by Celia Jerome
By the time I worked my way back to the car, a few people were moving around the campground, but I didn’t recognize anyone. I knew better than to discuss Paumanok Harbor peculiarities with strangers, but I didn’t get the chance. They all kept their distance from the crazy woman in a long hooded yellow slicker and winter boots who was brandishing a golf club.
I drove to Rick’s marina, thinking. I wondered if Ty knew that the ranch property extended as far as the shore. It might have beach rights, too, which made it more valuable for the luxury estates to sprout there if Ty couldn’t negotiate a deal. The cliff edge also made Bayview more perfectly situated as a drop for offloading smuggled cocaine. Maybe the hole I found was a way to bring the bundles up to the ranch. A winch? A dumbwaiter? Uncle Henry could find out.
Rick was too busy to ferry me over to the seaward side of the ranch land, a deep-cut indentation in the jagged shoreline. “Getting there won’t help anyway,” he told me. “You can’t get ashore except at dead low tide on a full moon, because normal tides go right up to the cliff face, eroding it away piece by piece. You can’t get close enough on account of the rocks either, unless you’ve got a dinghy or a canoe, which’ll get all cut up if you’re not careful. An inflatable would never make it.”
He went on to say that the full moon was in a couple of days and he’d take me out for a look-see after the fundraiser. He jerked his head toward his docks, which had never been so crowded with boats.
“They’ve all come to see the show. Or be seen seeing the show. I’m charging double for moorage and my wife is running a taxi service to get them into town.”
I couldn’t give up. “Even if there’s no landing on the beach, maybe there’s some kind of structure on the shoreline we could see by binoculars from your runabout.”
He shook his head in exasperation, wanting to get back to work. “Where would anyone put a structure? It’s a sheer cliff, with no beach in front. If there was something like a cave dug in the cliff someone would have noticed it years ago.”
A cave? Now I had to go, immediately. “Is Mr. Froeler around?” I had a half-formed idea of asking him or Lewis for a ride out of the harbor to look for Bayview on its hill. If Froeler was interested in the property—not that he had a chance of building a medical research lab there—he’d want to see the waterside approach.
Rick pointed to a sleek fiberglass yacht. “That’s it. They usually go fishing at full moon when the bass bite better.”
“Is there anyone else around I could hire to drive me? Maybe an outboard I can rent?”
“It’s not safe, not with this storm coming up. Your father would murder me if I let you take a boat out in this chop, and it’s getting worse by the minute. That’s what has me so busy, making sure the weekend sailors have their boats tied properly.”
I studied the blackening clouds. “Is it going to be a big storm?”
“A doozy. There were a series of fronts on the radar, all coming through for the next few days. Thunder and lightning and downpours, gale-force winds, possible tornadoes farther west. Our weather guys encouraged them to meet up and get it over with, so there’s no worries the night of the show.”
“Couldn’t they just divert the storms around Paumanok Harbor like they do for the Fourth of July parade?”
“Not if they want to watch the show, too.”
“But the colt is there, at Bayview!”
Rick was a Stamfield, a truth detector like Kelvin and K2. He didn’t scratch his ear. The colt was there, all right.
He called the harbormaster, who had to make sure some damnfool kayakers made it back to shore soon. I could come along.
Great, I was getting to go out on a boat again. A small boat, in the middle of a hurricane. Good thing I missed lunch.
Elgin was one of the weather magi. He knew to the minute when the full brunt of the storm would hit. He also knew about the colt and wanted to help, but he told me again that there was no beach in front of Bayview. “That’s Bunker Cove,” he said when we were underway in the twenty-foot patrol boat, bouncing in the chop. It was a deep cut in the sand dunes, he explained, with rocks seaward. A person couldn’t even walk there from either side, not unless the tide was full out. You couldn’t climb it either, not without bringing half the cliff down on your head.
“Bunker Cove?”
He told an old story about how the settlers drove the mossbunkers into the cove, then strung nets across the opening to trap the fish. A valuable harvest that was, for oils and meal, right through the early nineteen hundreds when the mossbunkers disappeared. And then there was that tragedy at Bayview.
“I think the mayor’s grandfather made it so no one remembered about the cove or the cliff, so no one was tempted to try to scale it from either direction. It’s just not safe enough.”
I could see why not when Elgin pointed toward shore. The cliff face had been carved out, leaving a deep overhang at the top. That’s where I’d been standing, with nothing beneath my feet except a yard or so of dirt and my father’s warning. And yet . . .
I felt H’tah’s presence. He was here, somehow, despite there being no beach, no boathouse, nothing but water. I borrowed Elgin’s binoculars and tried to plant my feet and focus, with the boat pounding up and down. My stomach, too.
There. A few feet above some rocks that looked climbable, the sand and dirt and clay of the dune appeared to be a different color: the color of structures I’d seen in Montauk when I drove around looking for Cavett’s Cove.
I handed the binoculars back, so Elgin could sweep for the kayakers. “Did the Navy ever have fortifications here like they did in Montauk for World War Two?”
“Sure, they were scattered up and down the shore. Lookouts, ammunitions depots, communication posts. They weren’t here to protect us, but to guard the entrance to Long Island Sound from German submarines before they could get down to Manhattan by the East River.”
Bunker Cove had nothing to do with mossbunker fish, but a real concrete bunker. “I guess old man Applebaum was better than we thought.”
So was my father. The sand pebbles saved my life. And it wasn’t banker and cave, but bunker and cove! He was close, anyway.
“He’s here, the colt is here! In that bunker. And he can’t get out by himself.”
“How the devil did he get in?”
“The snowman. And Snake. There must be a way to get up or down from Bayview. I just didn’t see it.”
“All they’d need is an airshaft. They drop the cargo here, someone winches it up. No one knows about it. Safe as houses.”
I wanted to kick myself for not looking down that hole under the log. There must be a bigger opening somewhere else. “We’ve got to go in!”
Elgin was already turning back toward Rick’s marina, figuring the kayakers must have headed in. “How, missy? All I’ve got is the life raft. It’d be capsized against those rocks at the next wave. Maybe the tide’ll be low enough tomorrow when the storm surge passes.”
But the storm came in force that afternoon, and stayed. Add three small squalls together, you get a near hurricane. Dante had to land his plane in Westhampton, which was spared most of the wind, and hire a car to bring them back, including Mr. Scowcroft. The old tycoon wanted to see the show and the property one more time before deciding its fate.
I flew into Ty’s embrace as soon as he walked through my door. He was wet and cold and exhausted and I didn’t care. I plastered myself against him, locked my lips to his. His hat fell off. I stepped back—on it—and started to babble.
“We have to go to Bunker Cove, only it’s not about fish, it’s an army bunker and H’tah is there! There’s a hole on Bayview land, but the tide might rise in the storm and he’s already weak and all he can do is whisper my name, only it’s a picture of a willow that’s dropping its leaves and I don’t know how much longer he can hold on. We just have to save him.”
“I missed you, too, darlin’.”
CHAPTER 35
TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF HE
R, you bloody bow-legged bastard!”
I looked up, over Ty’s wet shoulder. “Grant?”
Grant grabbed Ty by the shoulder and spun him around, then brought back his fist, ready to flatten the slimmer man.
I jumped between them. “Don’t hit him! He has three thousand people coming to see him in two days!”
“Five thousand, sweet pea,” Ty drawled, putting his arm back around me. “Not that Lord Fauntleroy here could manage to hurt me. Dante found him wandering around the airport like a drowned rat, so he flew him back with us, but his bed’s been taken at Rosehill, so I brought him here.”
“And no one thought to warn me?”
“I wanted to surprise you, Willow. Some surprise.” There was murder in Grant’s black-rimmed blue eyes, but now the anger was directed at both of us. I quickly stepped away from Ty.
I felt disloyal, cheap, and mad at both of them. “You could have called.” I kicked Ty’s hat across the room. Little Red jumped on it and started wrestling it to death.
“My hat.”
“The hell with your hat. My woman!”
“I am no one’s woman, not either of yours. And you’re both dripping all over my mother’s living room. You”—Ty—“can sleep in my room.”
Grant made a noise I would have run from.
“You”—Grant—“obviously survived your adventure in one piece, so you can survive a night in my mother’s room with the two big dogs. I’ll sleep in Susan’s bed. By myself. And if either of you start any trouble, I’ll sic Little Red on you. And tomorrow we will go find that colt. Understand?”
Ty grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
Grant nodded. “That’s what you asked me to do. I came as soon as I could. Your hired gunslinger obviously didn’t get the job done.”
Ty’s smile slipped a bit. I took his hat from Little Red and handed it to him. I almost laughed at the expression on his face, like a kid whose ice cream cone fell into the gutter. This was too serious, though.
“Between a horse whisperer and an otherworld linguist, maybe one of you geniuses can talk to H’tah and find a way to get him out. If not, neither one of you is worth your weight in fertilizer.” Which was a polite way of saying they were both full of it.
I stomped up the stairs, snatched a nightshirt from my room, and slammed the door to Susan’s. I wasn’t going to talk anymore to my previous lover or my current lover. In the same damned room.
Except I forgot to put the big dogs out for their last pee of the night.
By the time I put on shorts and a shirt and went downstairs, the two men were sitting in the living room, a bottle of Maker’s Mark and two glasses between them. While the dogs were out in the fenced run, I explained about the deep-cut cove, the bunker, the possible airshaft, the undercut cliff top, the tides, and the storm. This time I was a bit more coherent, but still tried to make them understand the urgency.
“I know we can’t do anything tonight, but we need a plan.”
“That’s what we’re working on, darlin’. We want the outlander colt out as much as you do.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but it was the best I could hope for tonight. “Don’t call me darling.”
Both of them laughed. The bastards were friends. I tried not to think about being a chew toy between two puppies. Or that Ty Farraday might have wanted me just because DUE Agent Grant did.
I’d face that tomorrow, too. After we rescued H’tah.
Except the storm never let up. Thunder boomed all night, and high winds ripped at anything not nailed down. Ty came to kiss me good-bye about one o’clock. He had to go check on Paloma Blanca and Lady Sparrow.
Grant came to kiss me hello about two o’clock. I sent him away. I wasn’t going to try to explain about Ty in the middle of the night. What could I say? Besides being a linguist, Grant was descended from another of the original Royce families. I couldn’t lie to him and claim Ty and I were just friends. He must have seen Ty’s shaving kit in the bathroom anyway.
I went back to sleep, as much as I was going to sleep this crazy, scary night. Two of the hottest guys in town—no, in the universe—kissed me, and here I was, quaking alone in a lightning storm, hugging a Pomeranian so tightly he growled.
Morning wasn’t much better. The rain had let up some, but the wind was still howling, with forked lightning right overhead. I waited for a break in the boomers before putting the dogs out. I had to go out, too, because I was afraid to let Little Red off the leash in case he got swept away.
We weren’t getting anywhere by boat today, not with that wind. A couple of phone calls told me the roads were bad, too. Ty was out helping re-anchor the tarps covering the riding field, so the surface wouldn’t turn muddy or unsafe. Tomorrow’s show was not in jeopardy.
H’tah was. I thought about waking up Grant, but I needed to find a way to get to H’tah, not end a relationship that should never have happened and had nowhere to go.
Uncle Henry made note of the bunker and the possible airshaft, but he couldn’t send someone out to dig up the ranch. Half the streets were flooded—damn those imbecilic weather magi for messing with Mother Nature—and all his cops were out detouring traffic.
Kelvin from the garage could get through anything with his auto body tow trucks, the ones that dragged tourists’ cars out of the sand, but both of them were already in use, with another three cars waiting to be pulled out of ditches or mud.
Connor would be with the horses if Ty was in town, so I couldn’t count on his help. Everyone else at Rosehill was at the school, making contingency plans. The people at Bayview had been evacuated there, rather than have them sit in metal RVs waiting for the lightning to hit.
I called the harbormaster to find out when the storm would be gone. Not until tomorrow, he speculated, to guarantee good weather for the show. Elgin promised to try to get me out to the cove then, at low tide. If not tomorrow, the day after.
“I’m sorry, H’tah. You know I would if I could.” I drew a picture of lightning and wind-driven rain battering a willow tree. I hoped he got my thoughts, I hoped he understood. Now I felt as if I’d broken my promise to him, as well as disappointing Grant. I got no response, not even when I tried to nap after the sleepless, stormy night. Tomorrow, I kept repeating.
When I went to look, Grant had already left. He called to say he was at the Riveras’ house, finding out from Scowcroft what he knew about the bunker and access to it. He was also meeting with the Feds later to call in technical assistance. They’d have everything in place in twenty-four hours. Grant had influence everywhere. If he said he needed Air Force One, chances are it would fly over Paumanok Harbor. After that, he had an appointment with Martha at the real estate office to go over some plans for renovations at Rosehill.
He’d stay with Dante and Louisa tonight. His tone of voice was cool but hopeful. I couldn’t encourage him with an invitation to come back. I said I’d see him tomorrow.
But tomorrow was the Ride for the Ranch.
The weather was bright and beautiful but still windy. The harbormaster said we still couldn’t get close enough to the cut to launch a raft.
I thought about paddling into the cove on a canoe or a kayak or a rowboat. I suppose I could scuba dive from Rick’s marina. If I knew how to scuba dive and wasn’t terrified of sharks and jellyfish. But what could I do when I got there? Even if I wasn’t drowned or dashed on the rocks, I couldn’t get H’tah out, not by myself.
Not that any of them would be much help, but Susan was busy cooking for the meals the Breakaway was catering at the food tent. Grandma was in town with the Garden Club, spiffing up the flower boxes that got damaged in the storm and arranging displays for the show grounds. Doc was having brunch with his old friend Scowcroft. Susan’s father was draining the farm’s fields to save the early crops, and her mother was at the school, organizing the kids who would hand out the programs and sell the alphabet books.
I didn’t bother calling the police. They’d be swamped today. So would everyone i
nvolved with the show. Ty couldn’t have gotten much rest last night, and he needed to be refreshed and relaxed and ready to entertain five thousand people. No, I heard it was up to eight thousand tickets sold. That mightn’t be a lot by Yankee Stadium standards, but it was almost three times the population of Paumanok Harbor.
I’d already missed the midmorning’s low tide. I couldn’t miss tonight’s. But how could I miss the show? So I had to get to H’tah before then. Which meant putting on my mother’s raingear and boots, slogging across the muddy ground of Bayview and lifting—shudder—that log over the airshaft. Maybe it could lead to H’tah, or maybe I could call down to him, keep him company for awhile until we could get to him.
I called Grant first.
He was already on his way to Bayview Ranch, so I met him there. The greetings were awkward, but we were mature adults. I only cried a little. Grant didn’t, although his beautiful blue eyes did get cloudy. He wouldn’t show emotion, not in front of a handful of tough narcotics agents with a real drug-sniffing dog, a heat sensor, metal detectors, and a brush-cutting machine. They also had orange mesh fencing and signs from the police office: “Danger. Fragile dunes. Stay back.”
They’d already found the airshaft. I called down it, sent pictures down it, paper ones and mental images. Nothing.
They dug around in the muddy earth, but couldn’t make the hole big enough for a man to be lowered on a rope, not without caving in the entire shaft.
“Not on top of the horse!”
They looked at me as if I were crazy. They didn’t care about the colt, only the drugs the dog was barking about.
With the ground so soft and sodden, the Feds didn’t dare bring the machinery any closer to the edge. They gingerly placed the signs, then hung the orange fencing between them and around the airshaft. They’d go by water at low tide tonight, but they weren’t going to open the bunker, only watch from the Coast Guard boat on call. They figured that whoever stashed the coke in the bunker would come to retrieve it at the full moon, tomorrow night.