Forever Blue

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Blue McCoy.

  Rumour had it he was coming back to town for his stepbrother's wedding.

  Blue McCoy.

  With dark blond hair and dark blue eyes that burned with an intensity that made her heart stand still, Blue McCoy had haunted all of Lucy's adolescent dreams. He was the hero of her teenaged years—a loner, quiet, dark and dangerous, capable of just about anything.

  Including winning beautiful Jenny Lee Beaumont's heart.

  Except Jenny Lee wasn't going to marry Blue McCoy on Saturday afternoon. She was marrying his stepbrother, Gerry. He was two years older than Blue, with a quicksilver smile, movie-star good looks and a happy-go-lucky attitude. Some people might have found Gerry the more attractive of the McCoy boys.

  Apparently Jenny Lee had.

  Lucy found a parking place a block down from the Grill and turned off the patrol car's powerful engine. On second thought, she turned the key again and pushed the buttons to raise the power windows. The summer sky looked threatening. Lucy was willing to bet it was going to pour before she finished her lunch.

  She checked to make sure her sidearm was secured in her belt holster as she hurried down the sidewalk. She was already ten minutes late, and her friend Sarah's self-imposed work schedule didn't allow her to take more than a hour for lunch.

  The Grill was crowded, as usual, but Sarah was saving a table. Lucy slid into the booth, across from her friend.

  "I'm sorry I'm late."

  Sarah just smiled. "I would have ordered lunch," she said. "But Iris hasn't worked her way around to this part of the room."

  Lucy leaned back against the plastic cushion of the bench seat. She let out a burst of air that lifted her bangs up off her forehead. "I haven't stopped running since 7 a.m." She eyed her friend. Sarah looked tired and hot, her dark hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail, dark circles under her hazel eyes. "How are you?"

  "I'm nine months pregnant with a child that has obviously decided not to be born until he's old enough to vote," Sarah said dryly. "It's ninety-seven degrees in the shade, my back hurts when I lie down, my sciatic nerve acts up when I sit, I have a review deadline that I can't possibly make because I've spent the past three days cooking instead of writing, my husband has been home from his shift at the hospital four hours in the past forty-eight, my mother-in-law calls every five minutes to see if my water has broken, I miss living in Boston and this is the first chance I've had in nearly a week to complain."

  Lucy grinned. "Then don't stop now."

  "No, no, I'm done," Sarah said, fanning herself with her napkin.

  "Afternoon, ladies." Iris took her pen from behind her ear and held it poised over her ordering pad. "What can I get you today?"

  "I'd like some marzipan," Sarah said.

  Iris sighed good-naturedly, pushing a stray red curl back up into her bun. "Honey, I told you before, if it's not on the menu..."

  "I need some marzipan," Sarah said almost desperately. "Almond paste. Or maybe a piece of my mother's fruitcake. I haven't been able to think about anything else for days...."

  "We'll both take a turkey club," Lucy said smoothly, "on whole wheat, mustard, no mayo, extra pickles."

  "Sorry, hon," Iris murmured to Sarah as she moved on to the next table.

  "My life," Sarah intoned dramatically, "is an endless string of disappointments."

  Lucy had to laugh. "You're married to the nicest guy in town, you're about to have a baby, you just won a prize for your music and you're disappointed?"

  Sarah leaned forward. "I'm insanely jealous of you," she said. "You still have a waistline. You can see your feet without craning your neck. You-" She broke off, staring across the room toward the door. "Don't look now, but I think we're being invaded."

  Lucy turned around as the glass door to the grill swung open and a man in green army fatigues, carrying a heavy-looking green duffel bag casually over one shoulder, came inside.

  He was clearly a soldier, except on second glance his uniform wasn't quite inspection ready. The first thing Lucy noticed was his arms. The sleeves had been torn from his green shirt at the shoulders and his arms were muscular and strong. He looked as if he could easily bench-press three times his body weight. He wore his shirt open at the collar and unbuttoned halfway down his broad chest. His fatigue pants fit him comfortably, but instead of clunky black army boots, he wore only sandals on his feet.

  He had sunglasses on, but his gaze swept quickly around the room and Lucy imagined that he didn't miss much.

  His hair was thick and a dark, sandy blond.

  And his face was one she recognized.

  Lucy would have known Blue McCoy anywhere. That strong chin, his firm, unsmiling mouth, those rugged cheekbones and straight nose. Twelve years of living had added power and strength to his already strong face. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, adding a sense of compassion or wisdom to his unforgivingly stern features.

  He had been good-looking as a teenaged boy. As a man, he was impossibly handsome.

  Lucy was staring. She couldn't help herself. Blue McCoy was back in town, larger than life.

  He finished his quick inspection of the room and his eyes returned to her. As Lucy watched, Blue took off his sunglasses. His eyes were still the brightest shade of blue she'd ever seen in her life, and as he met her gaze she felt frozen in place, hypnotized.

  He nodded at her, just once, still unsmiling, and then Iris breezed past him.

  "Sit anywhere, hon!" she called out to him.

  The spell was broken. Blue looked away from Lucy and she turned back to the table and Sarah.

  "Do you know him?" Sarah asked, her sharp eyes missing nothing—particularly not the blush that was heating Lucy's cheeks. "You do, don't you?"

  "Not really, no," Lucy said, then admitted, "I mean, I know who he is, but..." She shook her head.

  "Who is he?"

  Lucy glanced up again, but Blue was busy stashing his duffel bag underneath a table on the far side of the room. "Blue McCoy." Lucy spoke softly, as if he might overhear even from across the noisy restaurant.

  "That's Gerry McCoy's brother? He looks nothing like him."

  "They're stepbrothers," Lucy explained. "Blue's mother married Gerry's father, only she died about five months after the wedding. Mr. McCoy adopted Blue shortly after that. The way I hear it, neither Mr. McCoy nor Blue was happy with that arrangement. Apparently they didn't get along too well, but Blue had nowhere else to go."

  "I guess not, since he didn't make it back into town when Mr. McCoy died a few years ago," Sarah commented.

  "Gerry told me Blue was part of Desert Storm," Lucy said. "He couldn't get leave, not then, and Gerry didn't want to hold up the funeral, not indefinitely like that."

  "Gerry's brother is in the army?"

  "Navy," Lucy corrected her. "He's in the Special Forces—a Navy SEAL."

  "A what?"

  "SEAL," Lucy said. "It stands for Sea, Air and Land. SEALs are like supercommandos. They're experts in everything from... I don't know... underwater demolition to parachute assaults to... piloting state-of-the-art jets. They have these insane training sessions where they learn to work as a team under incredible stress. There's this one week—Hell Week—where they're allowed only four hours of sleep all week. They have to sleep in fifteen-minute segments, while air-raid sirens are wailing. If they quit during Hell week, they're out of the program. It's pretty scary stuff. Only the toughest and most determined men make the grade and become SEALs. It's a real status symbol—for obvious reasons."

  Sarah was gazing across the room, a speculative light in her eyes. "You seem to have acquired an awful lot of information about a man you claim you don't know."

  "I've read about SEALs and the training they go through. That's all."

  "Hmm." Sarah lifted one delicate eyebrow. "Before or after Gerry's brother joined the navy?"

  Lucy shrugged, trying hard to look casual. "So I had a crush on the guy in high school. Big deal."

&nbs
p; Sarah rested her chin in her hand. "Out of all the people in this place, he nods at you," she remarked. "Did you date him?"

  Lucy couldn't help laughing. "Not a chance. I was three years younger, and he was..."

  "What?"

  Iris approached the table, carrying two enormous sandwiches and a basket of French fries. Lucy smiled her thanks at the waitress, but waited for her to leave before answering Sarah's question.

  "He was going out with Jenny Lee."

  "Beaumont...?" Sarah's eyes lit up. "You mean the same Jenny Lee who's marrying his brother on Saturday?" At Lucy's nod, she chuckled. "This is getting too good."

  "You didn't know?" Lucy asked. "I thought everyone in town knew. It seems it's all anyone's talking about—whether or not Blue McCoy will show up to the wedding of his stepbrother and his high-school sweetheart."

  "Apparently the answer to that question is yes," Sarah said, glancing across the room at the man in uniform.

  Lucy took a bite of her turkey sandwich, carefully not turning around to look at this man she found so fascinating. Sarah was right. The question about whether or not Blue would attend Gerry's wedding had been answered. Now the town would be abuzz in speculation, wondering if Blue was going to create a disturbance or rise to his feet when the preacher said "speak now or forever hold your peace."

  The temptation proved too intense, and Lucy glanced over her shoulder. Blue was eating his lunch and reading the past week's edition of the Hatboro Creek Gazette. His blond hair fell across his forehead, almost into his eyes, and he pushed it back with a smooth motion that caused the muscles in his right arm to ripple. As if he could feel her watching him, he looked up and directly into her eyes.

  Lucy's stomach did circus tricks as she quickly, guiltily, looked away. God, you would think she was fifteen again and sneaking around the marina where Blue worked, hoping for a peek at him. But he hadn't noticed her then and he certainly wouldn't notice her now. She was still decidedly not the Jenny Lee Beaumont type.

  "What was his mother thinking when she named him Blue?" Sarah wondered aloud.

  "His real name is Carter," Lucy said. "Blue is a nickname—it's short for 'Blue Streak.'"

  "Don't tell me," Sarah said. "He talks all the time."

  Lucy had to laugh at that. Blue McCoy was not known for running on at the mouth. "I don't know when he first got the nickname," she said, "but he's a runner. He broke all kinds of speed records for sprinting and long-distance races back in junior high and high school."

  Sarah nodded, peering around Lucy to get another peek at Blue.

  Lucy's police walkie-talkie went off at nearly the exact instant the skies opened up with a crash of thunder.

  "Report of a 415 in progress at the corner of Main and Willow," Annabella's voice squawked over the radio's tinny speaker. "Possible 10-91 A. Lucy, what's your location?"

  Main and Willow was less than a block and a half from the Grill, in the opposite direction of her patrol car. It would take her less time to jog over there than it would to get to her car and drive. Lucy quickly swallowed a half-chewed bite of her sandwich and thumbed the talk switch to her radio.

  "The Grill," she said, already halfway out of the booth. "I'm on it. But unless you want me to stop at my car to check my code book, you better tell me what a 10-91A is."

  The police dispatcher, Annabella Sawyer, was overly fond of the California police ten code. Never mind that they were in South Carolina. Never mind the fact that Hatboro Creek was so small that they didn't need half the codes most of the time. Never mind that the police officers weren't required to memorize any kind of code. Annabella liked using them. She clearly had watched too many episodes of "Top Cops."

  Lucy knew what a 415 was, though. A disturbance. She'd heard that number enough times. Even a town as tiny as Hatboro Creek had plenty of those.

  "A 10-91A is a report of a vicious animal," Annabella's voice squawked back.

  Lucy swore under her breath. Leroy Hurley's brute of a dog had no doubt gotten loose again.

  "Be careful," Sarah said.

  "I'll wrap your sandwich," Iris called as Lucy pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  The rain soaked her instantly, as if someone had turned a fire hose on her from above. Her hat was back in her car, and Lucy wished for both of them—hat and car—as she headed toward Willow Street at a quick trot.

  With any luck, this sudden skyburst had sent that 10-91A scurrying for shelter. With any luck, the 415 had ceased to exist. With any luck...

  No such luck. Leroy Hurley's snarling Doberman had treed Merle Groggin on Andy Hayes's front lawn. Andy was shouting for Merle to get the hell out of his expensive Japanese maple. Merle was brandishing his hunting knife and shouting for Leroy to get his damned dog locked up or put down, and Leroy was laughing his size forty-six-waist pants off.

  It was decidedly a bonafide 415.

  As Lucy approached Leroy Hurley, his huge dog caught sight of her and turned. Her stomach tightened at the animal's threatening growl. She liked dogs. Most dogs. But this one had one mean streak. Just like his master.

  "Leroy," Lucy said, nodding a greeting to the big man, as if they weren't both standing in a torrential downpour. "What did I tell you last week about keeping your dog chained in your yard?"

  The Doberman shifted its weight, glancing from Lucy to Merle Groggin, as if deciding who would make a tastier lunch.

  Leroy shrugged and grinned. "Can't help it if he breaks free."

  She could smell the unmistakable scent of whiskey on his breath. Damn, he got meaner than ever when he'd been drinking.

  "Yes, you can," Lucy said, taking her ticket pad from her pocket. It was instantly soaked. "He's your dog. You're responsible for him. And in fact, to help you remember that, I'm going to slap you with a fifty-dollar fine."

  The big man's smile faded. "I'm the only thing standing between you walking away from here in one piece and you getting chewed," he said, "and you're gonna fine me?"

  Lucy stared at Leroy. "Are you threatening me, Hurley?" she asked, her voice low and tight but carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. "Because if you're threatening me, I'll run both you and your dog in so fast your head will spin."

  Something in Leroy's eyes shifted, and Lucy felt a surge of triumph. He believed her. She'd called his bluff, he believed her and was going to back down, despite the whiskey that was screwing up the very small amount of good judgment he had to begin with.

  "Call your dog off," Lucy said calmly.

  But before Leroy could comply, all hell broke loose.

  Andy Hayes fired a booming shot from his double-barrel shotgun, sending Merle plunging down from the tree. The Doberman leaped toward the fallen man, who struck at the dog with his big knife, drawing blood. With a howl, the animal dashed away down the street.

  "Stay the hell away from my tree!" Andy shouted.

  "You stabbed my dog!" Leroy Hurley roared at Merle.

  "You coulda killed me," Merle shouted at Andy as he hurried out of the man's yard. "Why the hell didn't you just shoot the damned dog?"

  Leroy moved threateningly toward Merle. "If that dog dies, I'm gonna string you up by your—"

  "Hold it right there!" Lucy planted herself firmly between Merle and Leroy. She raised her voice so it would carry to the house. "Andy, you know I'm going to have to bring you in-reckless endangerment and unlawful discharge of a firearm. And as for you two—"

  "I hope that stupid animal does kick." Merle spoke to Leroy Hurley right through Lucy, as if she wasn't even there. "Because if it doesn't, I'm gonna come after it one of these nights and finish it off."

  "I ain't going nowhere," Andy proclaimed. "I got rights! I was protecting my property!"

  "Maybe I'll just finish you off first!" Leroy's fleshy face was florid with anger as he shouted at Merle.

  Lucy keyed the thumb switch on her radio. "Dispatcher, this is Officer Tait. I need backup, corner of Willow and—"

  Leroy Hurley pushed he
r aside with the sweep of one beefy arm, and Lucy went down, hard, on her rear in the street, dropping the radio and her ticket pad in the mud. Leroy moved up the walkway to Andy's house with a speed surprising for such a large man, and as Lucy scrambled to her feet, he grabbed Andy's shotgun and pointed it at Merle.

  Merle ducked for cover behind Lucy, and Leroy swung the gun toward her.

  "Leroy, put that down," Lucy ordered, pushing her rain-soaked hair back from her face with her left hand as she unsnapped the safety buttons that held her sidearm in her belt holster with her right hand.

  "Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see 'em," Leroy ordered her.

  Lucy lifted her hands. Shoot. How could this have gotten so utterly out of control? And where the hell was that backup?

  Leroy was edging toward them; Merle was cowering behind her, using her as a shield; and for once Andy Hayes was silent.

  "Step away from Merle," Leroy growled at her.

  "Leroy, put the gun down before this goes too far," Lucy said again, trying to sound calm, to not let the desperation she was feeling show in her voice.

  "If you don't step away from him," Leroy vowed, his eyes wild, "I'll just blast a hole right through you."

  Dear God, he was serious. He raised the shotgun higher, closing one eye as he took aim directly at Lucy's chest. Her life flashed briefly and oh, so meaninglessly through her eyes as she stared into the barrel of that gun. She could very well die at this man's hands. Right here in the rain. And what would she have to show for her life? A six-month-old police badge. A liberal-arts degree from the state university. A computer business she no longer had any interest in. An empty house at the edge of town. No family, only a few friends...

  "Don't do this, Leroy," Lucy said, inching her hand back down toward her own gun. She didn't want to die. She hadn't even begun to live. Dammit, if Leroy Hurley was going to shoot her, she was going to die trying for her gun.

  "Freeze!" Leroy told her. "I said to freeze!"

  "Leroy, I'm holding an Uzi nine-millimeter submachine gun," a soft voice drawled from over Lucy's shoulder. "It looks small and unassuming, but if I move my trigger finger a fraction of an inch, with a firing rate of sixteen bullets per second, I can cut even a man as big as you in two."