MIST
By:
Maureen A. Miller
All rights reserved.
©2015 Maureen A. Miller
Cover design by Angela Waters Art
Smashwords Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1518621581
ISBN-10: 1518621589
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To my DH. Love you, G.
And thank you to my lovely editor!
Prologue
Warren Pennington studied the objects strewn across the worktable. Rushed footfalls thumped overhead followed by the echoing staccato of gunfire. He didn’t have much time. Their descent to his lab was imminent. Only ten minutes ago he received the call from the control deck that the MV Algonquin had been besieged from air and sea with the arrival of a helicopter and a patrol interceptor−both splitting open to spill a battery of armed men on the deck of the research vessel.
Nudging the large footlocker into a closet, he closed and locked the panel. A minor deterrent, but he wasn’t going to make it easy on these nameless invaders. Leaning back against the closet, his eyes jabbed at the table.
What did it all mean?
Just yesterday he was pouring over sonar displays, searching for a new twist to his reality show, Deep Weather, when the hulking shadow of a rusted freighter loomed in the underwater lens. The ocean floor was dotted with such corpses. Whenever he happened across one, Warren added the video footage to provide a touch of drama to the next episode. Not equipped to salvage such wrecks, the onboard crane would haul up whatever pieces of flotsam lay unobstructed.
Warren had scattered the findings in his sea-faring laboratory. A quick phone call to Nova Scotia to report the discovery went uneventful. Less than 24 hours later, however, heavy footsteps were pounding overhead, and the muffled protests were met with more rounds of automatic weapons. Hastily, he stooped down and shoved a metal skeleton into a hidden panel in the floor.
Gauging the proximity of the encroaching footfalls, he realized he had mere moments until the lab door would crash open. There was no avenue of escape. He was in the bowels of the Algonquin. There were no windows to crawl through. No back door. Judging from the repeated gunfire, his fate was sealed.
There was only one man he could trust. Rushing to his desk, Warren scooped up his cell phone and waited listlessly for that man to pick up.
“Jack,” he rasped, “listen to me−”
CHAPTER ONE
Livvy McKay peered out the window.
What now?
Her craggy shoreline was a magnet for every piece of wayward junk to swim the waters of Penobscot Bay. The object she saw could pass for one of many toppled granite dominoes lining the shore. Squinting against the sun, she was certain that it was misplaced.
In a debate over tackling the budget versus walking alongside the bay, the victor was easily the latter. Livvy saved the spreadsheet and grabbed the fleece jacket draped over her chair. Maine’s October wind slapped her when she stepped onto the back porch. It was a frigid harbinger of colder days to come. She clutched her collar tight against her throat until the shade of the cottage gave way to the afternoon sun. Brittle grass transitioned to a cobble beach, and the cobble merged with large boulders spilling into the sea.
Leaping from rock to rock, she muttered when an errant lick of foam reached between the crevices, submerging her foot. On one soggy sneaker she approached the object. It was a black footlocker with brass reinforced corners. The ocean had taken its toll on the vinyl so that the surface resembled the tips of her fingers after a long spell in the tub. The brass rivets along the frame were beginning to rust, but other than that it remained sturdy and intact.
Planting her feet on the rocks, she stooped to grab the thick leather handle. The trunk was at least four-feet long by two-feet wide, and although she expected it to be heavy, she barely managed to draw it an inch out of its awkward niche.
If she left it here and waited for George to show up tomorrow, the trunk would be long gone−hauled away by the tide. She stepped back and tugged again with a grunt. The container slid across the rock and settled into the next crevice.
By the time she reached the level plateau of cobble and grass, she was grateful for the cold breeze. She stopped and pressed her balled-up fists into the small of her back, knowing that in the morning her muscles would remind her of this.
Hunching over, she tried the brass latch.
Locked.
Should I even try to open it?
It belonged to someone else. Their property. Their problem.
As she dragged it up to the shed, a host of conjectures as to how it ended up here preoccupied her. There was no identifying text on the container. Perhaps she could track down the logo—a faded globe dissected by a ship’s silhouette.
Inside the shed, Livvy took turns dragging and shoving until the trunk was finally tucked beside a snow-blower. She slammed the door and weaved the padlock through the latch. Normally, she would have left it at that, but this time she clicked the padlock closed.
On the deck of the cottage she kicked off her sneakers before going inside. Taking a seat in the kitchen, she was preparing to research the globe logo on her computer when a sharp thud in the next room startled her. No, it didn’t startle her−it shocked her. No windows were open. No ocean breeze passed through the cottage to disrupt the curtains. She had heard rumors of the keeper’s house being haunted, but she had lived here long enough to discredit such suspicions.
On socked feet she passed through the short hall into a living room furnished in quaint colonial flair. It preserved the history and charm of the cottage. Blue brocade drapes hung motionless against white sheer curtains, and a collection of wooden sailors stood obedient atop a windowsill. In the past, the only sign of supernatural visitors had been that some of the figurines would move, but the wind was usually the culprit−not the ghost of the former lighthouse keeper.
When Livvy turned back towards her desk she saw the man. With the sun pouring off the ocean through the windows, he was nothing more than a shapeless silhouette. She detected motion on his part, but her reaction was too late. Struck across the cheekbone, her hands flew to her face in defense. At the sound of flight, she blindly staggered in pursuit, but her wet sock slipped on the wood and she crashed into the doorjamb.
The door to the deck slammed shut, followed by the pronounced hush of solitude. Livvy rushed to the screen to search outside. Her left eye brimmed with tears, and even the most exemplary vision could not produce a figure on the grounds.
It was as if she had been assaulted by a ghost.
***
Reaching for the wall mount phone, Livvy dialed 911 before she even noticed the receiver was dead. Repeated jabs of the switch hook failed to produce a dial tone. Panic settled in. She took a deep breath and grabbed the closest item of substance−an orange lobster buoy hanging on the wall. It might seem like a preposterous weapon, but there was about twelve pounds of solid wood involved, and it was a better option than her fist.
Hastily, she surveyed each room. The kitchen served as her office, with a desk tucked up against the window. A bathroom, a bedroom, and the living room finished off the layout−each room large enough to comfortably accommodate dwarves.
Sea Lantern Cottage was her haven−a place to feel close to her family.
And someone had dared to assault her here.
The panic gave way to anger. Futilely, she fished for her cell phone, but she knew that she wouldn’t get a signal until halfway down the road. Checking the bars as if on this day they would miraculously register, Livvy jolted when the doo
rbell rang. Within the small alcove it reverberated louder than the chimes in Notre Dame’s belfry. She peered through the view hole and saw the neck of a man, the slow bob of his throat visible above the collar of a black sweater.
Oh my God! Hadn’t the man who attacked her been dressed in black?
The doorbell chimed again as her hand gripped the buoy mercilessly. Would the attacker be gracious enough to ring twice and wait for her to admit him?
“Hello?” a muffled call sounded.
“Who is it?” she countered.
“Are you open?”
She saw the throat bob in question. “The sign says McKAY CHARTERS, but I wasn’t sure where the office was.”
Business? Could this be as innocent as a business call?
Coincidences didn’t sit well with her, especially considering the tourist season had ended a month ago and chartering services were reduced to weekends now.
“I need to rent a boat,” the voice proclaimed.
“I don’t rent boats.”
Talking to the closed door seemed ludicrous, but perhaps her last declaration would send him away.
“But−” There was a pause in which she heard the rustle of papers and saw a chin darkened by razor neglect. “It says you charter boats. I see them docked outside. They say McKAY CHARTERS on them.”
“Yes, I charter boats. For groups. I don’t rent boats out to individuals if that’s what you’re looking for.”
God knows the insurance was already astronomical.
“Alright, well−” It didn’t seem to faze the man that this conversation was taking place with a solid panel between them. “I’m interested in chartering a boat.”
Bah. “I’m closed.”
“You’re standing on the other side of this door talking to me. You can just yell yes or no.”
Less than a half hour ago she was doing the accounting, realizing that the summer had not brought in the same figures as the previous year. Actually, she was not closed. It was just that this time of year she only attracted business on weekends. During the week she resorted to freelance programming, something to utilize that computer science degree that went wasted the moment the family business was bequeathed to her.
“Can you show me some ID?”
It was a lame request, but it was all she had.
There was a shuffle and then a shadow obscured the sun through the view hole as a card covered it. At first it was too close to even be legible. He must have realized that as he drew it back a few inches.
It was a Maine driver’s license−Portland to be exact. John E. Morell. Born May 5, 1977. Brown hair. Blue eyes. 195lbs.
“Do I pass?” he asked.
“What are you looking to charter? I have a 36’ tour boat that can hold up to 40 people. Or if you want to go lobstering, I have a 35’ lobster boat outfitted with 20 traps.” Livvy blinked and focused through the hole again. This time she saw the sharp profile of his jaw.
“What about that nice one over there?”
He had to be talking about the yacht.
“That’s mine. It cannot be rented.”
“Alright,” he paused. “The lobster boat it is. How much are we talking?”
Seriously? This was not an assailant dressed in black?
Any other weekday and George would have been around, but today he was in town getting supplies. She was painfully aware of her remote location on the peninsula, where the closest inhabitant was half a mile away. Marlowe and Sophia Ashton−a couple in their late seventies−neither very capable of battling assailants.
Livvy made one last attempt to dissuade her visitor.
“$355 a day.” It was actually $225.
“I don’t want to buy the boat.”
Already at wit’s end, she hauled open the door. “Well I’m sure Pilot Rentals in Seal Bay could offer a better price.”
The man’s eyes widened. His lips parted and snapped into a grim line.
“What?” she challenged.
“Are you okay?”
The question startled her. “Why do you ask?”
“Your face.”
Her hand flew to her cheek. The shock of the doorbell had been enough to distract her from the pain. Marketing research indicated that it was best not to confess to a prospective client that your business had just been broken into. However, if this was her assailant−marketing didn’t really matter.
“I fell,” she explained.
“You should put ice on that.”
Lowering her hand, Livvy studied the man. Yes, he had on a black sweater, which he filled out with wide shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist, and he wore jeans which he also filled out rather well. Had her attacker worn jeans? She only remembered him all in black, but the sun could have accounted for that.
“I was about to,” she chided, “but the doorbell rang.”
“Now I understand your hospitable reception,” he remarked, glancing down at the buoy clutched in her hand.
Refusing to relinquish the weapon, Livvy studied his face. His eyes attracted her first. They looked like the heart of a nor’easter. Dark. Gray. Turbulent. His license was wrong. They were not blue. That was a generic reference he had probably scribbled down in haste.
His hair was dark, nearly black, and although it was short, the wind had carved erratic waves through it. A shadow scored his chin giving him a bit of a pirate flair. It was easy to imagine him at the helm of a ship, ready to confront a storm looming on the horizon.
“Forgive my inhospitable reception, but I don’t usually get much business during the week at this late stage of the year. How many will there be in your party?”
“Just me.”
That was odd enough to put her on edge. He must have realized that as he smiled and nodded.
“I know. It sounds strange, but I just really need to get away today.”
“Today?” she croaked. “As in now?”
His smile revealed a carved line in the stubbled cheek. To call it a dimple would have been too quaint for the brief slash.
“I didn’t think you would be busy today,” he considered. “I really wanted to get out there by myself, but as you don’t rent to individuals…” he hesitated, “…besides, on the weekend the boats would be full, and that’s not what I’m looking for.”
Eccentric or dangerous? She couldn’t decide which. Normally, with George here, this would be a non-issue. She could send him out with the man. John E. Morell.
Livvy swiped at her left eye to brush away some of the pooling moisture. She could feel the pain kicking in. She had to report the break-in to the police. Surely, she wasn’t that desperate for business.
“You really need to put ice on that,” he nodded. “I guess I can come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow would be much better.” Thank God he was being reasonable. The likelihood of him being her assailant just went down a notch. “10:00am if that works for you.”
He shifted the McKAY CHARTER pamphlet to his left hand and thrust out his right one. For a second Livvy just stared at it. Decorum mandated that she return the gesture. His palm felt warm, and his grip assuring. The touch lingered a second and his eyes remained even longer. He released her and stepped back to the edge of the porch.
“Ten will be great. Do you prefer cash, check, or a credit card?”
“Cash or credit card. Either will do. I’ll see you then, Mr. Morell.”
His eyes narrowed for a second and then he nodded with a grin that flashed that cleft in his cheek. “Ahh, the license.”
He was far enough back from the cottage that the sun could touch his hair. Nature’s lamp revealed many more shades of brown than black.
“And you are Ms. McKay, I take it?” he asked as he consulted the pamphlet.
“I am.”
“Ten o’clock, Ms. McKay.” He tossed a wave over his shoulder.
Livvy watched the six-foot enigma stroll towards a silver Jeep Cherokee.
***
Going to the police t
o report the break-in was as fulfilling as going to a doctor to complain about a headache. After a lecture on owning a business, and the vulnerability of her location out on the peninsula, Livvy walked out of the Gull Harbor Police Department feeling like she was the criminal for not installing an adequate security system. That wasn’t going to help her sleep any better tonight…but the baseball bat under the bed might.
As she pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of Sea Lantern Cottage, Livvy didn’t think the area felt that remote. A small jut of land marked the entrance to Gull Harbor on one side, and the gaping Atlantic filled the other. She climbed out of her Jetta and gazed across the harbor at the lineup of fish houses−wooden dwellings on stilts. They were only a ten-minute boat ride away.
She was not secluded.
But if that were the case, then why did her hand hesitate on the front door knob? Why did she walk over to the living room window and peer inside as if she expected to find a shadow behind the drapes?
Eyeing the utility pole at the foot of her driveway, she saw by the orange calling card that the phone company had been out to inspect her line.
Good. At least I have that.
Livvy decided to postpone going inside in favor of investigating the trunk. It had been her intention not to open it until she located its owner, but examining it closer might yield a clue as to who that may be.
The Sea Lantern was once an operational lighthouse that guided ships into Gull Harbor. It was now a charred hulk sitting on Livvy’s property. Out of operation for nearly twenty years, it had been struck by lightning last year and a fire ensued, consuming the lantern room. Now it resembled a wickless candle. She was in the process of restoring the lantern, but it was not a speedy task. At this point, all she had managed was to repaint the tower.
Her father had purchased the cottage and lighthouse from the Navy when the Naval base nearby shut down. The Sea Lantern came with the clause that the property was to remain open to the public so that visitors could take pictures and revisit history. That was when McKAY CHARTERS was born.
Mist Page 1