Storm Warning

by Toni Anderson

  She hadn’t forgotten the night her father died. God knew she’d tried. “He used to get called out regularly. Leave me home in bed.” It happened a lifetime ago, though she still remembered the signal flares booming, remembered begging him not to go. And when he’d turned away from her that final time, she remembered screaming that she didn’t care if he ever came back. “After my mom left, my granny would come over and babysit if he was called out.”

  Outside, a heron hunted in the pool. Sorcha concentrated on the bird, ignored the hurt in her heart, keeping her expression neutral.

  “They’d gotten everyone off a yacht with a busted mast.” It was a wild night, four-meter swells in gale-force winds. She recalled the rescue as if she’d been there. “He was the last one to come back onboard.”

  She’d heard the whispers. Wept when some said he’d cut the line, as if he’d had nothing left to live for.

  Had he really killed himself when he was all she had left? Yet she’d told him she hated him. Those were the last words she’d spoken to him. A ten-year-old’s temper tantrum turning into a legacy of guilt. Her throat swelled closed and she had to swallow repeatedly to get more words out. “One minute he was attached to the lifeline, the next he was gone. Lost.” She raised her chin a fraction. “They said the line snapped.”

  The coroner ruled it an accident. Other rumors had flown around the town—that she’d cursed Iain Logan, caused his death with her childish rant.

  Cursed or suicidal? Two ugly options for a heartbroken little girl.

  She turned and stared down at Ben sprawled in the uncomfortable-looking armchair. And she wished she’d woken up in those arms this morning, rather than from a nightmare of flames and death.

  “Did the line snap?” His eyes were probing.

  A shiver of premonition raced all the way to her toes. “I don’t know.” Was that why Iain Logan haunted her? Because his death had been ruled an accident and it wasn’t? Who was he trying to punish? Her? Or someone else?

  “There are some in this town who say I cursed him.” She met Ben’s gaze head on. Noted the way his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. His fingers curled around the arm of the chair. She wouldn’t have believed it either.

  “Like who?”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Duncan Mackenzie and his brother. My aunt.”

  “Did you curse your father?”

  Her frown matched his, and she shook her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I was ten.”

  “But a small part of you still believes it.” Ben was looking at her as though she was a nut job. And maybe he was right.

  “I don’t believe I cursed him.” She didn’t. Not really. “But they do, and that makes them dangerous.”

  Chapter Six

  Her study area was a tiny bird sanctuary five miles off the coast, a remote island that guarded the yawning estuary of the Forth. Sorcha secured the moorings of her boat to a small quay on the northwest side of the island. It was a perfect day—sky blue, wind crisp, sea state moderate. She shouldered her backpack and climbed the ancient steps.

  She headed to the Low Light where she had a room and office space. The Low Light was the HQ of the Isle of May Bird Observatory Trust. It was rustic and charming on the outside but army basic on the inside. She entered through the backdoor, looking to see if anyone was around. Slinging her backpack onto the kitchen table, she eyed the steaming kettle and decided to grab a cuppa before retrieving her camera system. On tiptoes she reached for her mug and felt someone brush against her from behind.

  The devil’s boots don’t creak.

  Surprised, she glanced over her shoulder. Peter Hughes, the head warden, stood close, so close that turning would make things embarrassingly intimate. She shrank away, trapped by the kitchen counters. He was totally freaking her out.

  “Hi Sorcha, I didn’t know you were coming over today.” He reached for his own mug, sounding normal, pressed up against her as familiar as a cat.

  She froze as his hipbone grazed her bottom. Her fingers wrapped around her mug.

  Am I imagining this?

  He didn’t step away. Just plunked his mug next to hers and popped a teabag in each. His chest brushed her shoulder as he picked up the kettle and pressed closer. She remembered fantasizing about this exact sort of contact with Ben Foley last night.

  Be careful what you wish for…

  “Ow!” She yelped and jerked her hand away as boiling water scalded her skin. Peter’s face was a mere centimeter away, staring at her with wintry eyes. Her knees wobbled and she had to use her elbows to support herself. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Doing?” He angled his head, as if she were imagining his erection pressed against her backside.

  Voices echoed along the corridor and he stepped away. “You’d better run that under the cold tap else it’ll blister.”

  He smiled as if nothing had happened—as if she’d dreamed the whole repulsive episode.

  Her lungs felt like popped balloons as she sagged against the counter. Two undergraduate students, whom she knew vaguely, wandered in and said hello before they started making lunch. Sorcha stared mutely while Peter held her gaze like a reptilian throwback.

  Her legs boneless, she maneuvered around him, grabbed her backpack off the table and ran toward her dorm. His voice stopped her before she got ten feet.

  “I moved your equipment to the Old Beacon. We needed the storage space down here.” He pulled a brass key from his pocket, tossed it and she had to lunge to catch it. “Sorry.” He smiled.

  Sorry, my ass. The look he gave her had icicles dripping down her spine. She fled.

  ***

  Ben closed his eyes, his gut clenching as the boat slipped into the dip of a swell. His eyes fixed on the horizon as if it were the holy star; his fists glued around the safety railing so tightly, red paint flaked beneath his fingers.

  Death would be better than this.

  The only good thing about seasickness was it took the edge off the panic attack that threatened to choke him since he’d climbed onboard the tour boat. The boat had two decks. He’d made it down to the lower level in the hopes wave motion would be less. Only now he was closer to the water.

  His mouth felt as though he’d been sucking silica gel. He pressed his eyes shut as the ocean buckled, but blindness made the vertigo worse and he had to open them again.

  Sailboats dotted the horizon, cruisers. Pleasure boats.

  Hah. Now that was an oxymoron. Who the hell got pleasure from having their internal organs wrenched through a mixer?

  Sorcha did.

  Diesel fumes mixed with the warm scent of freshly brewed coffee from the snack bar. He heaved, his heart hammering, sea spray mixing with sweat on his exposed skin. He needed to get onto that island ASAP.

  Was this job really so important to him?

  Damn right.

  Getting drugs off the street, saving kids, was worth every moment of torture. And what the hell else was he gonna do? Be a loser the way his grandfather predicted?

  But the sickness was relentless, kneading the sides of his stomach together. Cold sweat poured out of his body and he shivered uncontrollably. Someone tapped his arm. Scowling, he jerked around.

  A woman sitting across the gangway held out a strip of two little pills. “These will help, love.”

  She was plain and overweight, but Ben was ready to fall to his knees and pledge allegiance. It could have been cyanide for all he cared. He put the tablets on his dry tongue and took a swallow of water from the bottle that rested in his hip pocket. “’Preciate it.”

  Did he look as green as he felt?

  “Here.” The woman handed over two more pills. “For the trip back.”

  He must look like crap. “Thanks.” Mouth tasting of ashes, he sent her a grateful a smile as he slipped the extra tablets into his top zipped pocket.

  She blushed, her pale pink complexion growing twin spots of crimson across her cheeks. “My name’s
Shelia Morgan.”

  “Ben Foley.” They shook hands. He noted her lack of camera and binoculars. “You’re not a bird watcher?”

  “No.” She boosted her smile, but the sparkle in her eyes died. “I’m on a yearly pilgrimage. Today is my late husband’s birthday and the May Isle was his favorite place.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ben.

  “Life’s unpredictable—you’ve got to make the most of every moment.” Sheila nodded and then cleared her throat. “Well I’m off to talk to the captain to make sure he knows what he’s doing.” She smiled with forced brightness.

  “Thanks again,” he called after her and she waved.

  When he turned back to the view he vowed to ignore the lightheaded sensation that was either motion sickness or fear. Either way it didn’t do his mission any good.

  The case didn’t seem as cut-and-dried as it had a few days ago. Sorcha Logan had saved his life, and conning her felt like shitty payback. Her father’s death had broken her and even though he’d never known his own father, he recognized that powerful emotional crisis. He gritted his teeth. Detachment had always been his strong suit, working patiently to get the job done, but he was finding it hard to be aloof. She’d somehow wormed her way into his sympathy and he was finding it difficult to remain impartial.

  And he didn’t like it.

  The boat kept twisting to the side, pushed away by the strong tidal currents, as the skipper steered for the May Isle. Anstruther faded, tilled fields stretching all the way along the coast to Crail. Ben longed for the urban sprawl of Chicago or the saturated heat of Colombia, anything as long as it involved solid earth beneath his feet.

  To distract himself, he scoped out his fellow passengers. Birdwatchers, with every size of camera and binoculars draped round their necks like techno-scarves. He blended in with the crowd with his equipment, but not the reasons for it.

  He rested his chin against the back of his hands. Might have dozed. When he opened his eyes, cliffs towered over him, gouged with fissures and sea caves. They reminded him that smuggling was an ancient tradition around Britain’s coastline.

  Birds buzzed and seals bobbed in the water. Passengers crowded to one side to get a better view. Ben was fused to the seat with a horrific vision of the boat capsizing because that would be the only thing that could make this debacle worse.

  Next time he’d hire a helicopter, but that wasn’t exactly inconspicuous on a bird sanctuary. Maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. Maybe he’d locate the drugs, and evidence of whoever was running them, make the arrest and never have to set foot on another boat. Ever. Again. Ben held the railing and counted with the beat of his heart.

  Hoping she was innocent, hoping she wasn’t playing him the way he was playing her, he watched the deckhand tie up to the concrete jetty. The crew lowered a rickety gangplank at an oblique angle to the shore. Controlling his desire to race to land, he took a deep breath and scanned the rock. He spotted a blond figure disappearing over the brow of the hill, up toward the big lighthouse that perched on the crest of the island.

  Sorcha. He’d recognize that figure anywhere.

  Seconds later he was on dry ground, the press of earth against the soles of his boots dispelling his sickness the way light melted dark.

  A sandy-haired warden from Scottish Natural Heritage met them off the boat and told them where to walk and what they might see. Ben listened mechanically when all he wanted to do was follow the blonde. He moved to the side of the group and casually followed a few people as they peeled off toward the Visitor Center. Birds flocked all around.

  He frowned.

  According to his information, Sorcha had started a Ph.D. on puffins, which was supposedly the reason she was here on the island. But he didn’t see any of the distinctive birds.

  His mood grew grim.

  He hiked a graveled road toward the main lighthouse, passing what looked like WWII lookout posts. The big lighthouse was austere with crenellations and gothic towers. To his right was the Old Beacon, a squat whitewashed tower. It made the big Gothic structure look positively avant-garde.

  The wind howled at the highest point on the island, whipping his jacket with fierce slaps. No sign of Sorcha. No sign of anyone.

  A door at the base of the white tower creaked on its hinges, swinging slightly in a gust. Cautiously he moved toward it and heard dragging noises and a voice coming from inside. Anticipation made his heart hammer against his ribs. He eased the door wider to get a better view but the wind grabbed it and smashed it against the inner wall.

  A woman screamed as the wood struck stone. Shock widened Sorcha’s eyes, and her hand jumped to her chest. “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Ben stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. He scanned the area, logging details. She stood next to a couple of boxes—which accounted for the dragging noises—a clipboard shoved under one arm. The place smelled of decay, paint crumbling off the damp walls. He frowned. “I thought I heard you talking with someone.”

  “Just myself.” She shifted nervously, acting as guilty as hell. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged and let it go. “Decided to do a little sightseeing. Thought I saw you when I got off the boat.” He nodded in the direction of the landing and pushed away from the wall.

  “Figured I’d come and check out what you were up to.”

  Sorcha’s eyes flared, darting to the door as if measuring her escape. When she realized he blocked the exit she looked pissed. If it had just been his ego involved, he’d have been deflated. But it wasn’t his ego. It was a crime that carried a life sentence. Not to mention the location of forty kilos of high-grade cocaine with a street value in excess of five million dollars—the last consignment from Santayana’s cartel.

  “I’m busy.” She thrust the clipboard into the smaller box. She wasn’t throwing him any of those seductive glances today. In fact, she was giving him the cold shoulder. His getting-to-know-her plan wasn’t working.

  Holding his hands wide in a non-threatening pose, he stepped to the side so he didn’t block the light and got a better look at her face. Her skin was ice-white, her eyes suspiciously bright. She looked pretty wired for someone just moving boxes. Suspicion turned sour in his chest. It was time to dig deeper.

  “Hey, I won’t get in your way.” He tried to get a look inside the boxes of equipment she’d hauled out of what must be a storage room behind her. He needed to get inside that room but right now he couldn’t raise any alarms. Trying out his rusty charm, he put on his best smile. “Let me help.”

  Instead of looking grateful, she drew a hand over her face. Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled a tense breath.

  “What is it?”

  Chewing her bottom lip, she squatted to rifle through the boxes. Whatever she decided to tell him wouldn’t be the truth.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m a bit emotional today.” She lifted the first box, shifted it in her arms and staggered slightly, adjusting the weight. “Kevin would say it was PMS, but then he’s a jerk.” She darted a look at Ben that dared him to join the ranks.

  Ben scooped the box out of her arms. He didn’t give her the chance to refuse his help or get himself entangled in a discussion on women’s hormones. He wasn’t stupid. She surprised him with a smile, those quirky lips lifting her face like sunshine on a rainy day.

  He felt a little kick inside his chest. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Leaning closer, he caught the scent of lemon in her perfume, so much sweeter than the ancient decay that surrounded them.

  Her expression closed up. She was holding out on him, but he was used to that. Most people lied to federal agents. Hoisting up the smaller carton, she grabbed a shovel and squeezed past him into the fresh air. Ben glanced at the heavy inner door, rammed down his impatience and followed her outside.

  “I had a camera system set up and someone trashed it.” She hunched her
shoulders.

  “What makes you think it didn’t just break down?” God knew he’d had enough surveillance equipment crap out on him at the worst possible moments. That was why he’d had a partner in Magangue. Jacob had run the gadgetry.

  Sorcha bent down and pulled out a metal box that Ben recognized as a light-sensitive surveillance camera.

  “I was careful when I set it up to make sure it was recessed and well protected. But the wires have been torn out.” Fingering the ragged ends of the connections, she pointed the camera at him. Her voice cracked, though she controlled the waver. “And the lens is broken.”

  Smashed beyond repair. Ben’s skin prickled.

  “Why would someone smash your camera? It isn’t exactly vandal central around here.” The only people who lived out here were nature wardens and ornithology students, hardly the epitome of evil. Unless maybe the camera had recorded something. Maybe traffickers used this island and the camera had filmed them in action? He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  She propped the shovel against the wall, put her box on the grass and shouldered past him to close the door and lock it. She put the key in her pocket. “People have long memories.”

  He rolled his eyes. Jesus. Not the crazy witch thing again. “Who cares about your past enough, or even knows what happened all those years ago?” he pointed out reasonably.

  She gave the doorknob a shake, checking the lock. “The wardens rely on the boats for supplies—the boats come from the town.” She raised a dark brow and Ben noted again how it contrasted with her hair. Did she color it that bright blond shade? Some kind of disguise? “There are people in town who hate me.”

  He thought about it for a moment. There had been that bully in the bar, but it still sounded nuts. Thank God they didn’t have witches in Chicago or Colombia. Drive-by shootings, kidnappings up the wazoo, terrorists and gang warfare, but thankfully no sorcery.

  “I know you don’t believe me.” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened her backbone, growing taller and more remote by the second. “Let me spell it out for you.” She lowered her voice when some tourists came into sight. “I found my daddy’s corpse on a beach where it should never have washed up. I found him lying at my feet with no recollection of ever leaving my bed.”