McCloud's Woman (5 page)

“I have a state permit to film there!” she shouted. “I can do anything I damned well want.”

“Try it, and see what happens,” he said calmly.

They were replaying adolescent roles. Mara knew the
futility of arguing with Tim. He’d only fling her out. “I have a
permit,” she replied in the same calm tones. “If we can’t work together,
then I’ll go to a higher authority. Your choice.”

“Pats, it isn’t going to work. I’m not Brad or whomever
else you’ve learned to manipulate with that treacherous mind of yours.
You can’t threaten me. I have a federal grant for this site, and I’m not
budging until I’m finished. Find another beach.”

“There’s a reason pirates used these beaches and not all
the others.” Throwing things would be so much simpler than reasoning
with the hardheaded rhino, but at least he remembered she had brains.
“I’ve spent a fortune scouting this location. It’s too late to change.”

“That’s ridiculous. The Carolina coast is littered with
beaches. Or you can ship your stuff to the island. Be creative. I have
to get back to work.” He stood up, apparently prepared to shove her out
the door.

“You can’t fight this,” she warned. “The town wants my money. They’re on my side.”

“In your dreams. If I could make things happen simply by
believing them, I’d wish for world peace. Out, Pats.” He took a
threatening step in her direction.

He was broader and taller, and she didn’t have a chance
against him physically. Mentally, however, they were evenly matched.
Smiling, Mara didn’t retreat but traced a long, polished fingernail down
his shirt front. “I can make things happen, big boy. Want me to make
them happen for you?”

He waited implacably.

“Loser,” she taunted in retaliation. “Don’t forget, I
offered you a chance, for old times’ sake.” Holding a finger to her
lips, she kissed it, then pressed the print against TJ’s cheek, leaving a
slight smudge of red. “Toodle-oo, babe. I’ll see you in court.”

She sauntered out, swinging her hips. She didn’t think it was just hostility that had raised the temperature in there.

***

Giving up on getting any work done, TJ eyed the boxes
stacked along the wall and surrendered to the inevitable. Lifting the
top one to his work counter, he slit open the sealing tape, sat down,
and pulled out the top notebook. A moment later, he reached for pen and
paper.

Combing through the notebook of Balkan testimonies
translated from the original, he noted a page number and a description
and flipped to the next statement. His gut churned at the entry. He’d
known this would be painful, but he had to know the truth. If he’d been
covering up for a traitor instead of protecting his country and a
friend, as he’d assumed, he needed to know.

The truth could cripple him instead of setting him free.
The newspapers were saying Martin had released war criminals that TJ’s
forensics team had indicted. Allegations of black-market racketeering,
Mafia-like protection scams, and bribery had mushroomed from there.

TJ had been traveling, mostly in Africa, and unaware of
any of this until he’d returned to the States. He had assumed his
written testimony had been sufficient for courts to indict the criminals
his evidence had uncovered. He’d worked with Martin in Eastern Europe
for years. If his team was dirty, TJ should have known.

He’d known the criminals weren’t always arrested. He’d
assumed there were military and political reasons for that. He’d trusted
Martin, dammit.

If he had any sense at all, he’d burn these boxes as Leona
had told him to do. Get rid of them, and get on with his life. The
motive wouldn’t even be selfish. He was good at what he did. He’d
documented enough evidence to put half a dozen war criminals that he
knew of behind bars. He’d prevented wars between African tribes by
identifying murderers. He fought for justice and truth. Being accused of
something of which he knew nothing would be taking out one of the good
guys.

The phone shrieked, and he let the machine answer it. The
Defense Department had located him down here. TJ figured they couldn’t
know about the boxes but were on a fishing expedition to see how much he
knew or how much he’d tell. But Colonel Martin hadn’t tried to reach
him yet. Until now, TJ had assumed that meant Martin wasn’t worried
about the media outcry.

The colonel had been the military leader and family friend
who’d respected TJ’s research and requested his services, a courageous
man he’d followed into war zones. He had never doubted Martin when he’d
told him these boxes should be destroyed to protect national security.

The phone quit ringing, and TJ flung the notebook back in
the box, his stomach too queasy to continue. He couldn’t even pin down a
single source for his discomfort. The reading material contained enough
atrocities to make a strong man heave. But suspecting a trusted friend
of protecting the criminals was beyond credibility. The likelihood that
he could be accused of guilt by association—

TJ sealed the box and shoved it back in a closet. He
needed to find a better hiding place. If Martin thought he’d destroyed
them, what were the chances of anyone else knowing of their existence?

He prayed that the media wouldn’t remember his connection
with Martin before he had time to read all the material and make a
decision. There’d been press with them through a lot of the earlier
years. He’d come to know several reporters well over bars in foreign
lands. How long before they remembered him and tracked him down?

Removing his lab coat, TJ caught a whiff of gardenias. The
image of the new Patsy-Mara had wormed its way into his thoughts so
thoroughly that it popped up every time he let his defenses down. What
the hell had she done to herself? And why?

He didn’t want to think about that on top of everything
else. He slammed out of the office, carefully locking the deadbolt
behind him. The town didn’t have much in the way of office buildings, so
he’d rented an empty storefront, figuring security wasn’t a problem.
That had been before he’d started reading the notebooks.

He just needed a little time to decide what to do with a
smoking gun. Could he be objective in judging the material after he’d
read it? Was it even his responsibility to deal with it?

He needed to hire an assistant. If he could get the grunt
work off his back, he could be out of here faster. Patsy—Mara—would
appreciate that.

Damn, but he couldn’t believe what she’d done to herself.
He’d thought she would have gone on to Harvard in Brad’s place and be a
doctor or a lawyer by now. But a movie producer?

Preferring to think of those high school and college days
rather than his current predicament, TJ smiled at his memory of teenaged
Patsy Amara Simonetti. He’d rather liked the way she’d looked back
then. At least it had been honest and real. So, she’d been a little on
the skinny side. She’d filled out just fine. He’d liked her brown hair.
She’d worn it long, and he could wrap his fingers in it when he kissed
her.

He hadn’t kissed her much. There hadn’t been enough time.
He’d always admired her spunk and wit, but he hadn’t discovered she
could be more than Brad’s kid sister until a Christmas party when she’d
indulged in too much punch she hadn’t known was spiked.

At sixteen, with her hair up and high heels on, she’d
pulled him out of the doldrums with her laughter. He’d walked her home,
and she’d thrown herself in his arms, and he’d discovered kisses made in
heaven. Then he’d gone back to Harvard, and they’d only seen each other
those few weekends he could make it home.

Damn. He’d done his best to forget those insane few
testosterone-driven weeks of his sophomore year in college. He’d
survived hell since then. His brain ought to relent and let it go.

“Dr. McCloud!” A booming voice of authority hailed him from across the street.

TJ grimaced at the title, but the mayor took pleasure in
titles. Southerners didn’t like surrendering any form of aristocracy.
Checking the nearly empty street, he crossed in the middle. At this time
of day, everyone was sitting down to dinner. “Mayor Bridgeton,” he
acknowledged with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

“Let the pretty lady drive her trucks to the beach, of
course.” At five-ten, the mayor stood more than half a foot shorter than
TJ, and the older man hid his discomfort by striding as briskly toward
town as his portly frame would allow. “The bones of dead pirates won’t
mind a little disrespect.”

TJ had known this was coming, but his worry over Martin
hadn’t left him the concentration to prepare a defense. Patsy hadn’t
wasted any time. Mara. He had to remember to call her Mara. She
definitely didn’t look like sweet, shy Patsy any longer.

If he was shooting down careers, he might as well take out
a few hopes and illusions with him. “Even pirates deserve respect,
sir,” he began peacefully enough, before dropping the bomb on the
community’s claim to fame, “but those bones have been buried no more
than sixty or seventy years, give or take a few years.”

“What!” The mayor stopped to glare at him. “I’ve never
heard of any cemeteries on the island. That’s ridiculous. Might have
been a few Gullahs out there farming, but they didn’t bury their dead
there.”

“The bones are Caucasian.” TJ resumed walking. He was
starved and the restaurants were down by the harbor. “I’ve not located
any skulls, but I believe I have the remains of at least two white
males.”

The mayor uttered a profanity that reflected TJ’s thoughts on the matter.

The town most likely had a seventy-year-old murder case on its hands.

“Just a little party, punch and hors d’oeuvres.” Stalking
through the lobby of the B&B, Mara closed her contact book and flung
a restaurant menu at Ian in the same motion. “You know the routine.
We’ll invite a few state and local officials, knock their socks off with
glamour, yadda yadda. McCloud doesn’t stand a chance.”

“If the feds have the upper hand with that dunes law...”

“It’s not a dune,” Mara said decisively. “The hurricane
just made a sand dump. Those bones are probably scattered all up and
down the beach or washed to sea. He has no case.”

“Then I should start bringing in the equipment?” Ian jotted his notes the old-fashioned way, into a notebook.

“Wait until after the party. I’d like to have some guarantees so we can sue later if the production schedule is delayed.”

She could do this. She’d watched Sid for years. Take the
offense and stay there. Never lose sight of the bottom line. She’d
needed those lessons, or she would have spent her entire life as a
doormat.

Of course, she was still relying entirely too much on
others, but she’d work herself to death if she didn’t. Ian could talk to
city and state officials far better than she could. She’d done a damned
poor job talking to the one person she’d had confidence in reasoning
with. Maybe she should stick to planning and organization.

She left Ian in the sitting room talking into two phones
at once. She needed to walk the beach and verify there was no other
access. Maybe her maps were wrong. Maybe the hurricane had changed
things. Maybe she was fighting a lost cause.

A chill shivered her spine.
Please, Lord, let me do just this one thing right
.
She had too many responsibilities to drop the ball now. If she didn’t
buy out Sid’s company, it would be a hollow shell in a few years, and a
lot of decent people would be out of jobs.

It might be small, but the studio had a damned good
director and a reputation for quality films that allowed it to survive
in this megalopoly world, only Sid had fried his brain and lost interest
years ago. People depended on her, ironic as that might be.

Her mother depended on her, but that was nothing new. Ever
since Brad’s death and her divorce from Mara’s father, she’d been
deteriorating. The doctors had claimed she’d been declining all along
but Mara had been too young to notice until the later stages. Brad’s
death still felt like the dividing line between childhood stability and a
world gone insane.

After climbing into her waiting limo and giving
directions, Mara gazed at the town passing by, for once not trying to do
two things at once. She’d never lived in a small town, had no desire to
do so, but she could admire the picturesque brick buildings and
spreading oaks with their mossy beards for the past they represented—and
the stories they might tell. It was peaceful here, a slower time and
pace that gave a person time to think.

So why was the internationally renowned Dr. TJ McCloud
playing in this backwater? She’d seen the newspapers—the man had won
prestigious awards for his work, had shaken the hands of the president
and half the governing powers of the world. Why would he bother with a
grant for a hole in the middle of nowhere?

It wasn’t any of her concern. She’d written him off her hero list the day he’d walked out on Brad’s funeral.

The limo purred to a halt in front of the chain link fence
bearing TJ’s warning sign. She saw no car parked nearby, so she assumed
he was still at the office.

Mara took her driver’s helping hand, and found her footing
on the uneven sand. She’d come better prepared this time. She’d
replaced her expensive snakeskin mules with a pair of Nikes.

“Stay with the car, Jim. I’ll just cruise the beach, pace off a few sets. You’re within screaming distance if I need you.”

The remains of the original access road ran straight into
the mountain of debris washed up by the hurricane. The fence didn’t
enclose the entire dune, just the highest part. By digging her toes into
the slippery slope, it could be scaled—on foot. They’d need a bulldozer
to plow through the palmettos and wax myrtle at the base if they wanted
to bring in trucks.

A bulldozer would require the owner’s permission. Maybe it would be easier to tackle the local crazy lady.