Enemy Waters

by Justine Davis

  That made no sense. Unless she really had gotten into some kind of trouble since she’d disappeared off the radar down south. That was a possibility he hadn’t considered until now. Had she picked up some kind of stalker or something, was that the reason behind the edginess, the constant awareness of her surroundings?

  “Are you all right?” he asked, dropping the effort to charm.

  She seemed startled by the abrupt switch. “I’m fine.” She picked up the coffeepot and started to turn away.

  “Nell,” he said, using the name on the small plastic badge she wore on the Waterfront T-shirt. She turned back. Still looked wary. He hesitated. He’d found her, that had been his job, it didn’t really matter if she liked him or not. At least, not as far as the job was concerned. The instructions had been crystal; if he found her he was to say nothing until her brother could get here. Simple.

  At least, it should be.

  “I wasn’t trying to snow you,” he said. “It’s just— I’ve been looking for three weeks, and…I’m tired.”

  It was all true, if not all of the truth. And that, he thought, took it out of the realm of totally cold calculation. Well, almost; he had to admit he was counting on the fact that she looked tired enough herself to be able to relate.

  She wavered, but the suspicion lingered. “I didn’t think temporary berths were that hard to find up here.”

  Up here. A true local likely wouldn’t have added that. But somebody from down south—especially as far as L.A.—might. He hadn’t had much doubt left, but that helped erase it.

  “It’s the combination,” he said.

  “Combination?”

  “A temporary berth and a marine supply store that will have what I need.”

  And that, again, was the truth.

  “And a place closer to home to park a motorcycle?”

  So she’d noticed that. It didn’t surprise him, after watching her watch…everything.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “You carry it on the boat?”

  He nodded. “Built ramps to offload it at a dock, but getting it in and out of the dinghy’s a bit much. Rowing it? No way.”

  One corner of her mouth quirked, as if at the image. She turned, set the nearly empty coffeepot back on the warming plate, busied herself with starting a fresh pot. He could almost feel her thinking, trying to decide. He wondered who the guy with the dock was, why she seemed…almost protective of him. Boyfriend?

  That opened a whole new box of questions, so he left it alone for now. And tried to ignore the little jab the idea gave him. What did it matter to him if she’d found somebody in this remote paradise?

  She turned back suddenly, decisively. “I’ll talk to my friend. Maybe he’ll at least talk to you about it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, meaning it. And wondering why she sounded unhappy about it.

  He left the café feeling satisfied. He’d found his quarry and she was alive and well, if very different in appearance. That satisfied him even more, that she hadn’t fooled him. He would make that phone call to her brother, who would be delighted and not quibble about the final bill he was going to get, which meant Cooper could pay off all his bills and have enough left over to be picky about his next job.

  Although this one had been a lot better than the typical domestic situation; spying on a cheating spouse, a thieving son or a daughter into dangerous drugs was not very uplifting. Tracking down a woman who’d vanished in a paroxysm of grief and telling her the person she was grieving for hadn’t really died was something else again. He had to admit the story had gotten to him. He could get to liking this kind of case.

  Again he wished he could just tell her now. But her brother had insisted—it had been so bad, he said, that she’d never believe it if she didn’t see him in the flesh, alive and walking around, albeit scarred. Besides, he wanted to see her face when she saw him. His right, Cooper thought. He was the brother, and he was paying the freight.

  He just didn’t like the idea of her going another moment thinking her own husband had shot and killed her brother.

  Chapter 2

  She took off the plastic badge with “Nell” on it, tossing it down on the table next to her keys. Her name choices had been limited to those attached to the fake Social Security numbers available from the underground dealer she’d bought the ID from. She’d had to have it to work, and this name at least she felt a personal connection with, so she’d taken it. She’d felt a qualm when she’d realized that in fact it probably belonged either to someone who had died, or some child not old enough to work yet, but since she’d never take the money out she figured it would be all right.

  “Nell!”

  It was Roger Donlan’s voice, calling out in his usual cheery way. Her landlord normally was in a good mood, although she suspected sometimes it was a cover for sadness, a feeling she understood all too well. His wife of forty years had died nearly ten years ago, and the man still missed her. She wondered what it must be like to have loved a spouse so much that nearly a decade later the pain was still so strong.

  She would feel that way about her brother, she knew. She would never get over losing Tris. She could only hope to deal with it as well as Roger Donlan had, building a life around the hole, a busy and full life.

  But Roger didn’t have the cloud hanging over him that she did, Nell told herself. She thought of herself as Nell Parker now. She’d felt well rid of the hated last name, along with the rest of her life when she’d taken off into a night howling with fifty-mile-per-hour Santa Ana winds. She liked Nell a lot better than she’d liked Tanya Jones Brown, and what she’d become.

  A shiver went through her as the memories rose up. It seemed as surreal now as it had then, and just as impossible. She remembered the moment when she’d stopped her car at a light, in total disbelief that she was sitting there shivering in clothes soaked with Tris’s blood.

  She still couldn’t believe it. Tristan had been her rock, her bulwark, her hero, since the day she’d been born. He’d played with her when most big brothers would have shrugged her off in disgust, he’d watched out for her when she’d begun to explore the world and he’d been her protector always. From bullies to boys with wicked intent, Tris had always been there for her.

  And she would mourn him, grieve for him, forever, just as Roger grieved his lost love.

  “Nell? You there?” The words were accompanied by a polite tap on her door.

  “Here,” she called out, and went to open the door.

  Roger was seventy-two years old, but he looked at least a decade younger, maybe more. He was active, strong and Tanya wished she had half his energy. The man worked from dawn to dark, and his property here showed it. He dabbled in topiary, as evidenced by the pair of leafy, rearing horses that guarded his driveway, he had a garden and orchard the envy of the whole town and he was cook enough to make good use of his yield.

  He’d also converted her place, once a small, four-stall barn, into a comfortable granny flat, doing the work himself. Quality work; it was solid, well thought out, and she was lucky it had been available at a rent she could afford. She suspected he was giving her a break on the price, but she hadn’t been in a position to argue about it.

  “Fresh stuffed artichokes tonight,” he said. “And the last of the Copper River salmon from the freezer. Join me?”

  “Love to. I’ll bring the wine.”

  It was the only repayment he would allow her. They’d fallen into a habit of sharing a meal at least once a week, and she’d taken to stocking a couple of bottles of wine for those occasions, after learning he loved to experiment with different kinds and was anything but a wine snob.

  “Always looking for that unexpected little treasure,” he said.

  Yes, she would do well to model herself on her gruff, kindhearted landlord.

  It was after the luscious meal, when they were savoring the last of the surprisingly good—and cheap—bottle of Pinot Grigio she’d brought, that she steeled herself to ment
ion the man in the café. She was hesitant, somewhat selfishly. She’d found a sort of…not peace, that had eluded her, but a sort of calm here. A place to search for that peace. And she didn’t want it disrupted. On the other hand, Roger was giving her such a deal on the rent, she couldn’t help wondering if his finances could use the boost of even a couple of weeks of renting out his dock.

  She had no right to withhold the opportunity, she told herself, and brought it up.

  “A guy in the café today was asking about renting a berth, to do some work on his boat. The marina’s full, even the guest slips.”

  “Usually is, this time of year,” Roger said, looking at her over the rim of his glass. “You thinking of mine?”

  “Just mentioning it.” She had the feeling Roger would do it as a favor to her, if he thought it was a friend of hers, so she hastened to clarify. “He’s just a guy who’s been coming in for two or three days. Not somebody I know.”

  “You like him?”

  “I don’t know him,” she repeated. “He seems nice enough, now that I’ve talked to him a little. When he first came in he…spooked me.”

  Roger set down his wineglass, frowning. “Spooked you?”

  She shrugged; she hadn’t really meant to say that. She knew it was just her own wariness that made her feel every stranger was watching her. It was one of the reasons she’d ended up here in Port Murphy; the small size of the town made strangers easier to spot.

  “He’s probably all right. I’m just cautious.”

  “I know.” The old man’s expression softened.

  “I’ll tell him whatever you want,” she said. “Like I said, I just thought I’d mention it. It would only be for a week or two, he said.”

  Roger studied her, and she almost held her breath, hoping he’d let the subject of trust drop. After a moment, he did. “What kind of boat?”

  “Power. Forty-three feet, he said.”

  “That would fit.”

  She nodded. “You said yours was forty-five, so I figured.”

  “Depends. The turn’s a little tight. But if he’s any good at maneuvering, it should be fine.”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t get into details with him. Didn’t want him getting his hopes up, or ending up putting pressure on you, so I didn’t even tell him who you were.”

  Roger lifted a brow at her. “Would he bother you, being around?”

  “I could avoid him for two weeks.” She ran a finger around the stem of her glass. “I don’t know what he’d be able to pay. He’s a live-aboard, but apparently by choice.”

  “Rootless or feckless?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave him the best smile she could manage. “Could go either way.”

  “When’s he there?”

  “Mornings, usually. Right after we open.”

  Roger nodded. “I’ll come in. Feel him out. Get a gauge on him before I commit to anything.”

  She nodded. “Just talk to him and see what you think.”

  “I’ll do that. I’m a pretty good judge of people.”

  Not quite as good as you think, or I wouldn’t be here, she thought.

  Later, she stood on the dock in question and watched the sunset over the Olympic Mountains. Tris would like it here, she thought. But he would have lasted about a week and then been ready to head back to the city. Any city. He had appreciated nature, but Tristan Jones was a city boy through and through; he fed on the chaos, thrived on the pulsing energy. It was his natural habitat as much as this was for the bald eagle she spotted gliding toward the trees in the fading light, and he always went back.

  Or had, she amended, painfully correcting herself yet again. You’d think she’d be used to it by now, after all these months. But she wasn’t. How did you think about a person as alive and vital as Tris in the past tense?

  She sank down onto the dock, huddling into herself as the pain swept her anew. It wasn’t cold, yet she shivered as she sat there, arms wrapped around herself, a poor substitute for the arms she’d never feel again. Her big brother, laughing at her, teasing her endlessly, yet ever and always there for her when she needed him.

  She sat there for a long time, putting off going to bed. Because sleep was no longer welcome in her life. Sleep meant dreams. Bad ones. During the day she could at least fight to keep them at bay; at night, they had free rein and she was helpless against them.

  But eventually she would make herself go. She was nearing exhaustion, she could feel it. Two or three hours of sleep a night—if she was lucky—wasn’t cutting it.

  Besides, she thought as she finally got to her feet and walked back toward the little garden house, nightmares were the least of what she deserved.

  The little building was painted yellow and white, bright, clean and cheerful against the sometimes gray weeks on end of the northwest. It looked charming and welcoming, and in fact she felt more at home here than she ever had in that big, cold McMansion behind wrought, or, as she’d always thought of them, overwrought iron gates.

  But there was no ease of welcome for her here, or anywhere. She didn’t deserve that, either. She had done this, to herself and to Tris. Her beloved big brother had died in her arms, and it was her stupid emotions and poor judgment that had killed him.

  She might as well have pulled the trigger herself.

  Chapter 3

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Between yawns—the phone had rung a few minutes after 5:00 a.m.—Cooper explained it all to Jones: the hair, the contact lenses and why he was sure anyway. Then to confirm, he sent the photo he’d surreptitiously snapped with his smartphone, a profile shot showing the mole just in front of her right ear.

  “Yes,” Tristan finally agreed, “it looks like her, despite the changes. The mole is in the right place, and her chin, and nose, those are right. How long has she been there?”

  “Just over six months. Arrived on the same day we know she got off a bus in Seattle, via a bus from Portland. It’s her, no matter what she’s calling herself now.”

  “What is she calling herself now?”

  “Nell Parker.”

  Cooper heard Tristan Jones’s breath catch.

  “That means something?”

  “Nell was our mother’s middle name.”

  Cooper grinned, although the man couldn’t see it. “You really believe me now?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a world of satisfaction in the man’s voice, and Cooper thought this was going to be a hell of a reunion. But he was curious about something, so he asked.

  “So, why the disguise? Why would she do that?”

  “Tanya was always doing that,” he said. “Even as a kid, she played at being different people. One time she dyed her hair pink and blue. Freaked the family out, but I think she thought it made her more interesting. She liked the attention.”

  The mousy, subdued persona didn’t seem like someone looking for attention, but Tanya Jones Brown likely wasn’t the same woman she’d once been. Nobody went through something like that and came out unchanged.

  “She seems…awfully nervous.”

  “I told you, Tanya is high-strung and high maintenance. She has been ever since our mother died, and I’m sure what’s happened has only made that worse. I’m just glad you actually found her. Thank God.”

  Cooper didn’t have the patience for high maintenance, couldn’t imagine loving someone like that. Yet women like that seemed to own the men in their lives. And this one had her husband and her brother dancing to her tune, it seemed. At least, the woman in that photo did. He wasn’t so sure about the woman he’d been watching for three days.

  But he quashed the thought as he talked to the man paying the bills, although in the back of his mind he was figuring that Jones was being kind because he loved his sister, and that Tanya Jones Brown was probably even worse than he said. He just hadn’t seen it yet, which puzzled him.

  “So, what do you want me to do now?”

  “Watch her
. Closely. Don’t say anything—anything—to her about me, don’t tell her who you are or why you’re there. But don’t lose her. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I’m in London.”

  “London?” Cooper said, startled. But at least it explained the crack-of-dawn call; it was probably lunchtime there.

  “Yes. Meetings. It’s going to take a few days to extricate myself.”

  “Wow. Nice job.”

  Jones had told him his brother-in-law had given him a job after he’d recuperated, but Cooper hadn’t known it involved globe-trotting. He wondered if Jeremy Brown had done it out of generosity or guilt, then decided it didn’t matter much in the long run. The two men obviously had at least one thing in common; they loved Tanya.

  “I’ll call you when I’m back stateside and give you a better idea. Just don’t lose her!”

  “I’ll stay on her like those contact lenses,” he promised.

  After they’d disconnected, Cooper sat on the deck of The Peacemaker, looking toward the mountains until the sun began to rise, painting the mountains with the orange and pink of dawn’s brush. He watched quietly for a long time, thinking he understood what Tanya/Nell had found here.

  And trying to somehow reconcile the portrait her brother painted of a changeable, attention-demanding woman with the quiet, seemingly attention-avoiding woman he’d found here.

  Not that it mattered. His job was to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t vanish again. So, while he would keep to his client’s wishes and not say anything to her about why he was here, or about her brother, even that he was still alive, there was no reason he couldn’t maintain the contact he’d already made.

  Which might, he realized, be easier said than done. So far it had been like stalking that hummingbird he’d thought of: one second there, gone the next. But he had a foot in the door now, and he’d be a fool to give that up.

  It took everything she had not to whirl around to look when she heard the sound of a motorcycle engine winding up behind her. It wouldn’t be him, she told herself, this bike was coming out from one of the houses on the bluff above the cove.