Stay low, Jack. I'm in danger, and I fear that they will come looking for those closest to me.
"My uncle is a resilient old man," he managed.
"But his boat isn't," Olivia quipped from the pilothouse.
Jack shook his head, but was distracted by another vessel moving in. Through the binoculars he studied the crew. Two men dressed in black jackets. They were far enough away that their features were indistinguishable. Sun flashing off one man hinted that he either donned reflective lenses, or also possessed a pair of binoculars.
"Where did this boat go down supposedly?"
It took a second, but Jack recognized that Olivia's tone had become serious. Now it was his turn to extend zero percent trust.
"About twenty miles off this coast."
"You've been to the authorities, right? You're probably not satisfied with their efforts. I know that when I went to them after you attacked me−"
"I didn't attack you," he volleyed.
But, as he watched that fishing boat in the distance−the one with no fishing equipment on it−a dark sense of foreboding possessed him. He lowered the binoculars and turned towards her.
"Please tell me what happened to you."
Over her shoulder, Olivia met his eye. There was a brief flash of sobriety in her glance. With a nod, she concluded, "You never went to the authorities, did you?"
Her whisper mingled with the hiss of the sea. "Someone is after that trunk and they were searching my house for it..." She stared at him. Hard. "And it wasn't you, was it? It really wasn't you?"
Rather than find solace in the fact that she was coming around to accepting that he was not her assailant, Jack was worried. Damn worried. An innocent woman had been attacked, and his uncle was missing...and all over what? What the hell had his uncle found out there?
As soon as he returned to land he was going to hit redial on that call from Britain. That was the only lead he had.
"Yes, I’ve been to the authorities.” I just didn’t tell them the whole story. I told them enough to find my uncle. “And yes, it really wasn't me that attacked you."
He felt humbled every time he saw that purple halo around her eye. It was as if his family had collectively lashed out and punched her. Even more disturbing was the thought that the damage could have been much more severe. Perhaps his presence yesterday proved a timely disruption.
"Your honesty is not making me feel very secure, Mr. Morell. Your tone is downright ominous."
"Look," he offered, studying the bruise. He wanted to trace his thumb across it. "Let's head back in as you proposed. I'll get that trunk, and you will never see me again."
There was no reason to jeopardize this woman any more than she had already been subjected to. He needed to remove her from the equation−for her own safety.
She nodded but her eyes still locked with his. "They're doing the same thing, ya know."
"Excuse me?”
She pitched her head in the direction of her windshield. "That boat. There are two guys on deck doing the same thing as you. They're not fishing."
Alright, this was getting out of hand. It was time to report the context of his uncle’s phone call−the repercussions be damned. Already an innocent woman had been assaulted, and she had pieced together too much.
"You don't know that." His voice lacked conviction.
"You're right. I don't know that, but they look as suspicious as you out here."
And they had probably concluded the same thing.
"Olivia," he stated quietly, "let's head back in−now."
She snorted and grabbed the controls. "You don't have to tell me twice."
***
As the boat hit the dock Livvy reached for the rope to secure the vessel. When Jack moved in to assist, she gave him a, don’t even try it look. The task completed, she climbed up on the pier and started the hike up to the Sea Lantern. Behind her she heard the tread of his boots on wood.
Jack. Not John. Jack Morell. She would remember the name, and later she would do some more internet exploring.
Right now she wanted Jack Morell and the mysterious black footlocker gone from the premises. If his tale was true she felt a pang of empathy for anyone who experienced loss at sea, but empathy wasn't enough to warrant putting herself in danger. She didn't trust him. Yes, she had noticed that the man was a looker in a rustic kind of way. Yes, she had noticed his wit. And yes, her curiosity was stoked, but−
She stopped.
Behind her his heavy tread halted. “What is it?” came his masculine query.
The screen door on the back deck was ajar. If it wasn't latched properly it sat slightly crooked−another task on her herculean to-do list.
A quick glance at the driveway confirmed that George had not showed up on his day off.
If she had not been attacked yesterday she might write this off as a simple matter of haste this morning.
Livvy glanced at the rutted concrete sidewalk leading up to her backyard. There was not much in the form of weaponry between here and there−just an aluminum trash can at the foot of the stairs. It was better than nothing. With as much stealth as she could manage, considering that a wall of casement windows faced her, Livvy picked up the trash can lid and raised it before her like a shield.
She took the two steps up onto the porch with as nimble a tread as possible. Just as she reached for the handle to the screen door, a firm grip secured her shoulder. Her body jerked in shock until her mind registered that it was Jack. He moved up alongside her, forcing her back with his sheer size. His curt nod encouraged her to open the screen door as he slipped in the gap and set his hand on the doorknob.
Livvy raised the trash can lid and moved in behind him.
The loose hiss of the doorknob twisting immediately confirmed that it was broken. She wanted to voice a caution to the broad shoulders before her, but he already had one foot across the threshold. As he swung the wooden panel inward, he cast a frown over his shoulder, motioning her back.
No. She mouthed and shook her head.
Yes. He mouthed and nodded his.
On a betraying screech, he pushed the door open. All she could see was the back of his head where black and brown prisms collided. Finally, he motioned her inside with a cautious wave.
Livvy gasped. Cabinets were thrown open, their contents strewn across the floorboards. It was Jack’s stance that set her on edge, though. He was listening to the stillness, his muscles honed, prepared for attack. Silver-spoked eyes locked with hers as he voiced a silent inquiry. She tipped her head towards the hallway in response.
Jack started in that direction.
The coat closet in the foyer was open, with her navy wool coat tossed on the floor next to a pile of boots. Jack took a brief glimpse inside and then made a cautious step towards the living room, wincing as his tread produced a squeal. There was little to disturb in the front room. Aside from hauling the couch and loveseat away from the wall, the glass china cabinet went untouched. The wooden fishermen still stood guard on the windowsill, but evidently they did not do a good job.
Jack’s jaw was tense and his lips were set in a narrow line. A slight heft of his eyebrow probed, where next? She tipped her head to the right. Only one room to go.
The bedroom had been ransacked, but her beloved down bedspread remained unspoiled. Even now, admiring the plush ivory surface, she longed to drop down onto it and curl into its haven−but not with this stranger beside her.
"This is the last room, right?" he asked hoarsely.
"Right."
As focused as he was−sharp and ready for an unseen assailant−Jack's eyes had dropped to her chest with the hint of a grin on his lips.
"You look like Wonder Woman." He nodded at her trashcan lid.
Livvy frowned and lowered it. "It was the best I could manage."
A conflux of emotion gathered between his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry," he uttered.
"Sorry? Do you know who did this?"
"No."
"Then what are you sorry for? Are you sorry that my shore was the final resting place of something everyone seems hell-bent on finding?"
A glimpse at her open closet revealed a lava flow of family history spilled across the carpet. In that stream of memories she noticed a framed photo of her mother, still blessedly intact. A sharp pain lanced her chest. "I live at the entrance to the bay. Everything washes up here. Garbage. Dead marine life. I even once had hula hoop float up on the beach." Which I kept, but never used. "Those are the breaks. If I don't like the location, I should move, right?"
Not rising to the bait, instead Jack climbed over an open box to peer out the oval window. When he glimpsed back over his shoulder, his eyes lingered on her bed for a second.
To her surprise he sat down on the corner of the mattress. No, he did not sit−he sank. Deflated. Strong hands gripped his knees and he hunched forward. It was at this moment that she finally noted the one trait that had been nagging her about this man. Fatigue. His body screamed it. Tense shoulder muscles flexed as he reached a hand behind his neck.
Part of her wanted to yell, hey, you’re not the only one who has had a bad day. But there was despondency to Jack that seemed to go bone deep. And it tugged at strings she thought she no longer possessed.
As those thick hands slipped down to grip the mattress with feral strength, stormy eyes slid to meet hers. They remained inquisitive−and sad.
"They took the trunk," he surmised dejectedly.
Livvy snapped out of her spell. "Not necessarily!"
A spark broke his bleak expression.
"It wasn't in the house?"
"No, it's out in the shed." With irrational enthusiasm, she turned to charge that way, but Jack’s firm grip locked around her arm. The contact was kinetic, or maybe she was just overly sensitive.
"He could still be here."
The grip gentled as he closed in and coaxed her into position behind him. In the tight confines, her chest scraped against his solid back. A little too late she considered lifting the trash can lid.
"By the lighthouse." She pointed over his shoulder through the windows.
Before Jack followed the lead of her hand, his eyes searched her face. There was an intoxicating blend of tenderness and concern there. Up until now she had been too distracted to pay the contusion much heed, but under his inspection it throbbed. Mercifully, his glance dropped to the trash can lid.
"Do you know how to use that?"
There was no levity in his voice.
"Yes."
A phantom smirk disappeared before it fully formed. Full lips fell into a grim line as he turned towards the door.
Outside, Jack paused to scan the property. His profile was one of a stoic predator. Admittedly, she felt safeguarded trailing in his wake.
"At the foot of the lighthouse," she called softly. "That utility shed."
Starting after him, she drew in a fortifying breath. This was it. She would be rid of this trunk. She would be rid of the mysterious man. Everything would return to normal.
Jack juggled the padlock and hauled open the shed door. Half expecting to find the small alcove ransacked, Livvy was surprised to see it undisturbed, including the black footlocker.
"He didn't think to search out here?” He frowned. “That makes no sense."
"We must have cut him short when we came back to the dock."
Interesting, she thought, that she had been ransacked two days in a row, both times within minutes of a visit from Jack Morell. Slanting a cautious glance at him, she wondered if she had pulled one of those too stupid to live moments and was now about to be locked inside this dank shed.
No, she didn’t believe so. His focus was not on her. Not even on the trunk. Preoccupied, he gazed out to sea.
"I have a feeling they're watching us."
That declaration elicited chills. She set down the trashcan lid and reached for the leather strap on the side of the trunk, hauling it from its nook behind the lawnmower.
"Here−" Jack leaned in beside her, their heads almost colliding. Together they dragged the trunk out into the sun. Livvy watched the range of emotions cross over his face. Recognition, determination−and a heavy sadness. The last tugged at her heart, but this man and this whole situation spelled nothing but trouble. She had the black eye and disaster inside her house to prove it. She just wanted the trunk out of her life−as well, the man.
Standing upright, she brushed her hands on her thighs. "Well, there you go. It's all yours. I can't ask for proof that it belongs to you, but at this point, I don’t really give a damn. I want it gone."
Jack didn’t take his eyes off the locker. "It's not that simple."
"What do you mean?" She backed up.
"Whether the trunk is here or long gone, they are going to come back."
Livvy’s stomach lurched. "For God’s sake, why? I have nothing. I seriously have nothing other than this damn chest that you are about to haul away. Maybe they are watching−whoever they are, and they'll see you leave here with it." For a moment she felt contrite at the thought of the danger shifting onto him.
"You said it yourself. You have the misfortune of living on a chunk of land that will attract every piece of flotsam rolling into the bay. We don’t know if there will be more items. Judging by what my uncle eluded to…there is.”
"I guess I should call the cops...again." That thought was unappealing. It just meant more censure on their part.
"Let's look inside this trunk first." He stooped down. "Maybe we can get a clue."
Livvy turned her back. Although curiosity tugged at her with prickly claws−if this really belonged to his uncle, Jack deserved some privacy. She could hear the click of the latch, an indication that he must possess the key.
Well damn…the trunk really did belong to his family!
Then came the brief lick of suction as the lid was removed. Curiosity nagged again, but she waited out the gaping silence, barely resisting the urge to peer over his shoulder.
"Anything?"
The quiet behind her was so protracted she turned to make sure he hadn't left or keeled over.
"What is−?" Peeking over his shoulder, she cried, "What the hell is that?"
CHAPTER THREE
Jack flipped back the lid and gaped.
He sensed Olivia leaning in at his side.
“A chair?” her voice pitched. “All this for a chair?”
Not just a chair, he thought, but a specific kind of chair. A pedestal-mounted bridge chair that had been torn from its moorings off the control room of any number of cargo vessels. That number was swiftly narrowed down by the identifiable E laced inside an anchor emblem. The Eclipse Container Line−an Atlantic and transatlantic oversized cargo line comprised of a significant number of bulker ships. The buoyancy of the cushions probably attributed to it making its way to this shore.
“What is it?” Olivia leaned forward, frowning at the chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jack rubbed a hand over his face and let it linger there a moment while he considered the item. CNN breaking news−newspaper headlines− social media—images and distant memories shared by everyone for a brief spell, like any prominent news event now long forgotten.
“Perhaps I have,” he mulled aloud.
“I’m confused. Should this chair mean something to me?”
“Let’s—” his eyes slid across the yard. “Let’s get inside,” he rushed.
“But there’s more,” she peered in.
Yes, there was more. A rust-plated telegraph panel, also torn loose from its foundation. This gem came complete with a tarnished serial number that could easily confirm his suspicions.
With jerky movements he fastened the locker closed and started dragging it with one arm behind him.
“You’re scaring me.” Olivia raised her trash can lid.
As absurd as the aluminum defense was, he felt somewhat pacified that it would deter a stray bullet. Christ.
“We’l
l talk inside.” Dragging the trunk jarred his speech. “And then come up with the safest plan.”
“Oh, I’ve got some ideas,” Olivia expounded. “The safest plan is to get you and that—that chair off my property.”
Overlooking her remark, Jack felt each jolt of craggy rocks in his shoulder as he hauled the chest behind him. At the foot of the back porch he waited for her to join him.
“You want to bring that filthy thing inside?” Her voice pitched.
Honey-colored strands of hair lashed her face, causing a peek-a-boo effect with the purple ring beneath her left eye. That orb squinted, but it was open wide enough to condemn him.
“From now on, this goes where I go,” he declared.
Olivia considered him at length. In that span he witnessed the distrust. Irrationally, he wanted to see belief in those vivid blue eyes. He wanted validation from this wonder woman clutching a garbage can lid.
“Fine,” she huffed. “Whatever. Let’s just get a move on.”
The connection was broken, and she climbed the stairs, muttering as she righted the screen door.
Inside, he took stock of the damage even as Olivia began to snap the cabinet panels closed.
“At least they didn’t throw the plates on the floor. God knows I could have been hiding that trunk between two dinner dishes.”
Jack secreted a grin. As ridiculous and terrifying as this situation must be for her, Olivia managed a sense of humor. Even now he could see her chest heft in a fortifying breath before she stooped to attack her work.
He set down the box in his hands.
“Olivia.”
She continued her task, oblivious.
“Olivia.”
Cocking her head she peered up at him with a, what now glare.
“What?”
“I’m calling the police.”
The decision was instant and resolute. If he was alone, he could honor his uncle’s wishes. But it wasn’t just his ass to consider. One glimpse of this innocent woman and he knew that this was the only choice. To his surprise she seemed upset.
“I told you,” she argued. “I already reported it to the police.”
“Yes, but that was before these guys came back for round two. I don’t want to chance a third incident.”
Mist Page 3
