had quieted things down
some. But the extra hours away from his desk taxed his leg and left him
with a backlog of paperwork.
Another reason why he should go home, ice his knee, and try to
plow through his pile of trade journals.
He stared out at the night, an ache in his chest that rivaled the pain in
his knee.
His sister’s innocent question ate away at his defenses. What about
that woman . . . Margaret somebody? Are you going to see her again?
50
He’d just make one more patrol swing, Caleb told himself. A lot of
people were on the road tonight after the end-of -year assembly. Once he
was sure they’d all made it home safely, he could . . .
Fire.
On the point. The glow struck through the scattered tree trunks lining
the road.
He felt the slow, heavy thud of his heart and shook his head in
disgust. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t there. Maggie. She hadn’t been
back any time these past three weeks. No chance in hell she had changed
her mind the one night he’d stayed away.
It was only kids again or clambakers. Still, Caleb had a
responsibility to check it out. Fires were allowed only in the camping and
picnic areas and by permit. He grimaced. Not to mention that if Whittaker
spotted the flames, the lawyer would raise holy hell.
The Jeep’s tires bumped off the road into sand and gravel. The
shoulder was deserted, the sky clear, the moon full and bright.
Caleb frowned at the empty shadows under the pines. There should
be other cars. Unless the party on the beach had come by boat?
He left his lights on and his motor running. In Portland, every police
car came equipped with a camcorder mounted on the dash. Not on
World’s End. Chief Roy Miller hadn’t bothered to keep up with
technology, and so far the town council had resisted springing for a piece
of fancy, newfangled equipment simply on the new chief’s say-so.
And maybe they had a point, Caleb acknowledged. He hardly needed
video of a clambake.
He eased out of the vehicle, feeling the muscles in his tired right leg
cramp and adjust as it took his weight. Something acrid tickled the back
of his throat. Something burning.
Burning, on the beach.
Not the clean fire of driftwood either, or the sea salt smell of a
clambake. This smell was awful, fuel and flesh, like the charred remains
51
of a Sunday roast or the smoldering wreck of his Humvee on the sun-blasted road to Baghdad.
Caleb broke out in a sweat triggered by smoke and memory. That
was okay, he was okay, he was riding beach patrol on World’s End, not
providing convoy security along the death corridor.
He reached for his gun anyway. Sucking in a very careful breath, he
entered the shadow of the trees.
Fire roared from a skeleton of blackened timbers: shafts of white
heat, tongues of orange flame. Red smoke boiled against a black
backdrop of sea and sky.
No beer cans. No blankets. No kids. No people at all.
There . Wavering against the glare, outlined by angry flames, a
figure—a man?—tall and thin and oddly fluid, stooped to drag another
stick from the heap at his feet.
The heap shifted. Caleb’s heart accelerated. Not sticks, then. In fact,
that almost looked like . . . He’d swear it looked like . . .
Jesus.
He brought his gun up, instinct and training taking over from his
brain. “Police! Don’t move.”
The figure froze above the crumpled bundle at his feet.
Sweat slicked the grip of Caleb’s gun. Okay. So . . . okay. He
focused on the crouching guy, not daring to drop his gaze to the silent
heap at the edge of the fire. Smoke carried the stink of burning across the
sand.
He breathed through his mouth. “Stand up. Slowly. Hands in the air,
where I can see ’em.”
The tall, dark figure wavered against the flames, hands creeping over
his head. Empty hands, Caleb noted with relief. He took a step forward.
And watched in horror as the figure whirled and leaped into the fire.
52
Caleb yelled and
some. But the extra hours away from his desk taxed his leg and left him
with a backlog of paperwork.
Another reason why he should go home, ice his knee, and try to
plow through his pile of trade journals.
He stared out at the night, an ache in his chest that rivaled the pain in
his knee.
His sister’s innocent question ate away at his defenses. What about
that woman . . . Margaret somebody? Are you going to see her again?
50
He’d just make one more patrol swing, Caleb told himself. A lot of
people were on the road tonight after the end-of -year assembly. Once he
was sure they’d all made it home safely, he could . . .
Fire.
On the point. The glow struck through the scattered tree trunks lining
the road.
He felt the slow, heavy thud of his heart and shook his head in
disgust. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t there. Maggie. She hadn’t been
back any time these past three weeks. No chance in hell she had changed
her mind the one night he’d stayed away.
It was only kids again or clambakers. Still, Caleb had a
responsibility to check it out. Fires were allowed only in the camping and
picnic areas and by permit. He grimaced. Not to mention that if Whittaker
spotted the flames, the lawyer would raise holy hell.
The Jeep’s tires bumped off the road into sand and gravel. The
shoulder was deserted, the sky clear, the moon full and bright.
Caleb frowned at the empty shadows under the pines. There should
be other cars. Unless the party on the beach had come by boat?
He left his lights on and his motor running. In Portland, every police
car came equipped with a camcorder mounted on the dash. Not on
World’s End. Chief Roy Miller hadn’t bothered to keep up with
technology, and so far the town council had resisted springing for a piece
of fancy, newfangled equipment simply on the new chief’s say-so.
And maybe they had a point, Caleb acknowledged. He hardly needed
video of a clambake.
He eased out of the vehicle, feeling the muscles in his tired right leg
cramp and adjust as it took his weight. Something acrid tickled the back
of his throat. Something burning.
Burning, on the beach.
Not the clean fire of driftwood either, or the sea salt smell of a
clambake. This smell was awful, fuel and flesh, like the charred remains
51
of a Sunday roast or the smoldering wreck of his Humvee on the sun-blasted road to Baghdad.
Caleb broke out in a sweat triggered by smoke and memory. That
was okay, he was okay, he was riding beach patrol on World’s End, not
providing convoy security along the death corridor.
He reached for his gun anyway. Sucking in a very careful breath, he
entered the shadow of the trees.
Fire roared from a skeleton of blackened timbers: shafts of white
heat, tongues of orange flame. Red smoke boiled against a black
backdrop of sea and sky.
No beer cans. No blankets. No kids. No people at all.
There . Wavering against the glare, outlined by angry flames, a
figure—a man?—tall and thin and oddly fluid, stooped to drag another
stick from the heap at his feet.
The heap shifted. Caleb’s heart accelerated. Not sticks, then. In fact,
that almost looked like . . . He’d swear it looked like . . .
Jesus.
He brought his gun up, instinct and training taking over from his
brain. “Police! Don’t move.”
The figure froze above the crumpled bundle at his feet.
Sweat slicked the grip of Caleb’s gun. Okay. So . . . okay. He
focused on the crouching guy, not daring to drop his gaze to the silent
heap at the edge of the fire. Smoke carried the stink of burning across the
sand.
He breathed through his mouth. “Stand up. Slowly. Hands in the air,
where I can see ’em.”
The tall, dark figure wavered against the flames, hands creeping over
his head. Empty hands, Caleb noted with relief. He took a step forward.
And watched in horror as the figure whirled and leaped into the fire.
52
Caleb yelled and
Similar Books
