Whispering her name, Jim leaned down, placing a warm, searching kiss on her lips. Time was on their side, now. One day, he would hear her say, “I love you.” One day…
Chapter Eighteen
Sheriff Cole?” Ward stood stiffly in the sheriff’s office. Cole, a gray-haired man of fifty-five, with pale blue eyes and a thin mouth, rose.
“Yes. You must be Captain Stuart.” He extended his hand.
Ward shook it. Inside, he was shaking with humiliation and anger. This time, Kenny had done it. “I understand my son’s here.”
Cole gestured to a chair. “Yes. Sit down, Captain.” He drew out the arrest report. “For over a year, we’ve suspected that there was a coke ring among the students of Danvers High School. With the aid of the Drug Task Force, we planted an agent who assumed the role of a senior in that school. She set herself up to buy coke and, over the last six months, has been able to identify everyone in the ring.” Cole pushed the report toward Stuart. “We busted the ring today. Your son wasn’t a dealer, but he was caught buying from the agent.”
Great, Ward thought. That was Kenny’s luck. “And the charges against him?”
“Possession of coke, Captain.” Cole gave the Coast Guard captain a measured look. “When we ran a check on him, we found out this isn’t his first offense.”
“No,” Ward answered heavily, “it isn’t.” He quickly read the police report. The drug bust had gone down minutes after Kenny had bought the coke. Christ, what bad luck.
“Your son has a drug problem.” Cole said it matter-of-factly.
Ward stared down at the report. “I could never prove it, Sheriff.”
“Most parents don’t want to,” the sheriff said gently.
Stuart was on his feet. “Are you implying that I didn’t care if my son was on drugs or not?”
“Take it easy, Captain. Sit back down.” He saw the flash of anger in the officer’s eyes and added, “Look, I’m aware of your stature in this town and the surrounding area. And because of that, I’m going to do everything possible to help your son. But one thing you have to promise is that you’ll send him to a rehab clinic in Seattle and get him cleaned up. Once he does that and comes back home, then I’ll expect you to deal with the situation.”
Relief flowed through Ward. He closed his eyes momentarily and then looked at Cole. “That’s more than fair, Sheriff. Thank you.”
With a nod, Cole stood. “Your son’s in solitary. I don’t like putting juveniles in the jail. Talk to him. When you get done, come back to see me and we’ll get the paperwork started. In the meantime, I’ll have one of my deputies contact the rehab clinic.”
Kenny’s head snapped up, his eyes widening when the door opened briefly and his father walked in. He slumped back against the wall, one foot drawn up on the wafer-thin mattress of the bunk. Bracing himself, he muttered, “I fucked up, okay?”
Ward stood there, staring down at him. Memories of Kenny when he was born, when he was seven, ten and thirteen flashed through his spinning mind. Where had he gone wrong with him? How could he efficiently run a base of two hundred and fifty divergent people and yet be unable to raise his son properly? Shattering layers of anger, hurt and betrayal simmered through him. More than ever before,
Ward knew he had to handle this properly. He had to think, not feel, where Kenny was concerned. He had to treat him with impartiality, like he did his people at the base, without allowing his emotions to get in the way of his judgment. He leaned against the door, his arms at his sides.
“The deed’s done,” Ward began quietly. “What remains is to pick up what’s left.”
Kenny glared up at him, steeling himself for his father to erupt at him. “They caught me red-handed, so there are no pieces up in the air. Are they gonna send me to juvie hall?”
“Is that where you want to go?”
“Hell, no! In six months I’ll be eighteen, and I won’t have to put up with all this shit.”
Holding on to his anger, Ward said, “What do you want out of life, Kenny?”
“First of all,” he snapped, “I hate being called Kenny! You’ve called me that since I was a baby. Everyone at school calls me Ken.”
“All right, Ken, you tell me what you want out of all this.”
His eyes rounded at his father. “What new psych game are you laying on me this time? I know you’re pissed off as hell. Go on, start yelling and screaming at me like you always do.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s just a matter of time,” Kenny growled, slumping even further down on the bunk, pouting.
Stuart shrugged. “I’m not going to waste my breath on you, son, if you don’t care enough to talk with me.”
“This is just too outrageous. My old man suddenly wants to be nice to me. What happened, Father? Is the bad old sheriff gonna lay the big one on me? Will this one sandbag your precious career, once and for all? I can see the headline now—Skipper’s Son Arrested on Drug Charges. Wait until your Seattle head honcho reads that.” Kenny slapped his hands together, the sound cracking through the chilled room. “Bam! Torpedoed by your useless son. Outrageous, dude.”
Ward stared down at Kenny. He knotted his fists. “Right now, I don’t give a damn about my career. It’s you I’m concerned about,” he gritted out.
“Sure you are. I’ll bet you’re trying to figure out different ways to talk the editor out of printing anything about my infamous arrest.”
“You’re going to a rehab clinic in Seattle, Ken. I’m signing papers tonight that will send you down there to clean you up from the coke you’ve been sniffing.”
Kenny was off the bunk in a second, screaming, “No! I’m not an addict! I don’t have a problem!”
Tensing, Ward got ready in case his son attacked him. Kenny’s face turned purple, his eyes wild and vacant. God, how could he have been blind this past year to this problem? How could he have missed it? The answer was easy. Ward was rarely home to notice these changes in Ken or to lend Marcia assistance with their son. She wasn’t to blame for this, he was.
“We’ve got a problem!” Ward roared at him.
Kenny staggered back a step, shaken by his father’s unexpected action. It took a few seconds to regroup from the shock. His lips lifted away from his teeth. “Forget it! This is just your way of getting rid of me. You’ve wanted me out of that house and out of your life for the last couple of years. Ever since you made captain, you’ve walked on eggs. I had to live the life of a goddamn choirboy. Well, forget it! I am who I am! And if you think that rehab outfit is gonna do anything for me—”
Ward advanced on him. He grabbed Kenny by the collar of his damp, sweaty shirt and slammed him up against the wall. He heard the air knocked out of his son’s lungs as he pinned him. “Now, you listen to me,” Ward breathed hoarsely in Kenny’s face. “Coke is your problem. Until you turn eighteen and are of legal age, this is our problem. Your mother and I will do everything in our power to help you, Ken. But if you don’t want help, there’s nothing we can do to push it on you.”
Releasing his son, Ward held his petulant glare. “Now, you sit in here until you can figure out whether you want our help or not. When the sheriff comes to get you, I’ll be waiting outside. At that time, you give me your answer. Understand?”
Kenny slowly pushed himself away from his father. In all his years, Ward had never physically touched him. Shaken, Kenny stared at him mutinously. “Forget it. You stopped giving your help a long time ago. Don’t start playing concerned parent now. It’s too late.”
Pain of incredible magnitude moved through Ward. He could taste bile in his mouth. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it—”
“That’s the way it’s going down. I’m not some poor slob who needs rescuing, so just forget about me. I’ll be in Seattle having a great time.”
Ward halted at the door, weight pushing downward on him. “We’ll be in touch, Ken,” he rasped.
Chapter Nineteen
Reno didn’t say any
thing when he walked into the Logan residence. The September morning was pleasantly warm, and already the blue summer uniform he was wearing was beginning to cling to him. For the last week, Reno had picked Gil up because his car was in for repair. Reno thought that marriage was the pits and was glad to be free of any serious entanglements. Divorce had sure played hell on Logan, and it was something he never wanted to experience personally.
“Gil?” The words echoed down the hall. Usually, he’d find Gil in the kitchen, reading the morning edition of the Star, coffee in hand.
“In here,” Gil said, indicating he was in the bedroom.
Reno sauntered through the kitchen. The place was a disaster. Eve had moved out, leasing a townhouse in Port Angeles. Logan had struggled in vain to keep the house clean. Stacks of clean dishes were piled on the counter around the sink.
“You about ready?” Reno asked, halting at the bedroom door. Logan was retrieving a clean flight suit from a drawer and folding it up. They had SAR duty for the next twenty-four hours. Lucky them. It was Labor Day, one of the biggest tourist holidays up here in Port Angeles, and he’d gotten stuck with duty. Reno had wanted the day off to go to Victoria, like everyone else, for the festivities. The women over in British Columbia were some of the prettiest he’d ever seen, and he wanted to sample them like ripe plums.
Usually, Reno would hitch a ride on the Flyer, the ferry that operated between Port Angeles and Victoria. It was a one-and-a-half-hour trip across the straits. Even the ride on the Flyer gave him ample opportunity to appreciate good-looking women. Tourists swamped Port Angeles, which sat at the base of the Olympic National Park. Many of them crowded onto the ferry, motor homes and all, to camp up in the splendor of British Columbia’s forests. This year, it wasn’t in the cards for him to have the day off.
Gil walked back to the kitchen, throwing the newspaper down on the table with disgust. He slugged down the last of a cold cup of coffee and then jabbed a finger at the Star. “Did you see the social section yet?” he growled.
“No.” That was dangerous territory to tread as far as Reno was concerned. Of late, with the divorce settlement negotiations going on strong and heatedly, Gil was a bear. Reno had no desire to step into that messy quagmire of discussion with him.
Shutting off the kitchen light, Gil muttered, “Eve’s doing a real hatchet job on the CO’s son.”
“I thought Ken was at the rehab clinic in Seattle?”
“I guess the kid’s getting out today and is supposed to come home.” Anger burned in Logan’s eyes. “You’d think Eve would have the common decency not to say anything about it. Stuart and his family have suffered enough bad press over this.” Gil picked up his flight suit and attaché case and headed toward the rear door. “Eve always did like gossip. Now, she’s in hog heaven.”
Reno couldn’t agree more. “Sure looks like she’s got it in for us Coasties.”
“Did you see her column yesterday? It was devoted exclusively to Rook and her boyfriend, Jim Barton. Damn, what an embarrassment. If I were Rook, I’d sue Eve and that goddamn rag of a paper.”
Reno went down the steps and walked over to his dark blue Kia Sorrento, opening the door. “How did she take that column?”
“Not very well. I caught her just as she was coming out of the head. She looked like she’d been crying.”
Settling in the car and strapping on the seat belt, Gil glowered out the window, immune to the apricot sunrise and the beauty of the mountains on one side, and the calm waters of the straits on the other. “Eve’s been needling Rook ever since she got that job on the paper and moved out of the house. She always thought there was something between Rook and me. There wasn’t.”
Reno smiled and backed the car out of the driveway. “My friend, in my vast experience, I’ve found that some women are just naturally jealous little minxes.”
“Eve excels at it.”
“Rook doesn’t need that kind of pressure on her,”
“No one does,” Gil said. “Can you imagine accusing Rook of chasing Barton for his money?”
Glumly, Reno shook his head. “Rook’s in a unique position. It’s part of paying her dues, I guess.”
With a shake of his head Gil said, “Another one paying a lot of unfair dues is Captain Stuart. Seattle District must be in cardiac arrest with the kind of trash in the paper. You know Admiral Savage doesn’t like this kind of tawdry press. It could hurt his chances to become the next commandant.”
Reno agreed. “Well, I’d say Stuart is on the razor’s edge.”
Ward’s gut tightened when the phone rang at ten o’clock. Marcia was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, her face drawn. They planned to leave in fifteen minutes to pick up Kenny from the bus station. They both wondered if the time in rehab had helped their son. Once a week, Ward and Marcia had driven down to visit Ken. And, every week, Ken had become more withdrawn from them until, six days ago, Ward no longer recognized his son. The rehab clinic, in Ward’s opinion, had only made Ken more embittered and angry.
“Captain Stuart speaking.”
“This is Admiral Savage’s office calling, Captain. One moment while I connect you.”
Ward slid a glance to Marcia. “It’s Savage,” he whispered, placing his hand over the phone.
“Oh, no….” Marcia got up, worry in her eyes. Even though the morning was warm and the breeze off the straits wafted through the open doors of the house, she was suddenly cold. The last two months had been hard on everyone, but especially on Ward. He was a man of immense pride, and she had watched the newspaper attack over Kenny’s rehab cut him to the bone. The guilt Ward carried was beginning to give him an ulcer. As a military wife, she knew that an admiral calling on a holiday spelled trouble. Just what kind, she’d find out shortly. That was all Ward needed, on top of Ken’s return home today.
“Admiral?”
“Good morning, Ward. I’m glad I caught you at home. We’ve got a problem that I’ve been trying to politely ignore for some time now, but I’m afraid this can’t go on any longer.”
Ward sat stiffly, a sinking sensation moving through him. “What problem is that, sir?” He knew without asking. Why fool himself?
Clearing his throat, Savage said briskly, “The Port Angeles Star has run a number of highly embarrassing articles about your problems with your son, Kenny. Unfortunately, these articles have reached Washington, and they’re not happy. Now, I’m sure you’re as upset about this as we are, and I would like to suggest a few steps to be taken to counteract the bad publicity.”
“What kind of steps, sir?” Ward had images of Savage discreetly removing him from command and “hiding” him in some shit job where he could finish out his career—out of sight, out of mind. That was how that political game was played.
Ward pulled the note pad toward him, prepared to write.
“The suggestions are Lieutenant Commander Malone’s. He feels a positive publicity campaign is needed by the Coast Guard. I’m aware of your involvement with local organizations, but this would be a good time to increase that involve ment. Set up a speaker’s bureau and give talks at ladies’ clubs, luncheons and other such events. Show the people of Port Angeles that the Coast Guard cares. Invite the public onto the base for an open house. I’ve already talked to our Canadian SAR contingent, and they’re willing to bring some of their helicopters, cutters and other equipment down for such an event. We can promote good feelings with the Canadians and the public simultaneously.” Savage sounded rather pleased with himself. “Lastly, Malone said you needed some more national headlines. That whale shooting buried us, even though your people were proven innocent. Malone says to try and produce an event or idea that will make the wire services want to pick it up and run it.”
Ward almost laughed. What did Savage want—a multiple disaster where the Coasties went zooming in like the good guys to the rescue? “Yes, sir, I’ll follow your recommendations immediately. And I’ll try to think of something the wire services would want to carry.”
“Excellent! Excellent. We’ll be looking forward to some positive articles on you and your people from the Star soon, then.”
I’ll bet you will. Ward was sure Savage had his assistants combing the Star daily. His career was sandbagged. All he could do was poke his fingers into the dike and try to stop the most serious leaks.
“Ward? It’s time to leave for the bus depot,” Marcia said gently, coming over and standing behind her husband. She rested her hands on his shoulders. “You can tell me on the way over what the admiral had to say.”
The Flyer sat at dockside, ready for the seven o’clock trip to Victoria. Captain Roland York, a rotund man of sixty-six, studied the traffic waiting on the wharf. His experienced eye took in the trucks, motor homes, campers and people waiting patiently below. They’d have a maximum load: three hundred people and one hundred autos and trucks. Turning, York was pleased that the straits were calm this morning. It was a cloudless, sunny day, one of the few that the Olympic Peninsula enjoyed.
Having lived fifty years in Port Angeles, York absently perused the waiting line of people. Among them he spotted a couple of individuals from the Coast Guard base, dressed in civilian clothes. And there was that gossip columnist from the Star, Eve Logan, with her inseparable companion, Julia Edwards. His white brows drew downward. What did those two biddies want? They never crossed to Victoria. Now, Jim Barton and his girlfriend, Rook Caldwell, were another thing. He often saw them come over on a Friday night and take the ferry back from Victoria on a Sunday afternoon. He didn’t blame them for escaping from Port Angeles to pursue their private lives with each other—especially after all the sticky press they’d received from those two gossips at the Star.
York rubbed his belly. That’s it, he thought, Logan and Edwards are following Barton and his girlfriend. With a snort of disgust, he turned around to Craig Green, his helmsman.
“Ask Tony to get up here,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
The first mate, Tony Knox, appeared a few minutes later. Opening the glass-and-oak door, he handed his skipper some official-looking papers.
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