The Harbor

by Carla Neggers

  Suddenly feeling bloated and old, Betsy pushed her plate aside and left money for the pie and the tip on the table. Her money. Not Luke's.

  When she reached the parking lot, she realized J. B. McGrath was behind her. He was eating the last of a little bag of oyster crackers. "Zoe had me out kayaking. I'm starving." He was good-looking in a rugged sort of way and had such an easy manner, but Betsy wasn't misled. This was not an easy man. He walked next to her as she headed toward the water. "Kyle's looking better."

  She nodded. "I think that cut on his eye could have used a stitch, but it might have been too late by the time you found him, I don't know. I encouraged him to see a doctor."

  "A lot of stubborn people around here."

  She gave a small laugh, her melancholy lifting. The cool air helped, the smell of the ocean. She'd lived in Goose Harbor her whole life, and the thought of taking the yacht south with Luke, flying to Utah for part of the winter, both thrilled and terrified her. He'd have no patience if she got homesick, if she ended up needing any emotional support at all from him. She was on her own, but she'd always been on her own.

  She zipped up her windbreaker. "I invited you and Zoe to dinner tonight. Did she tell you?"

  He smiled, and Betsy relaxed even more. But she thought that was why he'd smiled, to get her to relax. Everything he did was probably calculated, deliberate. "I'm doing all right with my meals," he said. "How to stretch a federal employee's vacation dollar. Mind if I stop by your boat after lunch? I'd like to talk to you and Luke."

  Her heart jumped. She hadn't expected this. "Well, I don't know, I—"

  "Just have to eat my burger, and that apple pie you were having looked pretty good." He turned, starting back to the café, unhurried, but not a man Betsy wanted to counter. "I'll pop over in about forty-five minutes."

  She didn't know what to say. She'd never argued with an FBI agent before, and she didn't know if it mattered that he was on vacation. Could she tell him he couldn't come over? Was that forbidden? Would she get her and Luke into trouble?

  She was having chest pains, knew it was stress, fear at what she'd done, how easily she'd let J. B. McGrath manipulate her. Did he know about Luke and Teddy? But that was ridiculous. Only she and Stick knew anything at all, and she doubted that was everything. Luke just wouldn't tell them. Talk about someone who kept secrets. She guessed his biggest secret was that his parents had abused him as a child—yet it was one everyone knew. And he'd benefit from talking about it.

  Betsy walked slowly back to the yacht. She could hear the tourists up on the street. If she were on vacation, would she pick Goose Harbor? On her last vaca-tion—three days off—she'd taken the bus to Boston for a Red Sox game.

  The pie sat heavily in her stomach. Maybe Luke was right and she should eat lighter foods. More fruits and vegetable, more fiber.

  "Oh, Lord."

  She sank onto a chair on the afterdeck and felt the water undulating beneath the boat. Usually she didn't notice.

  How long before J. B. McGrath arrived?

  She prayed Luke and Stick would stay on their walk long enough for her to get rid of him.

  Twenty-Three

  Teddy sat in his truck in front of the Goose Harbor Public Library and decided he'd dodged enough bullets for one day. The police had talked to him. He told them he'd thought Kyle was stealing his truck and regretted hitting him. It was a misunderstanding, just like Kyle'd said. No hard feelings.

  They pointed out if Kyle had died of exposure out there in the mud, Teddy'd be up shit creek. He agreed. No idea Kyle got lost in the dark. Poor kid.

  Then they asked him about Stick Monroe.

  Coincidence, Teddy said. He was shocked to his toes when he found out Monroe lived in Goose Harbor.

  Bullshit, of course, but nothing they could do about it. He could live where he wanted to live. It was a free country.

  He went back for his truck after the FBI agent and Bruce Young had checked it out. He'd hidden in the woods like a sniper, saw them and knew he'd been right to hop-to and stash his weapons and ammo. He'd tucked them in the marsh grasses while he figured out what to do.

  How was he supposed to keep an eye on McGrath and Zoe West now that they were on his case? How was he supposed to make sure they didn't get everyone stirred up about Patrick West's murder? Maintain the status quo. Hell of a vague assignment.

  He'd picked up food for lunch and drove out to the Olivia West Nature Preserve for a picnic. He walked down to Stewart's Cove and watched the tide roll in where Patrick West was murdered.

  As he ate a couple of ham sandwiches and chips, Teddy collected his wits and came up with a plan, step one of which was to reclaim his arsenal before the ducks crapped on it. He drove back to the marsh and loaded his apple crate back into the jump seat. By the time he finished, he was sweating. He needed a shower, a decent night's sleep. He should just show up on Luke's multimillion-dollar yacht.

  Luke'd have a stroke on the spot.

  He needed a place to stay. He figured he was as good as evicted from Bruce's cottage. The motels and inns were packed with leaf-peepers. They were clogging the streets, on foot, on bicycles and Rollerblades, in cars and buses.

  He started up his truck and waited a hundred years before he could pull out onto Main Street. Then he got behind a carload of rubber-necking old people. If they'd turned onto Ocean Drive, he'd have run them off the road. They didn't, and he scooted right on up to Olivia West's house.

  He turned left, away from the water, and parked on a side street under a diseased elm tree. He walked down to Ocean Drive and as he crossed in front of Olivia West's house, he was damn near blown over by a cold gust off the water.

  Zoe's yellow car was parked in her aunt's driveway. He knew she wasn't there—he'd seen her down on the docks with the G-man. If she had doubled back in the meantime, Teddy would tell her he'd heard she'd found Kyle Castel-lane last night and ask how the kid was doing. Friendly.

  Otherwise he'd take a look around the place. He didn't know what he was looking for or what he'd find, but he wanted more information on what she and Agent McGrath were up to. What if the two of them had been working together all along? What if they knew each other from her state police work or her year in Connecticut?

  Lots of questions. Now it was time for answers.

  Teddy strolled up the driveway as if he had nothing more nefarious on his mind than a knock on the door. He could hear the wind howling down on the water, but once he was up on the bluff, it didn't reach him. The air was cold, colder than it had been yet that fall.

  The side door was locked. He'd hoped old Olivia wasn't the door-locking type. Probably the cop nephew and grand-niece's influence.

  He really didn't want to break in. He walked around to the front porch and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean, a straight shot to Spain. He saw a couple of lobster boats and some birds but didn't get that excited about the view. The ocean didn't do much for him.

  He tried the front door on the porch. Bingo. Opened right up.

  "Hello? Anybody home?"

  The front room was cool and quiet, a big old sofa covered in blue canvas, a dining room table with eight chairs. It had an old-fashioned feel to it but was homey, not as fussy and claustrophobic as what he'd expect of a spinster born at the turn of the twentieth century.

  He didn't waste time and headed back to the kitchen. He grabbed a cider doughnut off the counter and ate it while he checked out the rest of the first floor. He called a few more times, just in case Zoe was taking a nap. McGrath wasn't around. Teddy figured he'd have a gun at his ear by now. He wondered what Special Agent McGrath carried. A Glock? Teddy wasn't worried about Zoe coming after him with a gun—she was out of practice. People said she'd mellowed since she'd taken up knitting and goat-herding.

  Licking cinnamon sugar off his fingers, Teddy trotted up the steep stairs to the second floor. If he got caught, he'd think of some excuse for being here.

  FBI had one room. Ex-cop had another room. That was
interesting. No bed-sharing yet.

  Teddy thought he heard something and paused in the hall, deciding against slipping his .380 out of his ankle holster. He'd strapped it on before he'd slipped into the marsh at the crack of dawn. He had no permit—being a recently released felon, he couldn't legally own a firearm. Anyway, a gun would automatically complicate his just-here-to-check-on-Kyle story.

  Maybe the wind had kicked up or it was just the old house creaking.

  He listened another few seconds, heard nothing and retraced his steps back to McGrath's room. There was a backpack to go through. It'd only take a minute or two.

  But there it was again, and this time Teddy realized it was coming from behind a door in the hall.

  The goddamn attic.

  Someone was up there? Hiding, sneaking around, doing nothing?

  As far as he could see, there was no good reason for anyone to be up there. They'd have heard him call. So what was the deal?

  Moving quickly, he snatched open the door.

  The kid, Kyle Castellane, fell out on the floor, rolled onto his back and gulped in a breath as he stared in shock up at Teddy. "You!"

  Teddy was no less surprised. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  He jerked Kyle to his feet, his face bruised and swollen from last night's thrashing. He was scared. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Just let me go."

  "Anyone else up there?"

  "No."

  "Side door's locked. You sneak in through the front?"

  "I don't have to explain myself to you."

  Even after last night, even as scared as he was, the kid had to be sullen and combative. Teddy bent the kid's arm around his back, taking it just to the point where Kyle would know another half inch and he'd be in a cast.

  "We're going downstairs," Teddy said.

  "Okay, yeah, just don't break my arm."

  Teddy shoved the kid down the stairs, but they didn't get far. Detective Zoe was on the scene. Teddy hadn't heard her come in. She'd come almost two-thirds of the way up the stairs.

  "What's going on?" Her voice was firm and calm, without a hint of fear. "Stop right there and explain."

  Kyle sputtered. "Zoe, Jesus, thank God, this crazy son of a bitch—"

  Teddy put pressure on the kid's arm, prompting a loud yell of pain. Zoe started to react, but Teddy shoved Kyle face-first down the stairs, forcing her to choose between helping to break the kid's fall or getting out of the way.

  She chose to help. It was a long way for Kyle to go, and he was out of control—he could break his neck. He careened into her, and Zoe managed to pull him toward the wall and down onto the steps with her, instead of letting his momentum carry them both down the near-full flight of stairs.

  Teddy had a split second's chance before she'd be able to untangle herself and go cop on him. He scrambled down the stairs, leaping over her and Kyle.

  But Zoe was quick. She disengaged herself and charged downstairs after him. He glanced over his shoulder, saw she wasn't armed and decided it wasn't in his interest to stop and try out a story on her. She'd be calling the police. She wouldn't be listening.

  In a maneuver he'd practiced on his own a hundred times, Teddy, still running, whipped the Llama out of his ankle holster, turned and fired over her head. She was a cop. She'd know he didn't mean to kill her, once she had time to think. Right now she dove, pulling a hardwood chair in front of her for cover—it was the best she could do with him right there, shooting.

  The bullet shattered the glass front of the china cupboard.

  Teddy kept running, making his way into the side entry. He wouldn't get down the driveway on foot. Zoe West was a runner—she had him in the fitness department.

  But at least now she knew he had a gun, and that'd slow her down.

  He spotted her keys on the kitchen table and didn't hesitate. He detoured into the kitchen, snatched the keys and ran back into the entry. Zoe was on her feet. He didn't take the time to wave his gun or shoot her—he charged outside and jumped into her little car, sticking the key in the ignition. His stupid hand was shaking. Jesus! He'd trained for this sort of moment. It was as near to combat as he'd ever gotten. Last night, beating up Kyle, didn't count. No guns. And when he was ar-rested—what a letdown. They'd put cuffs on him, read him his rights and walked him out the door.

  He made it down the driveway, out onto Ocean Drive. He barreled up the side street and pulled in behind his truck.

  He stared at his gun, his fingers stiff on its grip.

  What had he just done?

  "You shot at an ex-cop and stole her car, you stupid fuck."

  The cops would be after him for sure now. Status quo, right. He'd upped the ante all by himself.

  Teddy pushed that one out of his mind. He'd deal with Luke later. Right now he had to figure out transportation. Going any farther in Zoe's car would just invite more trouble.

  He left the keys on the VW's dashboard as a way-late gesture of good will, returned the Llama to his ankle holster and climbed into his truck. He had a few minutes, anyway, before the whole goddamn state was after him. He needed to ditch his truck.

  His heart was pounding. Damn, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Zoe West, not shooting at her. She was hanging around with the freaking FBI. Great. Just great, Teddy thought. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on McGrath, too, not provoking him.

  Hell. Talk about biting the hand that feeds. This wasn't maintaining the status quo. Luke'd be furious. Teddy figured he'd just totally screwed himself out of any chance at a bonus. Then again, who knew? He wasn't caught yet, and he still had guns, ammo and grenades.

  Twenty-Four

  Teddy Shelton had run off. Kyle had run off. A bullet had shattered the old glass in Olivia's china cupboard. Zoe, absorbing what had just happened, set the dining-room chair back on four legs. Her right shoulder ached from saving Kyle from a broken neck. Nice of him to stay and help her.

  "Sorry, Zoe," he'd said as he'd run past her.

  She could have thrown her chair at him, but there was glass all over the floor and she basically didn't trust herself not to kill the little bastard.

  Only now did she notice the blood on her hand. She grimaced, realizing a shard of glass must have grazed her left wrist. The cut stung and was oozing blood, but it didn't look deep.

  She cursed and gave the chair a kick.

  When she'd entered the house through the side door and tossed her keys on the kitchen table, she immediately realized she had company. At first she assumed

  J.B. had made it back before her. He'd gone down to the docks after lunch, and she'd stayed at the café to chat with her sister and some old friends after the lunch crowd had thinned out.

  But she heard Kyle yell and charged upstairs—not the smartest choice she'd ever made. After that, she'd called upon her training as best she could to protect herself and her sister's idiot boyfriend.

  In a hundred years, her great-aunt had never had a break-in.

  Her hand throbbing now, Zoe stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed the phone, dialing 911 as she probably should have when she realized it wasn't J.B. in the house with her. She wasn't a cop anymore.

  Kyle must have been terrified. He'd taken a thrashing from Teddy Shelton last night, too. Zoe couldn't blame Kyle for bolting. Fight or flight. He'd fled.

  The dispatcher came on and asked her the nature of the emergency. As Zoe described the situation, she wrapped her hand in a dishcloth, blood soaking into it.

  J.B.'s Jeep pulled into the driveway. She felt a rush of relief at having someone with her and, at the same time, renewed annoyance with herself for not having done a better job of handling the situation. Kyle was gone. The bad guy was gone. She was bleeding.

  On the other hand, Kyle wasn't dead, kidnapped, or beaten to a pulp. And neither was she.

  She saw both doors of the Jeep opened. Kyle got out of the passenger side, looking sheepish. J.B. met him and moved in close, all but marching him to the house. They burst into the side e
ntry.

  J.B. dumped Kyle onto a chair at the kitchen table.

  "Shelton stole your car?"

  Zoe nodded. "The police are on the way."

  "The police?" Kyle looked stricken—and bloody. The cuts on both his eye and lip had opened up. "What for?"

  She stared at him, incredulous, her earlier moment of compassion deserting her. "Now, why do you think? Thanks a lot for staying to make sure I was okay, you weasel. I should have let you fall down the damn stairs."

  "I was scared." He coughed, looking more irritated and insulted than scared. "I didn't know what the hell was going on—"

  Zoe cut him off. "You didn't want to explain to me what you were doing here."

  "That's not true! I was looking for you. I heard someone and thought it was you, but it turned out it was Shelton."

  "You're lucky I gave up violence, Castellane. I don't believe a word you're saying."

  J.B. walked over to her and silently lifted her hand, her dishcloth bandage not particularly effective. "You okay?" "Glass cut. The bullet didn't hit me. He shot over

  my head."

  "What kind of gun?"

  "He had it on his ankle. A .380, I think. I didn't get a good look. I was busy hitting the deck. You grabbed

  Kyle making his getaway?" "He told me he panicked." "Yeah, right." "Come on, Zoe," Kyle said. "Cut me some slack. I was scared shitless. This bastard pushed me down the stairs, right into you—you were there. You saw him. He could have killed me."

  "He could have killed both of us." But she knew some of her anger was at herself, not just him. As far as she was concerned, she'd acted like she'd never spent a day in law enforcement, never mind a decade. "Forget it. It's over."

  "I know you could have stepped aside and let me fall all the way down the stairs, but you didn't, and you know why? Because you're good, Zoe. You're not an asshole like Shelton." Kyle tried smiling, but it obviously hurt. He touched two fingertips to his bleeding lip. "We're okay. That's what counts."

  Zoe sighed. "Either you have very bad luck or some-thing's going on with you and Shelton that you haven't admitted yet. Well, now you can tell it to the police. How do you like that? Do you need some ice for that lip?"