Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

"Cat is ready to jump down off that IBS to try to do a five-minute mile right then and there," Blue continued.

  "But I know he'll never make it. Just putting his weight on his damned leg is enough to make him start to black out. So I put Joe Cat's arm around my shoulder. I'd figured we could run down the beach together, kind of like a three-legged race, with Cat staying off his bad leg. But he was hurt worse than I thought, so I ended up picking him up and carrying him on my back.”

  Blue heard Lucy's soft inhale. "You carried him for a mile?" she whispered.

  "We were swim buddies," Blue said simply. "Cat is no lightweight—he's about five inches taller than me and he's built like a tank—so about a quarter mile in, I'm starting to move really slowly. But I'm still running, 'cause I want it badly enough, and I know Cat does, too, and I'm not gonna let him get pulled. But I start to wonder how the hell I'm going to find the strength to do this. And then I look up, and the rest of our boat crew is running right next to me. Me and Cat, we're not alone. Our crew is with us. Crow and Har­vard and all the rest of the guys. They're all hurting, too, but they're with us. We all took turns carrying Cat that entire mile down the beach. It was no five-minute mile—it took more like a half an hour.

  "But when we were done, Captain Blood looks at Cat and he looks at me, and then he nods and says to our boat crew, 'You boys are secure.' Just like that, four and a half hours early, Hell Week was over for our entire crew. We'd made it—all of us. And I swear to God, Captain Blood turned and gave us a salute. An officer, saluting a bunch of enlisted men. That was a sight to see."

  Lucy had tears in her eyes and goose bumps on her arms. She sat hugging her knees to her chest, glad for the dark­ness that hid her emotional response to his soft words. It was an amazing story. And Blue had told it so matter-of-factly, as if he didn't realize how rare and moving his loyalty to his friend truly was.

  She knew that Blue's loyalty had to be a two-sided thing, and she knew that if this Joe Cat hadn't been on a training mission, he would be on his way here to Hatboro Creek. Lord knows Blue could use some help. Lucy was doing the best that she could, but she knew without a doubt that her best wasn't enough. She didn't have the experience to pull this investigation off.

  And the one thing she did know how to do, she couldn't. She couldn't let herself love Blue—not on the physical level that he so desperately wanted, and not even on an emo­tional, spiritual level. She couldn't fall in love with him; she couldn't allow herself to feel more than dispassionate com­passion for him.

  But she did. She felt far more than that. She ached at his pain, suffered his worries, felt the cold of his fears.

  She couldn't fall in love with him... but that was exactly what she was beginning to do. Right here, in the darkness, with the echo of his velvet voice in her ears, she was sliding deeper in love with Blue McCoy.

  It was ironic. Until this afternoon, until Blue's outburst had jolted her, she would have labeled her feelings for Blue as a crush. It had been a very surface-level mixture of awe and admiration and lust—mere hero worship.

  But then, with his actions and his words, Blue had stripped off his superhero costume, revealing the imperfec­tions of the flesh-and-blood man underneath.

  The hero could only be worshipped.

  But the man could be loved.

  It was crazy. Even if she succeeded in clearing his name, Blue would be gone in a matter of days, probably hours. How could she let herself fall in love with a man who would never love her in return?

  But the point was moot. She couldn't let herself love him. She had to stop herself from falling. Because right now her hands were securely tied by her responsibility to the murder investigation.

  "Try calling Joe Cat again in the morning," she said. Her voice was husky with emotion, and she cleared her throat. "If he's not there, try again in the afternoon."

  "I will," he said. "Sooner or later he'll be back."

  She stood up, and she felt, more than heard, him tense.

  "Lucy," he said softly. "Don't go inside yet. Please?"

  She could hear loneliness in his voice and knew how much he wanted her to stay, how much it had taken him to ask her not to go.

  But she couldn't stay. Every word he spoke brought him a little deeper into her heart. She wasn't strong enough to resist him. Even here in the darkness, six feet apart, she found the sexual pull, the animal attraction between them, alarmingly strong. And the emotional pull that she felt was overpowering.

  But she couldn't tell him that.

  "I'm sorry, I'm exhausted," she said. She crossed the porch and opened the kitchen door. "I'm going up to take a shower and then go to bed."

  She could feel his disappointment, but he didn't try to change her mind.

  "All right," he said quietly. "Good night."

  The screen door closed after her, and she was halfway through the kitchen before she heard Blue's soft voice.

  "Lucy?"

  She stopped, but she didn't turn around. She heard him move so that he was standing on the other side of the screen.

  "Lock your door tonight," he said quietly.

  Lucy nodded. "I will."

  The clouds that covered last night's moon brought a dis­mal, gloomy rain to the day. It was an appropriate back­drop for Gerry's funeral.

  Most of the town had been there, many of the people slanting dark looks in Blue's direction.

  He had sat alone in a pew toward the front of the church, wearing his gleaming white dress uniform. Only Jenny Lee Beaumont spoke to him, and just briefly, as she was led from the church, following Gerry's gleaming white coffin out to the waiting hearse.

  This was supposed to be Lucy's day off, but she'd gone into the police station intending to carry on with the inves­tigation into Gerry's murder. Except, when he saw her there, Chief Bradley had taken the liberty of temporarily assign­ing Lucy to the task of directing the funeral traffic. She now stood in the rain, halting traffic and giving the right-of-way to the funeral procession heading out to the cemetery.

  Blue had borrowed Lucy's truck and he met her eyes briefly through the windshield as he pulled out of the church parking lot. Lucy had gone into the church for the cere­mony and had seen that he clearly wasn't welcome at his stepbrother's funeral. He hadn't been asked to carry the casket. He'd been virtually ignored. The minister of the church hadn't even mentioned Blue in his short eulogy to Gerry's life.

  Lucy's heart ached for Blue. As she stood getting wetter with each drop of rain that fell, she prayed for a break in the case.

  Today wouldn't be a good day to talk to Jenny Lee Beau­mont, but maybe tomorrow Lucy could go over to the house that Jenny and Gerry had shared. If she wanted to find Gerry's killer, maybe she should start by looking for a mo­tive. Why would someone want Gerry dead? Did he have any enemies? Was he in the middle of any fights, any busi­ness disputes? Maybe Jenny would know.

  And if Jenny didn't, someone in town had to know. Lucy was going to start out on Gate's Hill Road, near where the murder had taken place, and work her way through town, knocking on doors and asking questions. Somebody saw or heard something that night. Somebody knew who really killed Gerry McCoy.

  And then there were Leroy Hurley and Matt Parker. Blue was right about them. Their story about finding the dirt bikes by the side of the road was ludicrous. Someone had paid them off to obscure those tire tracks. And it was pos­sibly the same someone who was paying Matt Parker to say he'd seen Blue up in the woods with Gerry.

  The last of the cars pulled out of the church lot and Lucy watched their taillights vanish as they made a left at the corner of Main and Willow.

  Turning, she pushed her wet hair out of her face, ad­justed her soggy hat and headed for home. It was nearly three o'clock, and she wanted to change out of her soaked uniform and have something to eat. She'd make herself a salad and actually sit down at her kitchen table to eat it. And in order not to feel as if she were wasting time, she'd take the opportunity to really read over Gerry's autopsy repo
rts.

  It was three-fifteen before she got home, three-thirty be­fore she got out of the shower and nearly four o'clock be­fore she sat down with her salad at the kitchen table. She'd pulled on a short pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top, and brushed out her wet hair.

  She skimmed through the autopsy report, then went back to read it more carefully. It wasn't until the third time through that she saw it.

  There was almost no alcohol present in Gerry's blood.

  No alcohol?

  She checked the numbers again, and sure enough, ac­cording to these figures, Gerry couldn't have had more than one beer all evening long on the night he died.

  That had to be wrong.

  She'd seen Gerry's drunken behavior with her own eyes. He had looked and acted inebriated at the party at 8:15, yet had been dead at 11:06, not quite three hours later, with only the slightest trace of alcohol in his blood.

  It didn't make sense. Either the autopsy report was wrong...

  Or...

  Was it possible that Gerry's drunken behavior had been an act? Had he been stone sober at the country club, only pretending to be drunk? And if so, why? What purpose could it possibly have served? He'd embarrassed himself and Blue and Jenny Lee. Why would he have done that inten­tionally?

  It didn't make sense.

  Lucy had to tell someone. She had to ask questions, talk to Jenny herself, find out if Gerry had seemed sober or drunk earlier at the party. And R. W. Fisher. Blue said he'd seen his stepbrother talking to the Tobacco King right be­fore Gerry's outburst. Lucy had to talk to Fisher, see if he'd noticed anything odd about Gerry during their conversa­tion.

  Lucy stood up, stuffed her feet into her running shoes and grabbed her raincoat from its hook by the kitchen door. She was out on the porch before she realized that she didn't have her keys—or her truck.

  Okay. That was okay. She'd take a few minutes, go in­side, change out of her shorts and into a pair of jeans. As hot as it was with the humidity from the rain, it wouldn't do her any good to appear at the police station in shorts.

  Lucy took the stairs to her room two at a time and quickly kicked off her sneakers. She wriggled out of her shorts and pulled on her jeans. She fished her cowboy boots out from under her bed and pulled them on, too.

  She was reaching for the phone, about to call down to the station, looking for a ride, when she heard the kitchen door open and shut.

  Blue was back.

  Lucy clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen, stop­ping short when she realized that Blue was taking off his dripping clothes right there in the doorway.

  But his clothes weren't just wet, she realized. They were also muddy and torn. And smeared with blood. His blood.

  Blue had been in a fight.

  He'd taken off his jacket and the shirt he wore under­neath. His arm was bleeding, his fingers dripping with blood. Lucy got a glimpse of a nasty cut across his biceps before he pressed his shirt against it, trying to stop the flow of blood.

  Fear welled up in her. He'd been out there, in town, all alone, without her. He could have been badly hurt. Or even killed. "Are you all right?"

  He met her eyes briefly as he stepped out of his muddy pants. "I could use a first-aid kit," he said. "And I'll need some ice for my leg."

  Lucy saw that he had the beginnings of a truly dreadful-looking bruise on his left thigh.

  Silently she moved to the cabinet and took out her first-aid kit, with its vast array of bandages and gauze. As she set it on the kitchen table, she saw that Blue was still standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding his filthy clothes.

  "I don't want to get your floor any dirtier," he apolo­gized.

  "Just put them down," she said, hoping he wouldn't no­tice how her voice was shaking. "The floor can be washed."

  He nodded, setting his clothes on the floor.

  "What happened?" Lucy asked, since it was clear he wasn't going to volunteer the information himself. She filled a wash basin with warm water and set it on the table next to the first-aid kit.

  "Fight," Blue said, gingerly lowering himself onto one of the kitchen chairs.

  Lucy took a soft washcloth from the shelf, throwing him an exasperated look over her shoulder. "You want to be a little more specific there, McCoy?"

  She handed him the washcloth, then went to the freezer to get an ice pack for his leg.

  "No."

  His knuckles and hands were torn up, and he had a scrape across his left cheekbone. It was still bleeding, and he tried futilely to blot the blood with the back of his hand.

  Lucy's cold fear turned hot with frustration. "No," she repeated. She wrapped the ice pack in a small towel and crossed toward him.

  "It was nothing I care to issue a complaint about," he said. He lifted his wad of shirt from the cut on his arm, and it welled with blood. He quickly covered the wound with the soapy washcloth, applying pressure.

  "Issue a complaint?" Lucy stared at him. "I asked you what happened. I didn't ask you if you wanted to file a complaint."

  "I'm not trying to start another fight here," Blue said, glancing up at her. His eyes were startlingly blue. "It's just... you've been careful about remaining in your role as a police officer at other times, I figured what happened to me this afternoon was something you wouldn't want to know."

  Lucy was shocked. "Is that all I am to you, a police of­ficer?"

  "I thought that was your choice," Blue said, rinsing the washcloth in the basin, then using it to reapply pressure to his slashed arm. "I thought you were the one who set those limits."

  "I can't be your lover," Lucy told him. "That's my limit. But I thought at least I was your friend."

  He looked up at her again, his eyes sweeping down the length of her body and back up before settling on her face. "My friends don't look that good in their jeans."

  "I suppose you don't have a single friend who's a woman."

  "No, I don't."

  "You do now," she said grimly. She crouched next to him, not certain of the best way to put the ice pack on his leg. The bruise looked incredibly painful. It was turning all sorts of shades of purple, with a long, darker welt in the center, as if... "My God, were you hit with a pipe?"

  He briefly met her eyes again. "Yeah. I think that's what it was." He took a bottle of antiseptic spray from the first-aid kit and sprayed it on his arm. It had to sting, but he didn't even blink.

  "God, Blue, if they'd hit you with this much force on your head..." Lucy sat back on her heels, feeling sick to her stomach. He could have been killed.

  "They didn't," he said. "I was careful not to let them do that."

  "Please tell me what happened." Slowly, carefully, try­ing to be gentle, Lucy lowered the ice pack onto Blue's leg. He didn't wince; he merely clenched his teeth a little tighter at the contact.

  "I stayed behind at the cemetery," Blue said, using a roll of gauze to wrap up his arm.

  "Do you want me to do that?" Lucy asked, interrupting him.

  He sent her a tight smile. "No," he said. "Thanks. It's tricky doing it with only one hand, and that's keeping my focus off my leg."

  "It must really hurt."

  "Like a bitch," he agreed.

  "It could be broken," Lucy said, worried.

  "It's not," Blue said. "I've felt broken before and it's not."

  He was sitting in the middle of her kitchen, wearing only a pair of red briefs, Lucy realized suddenly. Even battered and bruised, he was drop-dead gorgeous. Every inch of him was trim and fit and muscular and tanned a delicious golden brown.

  "I hung back to visit my mother's grave," he was saying, continuing his story.

  Lucy forced herself to pay attention to his words, not his body.

  "I thought everyone had gone home from Gerry's buri­al, but apparently I was wrong. I was walking back to your truck, and I was jumped."

  He'd rinsed the washcloth clean and was now using it to wipe rather ineffectively at the cut on his cheek. Lucy pulled another chair over and took the
cloth from his hand, lean­ing across him to wash the cut for him. She had to use her left hand to push his hair back from his face. It felt thick and soft underneath her fingers. She tried not to think about it, tried not to think about his mouth, only inches away from hers.

  "Did you see who it was who jumped you?" she asked evenly.

  "My old friend Leroy Hurley was there," Blue said. "And Jedd Southeby. He was the owner of the pipe, I be­lieve. I'm not sure who else was at the party. There were an awful lot of 'em."

  Lucy pulled back slightly so she could look into his eyes. "How many?"

  "I don't know."

  She searched his eyes. Did he really not know, or was he keeping the truth from her? "Make a guess."

  "More than fifteen, fewer than twenty."

  Lucy's mouth dropped open. "That many?"

  "Most of 'em weren't a real threat," Blue said. "When it was clear that I wasn't going to curl up into a little ball and die, most of 'em ran away."

  Lucy's gaze dropped to the bandage on his arm. "Who exactly was the owner of the knife?" she asked.

  "We weren't introduced," Blue said, "but he'll be the gentleman checking in the county hospital with a broken hand."

  Lucy laughed. She had to laugh, or she would start to cry. Still, her eyes welled with tears.

  "Hey," Blue said softly. He gently touched the side of her face with the tips of his fingers. "I'm okay, Yankee. It's the other fifteen guys who don't look so good right now."

  "More than fifteen guys attack you, and they 're the ones who don't look so good?" Lucy laughed again, and this time the tears escaped, flowing down her cheeks. "What if one of them had had a gun?"

  "Someone probably would've been shot," Blue said, gently running his fingers back through her hair. "But there wasn't a gun. No one was badly hurt."

  Lucy almost couldn't help herself. She almost put her arms around Blue's neck and held him close.

  He could see it in her eyes, she knew, because his eyes grew hotter, more liquid. Other than that, he didn't move a muscle.

  Lucy made herself back away, wiping her face free of tears with her hands.

  "I have to go down to the station," she said, taking a tis­sue from a box on the kitchen counter and blowing her nose, trying desperately to break the highly charged mood that lingered in the room. She emptied the basin of water and rinsed out the washcloth. "I read the autopsy report and found something odd. Gerry had almost no alcohol in his bloodstream when he died."