Storm Warning

by Toni Anderson

  “And why is Sorcha the one all wet?”

  Her head jerked up, unspoken tension stretching between her and her uncle, so thick Ben could taste it.

  “I saw her from the window.” And though he’d been shadowing the woman for days, it felt too weird to say her given name. “She was already in the pool by the time I got there.”

  Freeing her hair from the collar of the sweatshirt, she straightened and regarded him with turbulent blue eyes.

  Ben stared right back. Then he produced a smile he wasn’t feeling. “Figured I’d have to go in and haul her out myself.”

  And that would have topped off his year, like it wasn’t already screwed to hell.

  “What’s the matter?” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “Can’t you swim?”

  So the kitty has claws.

  He controlled his anger, not wanting to scare her. Yet. “As a matter of fact, no, I can’t swim.” Turning to the policeman, Ben consciously hid his irritation. He trusted the cop less than he trusted the woman, but neither of them needed to know that. “She got there first. Not that it mattered in the end—”

  “What do you mean—” her voice rose an octave, “‘—not that it mattered in the end’?”

  “Well, he was dead, wasn’t he?” Damn. So much for his self-control.

  “I didn’t know that!” She blinked rapidly, fighting her emotions. “At least his family will have a body to bury. At least now—”

  “Sorcha, don’t worry yourself.” Sergeant Davy Logan strode across the room and pulled her into his arms, squeezing her tight to his short barrel frame. “Don’t fret, lass. It must have brought it all back.”

  “Brought all what back?” Ben’s patience had crashed and burned the day his best friend had bled out on a Colombian drug lord’s floor. He needed answers. But all he got were more questions and an anger that ripped and gnawed inside him like a rabid dog.

  Sorcha Logan’s gaze locked on his, her expression catching him off guard. Pain and desolation shone brightly in the depths of her eyes.

  Oh shit. He recognized that look.

  “Well, the last time she found a dead body on the beach, of course,” the policeman carried on, oblivious to the effect his words had on his niece. She clamped her eyes shut and buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder. “Only that time…it was her father.”

  Chapter Two

  Sorcha needed balm for her bruised soul. Instead she got bass so loud she thought her head might explode. She crossed to the music system and turned down the volume.

  “Hey!” Carolyn stalked out of the kitchen wearing an apron that depicted a semi-naked woman in a Scotsman’s kilt. “What did you do that for?”

  A fellow grad student at St. Andrews University, Carolyn Jamieson was a nice girl but a terrible roommate. At times like this, Sorcha wished she could afford to live alone. She threw herself on the couch. Admitted finally that the Yank had unnerved her as much as the corpse.

  “You were gone ages. Did you get caught in the storm? What are you wearing?” Concern tugged Carolyn’s brow into a furrow. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

  “I…” Unable to sit, Sorcha stood and paced. She didn’t want to talk about finding that boy, but it was a small town and her flatmate would find out soon enough. “I found a body.”

  “Oh my God! What?” Carolyn’s bottom jaw dropped. “A dead body?”

  Was there any other kind? “Yes.”

  “Was it a murder?” Carolyn grabbed her throat dramatically.

  The memory of vacant eyes flashed through Sorcha’s mind. “I don’t think so. He was washed up on the beach.”

  “Who was it? Anyone we know?” Carolyn’s eyes turned anxious.

  “I didn’t recognize him—” which made her feel an inexplicable mix of guilt and relief, “—but he was about our age. Maybe younger.” Adrenaline bottomed out and Sorcha ached with exertion and weariness.

  “That’s awful.”

  Emotions fought inside her. Yes, it was awful, but there was a satisfaction in reclaiming that body from the sea. She became aware of the curiosity in Carolyn’s eyes and pivoted to head for the shower. Right now her emotions were too vulnerable to talk about it.

  She was halfway across the room before Carolyn stopped her. “You’ll have to wait a bit for a shower, Kevin’s in the bath. Sorry.”

  Sorcha’s step faltered.

  “Kevin’s in the tub?” She tried to keep her voice reasonable and not irritated, but knew she’d failed when a defensive light entered Carolyn’s eyes.

  “He got caught in the rain.” She scrunched up her nose in apology.

  Kevin was a post-doc in their lab, with an overinflated opinion of himself. He was arrogant, lazy, and collected notches on the bedpost the way old ladies clipped coupons.

  Carolyn was besotted with him. Sorcha wanted to beat him with a big stick.

  “Right.” But she didn’t have the energy to cope with Kevin on top of all the other problems kickboxing inside her head. Seeing that body today brought back memories of her father’s death and she needed to be alone.

  “Sorcha…”

  She pressed her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut as the voices hounded her.

  “Are you okay?” Carolyn asked.

  She tried to smile. “Just another headache.”

  “You get a lot of headaches.” Carolyn took a step closer. “You need to go see the doctor.”

  “Yeah.” And she couldn’t wait to describe her symptoms.

  Someone hammered on the front door, making the old horseshoe nailed to the wall bounce and driving another bolus of epinephrine through her bloodstream. Her heart jackknifed. Damn. People associated horseshoes with good luck, although really the iron was supposed to keep out evil.

  Some days you needed more than a hook of iron.

  She strode across the room and unlocked the door. Two people burst in with a flurry of rain and oilskins.

  “Uncle Angus? Robbie?” Her mood sank though she kept a smile pinned to her lips. She knew why they were here. Nonetheless she’d wanted to avoid the inquisition for one night.

  “What happened, lass?”

  “We heard you found a body,” her cousin cut in. “Are you all right?” Tall and dark like the American, Robbie was lanky with a lovely smile. The greatest joy Sorcha found being back in Scotland was getting reacquainted with her father’s two brothers and her cousin. The only blood relatives she had left.

  “Yes, Robbie, I’m fine.” She reached up and tucked his hair off his forehead, behind his ear.

  He blushed, his eyes darting to Carolyn. He’d asked her out a couple of months ago, but she’d told him she wasn’t looking for a relationship. A week later she’d started dating Kevin. Sorcha glanced up at the ceiling and hoped he didn’t make an unexpected appearance. She should have told Robbie that Carolyn had a boyfriend now, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings.

  She’d idolized him as a child. He’d been her constant companion and personal hero. When she was five and they snuck across a farmer’s field, he’d saved her from an angry Friesian bull. If Robbie hadn’t been there, she was sure the fiery demon would have stomped her into the ground with mindless pounding fury. She could still remember how the ground had shook as it had charged toward them. She could still see the bloodshot eyes and remember the terror that had fused her into immobility. Robbie had stood his ground and the bull had backed down long enough for him to drag her over the hedge. That damn bovine was one of the few clear memories of her childhood.

  “Can I get you some tea?” Carolyn asked, heading for the kitchen, probably embarrassed to be caught wearing that apron.

  “Aye—” Robbie’s reply was cut off by his father.

  “No, lass. We’ve to be at the lifeboat station—”

  “Sheila said six-thirty.” Robbie reminded him. “We’ve got half an hour yet.”

  Sheila Morgan had worked as the lifeboat mechanic even when Sorcha was a child. Angus checked his wat
ch and she held back a groan as he wavered. The old man switched his focus to her. Obviously he’d been on the phone to his brother, her uncle Davy, exchanging the latest news about their crazy niece.

  Who said men didn’t gossip?

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” his voice sounded gruff.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Come in and take off your coats.” May as well get it over with. If she didn’t answer their questions now, she’d only have to do it tomorrow.

  “What happened?” Robbie shook the rain off his slicker and hung it on the back of the door.

  Sorcha avoided his eyes by going to the unlit fireplace and fingering one of the abalone shells she’d collected on a trip to New Zealand. “I cut along the beach on the way back from my run and found a body in the big rock pool.”

  The mirror above the mantle showed her relatives exchanging a worried glance, as if concerned about her mental health.

  Digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she grounded herself. “I pulled him out and someone helped me get him up the beach.”

  “The Yank?” Derision was palpable in Uncle Angus’s tone. He scratched his whiskered chin.

  “Just some guy.” She shrugged and left it at that. She didn’t want to talk about Ben Foley or think about the way he’d looked at her with that cold, calculating precision. There was something much more important on her mind. While her courage held, she asked, “Angus, did they ever find out what happened…that day?”

  His watery blue eyes swept over her in horror.

  “To Daddy?” Her voice trailed to a whisper

  Angus sent a glare to Robbie, pinching his lips up tight. “Do you not remember, lass?”

  She only remembered waking up to a nightmare that never ended.

  The old man rubbed his straggly gray hair. “I don’t know what to tell you, lass,” he said finally. “No one knows exactly what happened that day, except maybe Iain himself.” His old eyes crinkled with sadness. “And he’s not saying.”

  Isn’t he?

  “Was it a blond laddie you found today? Young, early twenties?” Always the peacemaker, Robbie changed the subject. Both men volunteered on the lifeboats. They knew most of the corpses unaccounted for in the Firth of Forth.

  “Yes, he was blond.” She shivered beneath the thick sweatshirt and caught the elusive scent of the American. Her head jerked up. She didn’t want to think about him. Cold eyes, cold heart.

  “It’ll be the McCabe boy,” Angus declared.

  Robbie nodded, the corners of his mouth dragged down with sadness. “Aye.”

  She rubbed her arms to fight the chill. “I need to find out when the funeral is. I want to attend.” The connection to the dead boy went deep and she needed to see him laid to rest.

  “I’ll come with you if I’m not working, or you can borrow the van.” Robbie took her hand. “Poor bugger threw himself off the Forth Road Bridge last night after a row with his girlfriend.”

  Such a waste. She hadn’t known him, but suicide was such a waste. It left a path of untold destruction in its wake.

  “A pretty terminal solution if you ask me.” Kevin had crept silently down the stairs. His laughter boomed off the ceiling, inappropriate and cruel given the circumstances. “Should have just gotten himself a new girlfriend.”

  The silence throbbed with tension.

  “Not everyone would feel that way.” Robbie gathered himself up to his full gangly height, anger moving through his soft brown eyes.

  Carolyn, minus the apron, carried a tray of tea out of the kitchen, but Angus and Robbie were busy retrieving their coats. “You’re not leaving are you?” she asked.

  Kevin threw his arm over Carolyn’s shoulder, rattling cups and spilling tea. The brunette grimaced, then bit her lip. Sorcha grabbed the tray and placed it on the coffee table before anyone got scalded.

  “Aye, we’re off.” Robbie looked from Kevin to Carolyn, disappointment obvious as his lips flatlined. Sorcha felt guilty. She should have warned him.

  “We’ll be seeing you then.” Angus kissed Sorcha’s cheek and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Look after yourself, lass. Come on, Robbie lad.”

  Robbie gave Sorcha a hug and a rueful smile. “At least tell me he’s rich and drives a Porsche?” he whispered close to her ear.

  “Unfortunately not,” she murmured, walking him to the door.

  The wind howled and rain spat. He pulled his hood over his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, as a child they said you were a—”

  “Don’t even say it!”

  Robbie laughed and tapped a knuckle under her chin. “Could you not make me a wee love potion?”

  Rain hissed under the tires of a car driving by. Sorcha huddled into the thick sweatshirt Ben Foley had lent her. “If I was what they said I was, I’d have already turned him into a toad.” She threw a look over her shoulder, but Kevin and Carolyn had turned on the TV and were settling down to watch a show. “Come to think of it, someone beat me to it.”

  ***

  Cold crept down Ben’s collar despite the layers of wool and Gortex he wore. It was midnight on the storm-tossed coast and he wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into. After a lifetime of avoiding the ocean, he was now so close he could taste it without even opening his mouth.

  The vehicle he’d been told to expect sat idling in a dark corner of a deserted parking lot. After watching the area for a few minutes he walked over, reached for the door handle. The door burst open to reveal a shaggy mass of fur that raced toward the beach.

  “Jesus!” His heart imploded.

  With the open door, the interior light came on and revealed a sharp-featured man behind the wheel. “Foley?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Nick Archer. Get in.”

  Detective Inspector Nick Archer had the sort of crime-fighting reputation that could have taken him anywhere in the world. Why the hell had he chosen this dank corner of hell?

  “What have you got for me?” A week ago Ben had held Jacob’s mother’s hand while they buried his best friend. He’d spent the last few days shadowing their only suspect, and now he wanted this over.

  Archer flicked on the overhead light and pulled an envelope out of the side pocket of his door. “Not a lot. Sorcha Logan was born in the town but left when she was still a kid after her dad’s drowning. Then she lived with her mother until she died. Then she went to Australia to do a M.Sc. and moved back here just a few months ago.”

  “Why would anyone swap Australia for this place?”

  “Some people like it.” Archer’s smile had a quality of menace to it and Ben relaxed for the first time in days. He could deal with the threat of imminent violence much better than he could handle Jacob’s death or his own crippling hydrophobia.

  Archer tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “She rents a room in her cottage to another student at St. Andrews University, a girl called Carolyn Jamieson. Neither has a record of ever having been in trouble with the police, here or abroad.”

  “How many men can you spare to help with this investigation?”

  Archer laughed. “Well, we have a small problem with that.”

  “What?”

  “You know Sorcha Logan’s uncle is a police officer in Anstruther and her other uncle is one of the lifeboat crew? Well, all the officers in Fife Constabulary play fucking golf together and there’s no way I can guarantee keeping your investigation under wraps if I start asking questions. They’ll know something’s up.”

  Irritation swelled inside him. “So drug dealers get a free ride if they have police connections, is that it?” He thrust the photographs onto the dash.

  Nick Archer’s eyes took on a fierce gleam. “I know you just lost your partner so I’m going to forget you said that.”

  Ben rubbed his eye sockets and slumped in his seat. He had better people skills than this. His charm had been his most effective weapon in Colombia—combined with his innate emotional distance, he was tailor-made for deep u
ndercover operations. But the recent carnage had changed him, damaged him. He had an awful feeling he might never be the same again.

  Archer narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to give my detective sergeant time off on compassionate grounds—that’s the official line anyway. Ewan McKnight’s the best man I know and a bloody good officer. He’s going to liaise between you and the Lothian and Borders Police on the other side of the river. They can set up surveillance cameras, phone taps and any other electronic gadgets deemed necessary to see if this girl really is involved in drug trafficking.”

  “But what about people on the ground?”

  Archer grinned. “Look in the mirror, Foley. You’re it.”

  “Fuck.”

  Archer’s smile turned grim. “If this thing is as big as you say it is, I want these bastards caught.” He clenched his hands over the wheel. “So it’s up to you to get close to Sorcha Logan and figure out how she fits into this mess.”

  Ben opened the door and climbed out. The dog jumped in. “So, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’?”

  Archer’s grin sharpened. “Could be worse—she could look like the back end of a bus.”

  Ben remembered the glow of her skin as she’d stood half naked in front of the fire, the tangle of damp blond curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Might be easier if she did.”

  “Watch your back, Foley,” Archer said, not unkindly. “Ewan will call you tomorrow.”

  Ben closed the door and stood back to watch the taillights disappear. He hadn’t felt this isolated since he’d been a kid in his grandfather’s house. He thrust the thought aside and went back to his car. Drove home with the radio cranked all the way up.

  ***

  The dead couldn’t hurt you. That’s what they said. Sorcha lay in bed with her hands wedged beneath her cheek and tried to believe it. The moon stole in and out of billowing clouds. The lighthouse beam circled the May Isle with incessant caution. A thin slice of shoreline was visible through her bedroom window, the sea calm now after its earlier spat. She tugged the duvet closer, rolled over to stare at the ceiling. Her father’s ghost hadn’t shown up in their old cottage yet. It was a small blessing.