Sea Witch (14 page)

gloom. But she could feel the upper floor pressing down on her, the

surrounding pines closing in.

Caleb’s mother had lived
here
?

For thirteen years.

Margred shivered and walked to the front of the house.

“Where are you going?” Lucy demanded.

“I need air,” Margred said and swung the door wide.

107

The wind poured in, wet with rain and the smell of earth and pine

and, faint and faraway, the scent of the sea. Margred breathed in.

“You’re getting the floor wet,” Lucy said.

Margred ignored her.

Holding the sea air deep inside her lungs, she began to cast again,

her seeking thought like a golden hook spiraling down and down. The

rain misted her face and dampened her bare arms. She held them up to the

clouds, reaching beyond the fat, wet drops and freshening breeze to

where the rain swam on the currents of air like a shoal of bright fish. This

was only a small, localized storm. Well within her power.

If she had power.

If she were still selkie.

If her head didn’t hurt quite so much.

Frowning in concentration, she tested the flow of the air, the

gathering condensation. She felt power gather heavy in her loins until she

was pregnant with it, until it rippled in her stomach and pushed at her

lungs, until it surged and filled her. She opened her mouth, panting.

Water was her element, she reminded herself. The rain streamed

down her face and saturated her gown. All it would take was a push here,

a breath there, a tiny adjustment in temperature . . .

Ah
.

Something gave, in her chest and in her loins and high in the air

overhead. The power rushed to fill the breach, spilled from her into the

sky.
There. Now
.

Ow, ow, ow
.

Pain—flashing, slashing—shattered her head and left her empty.

Aching. Margred swayed, grabbing the door jamb for balance.

Lucy rushed to her side. “Come on. Come inside. Sit down.”

108

Margred allowed herself to lean on Lucy’s shoulder; allowed Lucy

to support her, hollowed, limp and dripping, to a chair. Had she . . . ?

“You’re all wet,” Lucy scolded as if she were addressing a child.

“What were you thinking? It’s raining.”

Margred blinked. Her head pounded. But through the fog in her

brain, she could feel the change in the skies overhead, the shift in

pressure, the flow of water vapor.

The alluvium of magic.

Half blind with pain and triumph, she raised her face and smiled.

“Not for long,” she said.

109

Nine

CALEB’S CELL PHONE VIBRATED ON HIS BELT. HE reached

for it, one hand on the wheel and his attention on the wet road.

Edith, calling to report some minor trespass that required the chief’s

attention?

Or Antonia, with another complaint?

He glanced at the display and recognized the number on the tiny

screen. His pulse quickened.

Lucy
, he thought.

And then, with another surge of adrenaline,
Maggie
. Visions of brain

bleeds and abusive ex-boyfriends flashed through his head.

He thumbed the speaker button. “What’s wrong?” he barked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Lucy said hesitantly. “I just, um . . .”

Nothing was wrong
. He loosened his grip on the wheel.

As a detective, he knew better than to jump to conclusions. Or to

jump down his sister’s throat. His lack of sleep must be getting to him.

No, Maggie was getting to him.

“Sorry,” he said to his sister. “What’s up?”

“I, um— It’s stopped raining.”

He looked through the rain-spotted windshield to the east, where the

clouds were beginning to break. “I can see that.”

“Yes. Well. Maggie wants to know when you’re going to the beach.”

110

He couldn’t let his personal life interfere with his investigation.

Although a little beach trip could serve both. Maybe a return to the crime

scene would trigger memories of Maggie’s assailant. God knew he didn’t

have anything else to go on at this point.

“Soon,” he said. “How are you both holding up?”

“I’m okay. Maggie’s head still hurts. I made her go lie down while I

put her dress in the dryer.”

“What?”

His sister sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Right. Later, then,” he said, and ended the call.

He didn’t need complicated. He’d come home to World’s End in

search of a simple, normal life, to put down roots, or return to them.

Maggie was a stranger without ties to the island. Without home ties

at all. She didn’t even remember her past.

Or maybe she was running from it. He couldn’t dismiss the

possibility that she knew the man who attacked her.

Either angle was a complication Caleb hadn’t bargained for.

And yet she drew him.

He had always been a sucker for strays. Lost dogs, feral cats, even

sea creatures stranded by the tide . . . Not that his father had ever allowed

him to keep the baby birds that fell from their nests, the dogs that

followed him home.

He wanted to keep Maggie.

But even dazed and bloodied, homeless and naked, Maggie was

more than a victim. She was stubborn, courageous, and vibrantly, vitally

alive. He admired her. Wanted her.

Which meant things were about to get a lot more complicated.

111

Bruce Whittaker’s house perched on a hill above the point like an

island cottage on steroids. Caleb parked at the bottom of the driveway,

noting the late-model Lexus SUV in the carport, the half-closed blinds in

the middle of the afternoon.

Most of what he needed to know to police his town he could pick up

over a morning cup of coffee at Antonia’s or a beer at the Inn after the

boats came in. Amazing what people would confide in a casual setting to

their local cop: bad feelings at home or a kid in trouble at school, a

mailbox or a dog gone missing, items lifted from the gift shop, tourists’

cars blocking residents’ driveways. Caleb nodded and listened and filed it

all away.

It sure beat the hell out of canvassing the projects. Or waiting on

unreliable Intel from terrified Iraqis.

The downside of the island grapevine was that his pool of potential

witnesses had shrunk to a mere puddle. In the city, a canvass of the

neighborhood involved thousands of windows, hundreds of doors, dozens

of passers-by and man-hours.

Caleb had covered the entire point area in three hours. Stiffly, he

climbed from the Jeep and approached the porch.
More damn steps
.

And so far he had nothing.

The houses here were few and set back from the ocean. Islanders

didn’t build on the point. Anyway, most of them had spent the evening at

the school assembly. The tourists wouldn’t recognize unusual activity on

the beach at night if it bit them on the ass. Whittaker, with his view of the

point and his constant complaints, was Caleb’s last, best hope.

The lawyer hadn’t answered his door or his phone the first time

Caleb came around. The shiny vehicle beside the house didn’t mean

anybody was home. The island was small enough that folks could walk

most anywhere.

In the rain
?

Caleb knocked again.

A shadow moved beyond the leaded glass.

112

Out of habit, Caleb stepped to the side of the door, his elbow

pressing the butt of his gun.

The door opened. Whittaker, pale-faced and clean-shaven, stood

framed in the shadows.

“Sorry to bother you,” Caleb said easily. “Do you have a moment?”

Whittaker blinked, as if the light pained him. “Is someone hurt?”

Something clicked in Caleb’s head like the safety release on a gun.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I— Isn’t that what anyone asks when the police show up on

their doorstep at . . .” Whittaker winced. “I’m sorry, it’s hardly the wee

hours of the morning now, is it?”

“Three o’clock,” Caleb said. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Whittaker stepped back, opening the door wide. “Make

yourself at home.”

Not likely. Outside, at least, the gray shingles and crisp white trim

made some concession to the New England setting and the neighbors’

sensibilities. But the open floor plan inside didn’t look like any home

Caleb had ever lived in. A massive stone fireplace dominated one end of

the great room. A six-foot-long aquarium full of fish occupied the other.

In between, wide plate glass windows overlooked the point.

Caleb hooked his thumbs into his front pockets. “Nice view,” he

commented.

“I like it.”

“Unless it’s raining.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your blinds are down.” Caleb touched the blind cord, raising one

eyebrow. “May I?”

Caleb opened the blinds on a clearing silver sky. From where he

stood, he could see trees and rocks give way to a curve of sand and shale.

113

Tumbling gray waves rolled into shore. The rain had beaten out all trace

of his activity on the beach that morning. The fire debris was gone, along

with the yellow crime scene tape.

But a blackened smudge still stained the sand where the fire had

burned last night.

He turned from the window. “Seems a shame to block this out.”

“I have—had—a bit of a headache this morning. The light bothers

my eyes.”

“Sorry to hear that. Your head hurt last night, too?”

“As a matter of fact, it did. What’s this about, Chief? I hardly think

you dropped by to inquire after my health.”

“I was wondering if you noticed any unusual activity on the beach

last night.”

“Three weeks ago, you told me dealing with kids and tourists was

your
job. Or have you changed your mind?”

Public relations, Caleb reminded himself. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Whittaker shrugged. “Be my guest.”

He led the way to the room’s two massive leather sofas.

Caleb sank down with a sigh of relief, stretching his leg in front of

him. The cushions of the couch released a pleasant tang of wood smoke

and whiskey. “So you didn’t see the fire?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you could just talk me through your evening. Do you mind

if I take notes?”

“I can’t imagine why you need a record of our conversation, but if it

will help . . . I fixed dinner around six, six thirty. Grilled fish and polenta,

if you’re interested. I washed up and then settled down with a book and a

drink until I went to bed.”

114

Both the answer—and the attitude—were pretty much what Caleb

was expecting. “Alone?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And what time was that?”

“I really didn’t notice. Early. I told you, I had a headache. Now, if

you’re finished—”

“You didn’t look out the window? Take out the garbage? Check the

locks before you turned in?”

Whittaker’s face pinched. “I may have done.”

“Which?”

“I probably checked the door.”

“Front door?”

“Yes. Is there some reason you are questioning me like a common

criminal?”

“A woman was attacked on the beach last night. It’s possible you

saw or heard something that could help me identify her attacker.”

“Not with a migraine. And not in the dark.”

Right
. Like you needed daylight to spot a bonfire.

“Do you remember turning on a porch light?” Caleb asked.

“I told you, I was alone. I don’t turn on the outside lights unless I’m

expecting company.” Whittaker stood. “Look, Chief Hunter, I appreciate

your diligence, but it’s too late. If you hadn’t let those kids go a few

weeks ago, perhaps last night’s incident would never have happened.”

Asshole
.

“There’s a big leap between underage drinking and assault, ” Caleb

said, keeping his tone even. “Unless there are some steps in the middle

you can share with me.”

115

“You’re the one who mentioned fire. I naturally
assumed
—”

Caleb’s cell vibrated. He checked the caller ID.
Lucy
. Again.

“I have to take this,” he said to Whittaker.

The lawyer shrugged. “Go right ahead. As far as I’m concerned, our

conversation is finished.”

“Could be,” Caleb said. He turned, facing the clearing sky beyond

the windows. “Lucy. What’s up?”

“Caleb, I’m so
sorry
.”

Tension gripped the base of his neck. “What’s wrong? How’s

Maggie?”

“She— I . . . I was only gone a little while, fifteen minutes, I swear,

I—”

“Take a deep breath,” he advised, though his own pulse was

pounding in his ears. “Tell me what happened.”

Lucy gulped. “I had to go out. Just for a few minutes. Maggie said