Duncan’s answering noise had been that of a wounded animal as he’d yanked the sweater back down to her waist. “The lunch crew’s in the kitchen,” he’d ground out, sitting up and turning until Willow had found herself staring in horror into fierce green eyes not inches from hers.
“You started it,” she had snapped, scrambling off him and taking a step back, smiling tightly when he grunted and quickly cupped his groin for protection.
It was then the first hint of impending doom had reared its ugly head.
Duncan had stood, she’d taken another step back from the gleam in his eyes, and he’d stalked her retreat until she was backed against the warm stones of the hearth. Towering over her like a mountain of menace, he’d taken hold of her chin, leaned down, and said, very softly, “Aye, and I’m going to finish it, brat, by accepting your offer. As of today, we are in an exclusive affair, to be conducted in private, with no more talk of marriage.”
Her surprise must have shown because he’d smiled then, in a rather alarming way, and straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you have any addenda, counselor, now’s your only chance to voice them.”
She couldn’t even work up enough spit to swallow, so she’d simply shaken her head, her eyes locked on his immobilizing gaze.
He’d stepped forward, cupped her bloodless face with both hands, and tilted her mouth up to meet his kiss. “It’s begun then,” he’d whispered before turning away, his hand manacled around her wrist as he led her past the bar and into the late-morning sunshine.
Willow took another long swig of the wine, and pondered the fact that she was barely twelve hours into an affair and all she could think about was the dangerous look in Duncan’s eyes when he’d dropped her off at her truck in Kee and Rachel’s driveway. He’d kissed her one last time—with only a hint of what she had to look forward to—and said she’d see him in a day or two.
Which meant he intended to come to Augusta so they could conduct their affair in private.
Which also meant that she had ultimately won the war.
Or had she?
Willow looked down at the faded remains of ink on her hand. She’d gone straight from seeing Jane Huntley at the University of Maine to her own office in Augusta, and clutching the paper she’d scribbled Duncan’s words on, she had pawed through her legal library until she’d found a Latin dictionary.
It had taken her twenty minutes to finally translate the convoluted sentence, and as she had read it over and over, that feeling of impending doom had grown stronger and stronger.
Potes currere sed te occulere non potes.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
At about the same time Willow was trying to drown her worries with wine, Duncan was sitting at the wide granite-topped island in his kitchen, explaining his own worries to Kee and Luke and Ahab. He’d already told them about Willow’s nighttime ride out into the Gulf of Maine, what she had found, and what she suspected was happening. His late-night visitors listened in silence, ever-deepening frowns creasing their brows, until Duncan came to the part about what had been happening to the more vocal fishermen.
Kee’s head snapped up. “Whoever dumped the waste is still around?” he asked.
Duncan shrugged. “It seems so.”
“And Willow is going after them,” Kee said as a statement of fact, not a question. “Alone.”
Duncan shook his head. “Not exactly alone,” he softly corrected. “The four of us will be shadowing her. And the operative word here is shadow,” he emphasized. “I don’t want her knowing we’re involved,” he finished, leaning back on his stool and letting his intentions hang between them.
Kee frowned at his glass of soda, and Duncan knew his friend was wishing it was something stronger. But when he’d arrived an hour ago, and Duncan had offered him a beer, Kee had muttered that he wouldn’t be drinking for the next nine months. Kee hadn’t had anything stronger than soda for Rachel’s last pregnancy, either, supporting her by abstaining from alcohol, sharing nutritious meals, and taking long walks.
Ahab didn’t feel the need to abstain from anything for Rachel’s sake, and had immediately asked for whisky when he’d arrived. Duncan had poured him a tall, ice-filled glass of blended Scotch, not inclined to waste his good stuff on Ahab’s unsophisticated palate. Luke preferred beer, and Duncan always kept a few bottles of domestic ale in the fridge for him, along with chilled glasses in the freezer.
“Why doesn’t she turn this over to investigators?” Kee asked. “The AG’s office must have several at their disposal.”
“She likely will,” Duncan said, “when the time comes to build her case. But Cobb asked her to keep things quiet, and Willow has agreed to for now, until she knows exactly what’s happening.”
“What is it you want us to do?” Luke asked.
“I think we should start by having our own look around Thunder Island,” Duncan said, setting down his glass of ale. “Underwater.”
“You’re talking about special equipment,” Kee said. “If the water is contaminated, we can’t be swimming in it. And the minisub is in the Carribean.”
Duncan shook his head. “I don’t think we need the sub. From what I saw of those lobsters, I’m guessing it’s not lethal enough to affect us. Besides, we’ll be fully suited.”
Ahab involuntarily shivered. “The water temperature is forty-five degrees,” he said, taking a gulp of Scotch to ward off his imaginary chill.
“We have dry suits,” Luke interjected, looking at Duncan. “When do we go?”
Duncan eyed the wall clock. It was after midnight on Sunday morning. “Monday,” he said, nodding to Luke. “Can you have our gear ready by then?”
“Maybe we should call in Jason and Matt and Peter,” Kee suggested.
Duncan shook his head. “Too many of us will only draw unwanted attention.” He shifted on his stool, cupping his own glass of ale as he looked at the men. “Willow asked me to take her to Thunder Island on Friday, so I want to make sure it’s safe before then.” He stopped his gaze on Kee. “I thought we’d use the Seven-to-Two Odds, so we’ll appear to be nothing more than tourists.”
“The schooner’s known in these parts,” Kee pointed out.
“I’ll make it look as if I’m taking Willow on a picnic,” Duncan said with a grin. “We’ll bring Mickey to round out the domestic scene.” Even though Kee actually owned the schooner, Duncan turned to Ahab. “If I promise not to scratch her, will ya let me take the Seven-to-Two Odds out by myself Friday?”
Ahab narrowed his eyes. “You can’t run up her sails. She’s not a two-man ship.”
“I’ll use the engine.” Duncan looked over at Kee. “Do ya think Mickey would enjoy a day on the water with Willow?”
Kee grinned as he shook his head. “That damn wolf hasn’t quit sulking since Willow left to go back to Augusta. He hadn’t seen her for two months, and she didn’t spend any time with him this visit. He’d love to have a whole day with her.” Kee turned serious again. “Do you trust Ray Cobb?”
“Willow does,” Duncan said. “And I trust her judgment.” He looked at Ahab again. “Can ya quietly ask around the docks and see who knows what?”
Ahab’s grin was more sinister than genial. “I can find out more in the bars than down at the docks,” he said. He cocked his head in thought. “I think The Gale Wind over in Trunk Harbor would be the best place to start.”
Duncan hid his smile by draining the last of the now warm ale in his glass. The Gale Wind was a hardcore drinking bar rather than a couples’ gathering spot like The Rosach Pub. Ahab would be right at home there.
Duncan stood up and headed toward his back door, letting his friends know this meeting was over. They followed, and Luke and Ahab stepped out into the crisp, starlit night with a muttered good-bye as they headed to Luke’s truck.
Kee stopped on the porch and turned back to Duncan. “I prefer that Rachel not know anything about this,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”
Duncan n
odded agreement. “That will be Willow’s decision, whether or not she wants to involve her sister.”
Kee suddenly grinned. “Willow told Rachel you’ve agreed to an affair. Sounds like a full-scale retreat to me, Captain Ross.”
“Really?” Duncan said, returning his grin. “And here I thought it was a tactical move forward. I’m hoping Willow will discover that getting her wish granted might be more than she’s bargained for.”
Kee shook his head. “God, you’re arrogant, Ross.”
“You’re confusing arrogance with desperation,” Duncan softly contradicted. “I don’t want to lose her.”
Kee looked him level in the eye for several beats, then suddenly laughed and slapped Duncan’s shoulder. “Then don’t ever let her meet your mother. At least not until after the wedding.” He just as suddenly sobered. “Willow will eventually come around, my friend,” he said softly. “We’re all pulling for you.”
Duncan snorted and stepped back into the house. “Thanks but no thanks.” He stopped from closing the door and glared at Kee. “And you tell little miss mouthy Mikaela for me that if I find out she’s placed bets on this wedding, she’ll be sweeping the Rosach floor all summer for punishment.”
With a chuckle and nod of agreement, Kee headed down the steps to his own truck. Duncan closed the door, turned to face his quiet house, and sighed. Lord, he wished he knew what he was doing when it came to courting Willow.
Willow had spent all day Sunday at the office going through files on licensed waste sites, and now it was late Monday afternoon and she still hadn’t figured out exactly what she was looking for.
There were five major waste-disposal sites and over fifteen smaller ones operating in Maine, and each of their licenses had every t crossed and every i dotted perfectly. Their evaluation reports also showed that everyone was in compliance with state regulations, except for a few minor violations.
Jane Huntley at the University of Maine had thought it might be pesticide poisoning when Willow had shown her the lobsters and crabs Saturday, but had reserved judgment until after she could run her tests. Armed with only Jane’s guess, Willow had narrowed her search to sites licensed to accept agricultural waste as well as applications for sites that had been turned down.
That’s when things had finally gotten interesting. One company, Kingston Corporation, had been denied licenses on three potential plots of land along the Down East Maine coast several years ago, before site number 4 had been approved just three years ago. Kingston’s records for the approved site showed that they were operating in full compliance, but there was something unusual about the paper trail; it was nothing she could put her finger on or wrap her mind around, just something…not right.
Willow hit the intercom button on her desk. “Karen, could you sneak into the Department of Environmental Protection archives again and find the original applications Kingston Corporation submitted? Look for three denied applications from about four to six years ago.”
Silence was her only answer, and Willow looked toward her office door and saw that the outer office was dark. She looked at her watch, then closed her eyes on a groan and scrubbed her face with both hands.
It was eight thirty. Willow then remembered her secretary peeking in the door three hours ago to tell her that anyone with a life was going home. Karen had also muttered something about not wanting to come in tomorrow and find her boss crushed to death under a mountain of files.
Willow pushed back her chair, stood up, set the heels of her palms on her lower back, and groaned as she stretched her frozen muscles. There was no help for it, she was going to have to venture into the bowels of the building and look for the Kingston applications herself.
She slipped her feet back into her sensible black shoes, walked out of the office and down the silent corridor, then headed down the stairs leading to the basement. She flipped on lights as she strode along the lower hall, her only company the muted echo of her shoes on the granite floor. She knew the cleaning crew didn’t come in until after eleven because she’d been startled by them more times than she cared to remember.
Maybe Karen was right that she needed to get a life.
That brought Willow’s thoughts to Duncan. What was he doing tonight? Would he call? Willow snorted as she flicked on the lights of the archive hall. It wouldn’t do him any good to call if she wasn’t even home to answer the phone. And she had forgotten to give him her cell phone number.
She started her search in the back right corner of the archives, familiar with DEP’s section ever since her first big case almost two years ago. She’d spent a lot of time down here since then, unwittingly becoming the AG’s resident expert on environmental issues when her predecessor had left to join a private practice.
Willow reached up and ran her fingers along the dusty boxes as she read the labels on each one. It took her nearly twenty minutes to find all three boxes containing the three Kingston applications because two of them had been filed out of sequence and the third one was hidden behind four boxes of transcripts from a five-year-old wrongly filed murder trial.
She carried the boxes over to a table on the back wall, pulled up a chair and sat down, and started digging through the box dated six years ago. She found that the site Kingston had applied for was less than ten miles from Trunk Harbor, but it had been turned down due to a sub-surface aquifer that would be in danger of contamination. Other than that she found nothing unusual in the paperwork, and she stuffed everything back in the box and went on to the next application.
The second application was for a site fifteen miles farther down the coast but inland a good twenty miles. Kingston had proposed to bring in the waste via cargo ships and truck it to the site, but had been turned down because of a geological survey stating the granite was too close to the surface and riddled with fissures.
Willow looked at her watch. It was already nine thirty, and her stomach was growling. She was just eyeing the third box, debating whether or not to take it back to her office to read the next day, when the lights suddenly went out.
“Hey!” she shouted. “I’m in here!”
“What?” came a man’s reply as the lights flicked back on. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Willow.”
Willow heard footsteps headed her way, and stood up and peeked around the floor-to-ceiling shelving. “Who’s here?” she asked, quickly moving to look down another aisle.
“It’s only me, Willow,” Greg Myers said, stepping into her line of sight. His smile was immediate, and a bit disapproving. “What are you still doing here?” he asked, walking toward her. “You shouldn’t be down here this late all by yourself.”
“Last I knew, bogeymen don’t haunt dusty archive halls,” she returned, stepping back to the table and stuffing papers in the box. She looked up at Greg when he stopped beside her. “And I might ask you the same question.”
Greg scooped up a few of the papers that had fallen on the floor. “I’m preparing for the Briggs murder trial next week. I was just walking by when I noticed someone had left the lights on in here. What’s this?” Greg asked, holding up one of the papers. “Kingston Corporation?” he read, lifting one brow at her. “Isn’t Edward Simmons associated with them? Remember him? Simmons ran for governor two elections ago for the Green Party.” He snorted. “And now he’s part owner of a waste site. Talk about an anomaly. Is Kingston Corp. being bad?”
Willow took the paper from him and dropped it in the box and closed the cover. “Not that I know of,” she said, stacking the boxes on top of each other. “I was just looking for an old geological survey that someone said had been done for them a while back. I’m working on a timber-cutting violation Down East and thought the survey might help me.”
Greg picked up the boxes when she went to do so. “Did you find it?” he asked, following her down the aisle and setting the boxes on the shelf she pointed to.
“I found it, but it won’t do me any good. The survey is fifty miles west of where the timber
cutting is going on. It’s in a completely different watershed.”
He shrugged and gestured with his hand for her to precede him down the aisle toward the door. “Too bad,” he said. “But since we’re both so dedicated to our jobs as to still be here after nine at night, how about we grab something to eat at Gilly’s Bar and Grill?”
Willow stopped at the door and flipped off the lights, turning to smile up at Greg. “That sounds heavenly, but I still have work to do. I’m expecting a call.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth when her cell phone rang. Willow jumped and Greg simply smiled at her. She pulled the phone off the clip on her belt, flipped it open, and said, “Willow Foster.”
“Willy, it’s Jane. I haven’t been able to find anything conclusive. I need you to get some water samples for me.”
Willow smiled at Greg in apology, then turned and started walking toward the stairs. “You couldn’t find anything?” she whispered. “No trace of any toxins?”
“No, although that wouldn’t be unusual for pesticide poisoning. But the symptoms all point to it. Water samples are the only thing that will confirm it, though, and even then we might not find enough residue. The half-life of most modern pesticides isn’t really that long.”
“What about DDT?” Willow whispered as she climbed the stairs, aware of Greg not three steps behind her. “That stuff will be hanging around for generations.”
“But not the modern pesticides. They’re short-lived.”
“Ah, Jane, can I call you back in a few minutes? What’s your home number?”
There was a moment’s pause and then Jane laughed. “I’m still at my lab. I’ve been trying your home number for the last hour. I didn’t catch you in the middle of a date, did I?”
Willow snorted into the phone. “I’m still at my office.”
The Dangerous Protector Page 6