“Please say we aren’t going to be here long,” she begged.
“Maggie, stay close. I don’t like this.” Sullivan moved slowly from tree to tree, holding her tight to him, moving her with him closer and closer to the river’s edge.
And the entire time his head rotated left, right, left, his eyes piercing the gloom, searching, watching.
The man lay sprawled facedown in the muddy water.
Half an hour later they would never have seen him.
Flipping him onto his back, Sullivan said in a voice so filled with fury it shook, “And hanky-panky sometimes adds up to murder, Detective.” He was gripping her hand so hard Maggie was afraid her bones would crack.
“Somebody knows who your source is,” she murmured, her throat dry.
“Was, Maggie.” Sullivan looked around him and then hunkered down, his boots squelching in the mud. “Who he was. He’s been shot.”
A cawing crow circled overhead and then vanished, the metallic violet on its back swallowed up by the dark.
*
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Sullivan battled the urge to pick Maggie up in his arms and run like hell away from the mud and the river and the bloody face of the man lying loose-limbed in the rancid muck of the Palma River.
He recognized him. A clerk in the courthouse, he’d pulled records for Sullivan several times. The sandy-haired man had never said more than, “Hi” or “That about it?” and Sullivan would never have picked him as a possible informant. But this particular man turned out to be a clerk who had had access to both the city council and county commissioners’ offices, where both boards met in the courthouse.
This man would have been virtually invisible, a wisp moving through the old courthouse, hearing, seeing things he shouldn’t have.
Lord only knew what he’d discovered.
And now he was dead because he’d volunteered to supply that information.
Sullivan’s stomach twisted as he surveyed the area. He was careful not to disturb anything. No papers littered the ground, not even gum wrappers and condom foils. No empty beer cans or liquor bottles.
Nobody came to Seth’s Landing.
But somebody had.
His bum knees protested as he rose, and he shook his head at Maggie, who was aiming the flashlight. “Don’t turn on the light.”
“Oh.” Only her smothered gasp gave her away. “Of course not. We’d be sitting targets.”
“Right.”
“You think someone’s still—” Her shaky inhalation was so imperceptible that it wouldn’t have revealed anything to him if he hadn’t seen her earlier at the pistol range.
But he knew her now.
Taking the flashlight from her, Sullivan jammed it into his loose waistband. The metal poked him in the ribs as he folded his fingers around Maggie’s rock-steady hands. Rock-steady, all right, but cold and clutching him for an instant before she matched her hands free, as if embarrassed by that second when she’d clung to him.
“How long has he been dead?” She fumbled in her back pocket and pulled out her notepad and pen, scribbling something in the gloom.
“Half an hour?” Sullivan stooped and looked again at the wound in the clerk’s forehead. He lifted the man’s arm and studied the flex, the blood coagulated on his face. “Hard to tell. I’m not a coroner, but I had some experience with gunshot wounds in the navy, and this looks like a contact wound. I couldn’t swear to it in court, but from what I see, I’d guess he was probably killed not long before we showed up.”
He believed they’d missed coming face-to-face with the killer by minutes.
Not a comforting thought.
“Congratulations, Barnett. You used as many qualifiers around your opinion as a coroner would have.” Maggie’s voice was barely audible as she ridiculed him.
Admiration raised his glance to her pale face. She was coping.
She clicked her pen once and then looked over her shoulder “Let’s head back to the car. We need to call this in.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” Rocking back and forth, his heels sinking into river glop, Sullivan assessed Maggie.
Though her face was the gray-blue white of Lladro porcelain, she wasn’t falling apart. Unwavering determination kept her small, delicately-shaped body glued to the horrifying scene. Over and over she’d told him she was a good cop.
Now, standing in the pitch-black night stinking of rot and chemicals, he believed her.
She was a good cop.
Even at Taggart’s, fighting the betrayal of her body, she hadn’t given up. He believed that if he hadn’t stepped up behind her, she would have figured a way out of her dilemma. He hadn’t had a defense, though, against the sheer grit of her effort.
She would make herself do whatever she had to.
Maggie had gumption.
“Look,” he hesitated, wondering if he was making a mistake, “I want to find the dumping site. That’s what I came for. We can’t help him—” he gestured to the ground “—and I want to see for myself what’s been happening out here.”
“The dumping site?” Swatting at a cloud of mosquitoes buzzing in front of her, she slapped her face by mistake. Then she cast a quick glance at the body. “Okay. Anyway, maybe it isn’t a good idea right now to go back to the car. Someone might have spotted it. Or us.” The pale square of her face and the light pink of her T-shirt wavered like swamp light with her every movement in the murky dark. The notepad popped as she clenched it.
One by one he unwrapped the fingers clumped around her notepad and pen. “Shh, easy does it,” he whispered, needing to let her know she didn’t have to fight her demons alone. He stuffed the pad and pen, her version of a security blanket, in his T-shirt pocket and then placed her cold fingers under his shirt, snug against his belly. “Maggie, I promise you. No matter what you think about my indifference to my own life or death, I won’t let you be harmed tonight. I will keep you safe.”
Knowing what it cost him, he made the pledge. He didn’t want the burden of her life in his hands, had never again wanted the weight of responsibility for someone else’s wellbeing. But he was responsible for Maggie Webster this night.
No matter that she insisted she was accountable for her own decision, he’d dragged her to this hellish place. And even though she’d argue to the bitter end, he knew she was scared. Her soft mouth firmed in stubborn denial of whatever fears chittered in her mind. Brave Maggie in her new pink shirt, her hair every-which-way around her pale cheeks and strained eyes.
Shaken by unwanted self-knowledge, Sullivan pulled her closer, fastening her arms around his waist and holding them there tightly against the small of his back. The cool circle of her arms around him chained him to her, toe to toe, male to female, strength to strength.
Truth to tell, he’d wanted her here with him.
But not now with danger hanging like a miasma, tainting the night.
“Maggie, I swear to God I’ll keep you safe.” His voice was raspy with the intensity of his vow.
“I know.” She’d locked her arms around him and her breasts were a soft swell flattening against his belly.
So much shorter than he and fragile despite all her courage. As she rested her face against his chest, one of his legs slipped between hers, and the juncture of her thighs lay against him, burning through denim to him. He stirred restlessly as she stood on tiptoe and murmured, “I know, Sullivan. I know.”
There was no reason for her to trust him, no reason for her to think that he could protect her against whatever monsters ranged in this place, but in this moment in the desolate environment of Seth’s Landing, a drifting current of illusory happiness moved in him, lightly, lightly, as though a window in the basement of his soul had cracked open.
For a long moment he drank in the fragrance of her, let the illusion move through him and push back the shadows clouding his heart.
Then he unlocked her grip and stepped back.
Air moved between them, leaving him c
hilled, missing the warmth of her against him as she said, “Where would the dump be? Your contact was going to lead you to it.”
“Follow our noses, Detective Maggie.” He pinched the designated organ.
“Hey! You made another joke,” she said, taking a deep breath, then shaking with stifled coughing. “One of these days you might break out laughing.”
“Don’t count on it.” Looking left toward the east bend of the Palma, Sullivan watched the water move past them. “Maggie, I don’t know of any other road coming in here except for the one we entered on. Do you?”
“This is the first time I’ve been here, but when I was studying the county maps for patrol duty, I don’t remember seeing other roads marked for this area.”
“The river flows west. Right now we’re east of where we parked the car, but I don’t know how the road twists and turns back here.” He raked his hands through his hair. “If it were daylight, this would be a piece of cake.” Adrenaline surged through him, reminding him of all the night maneuvers he’d done with the SEALs. His mouth twitched with pleasure as he said, “Just for the hell of it, Maggie-my-girl, what do you think? Want to head east and go inland for a short distance?”
“Or toss a coin,” she suggested, looking toward the thick brush they’d have to trudge through. “Either way, we’ll have the same chance of finding the dump. Zero.”
“O ye of little faith,” he said, shaking his head woefully. “Actually, I did have an idea. I think the old docks of the landing are east of where we are. They’re nothing but a pile of rubble, but they should still be accessible by boat. They would make a good landing spot if stuff isn’t being hauled in by truck, and I didn’t see any signs that large vehicles had used that road. Did you?” He scooted her in close behind him.
“No. Maybe you do have an idea after all, Sullivan,” she rejoined with some of her usual sass. Grabbing his waistband, she sighed, “And since you had the idea, you get to be the scout. Lead on, Tin Man.” Her finger hooked over the band, and her short fingernail scraped his spine.
Everything south of that light graze tightened and leapt to attention.
Following the glimmer of the flowing river, he moved through the dark, Maggie’s knuckle a constant at his back. Not knowing what they might find, he’d had no intention of letting her go first, but he was glad she hadn’t made an issue of it. Agile, she moved easily with him despite not being able to see and having to follow his lead. Stumbling over a decaying pine branch, she said only, “Oh good. Not an alligator out for an evening stroll.”
The rotten-egg smell of a chemical stew grew overwhelming the farther east they walked. Curiosity kept his boots moving. And Maggie wouldn’t cry uncle until she fell in a heap at his feet. Not even then, most likely. Stopping, he glanced over his shoulder. “Okay?”
“Dandy, thank you. I love the scenic tour.” Forcing circulation back into her hand, she shook her fingers.
As soon as he stepped forward, though, she latched onto him, her knuckle firmly back in the home it had made for itself against the pit of his back.
Pushing aside the large, flat leaves of a sea grape, Sullivan saw the flash of lights before she did. He froze in position, Maggie slammed right into his butt, then didn’t move.
He’d figured right.
They were at the old docks.
A river barge had come in close, its running lights doused. A ramp led from the end of the barge to the shore. On the barge, four men wrestled several containers into position and down the ramp. At the edge of water lapping against five tipped-over 55 gallon drums, one man marked out locations under the docks with orange flares that flickered luridly in the dark.
“Jeez Louise, man. Get a move on, will ya? I don’t wanna spend the night here, you mope.” Even muffled, the voice carried over the water.
A drum rolled crookedly down the ramp and splashed into the water. “Hell,” the man said, spitting over the side of the barge.
“I’m not going in after that drum,” said a short, squat man. “Not in this water. Don’t think I will, Tolly, ‘cause I’m tellin’ you. No way.”
“You’ll dive in and drink the stinking crud if I tell you to, Gil.” Tolly’s casually issued threat held real menace. “But I won’t. Not this time.” He slapped Gil on the back. “Call it an early Christmas present, buddy.” Glancing at the shore, Tolly called out, his voice low, “Leon! What the hell’s taking you so long?”
“Watching where I walk, that’s all, boss.” An orange light wavered under the far end of the dock. “Sheesh, this is a nasty place. You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”
“Stuff it. You’re getting paid.”
“Not enough. Not by a long shot, Tolly. You couldn’t pay me enough to do this again.”
Leon’s subdued assertion raised the hair on Maggie’s arms as she edged around Sullivan’s shoulders so that she could see.
Sullivan’s outstretched forearm stopped her. Slanted over her breasts, his palm facing her, his arm was an immovable barricade. She frowned and started to mutter something scathing to him, but then she looked at him.
In the flickering light, his face was grim. Motionless, he didn’t turn his head to look at her. The only sign of life he’d made since stopping so abruptly was to thrust his arm out, braking her.
Maggie didn’t move, not even to shrug off the weight of his arm across her chest. She didn’t breathe until Sullivan slid his arm down her, an excruciatingly slow, controlled stroke that had her quivering in a long rolling wave of pleasure and fear.
Watching the men unload the barge and roll the drums under the docks, where the containers half sank out of sight, apparently into the muck, Maggie felt the tension radiating from Sullivan.
He was enjoying himself.
Unmoving, watching the operation with narrowed eyes, he was coiled for action.
They would have stayed there all night, but Leon returned along the high shoreline, his flares planted behind him. Swearing steadily, he shielded the beam of a powerful flashlight from the river as he swept it in short arcs at the edge of the shore. He would pass right by them.
So stealthily he might have been a shadow moving through the night, Sullivan edged backward, Maggie with him. She knew what he was doing.
Movement always caught the hunter’s eye.
And they were prey.
Two feet from their hiding spot, Leon swore. “What the—” He flashed the light toward the sea grape. “Tolly!” he yelled, and Sullivan whipped around, grabbing her around the waist, lifting her off her feet in his rush to get away from the shore.
He didn’t let her feet touch the ground until they were several yards from the river, Leon and his piercing light now joined by Gil and Tolly flashing similar high-beam lights.
“Maggie, he spotted our T-shirts. Try to keep up. Don’t worry. They won’t catch us. I won’t lose you.” Taking her hand, he yanked her forward, his urgent roughness speeding her feet as she heard crashing behind her.
She knew they couldn’t use her flashlight, and without light, they were running blind, low branches slapping her face. Taking one long stride to three of hers, his legs eating up the ground, Sullivan plunged in a zigzag route through cabbage palms and dying pines. A twig jabbed the corner of her eye and her eye watered, blurring the little vision she had.
Urging her to move faster, Sullivan burrowed through the brush like a swamp creature heading home. She didn’t know how he could see three inches in front of his nose, but his progress was so sure that he apparently had a plan.
She hoped.
“Come on, Maggie. I won’t let you fall.” Looping his arm around her waist once more, he hauled her to his side and zigged once more, the white glare sweeping after them.
Hugging Sullivan’s lean waist, Maggie tried to match his steps. She didn’t want to be caught in that bright spotlight. Tolly wouldn’t buy any excuse they gave for being at the docks. She had no desire to test his forbearance.
An enormous cypress loomed in f
ront of them. With a windup swing, Sullivan pitched the flashlight far to the left of the tree. It crashed into the brush. A high-pitched squeal followed the crash. Branches snapped and popped.
The arcing light flashed left.
With a swift, sideways step, Sullivan pulled them behind the rough bark of the tree. His fingers dug into her ribs as he thrust her up into the lowest branch. Low though it was, she wouldn’t have been able to swing herself up into the sanctuary of the cypress. Noiselessly, he swung up behind her, a lopsided grin lifting his mouth as he poked his head up through the leaves, a brilliant gleam in his eyes.
Her blood roaring in her ears, she grinned back at him.
Safe.
Watching his glittering eyes, Maggie knew she’d been right. Sullivan had loved the mad scramble through the night, the zing of danger.
To their left and below them, lights shafted in and out of the darkness for long minutes. “Damn you, Leon, how’d you lose sight of ‘em?”
Leon wisely kept his mouth shut.
“He’s gonna be real ticked off with you, Leon. He’s not going to be a happy camper at all, Leon. You better damn well keep your distance for a while if you got any brains left in that damned skull.”
Then, with a last broad sweep of lights, their hunters ringed the area back from the river, headed down to the shore and were gone.
With its running lights off, the barge couldn’t be seen.
Sullivan squeezed her hand and wound his fingers between hers, a comforting celebration of their escape.
Waiting, her head against cypress bark, Maggie gulped in air and felt her pulse drop back to a reasonable level as she heard the start-up rumble of the engine, its faster whine as it headed west, downstream.
Cocking his head toward the river, Sullivan listened in silence, shaking his head and touching her lips once when she started to speak.
They waited in the dark for a long time like that, his finger pressed against her mouth, his hand wound into hers, joined by touch and darkness. When he traced his thumb down her neck, letting it rest in the hollow of her throat, she felt the rough caress in a rippling shiver running all the way down to her toes and curling them inside her boots. Acrid with its poison, the night breeze off the river ruffled her hair, but Maggie stayed mute, in thrall to the gentle tide of pleasure lapping through her.
SULLIVAN'S MIRACLE Page 14