by Nina Mason
Dragging himself a little ways out, he pulled a clump of creathnach up by the roots, and stuffed the whole plant into his mouth, savoring the sharp herbal flavor. Keeping watch, he gobbled all the lichen he could gather. Movement nearby gave his heart a jolt. Dropping his fistful of lichen, he scrambled back inside. He cowered there, breath held, heart pounding, praying to the gods he would not be found out.
* * * *
As Corey drove up Lakewood Boulevard toward the airport, her mind careened back and forth between two topics. The first was the statement she’d been asked to prepare to mislead the media, and the second was how the spill might adversely affect the island’s delicate ecosystem. Both worries made her stomach hurt.
Heartbreaking images from Prince William Sound and Deepwater Horizon flashed through her mind. Pelicans, egrets, sea turtles, and baby dolphins coated in muddy brown crude. Volunteers soaping up the birds with grease-fighting detergent. Clean-up crews in hazmat gear trampling all over the fragile environment. Booms snaking through the mire like bloated intestines.
It would be her job, she was painfully aware, to do damage control, starting with keeping images like those out of the media. But how? By building a “no comment” wall between Conch and reporters like Peter Blackwell preferred? By denying access to photographers and threatening reporters with arrest, the way British Petroleum had? Corey bit her lip to hold back her tears of frustration. Even if she could keep the photographers from gaining access, how was she ever going to explain what Ketos was doing there to begin with? First, somebody needed to explain it to her, and it didn’t appear as if her superiors had any intention of doing so.
She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Why had she taken this crappy job in the first place? She’d dreamed of becoming a marine biologist, of working somewhere like Scripps Oceanographic Institute in California or Woods Hole in Massachusetts. Then, in her final year at UCLA, when she wondered how the hell she was ever going to afford grad school, she got an unexpected call from Peter, her late father’s former boss and the only survivor of the Nautilus wreck.
“If you promise to come and work for me after you graduate,” he’d told her, laying on the charm, “Conch will pay the full freight for your advanced degree, including living expenses.”
Though his offer was too good to turn down, she never doubted his motives had something to do with her father’s death. Since he’d drowned aboard the company yacht, Peter probably feared she’d try to sue Conch Oil for wrongful death or something. Not that she would have. Her father’s death was an accident, plain and simple. It would have been wrong to hold his employer accountable. The coastguard’s report blamed a freak storm for the accident. Nautilus, they concluded after a thorough investigation, had been indisputably seaworthy at the time of the sinking.
So, she accepted the offer, earned her master’s degree, and found out when she showed up for her first day at Conch that she’d been assigned to corporate communications instead of the oceanographic research department, as she’d expected. Peter, it turned out, had recruited her not for her intellect, but for her appearance.
“You’re far too attractive to hide in the laboratory,” he’d said with that sleazy grin of his, “and television cameras and focus groups are going to love you.”
It was probably just as well, since witnessing her dad’s accident had brought on an acute case of aquaphobia. The psychologist at the student health center said it was understandable, given what she’d observed. He also said the only way to get past her fear of water was to dive in.
She hadn’t taken his advice. Or gotten any closer to the ocean in all this time than the balcony of her apartment. How could she when a mere walk on the beach triggered a massive anxiety attack?
While the job didn’t thrill her, she’d hoped to persuade Peter to transfer her to the research department once she conquered her fear of drowning. Maybe if she joined the research team, she’d reasoned, she could teach Peter and the rest of the Conch brass something about the devastating effects of underwater drilling on delicate marine ecosystems.
Over the next five years, however, her priorities shifted. Her primary goal became making herself indispensable. Her diligence paid off. After ten years of long hours that nixed any chance of a personal life, she now headed the department.
The flash of an advertising searchlight brought her back to Lakewood Boulevard. Her frown deepened as she passed a string of gleaming car dealerships, their gas-guzzling SUVs lined up like invading tanks. The price of gasoline was currently averaging well over five dollars a gallon. Not that the exorbitant price had slowed the national addiction any. Instead, it only seemed to fuel the rage for offshore drilling.
Drill, baby drill.
Corey shook her head at the short-sightedness of the drill-happy mentality. More deep-water drilling would do nothing to lower gas and oil prices or help wean Americans off their unsustainable addiction to fossil fuels. The earth’s oil reserves were finite. Someday, the oil supply would run dry. It was not a question of if; it was a matter of when.
Taking a deep, angst-purging breath, Corey steered her mind back to the crisis at hand. She still wanted to know what Ketos was doing in the Minch. Last time she checked, Scotland still banned drilling off its west coast—a policy Conch, among other major oil companies, had been lobbying to change for decades now.
The majority of North Sea drilling took place in three deep-water fields: the East Shetland Basin, whose name was self-explanatory; the Fladen Ground, which lay east of the Orkney Islands; and the Forties Oil Field, the biggest in the region, located off the coast of Aberdeen. Conch had platforms in all three, as well as the smaller fields located West of Shetland and in the Moray Firth, the triangular inlet that cut all the way to Inverness.
She might not know exactly how things worked over there—or didn’t work, apparently—but this much she did know: the Scottish Parliament did not control drilling rights in Scottish waters; the U.K. Parliament did. Thus, Scotland, though struggling economically, reaped no financial benefits whatsoever from the harvesting of its underwater oil reservoirs—an inequity that inflamed proponents for Scottish independence. Yet, despite these gross imbalances, the Scottish people voted down independence when given the chance, which, being a freedom-loving American, she could not understand.
A sudden onslaught of stress emptied her mind as she turned onto the road leading into the airport. Wrapping herself in the hard coating she’d need to deal with Peter and the media, she made her way to long-term parking, quickly found a space, and hoisted her wheelie bag out of the trunk. As she headed toward the white art-deco terminal, the night air made her shiver. It also made her grateful she’d had the foresight to grab a jacket on her way out the door.
Unfortunately, the jacket would do nothing to protect her from the chill she felt over what she was about to do.
Upon entering the terminal, she found Peter standing at the far end—near the ticketing counters. Being well over six feet tall, he was hard to miss. He also was uncommonly handsome with his chiseled features, deep-set dark eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair. Clad in a well-tailored black suit and red necktie, he stood beside a hard-sided silver spinner, briefcase in hand. A smile flickered on his mouth when their gazes met.
Corey’s gut squirmed as she made her way over. Her boss might be a mere mortal, but he generated enough power to dominate any room he occupied.
“We’re flying into someplace called Benbecula.” He passed her his briefcase like she was his secretary instead of his communications director, “which, if I’m not mistaken, is Gaelic for Bum Fuck.”
“Actually, it’s one of the more populated islands in the Uists,” Corey offered, biting back her rising antipathy. “There used to be a military base in Balivanich, the capital city, which is why they have an airfield, although it’s been civilianized…”
Noting that her self-absorbed boss looked utterly uninterested in anything she had to say, Corey didn’t go o
n.
“Like I said,” Peter added with a dismissive shrug. “Bum Fuck.”
Now even more on edge, Corey trailed Peter through the door and down an outdoor walkway to where the corporate jet was waiting on the tarmac. Following his lead, she heaved her suitcase onto the tiered metal cart parked near the airstairs, keeping hold of the briefcases.
“We’ll be stopping in Glasgow,” he called over his shoulder as they climbed toward the cabin, “to change planes and pick up a Scottish geologist who knows the area. He’s going to brief us on the ecology…to give us a better idea what we’re dealing with.”
Corey was glad to hear it, but still worried. “Speaking of what we’re dealing with…have you been able to learn anything more about Ketos?”
“Like what?”
Peter, once again, sounded completely oblivious. Corey’s gut tightened. She could practically hear the rumble of the approaching bus.
“Like what an undocumented tanker was doing in the Minch.”
“Oh, that.” Peter shrugged again. “Afraid not, but do be sure to have a press statement ready by the time we touch down in Bumfuckula.”
They took their seats and Corey worked on her statement until they landed in Glasgow, where they changed to a twin-engine prop plane. Jets, apparently, weren’t permitted to land in Benbecula.
The new plane was small. Only three seats across, split two and one on either side of the aisle. To Corey’s great relief, the geologist they’d picked up in Glasgow—a ruddy strawberry blond named Glen Brody—took the seat beside her.
“The whole island’s just under fifteen hundred acres,” Glen began once they’d achieved cruising altitude, “and the terrain is treeless and rough—mostly low hills, grasslands, peat bogs, and the like. The coastline’s about a mile long, rocky, and cut up by several lochs. Nine, if I’m not mistaken.”
Images of a barren, stony shore strewn with dead fish, birds, and otters ran through her mind. Blinking them away, she asked, “What about the wildlife?”
“The surrounding sea is home to a rich variety of sea life. Porpoises, dolphins, otters, seals, mackerel, salmon, scallops, crabs, cockles—you name it. The shore is a sanctuary for birdlife—grouse, golden eagles, falcon, shags, and gulls of all sorts. There’s also a small population of deer, though their numbers have diminished significantly on account of the sheep stripping away the vegetation. Fortunately, the sheep have now been removed to allow the grasses—and the deer population—to replenish.”
“What about people?”
“It’s uninhabited,” he said. “Except for the odd tourist now and again. Since the nineteen thirties, though there are ruins—crofts, cottages, and burial cairns, as well as an old druid temple and a nunnery.”
Corey was intrigued. “Wow. How early did people settle on the island?”
“The recorded history of the area dates back to the Sixth Century, when it was settled by an order of monks.” He gave her an eye-crinkling smile. “If you like, when and if you’ve got any free time, I’d be happy to take you through the ruins, including the old monastery on Benbecula.”
She just smiled. As much as she’d love to check out the sights, she doubted she’d have a moment to herself. Looking past Glen to Peter, who, from his seat across the narrow aisle, had been listening to every word. She couldn’t help wondering, as she often did, if he’d survived the wreck that killed her dad by pure luck or sheer ruthlessness.
“What can you tell us about the place they’re setting up the command center?” Her gaze met Peter’s across the aisle. “What was the place called again?”
“The Dark Island Inn.”
“Ah, the Dark Island Inn,” Glen put in. “Though I’ve heard of it, of course, I’ve never been there. It’s in the village of Liniclate—about ten minutes from the airport.”
“Is it easy to get to Ronay from there?” she wanted to know.
“Not really,” the geologist answered, “but as easy as anyplace, I suppose. Ronay, you see, is extremely remote. The only lodging is a self-catering vacation cottage. The only access—other than by sea—is via a one-lane road. No more than a glorified goat path, if you want the truth.”
The final leg of the flight, over the Sea of the Hebrides, reminded Corey of one she’d taken a few years back to Catalina, the biggest of the Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California. She’d gone there for a romantic weekend getaway with a man she’d dated briefly—a condescending cardiologist who’d later broken up with her by postcard.
Much to her humiliation, the postal service knew she’d been dumped before she did.
Now, as then, she held her breath as the plane touched down with a hard jolt. The moon was out—a waning crescent dimmed by swirling mist. As they taxied toward the trailer-like terminal, she rubbed her eyes. She was beat. Too beat to think on her feet—a serious handicap if there were reporters waiting to confront them. Responding to their questions when she was so fuzzy-headed wouldn’t be easy. Not that she had any answers to give them.
Miraculously, she’d come up with a statement—a complete load of bullshit, of course, but how was she supposed to draft anything but obfuscating drivel with zero information? She’d kind of been hoping the scientists who joined them in Glasgow might be able to shed some light on the mystery of Ketos, but they were just as baffled by the incident as she and Peter were.
She, Peter, and Glen shared a tense cab ride to the hotel. Small white cottages dotted the mostly flat landscape—housing for the military base, Glen told them. As the taxi pulled up out front of the Dark Island Inn—a low, white building trimmed with dark, Tudor-style timbers—Corey breathed a sigh of relief when no journalists swarmed out to greet them.
Climbing out of the taxi, she sized up the humble-looking hotel. The most she could say in the inn’s favor was that it was near the beach. Then again, so was everything else on the tiny island.
As they waited to check in, a blond woman Corey didn’t know handed Peter a stack of messages. He flipped through them, shaking his head, then handed them to Corey. A quick shuffle through the slips told her all were from reporters.
Peter stepped away, pulled out his cell, and placed a call. He kept his voice low. Corey watched and listened, wondering whom he might be talking to. The minute he hung up, he stepped back into line and said, “There’s been a change of plans. We’re going to need you at ground zero. We’ve already arranged for you to have the cottage. The rental agent will meet you there in thirty minutes. You’ll find a taxi waiting out front to take you there. First thing after you get the key, head down to the beach. Apparently, there’s some obnoxious reporter from Skye down there making a nuisance of himself.”
Feeling like the rug had just been pulled out from under her feet, Corey shook the stack of pink message slips at him. “Shouldn’t I take care of these first?”
Peter shrugged. “Where’s the statement?”
Screaming inside, Corey dug out the piece of paper on which she’d jotted the press release. Peter, snatching it away from her, started to read.
Corey braced herself for the usual nit-picking critique.
After a minute, he looked up, but made no effort to catch her eye. Instead, he frowned at the statement and said, “You’d better pray this works. That was Finlay Trowbridge, the on-scene commander, on the phone. After you get there, seek him out and he’ll brief you on the clean-up operation. Then, do whatever’s necessary to make this whole mess go away. I’m counting on you, Cordelia. Don’t let me down.”
“B-but,” Corey sputtered. “There’s no way to—”
“Find a way,” he snapped, cutting her off. He handed her back the statement. “Or find yourself another job.”
Chapter Four
Corey hugged herself to ward off the cold as her gaze roamed over the face of Ronay’s only dwelling, a white-washed stone cottage with a small wooden porch and a dormered slate roof. The windows were dark, as was everything else on the tiny island, but, thankfully, the owner—a baldin
g, barrel-chested Scot named Donald MacLeod—had brought along a flashlight. As she followed him up the rickety steps to the door, he shone the beam back toward the water, whose gentle splashing was making her sweat despite the freezing wind.
“In the daylight,” he said, “there’s quite a nice view of the loch from the front windows.”
Corey didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see how close the enemy was to the front of the house. It was bad enough she could hear it slapping against the rocks a few feet away. As always, it seemed to be saying, “I’ll get you one day…just like I got your parents.”
Gulping, she threw an anxious backward glance at the loch. Except for the crescent moon’s dancing reflection, the water looked as black as the granite on her kitchen countertops back in Belmont Shores. Black and menacing. Long gone were the days when she’d taken comfort in its sultry smell and the soft sound of it licking the shore. Once upon a time, she’d felt a soul-level connection to the sea.
MacLeod fiddled with the lock for a moment before pushing through the front door. The smell of damp and stale cigarettes rushed out to greet them. With the flick of a switch, light filled the space—a quaint sitting room with a rose settee, small fireplace, and mint-green walls. Corey set her suitcase down just inside the door. It was as cold inside as out, but a relief to get out of the biting wind.
“Burr.” Shivering, she rubbed her arms.
“I’ll just light the stove then,” he said, crossing to the black-metal box.
When it was going, he took her on a tour. “The house was built in the sixties by my parents… and completely refurbished by me and the missus ten years ago,” he told her as he showed her around. “It’s solar, for the most part. Except for the stove, obviously, and a generator we keep out back to operate some of the bigger appliances. Oh, and we’ve got satellite for the telly.”