available.”
“Correct. I told you that already. But I’m sure you were aware of that fact before you even called me.” The pen in his hand nearly snapped under the force of his grip.
“As Chief Security Officer I understand your need to query someone you are unfamiliar with,” she remarked coolly. “I will wait for the opportunity to speak to your uncle directly. You have my phone number now, and my title. I am sure you will research me, and perhaps if I am lucky, you will eventually pass my message on to Mr. Pennington. Thank you for your time, Mr. Morell.”
“Wait−”
The connection went dead.
Goddammit. Pressing redial only yielded an automated voicemail. Frustrated, he threw the phone on the passenger seat and refocused on the McKay house.
Tomorrow he would find a way to get his hands on that trunk—and anything else that may have washed up on the McKay shoreline.
CHAPTER TWO
“You’re early.”
Jack glanced down at his cell phone. 9:58am.
“Two minutes?”
“We have to bait the traps.” The McKay woman held up an aluminum bucket. “Are you ready to head out?”
He dipped his head and winced at the contents. “Fish heads?”
“Mackerel.” She handed him the pail. “They’re best if they’ve sat out in the sun for a while. The smell attracts the lobster.”
“I didn’t get to explain through the door yesterday that I wasn’t really interested in lobstering.”
The woman’s head jerked up. A blue welt formed on top of her cheekbone and it was just now beginning to pool in purple streams under her lower eyelid. It was going to be one hell of a shiner by the end of the day. The bruise disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
He studied the rest of her face−pale and heart shaped. She wore no makeup, but didn’t need any. Nature provided the color, with a healthy blush from the cold morning breeze. Dark blond hair fell around her shoulders. Highlighted wisps from the sun brushed across her lips as the wind picked up. On first glance, she looked young, but there was something in the es
sence of those green eyes. They churned with the ocean, and beneath a veil of thick lashes, they narrowed in suspicion.
“Excuse me?”
Jack cleared his throat. “I wanted to say yesterday that I’m only interested in using your boat for a tour…” he glanced in the bucket. “−not lobstering.”
“Then I guess these mackerel will wait for their day in the sun.” She took the pail and shouldered past him down the porch steps.
The rear view of the woman was as pleasing as the front. She wore a gray sweatshirt that didn’t much flatter her figure, but the form-fitting jeans that possessed a hole or two, revealed long, lean legs−legs that had worked the boats.
“A tour, you say?” She turned and started walking backwards, a silent invitation that he better follow.
“I’d like to see the coast,” he explained. “I’m a writer and I need the visual for my next book.” My God, that was lame.
“Today?” she held her hair back from the wind so that she could study him. “You have to see the coast today? You can’t wait for a scheduled charter which would probably cost half the price? I thought writers struggled to make ends meet…like actors. Should I know you? Name some of your books.”
Damn. It was his luck that the trunk washed up on the shoreline of a ridiculously inquisitive charter owner. But it did. And the last transmission from the MV Algonquin, combined with the ocean patterns indicated that if anything else were to strike land from the research vessel, it would be along this coastline.
Jack acknowledged his uncle’s warning, but in the end his desperation for the man’s safety superseded caution. With the proper authorities out investigating, he chose not to risk using one of the Pennington fleet to search for the missing ship. It was better to charter a local boat and explore discreetly as his uncle had warned. The closest company to his handwritten trajectory map was McKAY CHARTERS.
“I doubt you’d know any of my books.” That much was true. He had published work in Benthic Oceanography, but it wasn’t something you would find on the NY Times bestseller’s list.
“I doubt so too.”
She turned away and started off towards the pier. He could hear the determined crunch of her steps on stone. In seconds she was on the dock, nimbly vaulting into the bed of a weathered boat.
The vessel dipped under his weight as he leapt down beside her. Reaching to offer a hand with the rope, he realized that she had already hauled in the heavy cord. With barely a glance, she nudged past him into the wheelhouse.
In a matter of moments the haunting silhouette of the wickless lighthouse receded. A swarm of gulls circled the boat like a cloud of gnats. They grew disinterested and moved on towards shore. Jack watched the rear view of the captain for a moment, appreciating the stable stance of her legs and the curves at the top of them. As attractive as the view was, he turned towards land, inspecting the blend of rocks and dry grass, searching for oddities.
"Don't go too far out," he called over his shoulder.
The motors cut back and the boat gradually bobbed in place.
"Why?" she asked.
Christ, with the damn questions.
Well, what the hell? She didn't know him. She didn't know about the Algonquin. Maybe she would offer up the trunk if he did something as simple as claim it.
Edging his hip against the wale for stability he studied the coastline. "My uncle−” he hesitated, “−had a boating accident, and some of his cargo went overboard. I'm just searching the shoreline to see if anything washed up, okay?"
Her face changed. Her demeanor changed. Her shoulders jerked back. All blood drained from her cheeks. Wary eyes traced his limbs−his clothes−until finally she rasped, "It was you."
"It was me, what?" Jack squinted at the coast, distracted.
What had Warren discovered? What do you find on the bottom of the ocean? A wreck? The Andrea Gail? A Megalodon?
"You attacked me."
Now his shoulder jerked. Neglecting the shoreline, his focus rounded on the woman. The bruise beneath her eye seemed to grow under his inspection. Yesterday he had the unsettling feeling that the shiner wasn’t innocent. Had this woman been targeted for the sheer misfortune of owning the first property outside the jetty?
He took a step towards her. She moved so fast he didn't even see it coming. There was just enough time to duck as he felt the swish of a PVC pole swing close enough to glance his hair.
Reaching out, he muttered, "Whoa, wait."
"Talk fast." She leveraged the lobster tickle pole for another swing.
"I didn't attack you," he claimed.
The pole jabbed in warning.
"I admit that I was outside your place yesterday. But I wasn’t looking for you. I was searching the jetty for anything that might have washed up."
The weapon moved in again as Jack retreated a step.
"I realized then that my best bet was to search the coast from the water−and you were the closest charter. Hell, your lighthouse was right in the crosshairs of−"
"Don't stop now," she goaded, "you have my attention."
Keeping his eye on the menacing hook at the end of the pole, he added, "Then I saw you dragging that trunk into the lighthouse. I−I knocked on the door."
"And−"
"And you answered with that welt on your eye. It looked fresh. You said you slipped..."
The woman started to inch back into the wheelhouse. She slipped a furtive glance towards the console. "I'm calling the police and you better not even flinch before we dock."
"Christ." Jack rubbed his face and saw the stick lurch out. "Dammit. I did not attack you!"
“Do not move.” She reached over for the radio, letting loose a curse when the spiral cord wouldn’t untangle.
Jack didn’t want the police getting involved. “Jack, it appears that what I’ve found is worth killing for. Trust no one, and particularly not the law.”
He gauged the density of the stick. It could be a deadly weapon if she were to jab it into his chest with enough momentum. A simple whack would sting like hell for a moment, but it surely wouldn't debilitate him. Armed with that logic, he moved in to disarm her.
The woman dropped the radio receiver and used both hands to swing the pole with full force, targeting his head. Jack reached up to deflect it and wrapped his fingers around the rod. There was a sharp pain, but he had control of the tickler even as he felt her struggle to possess it.
A gurgle of panic sounded in her throat.
"I did not attack you," he vowed quietly.
"You were wearing a black sweater," she grunted with exertion. "The man who attacked me was dressed in black."
Hell, he didn't remember what he wore yesterday.
"Listen to me," he tried for a composed voice while closing in, boxing her into the wheelhouse. "I didn’t do it, but I’m concerned about who did, so why don't you tell me what happened?"
She struggled to control the stick.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Stop." He took another step. "I'm not going to hurt you." With his free hand he reached out and grazed her arm. The limb jerked at the touch and her eyes looked wild.
"Big man." she hissed. "Assault me out at sea where no one can hear me."
"Oh, come on. Relax. You’re fine. What is your name anyway?"
"Excuse me?" For the first time he felt her grip on the pole relax a fraction.
"I don't know your name. I mean, you said, McKay, but you never mentioned your first name−"
"Are you insane?" She shoved on the stick to push him back, but he didn’t topple.
Frustrated, she released it. "Go ahead, then. Attack me if you must, but I’m still not going to be able to tell you what's in your precious trunk. If you would let me head back in, you can have the damn thing."
Bingo!
Jack set the lobster tickler aside, hooking it back on its mount. "I'd like to know what to call you when I'm speaking to you."
The woman touched her cheek. "There is nothing for us to discuss. W
e head back to shore. You take that damn trunk, and if I ever see you again in my entire life, I will press charges."
Jack shook his head which agitated her all the more.
"What?" she cried. "Am I a hostage now? I'm giving you what you want."
Wind swiped glossy blonde hair across her cheek, igniting the spark in her eyes. As her chest heaved it was easy for him to imagine wanting a whole lot more from this woman. But that was the southern hemisphere of his body doing the thinking. The more cognizant half was focused exclusively on locating his uncle.
"What I want is for you to give me what I paid for."
She looked perplexed.
"I want my charter," he expounded. "I want to tour this coast. There may be more items washed up along the shoreline besides that trunk."
"What do I look like, the friggin Coast Guard?"
"You look like the woman who collected a rather large sum for a service that she supplies the community."
She swiped her hair back from the wind's assault. Vivid eyes flashed. "Forgive me for stating the obvious here, but I trust you about zero percent."
Jack opened his mouth to interject, but she continued. "So please tell me what it is your uncle might have lost so that I can expedite this trip."
Discretion be damned, he would have been better off taking one of the Pennington ships. "Your name."
She sighed and plopped her hands on her hips. "McKay."
Jack narrowed his gaze.
"Olivia," she huffed. "Olivia McKay." And with that she turned back into the pilothouse and started the engine up. Once the boat was paralleling the coast she tossed over her shoulder, "There are binoculars up in that bin if you need them."
“My name is Jack, even though you didn’t ask.” He grabbed the binoculars and held them up to his eyes, adjusting the focus so that he could survey the rocky shoreline.
For a few moments all that could be heard was the hiss of wind in his ears.
"Is he okay?"
"Excuse me?" he asked, now entirely distracted by the task at hand.
"This so-called uncle of yours...is he okay?"
Mist Page 2
