Seaside Secrets

by Dana Mentink

  He nodded. “She’s a dental hygienist. She works at the same health clinic where I volunteer.”

  Angela’s gaze shifted as she thought it over. “I’ve got to talk to her.”

  “She didn’t look in the talking mood.”

  “I got that sense, too, when she pulled a knife.”

  Now it was his turn to gape. “What?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Bad idea. She’s got a knife and you don’t...”

  She stiffened. “Carry a weapon?”

  It wasn’t what he’d meant, but her reaction stopped him cold, her expression brittle as glass.

  “You’re right, Dr. Blackwater. I don’t.”

  The landing at the top of the stairs emptied out onto a cement sidewalk that led to the boardwalk. The crowds were thicker now, the lights in restaurant windows were advertising the beginning of the dinner hour. Paper lanterns that lined the sidewalks glowed in soft hues. While Dan struggled to think of how in the world he should handle the bizarre situation, Angela simply jogged by him and into the milling group.

  Lila had pulled a knife on someone? The soft-spoken, tea-drinking woman who read poetry during her lunch break? After a moment of thought, he went after Angela. At first he could not find her. Then the failing light shone on a man with a cap pulled down low over his wide forehead and a wound on the back of his hand. Dan had seen the scar before because he’d stitched it up himself. Tank Guzman.

  It was probably not outside the realm of possibility that Guzman was just coincidently attending the Beach Fest on the same night as Angela Gallagher, the woman who had watched his brother die. A chance meeting? And Lila just happened along, too?

  Guzman stood in the shadows near a restaurant, the air rich with the scent of garlic and calamari, a cigarette in his fingers. Guzman wasn’t interested in the food. He scanned the masses, a scowl on his face, until his gaze fastened on someone.

  Angela?

  Dan spotted her making a beeline for the parking lot. Several yards ahead of her was Lila, hastily edging her way through the throng.

  Tank stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it to the ground, following Angela. Dan closed the gap, intending to reach Angela before Tank did.

  “Wait, Lila,” he heard Angela call. “I need to talk to you about Tank. Please.”

  Lila wrenched open the door and got inside before slamming and locking it.

  “Lila,” Angela called again.

  Time slowed down in Dan’s mind. Lila’s lips moved in some silent uttering as she turned the key. Her head turned the slightest bit, a frown on her brow as she watched Angela one moment longer. Her shoulder moved as she shifted into reverse.

  “Lila,” Angela cried one more time, coming within ten feet of the car.

  Then there was a deafening bang and the smell of fire.

  TWO

  The blast took out the front right bumper and much of the engine compartment. It was the sound more than the force that caused Angela to stumble backward into the person behind her. Her head connected with the hard bone of a shoulder or chin. Tiny bits of glass pricked her face, and there was a vague sensation of heat. As she regained her balance, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Lila through the car window, pale profile wreathed in smoke.

  Stunned, her legs turned to rubber. Run, run, run, her brain screamed. Her memory filled with the sound of rockets shrieking through the sky and the smell of burning diesel. A cry knifed the air. Was it her own? Lila’s? A memory from the war?

  Electricity surged through her limbs, overriding the fear.

  The hood of the car was crawling with orange flames. The stink of burning plastic clogged her throat. Lila was still in the driver’s seat, eyes closed, knocked unconscious by the explosion. Angela sprang forward but found herself caught. Dan Blackwater, gray eyes sparking, gripped her wrist.

  “Stay back,” he growled.

  She yanked, almost ripping free of his grasp, but he was nearly six-four and strong. “She’s got to get out.”

  He held her easily, moving her back several feet in spite of her resistance. “You can’t help her right now.” His tone was arrogant, reassuring, infuriating.

  Can’t help her? Unacceptable. She forced out a breath and stopped wriggling for a moment, just long enough for him to loosen his hold, and then broke away, running to the car and pulling on the door handle, which was hot to the touch. Locked. A crackle of flames burst from the engine compartment.

  “Lila, wake up. Open the door,” Angela screamed, trying the back door handle with no success. She pounded her palm against the glass as hard as she could.

  Then Dan was on her again, grabbing her around the waist.

  “Let me go,” she shrieked. Was he just going to stay safely back and watch Lila burn to death or die of smoke inhalation?

  Twisting from his grip she started hitting the glass again when he braced an arm around her and moved her back, lifting her off the ground.

  “You’re a coward,” she yelled, flailing.

  “That’s enough,” he roared.

  She found herself tossed over his shoulder and carted away like a bag of laundry in spite of her screams. Blood rushed to her face as he hurried her away. A minute later, when he let her down, her head was spinning, cheeks hot.

  He pushed her into the restraining hands of two twentysomething festivalgoers who had run to witness the aftermath of the explosion. “Hold on to her,” he commanded. “Tightly.” Each one grabbed an arm, and she was imprisoned.

  “He’s right, lady,” said the one with the goatee. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Nothing? Should she stand by and watch while someone died right in front of her? Again? Her gaze traveled in horror to the car.

  Free of her, Dan ran to the car, grabbing up a folding card chair the parking attendant had been using. Several people were already on their cell phones calling for help. Dan raised the chair and smashed it into the back window. The first blow did nothing. He raised the chair again, his muscled arms rigid with the effort, and slammed it into the glass. This time the glass gave, and the chair punched through.

  “Man,” said one of her captors. “That dude is strong.”

  Leaping onto the trunk, Dan kicked the rest of the glass in.

  Another man, younger, wearing a Giants baseball cap, ran up waving a fire extinguisher. Without another word, he began spraying the powder against the flames coming from the front end of the vehicle.

  She wasn’t sure if Dan registered the second rescuer. Angela watched, pulse racing in terror, as he crawled through the back window.

  “He’s gonna be toast,” said her captor. “Dude’s gonna fry.”

  The fire extinguisher did little against the rising flames and the oily black smoke. She could hardly see the man in the cap, but the encouraging shouts of the onlookers meant he was still doing his best.

  “Fire department’s on its way,” a lady shouted.

  A minute ticked by, and she could see nothing through the smoke-shrouded windows. Had Dan decided to administer first aid right there in a burning car? Was he unable to get her seat belt unfastened? She swallowed. Had he been overcome by the smoke?

  The driver’s-side door was flung open with a groan of metal.

  “He’s unlocked it,” she breathed.

  A young couple raced up, took hold of Lila’s shoulders and dragged her away from the flames. They laid her down gently on the pavement. Angela finally succeeded in breaking loose from her captors. She ran to Lila, dropping to her knees. To be sure she was still breathing, she held her cheek next to Lila’s lips and felt the faint puff of air. Lila’s pulse at her wrist was steady though faint. Alive. Angela stripped off her jacket and draped it over Lila’s torso.

  “We’re going to get you to a hospital. Just ha
ng on, Lila.”

  There was no response. Had she suffered a head trauma? Would she still be alive when they delivered her to the emergency room? There was such a minuscule distance between living and dead. Julio’s crooked smile flashed through her mind. He’d smiled just before he’d died, smiled at her, the reason he had been cut down at the tender age of twenty. That smile would never leave her heart until her dying moment.

  Angela wanted to pray aloud, but she found her mind whirling, a sickening cold enveloping her body. She clutched Lila’s hand, squeezing, willing herself not to run away.

  Shouts erupted all around her.

  “Get out of there, man,” someone yelled. “You’re gonna burn alive.”

  It was several moments before she realized they were talking about Dan. The car was now enveloped in flames, black smoke filling the air. The driver’s door stood open like a gaping mouth. No Dan. Several people tried to get closer, but the intensity of the heat drove them back.

  Her face warmed at the nearness of the fire, but inside she remained cold. She wanted to help, but her legs would not move. Then pray, her heart begged. Pray to God that the rescuer in the car will be delivered.

  But the prayer could not penetrate the surreal numbness. All she could do was watch.

  * * *

  Dan realized after Lila was pulled through the door to safety that he wasn’t going to get out that way. The upholstered seats had begun to melt, and the flames licked up the steering column. He retreated the way he had come, over the front seat and into the back, just as the side window shattered. He dropped to the seat, covering his head from the cubes of safety glass that rocketed the width of the vehicle. His mind took him right back to Afghanistan, the moment when he had driven in the armored vehicle they affectionately nicknamed Nellie to assist a badly wounded soldier who could not be extracted from his Humvee quickly enough.

  He remembered the rocket-propelled grenade that struck the road twenty feet from their transport, shaking the ground worse than any earthquake the California boy had ever experienced. A haze of dust, shouts of confusion, the intensity of the gunny who took charge and got his men to safety before they returned fire. Running boots, the punch of bullets into the ground, the groan of a shell-shocked man he finally realized was himself. The incredible courage he’d been honored to witness in the men and women he served, the realization that life was as delicate as a spring flower and as tenacious as a bulldog.

  He’d learned not to try and shut out the memories, but to let them come, experience the pain again and extract himself from it. He did so now, as the glass settled all around him. Then he uncurled himself and continued on to the rear windshield, where there were helping hands, Good Samaritans braving the smoke, to assist him out and away.

  Coughing, shaking the bits of glass from his hair, he saw that the ambulance had arrived and paramedics were working on Lila. A heavyset police officer had pushed the crowd back; another was talking into the radio and taking statements. He twisted around, blinking against the smoke that stung his eyes. Where was Angela?

  A stocky cop approached, a smudge of black on his tanned face. “I’m Lieutenant Torrey. Do you need medical attention?”

  “No. I’m looking for someone. There was a woman here, with Lila.”

  “Lila?”

  “Lila Brown, the lady trapped in the car. I need to find the woman who was with her.”

  The kid with the goatee pointed toward the cliff. “She ran. That way. We tried to stop her, but she looked wild, you know?”

  He thanked them. “I’ll be back,” he said to the cop.

  The officer’s thick brows drew together. “This is a crime scene and I need to talk to you. I’ll send an officer to find your friend.”

  “No,” Dan said. “I’m going to find her now.”

  “I need you here.” There was a warning in the tone.

  He had no patience for questions. Not then. “My name is Dr. Daniel Blackwater. I live just up the beach. Here’s my cell phone and wallet so you know I will return. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.” He strode away, feeling the officer’s gaze burning into him, hearing a muttered oath behind him.

  She looked wild, you know?

  He did. He’d seen the seeds of that look when he’d not been able to save Julio Guzman, and he suspected her departure from Afghanistan had not been the end of it. In spite of some soreness along his belly from the glass that had cut through his shirt and into his skin, he moved through the crowd and jogged again to the beach.

  The sun sank below the horizon just as he made it to the stairs, leaving him blinking to adjust to the meager light. The fog didn’t help. Everything was gray shadows and glittering sea. He moved down to the sand, calling softly.

  “Angela? It’s Dan Blackwater.”

  The only answer was the waves scouring the shore. A distant boat motored by, heading to tie up at the nearby marina for the evening.

  “Angela?” he said again.

  He must have sensed her rather than noted any sound. She sat, curled into a ball, knees drawn up under her chin, hands clasped together.

  She didn’t look up when he drew closer, so he stopped a few yards away and crouched down, making himself as small and nonthreatening as a six-four, soot-covered guy could be.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She stiffened but did not look up. He could see only a glimpse of a tearstained face, hollow eyes that bored right into him down to a tender place he hadn’t known was there. “Lila’s on her way to the hospital, pulse is strong, looks like minor burns at this point. Breathing on her own. All good signs.”

  He heard a sniff. He moved closer until he could see the tight grip of her hands, the tension in her neck and shoulders, the slight trembling.

  “The explosion was frightening,” he said.

  Sounds of crying. Slowly, very slowly, he touched her hand. “Hey. Why don’t we talk? This stuff is hard, I know. It will help you to talk.”

  Her head jerked up then. “I don’t need to talk. And you don’t know anything about me.”

  He smiled. “Actually, I do. We were in the same place together, remember? A place that very few people in Cobalt Cove can conceive of, unless they served there, too.”

  She chewed her lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I didn’t, either, but you’ve got to get help.”

  “I am the help,” she snapped.

  He got it then. “Oh. Because you’re a chaplain, you’re supposed to be the expert, the one who comforts others.”

  She didn’t answer. When she looked out over the water, there was only despair on that lovely face, the look of someone who had been left behind, without hope of rescue.

  “Angela,” he started.

  She waved a hand. “I’m sorry. The explosion and the fire. It got to me. It was silly to run. I’m sure the police want to talk to me.”

  “As a matter of fact, they do. I’ll walk you back.”

  “Thank you, but I can find my way.”

  “Oh, they need to talk to me, too. I left at an inopportune moment.” He gestured to the top of the stairs, where the silhouette of two approaching cops stood out against the dusky sky. “Torrey’s steamed. Cops don’t like it when you keep them waiting.”

  “Why did you then?”

  “I wanted to find you.”

  She scrubbed the tears from her face with her sleeve. “No prize here.”

  He smiled. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Offering a hand, he helped her stand. “Why did you come here to Cobalt Cove? Why were you talking to Lila?”

  She hesitated. “I was looking for someone, and I heard Lila speaking to him on the phone.”

  “Who?”

  There was a long pause. He guessed she was weighing whether or not to trust him.

 
“Tank Guzman,” she said finally.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess you accomplished your mission.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy who helped out with the fire extinguisher.”

  She stared at him.

  “That was Tank Guzman.”

  THREE

  Angela tried her best to focus on the questions being fired at her by Lieutenant Torrey. At Dan’s insistence they had moved inside, to a table in the back room of the Grotto, a hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant complete with a rowboat suspended on the wall and crab traps piled in the corner. The smell of cooking fish made her queasy.

  “Why?” Torrey said again. She realized she hadn’t heard the question.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why were you looking for Tank Guzman?” Dan supplied.

  The lieutenant’s wide chin went up. “Stay out of it, Dr. Blackwater.”

  Dan raised his chin. “This woman and I served together in Afghanistan. Lila Brown is my coworker at the clinic. I want answers, too.”

  Angela knew Dan was close to being asked to step outside. For some reason, she wanted to avoid that. She took a deep breath. “Tank’s twin brother was my chaplain’s assistant in Afghanistan. I wanted to meet Tank.”

  Torrey’s mouth twitched. “My son did some time there, too.” He eased back in his chair, frame erect but a bit less stiff, brown eyes searching her face. “You’re a navy chaplain and now a private investigator?” He’d taken a moment to do a quick search, she realized.

  Angela blushed. “My family runs a PI firm. I help out. I have a few weeks of leave.”

  “Got a license?”

  “No.”

  “You here to do some investigating on your own in Cobalt Cove? About Tank Guzman?”

  She suddenly felt as if she was somehow under suspicion. Stake your ground and hold on to it, her marine father would have said. She sat up straighter. “No, I just wanted to find him and talk. I’d written him several letters over the past year, and he never replied until last week. He emailed me to arrange a meeting.”