Shattered Haven

by Carol J. Post

  He met her gaze. “Power boats get you there faster, but this is a lot more peaceful.”

  She slowly turned the wheel, letting the lines out on both sails, and the boat came around. According to the compass, they were now headed due north. On this tack, the heel angle was much less.

  “What do you say we break out that clam chowder?” She settled herself onto the seat next to him and propped one sneaker-clad foot against the wheel.

  He reached into the plastic bag and handed her two Styrofoam containers, a round one filled with hot chowder and a square one with salad. He hadn’t thought he was hungry until he had walked into Tony’s and smelled the tantalizing aromas. And he had been dying to dig in ever since. On taking the first spoonful, flavor exploded in his mouth. Spicy. It was delicious.

  He looked up to find Allison watching him.

  “You like it?”

  “Mmm. No wonder it’s famous.”

  He took another bite and looked around them. Several boats dotted the water, bobbing in the waves, their occupants fishing. One boat motored toward the open Gulf, nose pointed at an upward angle, a spray of water behind. Another seemed to be heading the same direction he and Allison were. Soon it would overtake them. Sailboats were graceful and beautiful, but they weren’t fast.

  “How long have you had your boat?”

  “Four years. We bought it up in Rhode Island.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, my husband and I.”

  His spoon stopped halfway to his mouth, and his heart sank. Husband? Not ex? How had he missed that? “You’re married?”

  “Widowed. He was killed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Maybe that was why she was so guarded. Maybe she was still grieving. “How long ago?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  She didn’t volunteer any further information, and he didn’t ask. She was a private person. That much he had gathered. But her simple He was killed raised a lot of questions. What happened to him, and why was she keeping it a secret? If it was an accident, she would have said so. If he was a military man killed in combat, she would have mentioned that, too.

  “So how did you get your boat down here?”

  “I sailed it.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  She acted as if it was no big deal. But single-handing a sailboat from New England to Florida was an impressive accomplishment. That would be something like twelve hundred miles.

  No, farther than that. “You would have had to sail around the tip of Florida.”

  She grinned over at him. “Yep. There’s no Florida Canal.”

  Okay, sixteen hundred miles. “I’m impressed.”

  “I took my time. Mostly stayed in the Intracoastal.”

  “It’s still impressive. You’re a pretty resourceful lady.”

  When they had finished eating, she held the bag open while he stuffed all their trash into it. Then he tied it up and sought out the boat he had noticed earlier. It should have passed them by now.

  Instead, it was still behind them, holding the same distance, not moving closer or falling off. What powerboat maintains a steady five or six knots? Uneasiness sifted over him. Was this person watching her every time she went out on the water?

  Allison dropped her foot and stepped back up to the wheel. “You want to give it a try?”

  “Sure. I have no clue what I’m doing, but if you can do it with your foot, I should be able to handle it with both hands.”

  “Bring us around that way. I’m going to take us out farther.”

  As the nose of the boat came around, she picked up the line to the front sail and pulled, bringing it more in line with the side of the boat, then did the same with the mainsail. The boat again tilted sideways.

  “Tell me what you’re doing.”

  “The closer you sail to the wind, the more tightly you sheet the sails, and the farther we heel.”

  Suddenly the sails began to flap violently, and the boat righted itself.

  “Whoa, not that close.” She put her hand over his. “Back off some. You have to stay about forty-five degrees off the wind.”

  A few seconds later, the sails filled and the boat heeled.

  “Okay, there. Feel it?”

  He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. She was standing so close, her hand still over his, her arm pressed against his all the way down. It was hard to focus. Was she as aware of him as he was of her? Probably not.

  She dropped her hand. “You can feel it in the wheel where you need to be.”

  “If you say so.”

  But with another thirty minutes of sailing, he understood.

  “So your other charter customers, do you bring them out this far?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “I must be special.”

  She grinned. “You’re a special case, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

  He laughed and poked her in the ribs, and she twisted away from him. Just as he had hoped, he was starting to see the real Allison. And he liked what he was seeing.

  He redirected his thoughts and focused on sailing. The swells were bigger out here and farther apart. But Tranquility had no problem maneuvering them. She glided smoothly up one side and down the other.

  He turned around to see how far they had come. The coastline was visible in the distance. Just barely. So was something else—the boat he had seen earlier. Now he had no doubt. They were being followed.

  “Do you have any binoculars?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “See that boat?” He cast a glance behind them. “It’s been following us all afternoon.”

  Her head swiveled around, and when her eyes again met his, they were wide with worry. “Are you sure? I mean, maybe he just happens to be going the same way we are.”

  “I’m positive. He was following us when we were headed north, paralleling the coast. Now that we’re on a west-northwest heading, he’s still there, matching our speed and everything. It can’t be coincidence.”

  She trapped her lower lip between her teeth and headed below for the binoculars. When she returned, she handed them to him and took the wheel.

  He lifted them to his face and turned until what he was looking for filled the circular lenses. The boat was white. Like almost every other boat out there. If there was a name on it, he couldn’t see if from that angle. Probably wouldn’t be able to see it from that distance, either, even with the binoculars. A single figure stood at the helm.

  “What do you see?”

  “White boat, looks like only one person. That’s all I can see.”

  He lowered the binoculars.

  When her eyes met his, she still had her lower lip between her teeth. “We should probably be heading back.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” On a sailboat several miles out was a vulnerable place to be.

  She turned the boat into the wind, and it slowed to an almost dead stop before coming around and again catching the wind. The boom swung across, and she sheeted the front sail on the other side. The other boat did a complete one-eighty. As expected.

  Allison looked up at him, her eyes filled with respect. “You’re pretty observant.”

  “It’s my job to notice things.”

  And he was making it his job to catch this guy.

  The moment he learned an intruder had come into her house, those protective instincts had kicked in. But when the creep came into her bedroom and put a knife to her throat, he crossed a line.

  Blake was determined to bring him down.

  SEVEN

  Allison sat on the living room couch, legs curled under her and phone lying in her lap. She had just finished an hour-long conversation with her mom. Brin
ks lay relaxed, but attentive, at her feet. Contrary to Blake’s expectations, he seemed to take his assignment as guard dog seriously, refusing to leave her side from the time he arrived in the evening until Blake picked him up in the morning.

  She leaned forward to give him a pat and laid her phone on the coffee table. She and her mom had done the usual catching up. The ultimate social butterfly, her mom’s schedule was a flurry of activity—ladies’ golf on Tuesdays, bridge on Thursdays and numerous other engagements that never let up.

  Allison frowned. At one time, she had been a part of that—active, well liked and respected by the people who “matter.” Then came Tom’s murder, and she had gone from socialite to pariah overnight. At least when Tom’s criminal activities became public, she was living far enough from her parents that their circles of friends didn’t overlap. So her mom was able to maintain her place in Boston society without the whispers and sideways glances.

  She stretched out her legs and, crossing them at the ankles, rested them on the coffee table next to her phone. After getting a rundown on her mom’s activities, she had told her about the break-ins, even mentioning that she now had a part-time dog. Which required telling her about Blake, something she instantly regretted. When her mom was involved, every conversation eventually cycled around to You know, honey, it’s been almost three years...

  The fact that she had no interest in dating seemed to bother her mother to no end, and no matter how much she insisted there was nothing between her and Blake except friendship, the note of hope in her mother’s voice was unmistakable.

  Unfortunately, her mom didn’t have her aunt’s number, but her dad might. It was a start. If she could get a hold of her aunt, she would be able to speak with her cousin.

  Brinks suddenly tensed, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

  Allison swung her feet to the floor. “What’s the matter, boy?” Although she tried to keep her tone light, a distinct note of tension underlined her words. Anything that made Brinks uneasy made her uneasy.

  The dog rose to his feet and stood straight and stiff, facing the front door. Suddenly he charged toward the foyer amidst a frenzy of ferocious barking. A half second later, the doorbell rang.

  Allison pushed herself to her feet and moved toward the living room window. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she managed to hold the panic at bay. There was something comforting about a growling Doberman with bared teeth. Brinks was a better security system than Blake gave him credit for.

  She moved the sheer curtains and miniblinds aside and glanced over at the porch. A breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding spilled out in sudden relief. Blake.

  She dropped the edge of the curtain and hurried into the foyer. “It’s okay, Brinks.”

  The dog quit barking, but the low growl continued until she opened the door. Finally convinced that it was in fact okay, Brinks stepped forward and nuzzled Blake’s hand.

  A seed of worry sprouted in her gut. “Is my boat okay?”

  “Your boat’s fine. I came because I had an idea.”

  “At nine o’clock at night?”

  “Hey, I take ’em when I can get ’em.”

  She backed away and motioned him inside. “So what’s your idea?”

  “The numbers.” He pushed the door shut behind him and locked it. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what they might mean.”

  Anticipation coursed through her. “Yes?”

  “We know they’re not coordinates. They’re too high. But I think I might have it.” He was talking fast, excitement shining in his eyes. “You believe the paper was put there by your family, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What do you have here, left by your family, with lots of numbers?”

  Her eyes widened. “The library.”

  “Bingo. All those books, each of them numbered. And pages within the books numbered.”

  She pursed her lips. “What about the letters? We’ve got two Rs and a G.”

  “Maybe the author’s last name?”

  She spun away from him and headed toward the library at a half jog. Fortunately, she had just finished getting the books organized and back onto the shelves yesterday.

  She moved to the corner and started on the top shelf, running an index finger along the bindings. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. She dropped her hand. After thirty-two, it jumped straight into the sixties. Most of the eighties were missing, too.

  “There’s no forty-five. Or eighty-seven, for that matter.”

  “Do you have a computer and internet access?”

  “My laptop is on my desk in the den.”

  By the time he returned, she had moved to the far end of the side wall. “The Catholic Church.”

  “What?”

  “Two hundred eighty-two in the Dewey Decimal System is apparently the Catholic Church. This one is History of the Catholic Church.” She pulled a book off the shelf and thumbed through it. There didn’t appear to be any papers tucked inside. She put it back on the shelf and pulled out another one. “There are two more: A History of the Popes and Catechism of the Catholic Church. But none of the authors have Rs or Gs for initials.”

  She checked each of them anyway. Nothing was tucked between the pages, not even a bookmark. She glanced over at Blake, who sat at the desk, staring at the computer screen.

  “What are you looking up?”

  “The Dewey Decimal System. Wikipedia has the entire list.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Well, I know why you struck out on the lower numbers. Eighty-seven is collections in Slavic languages. Your grandparents likely didn’t speak Russian or Polish.”

  “No, I’m afraid we’re English, with a little German mixed in. Not a lick of Russian or Polish that I know of.” She put the Catholic Church book back on the shelf. “What about forty-five?”

  “There is no forty-five. Forty is unassigned, and from there it goes into the fifties—magazines, journals and serials.”

  “Maybe the eighty-seven and forty-five are page numbers.” She pulled down the first book she had looked at and skimmed page eighty-seven. It didn’t hold anything that could possibly lead to buried treasure. Forty-five didn’t, either.

  She checked each of the other two books and put the last one back on the shelf. “I’m not coming up with anything. If there’s something here, it’s really obscure.”

  “There’s still one hundred sixty-five, but at this point, I’m not holding out much hope. One sixty-five is...fallacies and sources of error.”

  She took two steps to her right and located the number. There was just one book. She pulled it off the shelf. “Exegetical Fallacies. Sounds deep.” It didn’t offer any more help than the others had. She sighed and plopped down on the couch. “Okay, Sherlock, what next?”

  Blake crossed the room to sit next to her. “That was my idea. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Well, I’m plumb out of ideas. But I did call my parents to see if they could get me in touch with my cousin, or at least my aunt.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Dad had gone to dinner with a client and wasn’t back yet. Mom thought he might have my aunt’s number.”

  “What kind of work does your dad do?”

  “Attorney. Corporate law, not the ambulance chasing kind.” She grinned over at him. “And my mom stays busy with her charities and social activities. And spending my dad’s money.”

  “Sounds like a good arrangement.”

  “Yeah, they’re happy. How about your parents?”

  “My mom works days as an administrative assistant for the Dallas County Sheriff’s Department. Her nights she spends worrying about me and my sister. If more than four days pass without talking to both of us, she’s convinced that something horrible has happened
.” Instead of annoyance, his tone was filled with affection. His gaze flicked over her. “She would like you.”

  Warmth filled her chest. Had he told his mother about her? Probably not. Theirs wasn’t that kind of a relationship. She had mentioned him to her mother, but that was just to tell her about Brinks.

  “What about your dad? Is he in law enforcement, too?”

  “Used to be. He was killed in the line of duty when I was twelve.”

  “I’m sorry. That had to have been hard.”

  “Yeah, it was. But he was a hero. As a kid, I always wanted to be just like him.”

  There was a wistfulness in his tone, as if he was remembering a long-held dream that he had never been able to realize. Why did he have to be so hard on himself?

  “As far as the hero part, I’d say you succeeded.”

  “Not hardly.” He cast her a doubtful frown, but his dark eyes held underlying pain.

  She studied him, trying to hear all the words he’d left unsaid. His angst wasn’t just about his injury. It went deeper than that. Something happened that night that he refused to talk about.

  “The guy who shot you—where is he now?”

  “In prison. For a long time.”

  “Then I’d say you did what you set out to accomplish, and the streets are a little safer. That’s my definition of a hero.”

  He pushed himself to his feet with a half snort and began walking toward the door. “Trust me. I’m no hero.”

  And she followed, frowning in exasperation.

  Why did the men in her life have to hold themselves to such impossible standards?

  * * *

  Blake drew in a deep breath, savoring the tantalizing aromas drifting through the park. With the sun high overhead, it was a little on the warm side, but attendees of the Cedar Key Seafood Festival were still enjoying the remnants of the cool front that had come through earlier in the week.

  Tents were set up along the sidewalk bordering the park, serving everything from seafood spread to grilled shrimp to crab cakes. That was where he and Allison and Brinks currently stood—the crab cake line. It was long, but according to Allison, Thelma McCain’s homemade crab cakes were worth the wait. And at two bucks each, the price couldn’t be beat.