Dangerous Tidings

by Dana Mentink

  She listened to Radar’s heart. Her hands were so gentle and her words sweet and soothing.

  “I should have taken him to the urgent care hospital, but...” But what? He couldn’t bear the thought of strangers poking and prodding at Pauline’s best friend and he trusted Donna. Completely. For some reason that he could not understand.

  “I should run some blood tests.”

  His gut tightened. “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

  “But I have a theory.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Not right now. I’m going to propose that we watch and see what happens in the next hour. If he doesn’t improve, we’ll go to the clinic and do blood work.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said, relieved that she appeared relaxed about Radar’s condition.

  She retrieved a blanket from the closet and tossed it on the floor, and Radar settled down immediately for a nap.

  Brent hesitated, looking around Donna’s bungalow, which was sleek and modern in cool blues with hardwood floors. “I’ll come back, then. In an hour.”

  She laughed. “What are you going to do in Coronado at this time of night?”

  “Go for a run.”

  “It’s starting to rain. Stay here. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Are you sure?” Some part of him was thrilled to be asked by her, but he didn’t let it creep into his tone. Cool and easygoing, just like always. “I don’t want to be in your way.”

  “I’m happy for the distraction.”

  “From what?”

  She pointed. In the corner was an artificial Christmas tree, unadorned, the kind with the lights already affixed to the branches. On the coffee table was a wooden cable car ornament, unpainted. “I’m trying to stay in the holiday spirit because my niece, Tracy, will come over at some point and she needs Christmas, but it’s...” She clamped her lips closed and blinked rapidly.

  “It’s hard to feel the holiday spirit when you’re grieving.” He lifted a hand to reach out to her, but she waved him away.

  “Yes, I’m trying to keep it together.”

  “I understand. Believe me. I lost Carrie two days before Christmas. The lights never seemed to twinkle very bright after that. It’s funny how the decorations are the same. All the same singing and activities and things that Carrie and I used to love to do together, but they just don’t touch me anymore.” He was floored at himself for sharing those feelings. He’d never let them out of his mouth before.

  She poured him coffee, he suspected to keep herself busy. He wasn’t sure why he’d blabbered on. The woman was grieving. She didn’t need to have him dumping on her.

  She put the mug in his hands and brushed against his fingers as she did so. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged, wondering how she’d become the one offering comfort instead of him. “Ridley’s right. Carrie was afraid to fly. I coaxed her into it in spite of bad weather. She did it because she loved and trusted me. We were engaged and I was being the macho coastie.” Pain stabbed through him but the truth just kept pouring out. “I’d just been accepted to rescue swimmer’s school and I was invincible, a hotshot, and I wanted her to see it.”

  She settled on the bar stool next to him. “What happened?” she asked softly.

  “Mechanical failure. Plane broke apart when it hit the water.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “Yeah. I was conscious for a few minutes. Then I blacked out. At the hospital I asked over and over for Carrie, but I could see it in their faces. Same expression that’s on mine when I have to tell a victim their loved one didn’t make it.” He squeezed the mug in his hands. “That’s irony, isn’t it? The soon-to-be rescuer lets his fiancée die.”

  “You didn’t let her die.”

  “No, God did that. What I can’t figure out is why He let me live.” Why was he telling her all this?

  “I wondered that, too, after my accident,” she said. “Why didn’t I die in that motorcycle crash? Or Nate, for that matter? He was speeding, taking curves too fast. My head just missed the guardrail. Why did God let me live after I flew off the back of that bike?”

  He was suddenly riveted on those eyes, the same color as a storm-tossed sea.

  “So what’s the answer?” he asked.

  “To why we’re alive?”

  “Yes.”

  She examined his face. “Because God wants us to be. He loves us. He loved Carrie, too, but He had other plans for her.”

  Brent almost choked on it. “God kills my fiancée and the pilot but not me so I can do what, exactly?”

  “Live your life and help others to live theirs.”

  “If God loved me, He would not have taken Carrie.”

  “I used to think that kind of thing, too.” Her lips tightened in sadness. “It would be easy to feel that God has turned His back on me since Dad died. Years ago, I started into this downward spiral when Candace’s husband, Rick, was killed in Iraq. She was pregnant with their second and she lost the baby. Then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I just started to feel this anger that I had done the right thing, been the good girl my whole life, and there was no guarantee for anyone. I met Nate, and he was exciting and fun and he loved being with me. I thought that’s the kind of life that I wanted. After the accident, I obsessed about why I was alive. I don’t anymore, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s one fact I can’t get around. God let His own son die, Brent, to save us.” Her face shone with earnestness that took his breath away. “We’re not guaranteed anything, not one single day, not one moment. The only thing I know for sure is that He loves us enough to send His son to die for us.”

  His own son. Sent to die so others might live.

  Live your life and help others to live theirs.

  His career was about risking his life so others could live, but he had the sinking feeling he wasn’t really living at all. Confusion and pain raged through him, leaving him afire with things he did not want to feel.

  She reached out and touched his temple with her fingertips, then traced them along his face. In spite of himself, he closed his eyes, feeling her skin like the smooth silken interior of a seashell. How he wanted that peace that she possessed even through her grief. How he desperately craved that hope that she was right, that he was loved, that Carrie’s death and the pilot’s were not a punishment.

  A fantasy, his mind told him. He moved back, saw the uncertainty in her face and hated himself for making her feel it.

  He cleared his throat, put down his coffee and walked to her Christmas tree. “Christmas is a hard time,” he said lamely.

  “Yes,” she said, voice timid, like a little girl. Awkwardness stretched between them and he found himself craving the closeness he’d felt a few moments earlier. He took a step toward her, but she’d already moved to check on the dog.

  “The good news is that I think I was right about Radar,” she said.

  Brent whistled for the dog, who stood and came to him with more energy.

  “You all right, buddy?” Brent gave him an ear rub.

  Donna put out a bowl and poured some chicken broth into it. Radar eased over and lapped it up.

  Relief ballooned inside him. “What was wrong with him?”

  She held up a finger. “I’m going to make a quick phone call.”

  She stepped into the bedroom, leaving him mystified. Donna Gallagher was one maddening woman, which did not explain the ache he felt when he was separated from her.

  After a moment, she returned.

  “What’s the diagnosis?” Brent asked.

  “Seasickness.”

  Brent blinked. “What?”

  “He’s seasick. From being on your boat.”

  Brent took a long look at Radar and
laughed. “You’re a landlubber, Radar?”

  Donna’s eyes sparked with excitement. “I remembered Pauline mentioning she’d taken him on a whale-watching trip with the Open Vistas residents, and he’d gotten sick as the proverbial dog. By the way, I called my sister to see if she could get us some names of outfits that do whale-watching trips in case it might help us trace Pauline’s last steps. It might be a dead end...”

  “But it’s worth checking out. I’m sure the police will do it as soon as they get around to it.”

  He was torn between relief, amusement and excitement. Finally, he offered a palm and high-fived her.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Your keen veterinary skills and some great detective work.”

  She blushed. “Anyway, I think you’d better leave Radar with me. He’s not cut out for sailing.”

  “Seems that way.”

  Donna checked her texts. “My sister Candace just sent a list of fifteen businesses that offer whale-watching excursions outside San Diego Bay.”

  “Long list,” Brent said.

  Donna gave him a sly grin. “No doubt Harvey remembers the name of the company. I’m sure he’d love to visit with Radar tomorrow morning and we can ask him.”

  “I’m going to have to start calling you Sherlock.”

  “Fine, Watson. Take your bike, leave my car here and I’ll pick you up in the morning so we can take the dog along.”

  He stroked Radar once more and headed for the door. On his way, he stopped, drawn to a halt at the foot of her forlorn Christmas tree. Impulsively, he reached out and hung one shiny gold ball on it. “It’s more hopeful somehow.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, tears sparkling in her eyes.

  Deciding he’d made enough of a fool of himself for one evening, he said good-night.

  NINE

  “Harbor Tours Deluxe,” Harvey said, his face wreathed in a smile as he brushed Radar’s coat. “That’s where Pauline took us. On November 2. It was a Sunday.”

  Donna tried to keep her excitement in check as they headed back to the SUV. Brent edged into the driver’s seat before she could manage it. She phoned Candace, who was with Angela in the office.

  In moments, she had the address.

  “It’s owned by a D. Fields, it looks like,” Angela said. “Wasn’t there a Fields on Dad’s list?”

  “Yes. See what you can find out about him.”

  “Will do. I got a few things about Jeff Kinsey. He used to be a semiprofessional surfer. Won plenty of competitions. Arrested a few times for drug-related offenses and gradually dropped out of the surfing scene.”

  Donna shared the info with Brent, who punched up his speed.

  “Thanks, sis. I’ll let you know what we find out at Harbor Tours Deluxe.”

  “I don’t think it’s safe...” Candace started.

  “Brent’s with me. It’s broad daylight. Talk to you soon. Keep me up to date on Sarah.” She disconnected before her sisters could rally a protest.

  Brent gave her a wry glance. “They’re worried I’m going to be a bad influence?”

  With my track record, who could blame them? she felt like saying. He seemed to be able to read the dark thoughts racing through her mind. Without taking his eyes off the road, he took her hand and caressed it.

  She allowed it, feeling a brush of warmth and comfort.

  “You’re hard on yourself, aren’t you?” he said quietly.

  “And you’re not?”

  “You didn’t hurt anyone else.”

  “And neither did you. The plane crashed. It was not your fault.”

  He kissed her fingers, lips supple against her skin. “My head knows it, but not my soul, if I even have one.”

  “You do, Brent. You do.”

  She wondered if he heard the throb of emotion in her voice. With a final squeeze, he let her hand loose. She regretted the distance immediately.

  Think about the case, she chided herself. Think like a detective, not some smitten teenager. You are not in the market for a relationship.

  They drove across the Coronado Bridge and headed north to Mission Bay.

  Harbor Tours Deluxe was run out of a small building in the corner of a wide parking lot. Across the asphalt expanse jam-packed with cars, Mission Bay Marina was gearing up for a holiday boat parade. Though the event would not kick off until the weekend, people lined the docks, decorating their boats in lavish style. The spectators crammed every free inch of space near the harbor, picnicking and enjoying the Christmas music and watching the transformation of the boats.

  For a moment, her breath caught as she was bathed in the joy around her, Christmas with all the happy trimmings. Laughter, love, rejoicing. But this year, she would be a grief-stricken observer, watching others celebrate, praying for her sister Sarah’s recovery and mourning her father’s death. Though she would still rejoice at the gift of her Savior, joy was not the same thing as happiness.

  “We picked the wrong day to visit,” Brent grumbled, pulling her from her thoughts. He finally found a parking place and squeezed in. Radar was reluctant to get out of the car, so they left him nestled on a blanket in the back, windows half-open to provide some ventilation.

  They snaked their way through the cars across the lot. Donna was grateful for the relative quiet.

  Brent pointed to the sign on the door. “Closed.”

  “Too much going on to keep the business open?”

  “I guess.” He cupped a hand and peered into the darkened window. “I can see lights in the back.”

  She followed him as they edged the building around to the back. The door was open a few inches, the interior dark. Brent raised an eyebrow and subtly crept in front of her, slipping into protector mode.

  Paint peeled off in a clump under his knuckles as he knocked.

  From inside, something thudded against the walls hard enough to make them vibrate.

  “Door slamming?” she whispered, her cheek against his hard shoulder.

  He knocked again, louder. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  There was a smash and a groan. Brent was across the threshold before she realized he was moving. Readying her phone to dial the police, she raced in after him down a short dark hallway. The sound of breaking glass reverberated in the dark space.

  They pounded into what must be the front office. A big man with a shaved head, bat raised in his hand, jerked in their direction. Another man, dark haired with a trickle of blood running down his face, stood across from them, a hand raised to protect his head.

  Brent picked up a wooden chair and shoved it at the man with the bat. “Stop,” he roared.

  Then the bat arced through the air at Brent as the guy switched gears. It smashed into the chair and broke the spindly legs. He swung again and Brent ducked. The bat whistled over his head and cracked into the Formica counter.

  “Get out, Donna,” Brent yelled. In his haste, he slipped on a puddle of water coming from a shattered fish tank and went over backward. The next blow would crush his skull.

  She ripped open her purse, and grabbed her pepper spray. As she brought her hand up to aim the spray, the man batted it out of her grip with a closed fist. The impact stung her wrist and sent both the container and her purse flying. Brent was on his feet, eyes burning as he punched. The blow glanced off the man’s chin and drove him back stumbling.

  Brent pressed his advantage, shooting out a foot to catch his attacker’s ankles. The move should have toppled the goon, but he caught himself on the counter before he went down.

  He dived under Brent’s outstretched arms and barreled out the door. Brent whirled and raced out, Donna after him.

  They emerged into the parking lot to find no sign of him through the milling people and slow-moving vehicles. Brent jogged warily thr
ough the aisles of parked cars. Donna did the same, peering underneath in case he was hiding there. With a shudder, she recalled the feel of the cold hand that had grabbed at her feet from under the office table. Swallowing her fear, she pressed on.

  Now Brent was leaving the parking area, working his way toward the last dock. At first she couldn’t see any sense to his actions. It was clearly under repair, roped off with a “closed for refitting” sign. Missing boards showed along the narrow dock. The section was old, run-down, the last of the docks waiting to be upgraded. There was no escape for the intruder in that direction.

  Though she hurried to catch up, Brent was still far ahead of her, beginning a wary examination of the deserted dock. His shoulders hunched, as if he was listening.

  She patted her pockets to find her phone, then remembered she had dropped her purse back at the office.

  “Brent,” she called. “I need your phone.”

  He was too far away to hear. She started to move closer when Brent froze, then crept to the edge of the weathered planks. Transfixed, she saw him suddenly vanish as something pulled him off the dock and into the water.

  * * *

  Brent hit the water feetfirst, the impact driving his breath from his body. The bay was not a challenge for Brent, not compared to ocean and without the rotor wash from a helicopter, but his assailant was another story.

  He immediately dived, his intention to swim underneath and take the guy from behind, as he’d been trained to do with panic-stricken victims. This man was a seasoned fighter and not suffering from panic. He kicked out hard, impacting Brent’s forehead, making his ears ring. Fighting his way to the surface, Brent realized the guy had hauled himself into a dinged-up motorboat. Brent shot through the water and grabbed for the stern, but the man managed to cast off and motor away.

  Brent fumed, treading water, watching him leave. “Yeah, you run. If you come around again, it’s gonna be a different story.” He realized that he was filled with rage not for his own struggle or the boat shop owner’s but over the fact that the assailant had struck out at Donna.

  Donna was probably only bruised, but he could not rid himself of the anger that someone had threatened her. Again. He tried to restore a sense of calm with the steady churning of his arms and legs. “What is the matter with you, Mitchell?”