Starlight Dunes

by Vickie McKeehan

  They sat down at the kitchen table like they were old friends on a picnic.

  “I didn’t know how you liked your burger so I had it cooked medium well with lettuce and tomato. You can always drag them off to the side if they disgust you. I had ’em cut the onions though. Hate those things but I realize not everyone feels that way. So I got mustard on mine, mayo on yours. But we can switch if you prefer. I’m not opposed to mayo just not on my burger.”

  “No, I’ll eat it. In fact, it’s perfect.”

  River’s lips curled up and with it admitted, “I cheated. I told the waitress who took my order, I believe her name was Mona, the burger was for you and the cook fixed it the way they knew you usually ordered yours.”

  He grinned as he picked up the salt, shook a generous supply onto the fries. “Max Bingham, that’s the name of the cook. His food’s become a staple since I came back here.”

  River held the bottle of ketchup in the air, waited for Brent to nod in approval before squirting a mound of the red stuff onto the paper container for sharing and dipping. “So you don’t cook?”

  “I nuke stuff.”

  “I’m an expert at nuking stuff myself.”

  “I bet you eat out a lot going from dig to dig like you do. It gets old for me. But every time I try to prepare a meal it’s a disaster of some sort. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the cooking gene.”

  “I can cook. I just don’t usually have access to a stove.”

  “Do you miss having a base? Doesn’t it get old always being on a dig?”

  “At times. But the dig is usually my home. While I’m here in Pelican Pointe I’ll make myself comfortable for the duration whether it’s in the RV or staying out at that cute little B & B.”

  “How could you possibly make an RV home?”

  “It’s not that easy… especially lately…when you’re forced to share it with a couple in love. Yuck.”

  “That would be…awkward.”

  “Exactly.” The song changed to U2’s Native Son which prompted her to ask, “How long have you been the top cop around here anyway?”

  “Not that long. I intended to make the army a career. It never occurred to me I’d end up in civilian law enforcement. But when I decided to hang it up after three tours in Iraq, I joined the sheriff’s department.”

  “How did you get to be sheriff in such a short amount of time? You aren’t that old.”

  Brent grinned. “Gee, thanks. I started out as a lowly deputy. Turns out, the department was rife with cronyism and corruption when I joined up. I decided to do something about it. I ran for sheriff on a platform I’d clean things up, start from scratch, get rid of all the dead weight. During the election, I must’ve gone to more than a hundred barbeques, kissed hundreds of babies and had photo ops at each stop. By the end, it felt like I’d pressed palms with a million hands. At the time my opponent said I was simply cashing in on my time in Iraq and didn’t know anything about being the sheriff. Turns out, he did me a favor with that line.”

  “Because you won.”

  Brent nodded. “Got sixty-two percent of the vote. But I made a lot of enemies along the way. That thirty-eight percent was rather vocal about my lack of experience at the helm. And when I shook up the department, that made a lot of enemies within. There were a lot of hard feelings at first but they eventually learned to see things my way. At least I thought they had. I hate to even consider that one of them took it to the next level and tried to end me. ”

  “Politics is an ugly business.”

  “It is. And that’s one of the reasons I’m on disability even after I can clearly get around enough to sit behind a desk to do my job.”

  “Someone there wants you out for good? That doesn’t seem fair. And I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but a little scary as well.”

  “I don’t know that for certain. But it’s looking that way. Now, I’m reduced to doing your security detail.”

  “Your father roped you into this, didn’t he?”

  “Oh yeah. But he truly wants to make sure our people are represented when you start digging for bones. You shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “I don’t, not really. We don’t even know there are remains at this site yet. There’s a village there, yes, where people lived and worked and had families. But human remains could be forty miles up the coast.” She did her best to sound convincing.

  It didn’t fool Brent. “You don’t believe that for a minute.”

  She smiled. “No. I don’t. It was a large, thriving village, a busy one at that. Not just a campsite either but their permanent environment. Remains are there. We may have to dig down deep and then go back in under the cliff to get to them. But the remains are there somewhere.”

  Brent stayed silent for a few minutes, studying her face, her confidence. “You have some special gift that tells you that. You do, don’t you?”

  Without answering, she blinked in amazement before it dawned on her. Scott’s words echoed in her head. If Brent does, he’s never used them before, not outwardly anyway. “You have it, too. You just don’t bother using it very much. Why is that?”

  “I guess you could say I took the path of least resistance as a kid. I was Native. First strike. My father was a bit of an oddity. Second strike. He embraced his psychic ability and ran with it. But at the time the whole thing embarrassed me. I didn’t want people to know and my father was out there every day making sure they did.” His shoulder came up in an easy shrug. “What can I say? I was young. It became a habit, something to hide, to back away from.”

  “But you do have psychic abilities.” She sensed the struggle in him.

  “I prefer to call it my gut feeling. It isn’t as strong in me as it is in Ethan anyway, never has been.”

  “It wouldn’t be because you have to exercise it the same way you do your brain. How do you know how strong it is, if you never utilize it?”

  “I know. Okay? I’ve seen Ethan find a little three-year-old girl in Wilder Ranch State Park when I didn’t know where to look. I’ve seen him use it to get women. Believe me, The Force runs strong in Ethan, not me.”

  She smiled at that. “Just because you don’t use it to get women into bed doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  About that same time, they both heard a succession of loud pops coming from outside in the distance.

  “Was that gunfire?” Brent asked, dropping his burger back down into the wrapper. He got up from the table to snatch up his cell phone on the counter. Instinct had him punching in nine-one-one. More pops alerted him to more shots and a potential serious situation. “That was rifle fire.”

  “The dig!” River shouted as she got to her feet. “It isn’t the first time we’ve been shot at during an excavation,” River explained as she tried to dart past Brent to the front door.

  But Brent grabbed her arm to stop her progress. “Wait a damn minute! You aren’t running out there until I get some backup here and check this out for myself.”

  When dispatch picked up, Brent identified himself. In clipped words, he apprised the person on the other end of the phone of his location and that he might have a possible ten-thirty-two in progress. He reached for the weapon he kept under the seat cushion. The entire time he watched River squirm beside him, itching to dash out the door to check on her crew.

  “You don’t understand. My team’s out there. I left them to come here. I have to go see if they’re okay.” River took out her iPhone and thumbed in a text message to Julian.

  But Brent had a job to do, too, and held firm. “I know that. And we will. But not until I know what’s going on.” While he kept her arm gripped, they moved together out the front door and down the porch steps. Rifle fire continued to echo from a distance. They made their way across the street about the same time a smattering of curious people began to stream outside from the little touristy shops along the beachfront.

  “Get back inside, all of you and stay there until I tell you different,” Brent demanded in the di
rection of the onlookers. He shoved River toward the closed door of the watering hole known as McCready’s. He was surprised when the lock turned.

  When the bar owner, Flynn McCready appeared, Brent told River, “Go in there and wait for me until I tell you that it’s okay to come out. Got it?”

  “But what about my crew? They might be in the line of fire while I sit here doing nothing.”

  “I’ll see to it they’re evacuated.”

  With that, Brent finally let go of her and was surprised when River added, “Be careful.”

  Flynn filled his own doorway. A big man, originally from Dublin, who’d once spent plenty of time in the ring as a boxer, stepped aside to make room for River as she scooted into the dimly lit pub.

  Flynn pointed toward the lighthouse. “Gunman’s on the cliffs, Brent. I’d say it’s a high-powered rifle probably one with a scope.”

  It was then Brent saw the shotgun Flynn held. “You take care of River and let me handle this.” He might be on disability but he’d be damned if he’d let Richardson handle this situation when it was in his own backyard.

  At the first sign of sirens closing in fast, he added, “There, it seems my backup is already on the way. Now get back inside both of you. And Flynn, do me a favor, try to keep the gawkers to a minimum. Coax them into the bar if you can and keep them there. I don’t care if you have to give out free, watered-down drinks to do it.”

  “Count on it. I haven’t heard any shots in five minutes or so,” Flynn reported. But just as the bar owner spoke the words, another round of gunfire went off.

  “It’s coming from the cliffs all right.” Brent took out his cell phone, dialed dispatch a second time. “I need SWAT. I need choppers in the air with a marksman onboard. Get me Nightsun to illuminate the area. I want it so bright I can pick out a fly. I have at least one confirmed shooter, maybe more, with a vantage point. He’s in a high-risk area, too. I have civilians on-site at the lighthouse and on the beach below in danger of getting hit. That’s why you need to come in from the south. If our sniper should get a kill shot, I’m giving the go-ahead to take him out.”

  Listening to Brent’s part of the conversation, River couldn’t help it. Drawn to his intense eyes, she felt that familiar tug in the belly she hadn’t experienced in years. How long had it been since she’d acted on that kind of urge anyway? But this wasn’t the time for lustful thoughts. She didn’t need to get tangled up with anyone. It was a bad idea. Too much on her plate to consider a quick roll in the hay. But those take-charge eyes of his made her heart flutter in a way it hadn’t.

  Make sure my crew is okay,” she told him when she stepped back outside where he stood. Looking into his dark soulful face, she tiptoed to reach his ear and acted on instinct. Whispering, she said, “When this is all over, I want a dance, sheriff. Make sure I get it. Understand?”

  Despite the situation, Brent almost smiled. “I can arrange that. While I’m waiting for my ride, hand me your cell phone for a second.”

  River reached in her jeans pocket, pulled out her iPhone, handed it off. She watched as Brent punched the keypad in rapid succession before giving it back.

  She reached out her hand for his to do the same. When he complied, she entered her number, handing it back with a grin. “I’ll say one thing for this town, you do an interesting lunch.”

  At that moment the first patrol car screeched to a stop driven by sheriff’s deputy Dan Garver. Brent took a step toward the cruiser and said, “Go on back inside, River. Stay there.”

  “Stay safe, Brent.” She watched as he climbed into the passenger seat and took off down Ocean Street—and toward the shooter. A panicked feeling took over until she glanced down at her phone. It dinged with a text message. And it wasn’t from Julian. It read:

  When you get mad I love the fire in your eyes.

  “Dispatch lit up like Christmas with several different calls, not only yours, reporting gunfire,” Garver relayed with an excitement only adrenalin produced. “The radio’s been on overload. You sure you’re up to this?”

  “Just drive the car, Garver,” Brent snapped. “Our first order of business is to evacuate those people below on the beach.” He picked up the mic to radio central, gave instructions to get it done. With the directive out of the way, Brent turned to Garver. “What about injuries?”

  “None so far. Just those scared people trapped on the beach near that dig site. Then there are the workers up at the keeper’s cottage on the hill. Shooter opened up on them, too. Luckily he missed.”

  Even sitting in the cruiser, both men heard more popping sounds coming from the direction of the cliffs.

  “You ever shot anyone, Garver?” Brent asked, eyeing the twenty-five-year-old cop. When the man swallowed hard, Brent had his answer. “Will you be able to do it? I need to know now if the situation calls for it.”

  Garver nodded. “Sure, I can do it if I have to.”

  “Good to know,” Brent muttered as the cruiser continued along the road up to the bluff.

  “I’ve only shot at paper targets before though,” Garver added, feeling the need to confess his inexperience.

  “That’s fine. Were you any good?”

  “Good enough to get a badge. I’m a decent shot.”

  By this time they were passing through the main entrance to the lighthouse where chaos reigned.

  The Smuggler’s Bay Lighthouse and its keeper’s cottage were on the left hand side of the car. To their right, some fifty yards away, a thick forest of cypress, scrub oak, and California pine dotted the coast line to the north. Brent noted the trees made for an excellent place to hide if you wanted to avoid detection for any length of time, a shooter’s paradise. Locating the precise location of the gunman would be best done by air.

  Logan Donnelly, the owner and sculptor renovating the place, met them at the entrance. He ducked behind the car to lean one arm on the driver’s side door. In the other hand, he gripped a Ruger bolt-action rifle. Logan peered into the vehicle and used the barrel of the weapon to point to the thicket of trees. “The shots came from the woods. You don’t want to charge in there though, Brent. Troy and I tried that. We had to back off when whatever nut is in there turned his cannon on us. We were pinned down for a few minutes until I made it to Paul Bonner’s truck to get his deer rifle.”

  Brent stared at the artist with the waist-length hair. “With a baby on the way, I’d rather you got yourself and your crew, all of them, out of here and evacuate. I don’t want them in the line of fire any longer than they have to be. By any chance did you get a look at this guy?”

  Logan shook his head but added, “This may sound crazy but I think it might be Sam Turley. I had to let him go two days ago because he showed up drunk at seven in the morning. He was pretty pissed about losing his job. That isn’t all. Ever since his brother Sal got locked up, he’s been spiraling down into deeper depression, getting more angry and hostile by the day. Before his drinking binge, he’d show up and spend eight hours in rant-mode. When I fired him it might’ve pushed him over the edge.”

  About that time a bullet pinged off the hood of the car. “Damn it!” Brent shouted. “Logan, get in the backseat. Get us out of the line of fire, Garver. Back that way.” He pointed behind them.

  The minute Logan climbed in, the deputy put the car in reverse and skidded all the way back to the main gate.

  “If it is Turley and he wanted to hit you, he could and would,” Logan pointed out.

  “You’re right about that,” Brent agreed. “Sam’s hunted his entire life. He and Sal are both sharpshooters. Not only that, Sam knows those woods like the back of his hand.”

  “Whoever’s out there shot out every damn window in the keeper’s cottage. He tried to take out the new beacon we installed last week. He did all that without putting a bullet in anyone. That’s why my guess is, it’s Sam Turley trying to make a point.”

  “So his frame of mind’s been even worse than it usually is? Great,” Brent mumbled. “In your opinion co
uld we open up a dialogue with him, get Sam talking before he kills someone?” Brent suggested.

  “I don’t know. He’s a stubborn cuss. Maybe talk to him about his little girl. Sam just recently discovered he has a daughter over in San Sebastian. That also contributed to his anger. Talking about the little girl might get his attention enough to surrender.”

  Just as vans with the SWAT team inside began to pull up alongside the cruiser, another shot rang out. This time it hit the dirt six inches away from the front tire. “If he keeps shooting at us like this he’s gonna end up dead,” Brent said as he opened the passenger door to make a dash to set up the command post.

  He wasn’t fast but he made it there in one piece. Reaching the head of the tactical unit, Brent dropped down behind the truck and told the sergeant in charge, “From what I’ve been able to determine the shooter’s location is at approximately eleven o’clock. That’s where I want you to put the Nightsun. Light that place up. He’s had this site pinned down now for nearly thirty minutes with no signs of letting up.”

  At that moment, Brent caught the unmistakable wap wap wap sound of four incoming Puma choppers. Two remained offshore while two circled the woods overhead.

  From his position, Brent kept up a line of communication with the team in the lead chopper. But when he found out the marksman couldn’t get a bead on the sniper, he turned to Garver who had eventually sprinted over to the command post. “Give me the bullhorn,” Brent groused. And with that, he began his first attempt at getting the shooter to talk to him.

  Six hours later and a little after nine that night, a tired and hungry Sam Turley finally walked out of the woods sans weapon to give himself up.

  Dropping to the ground, Sam began spouting a list of reasons why he’d gone on his shooting spree. “Brent, I didn’t hurt nobody. I just wanted to show that damned hippie freak Logan a lesson after he fired me.”

  “Yeah, you taught him a lesson all right. Never hire a drunken idiot and expect anything more out of him. And to think at one time I believed you were the lesser of two evils. I thought Sal was mean. But this…”