Shadowed, Page 2

  Rain poured down as they trudged up the slope of the island’s southern face.

  Birds screeched, flocking high in the sky, away from the island. That was not a good sign.

  She looked down at the sea churning violently, the waves growing in height, hitting higher and higher against the island’s rocky shore, battering his ship like a toy boat in a bathtub.

  “Don’t look back,” Ben said. “Just keep moving.”

  She increased her pace, focusing on the task at hand. Shutting all else out. She lived that mentality every day in the water. She could do it here.

  But Kat . . . ? Her lifeless face kept flashing before Libby’s eyes, and a plague of questions assaulted her.

  They reached the highest point of the island in under an hour; the echoing holler of waves slamming the tiny island shook her repeatedly. There were no caves, only copses of tall, slender trees scattered across the otherwise sparse tundra.

  “We’ll set up camp here,” he said, standing inside an alcove as the treetops swayed in the burgeoning winds.

  It didn’t take long with them working together before they were hunkered in the two-person dome tent, only partially protected by the slender trunks surrounding them.

  “It’s smart,” she said, “keeping camping gear on your ship.”

  “Ship’s my home,” he said, lighting the small battery lantern. “For now. I keep everything on it.”

  She thought about the tiny galley kitchen and miniscule bathroom they’d passed on their way down to the lower deck. She wondered if he lived there by choice or necessity. Though her loft wasn’t much bigger. Then again, with the swim-tournament schedule, she was rarely home other than winter. Even then she most often flew to Nevis to spend a prolonged holiday with her folks.

  She wondered how Kat’s folks would take the news. Having never met them, it was hard to say. She retrieved Kat’s cap and watch from her pack as driving rain pelted the nylon material, the wind surges testing Ben’s skill at grounding the tent.

  The soft lantern glow was soothing amidst the unknown surrounding her, surrounding them. Who was this man she was stranded with?

  He draped his arm across his bent knee, lifting his chin at Kat’s belongings. “How well did you know her?”

  She ran her fingers across the watch face.

  “That’s the crucial question.”

  TWO

  Ben studied the resilient woman sitting beside him. Despite the roaring waves and winds battering the island and their tent, she hadn’t complained or freaked out once. Her strength was impressive and refreshing.

  Swimming the fourteen-mile stretch between Yancey and its nearest barrier island for the Yancey Open Water Invitational was no small feat. It was a competition he’d never undertake. He was a strong swimmer, growing up in and surrounded by Alaskan water, but his heart lived either standing in it fly fishing, as he’d learned alongside his dad, or gliding over its surface in the Waves, which, again, he’d inherited from his dad. He came from a long line of Alaskan fishermen on his dad’s side and a long line of teachers on his mom’s. His dad had instilled a love of water, his mom a love of learning.

  He missed his dad, though he doubted as much as his mom must after thirty-five years of marriage. If ever there was a couple in love . . .

  He raked a hand through his tousled hair. It was hard to believe it’d been four years since Dad headed Home.

  So much had happened—both good and bad. So much he could have used his dad’s advice about.

  Libby shifted beside him, drawing his attention. She, on the other hand, clearly lived in the water, an endurance athlete to the extreme. He’d caught a practice session the other day as he’d piloted out of the marina. He was highly impressed at the determination, persistence and sheer will required of all the participants.

  It made him wonder what had happened to Libby’s friend and why she had been all the way out by Tingit.

  He was pretty sure about her cause of death, but there was no sense startling Libby. He’d leave that determination up to the coroner, Doc Graham, when they returned to Yancey.

  “That’s strange,” Libby said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The back of Kat’s watch is gone, all the mechanics too.” She held up the empty cavity for him to examine.

  “Probably knocked against a rock or fell apart in the surf.”

  “Yeah. Would have been nice to have it intact to send to her folks.”

  “That is unfortunate.” He shifted to study her better in the soft lantern light as it danced along her long blond hair, leaving elongated shadows on the tent’s domed walls. “You said earlier that your friend wouldn’t have swam this far out without a support vessel?”

  “I mean, we often do our daily swims alone.” She set the watch aside. “It’s important to swim without someone pushing you. We need to learn to push ourselves.”

  He doubted she had any problem in that area.

  “Had Kat learned to push herself?”

  “Abundantly. She was the ultimate competitor. Russia’s open-water sweetheart. Practically a national hero.”

  “So why was it surprising she was on her own, if you all do solo swims?”

  “We must be at least twenty miles from Yancey. The max an open-water swimmer will traverse on their own is five miles, maybe six.”

  “Let me guess? You’ve mastered that?”

  She nodded.

  She was one strong woman, but something was clouding her thoughts. Something beyond the death of a fellow competitor. There was something much more personal there. He didn’t know her well enough to ask—and he, of all people, respected privacy—but she’d piqued his curiosity, and that wasn’t something easily done.

  He exhaled. “I’d say the currents could have carried her out here, but they’re flowing east. If anything she would have been carried back toward Yancey if that’s where she’d started from.”

  “I saw her leaving practice as I arrived. I think she got an early practice in.”

  “Did she mention an upcoming solo swim after practice?”

  “We didn’t exactly chitchat.”

  He arched a brow. “But I thought you knew her?” Her reaction to the woman’s death had been one of friendship or at least familiarity rather than just one competitor to another.

  She clutched the woman’s cap in her hand. “We used to be friends.”

  He was about to respond when she cocked her head, clutching the material tighter.

  “What?” he asked at her perplexed expression.

  She shifted the cap, moving it around, running her fingers over the rubber surface. “There’s something in here—something sewn inside. Can I see your knife?”

  He pulled it out and handed it to her.

  She carefully cut the length of material and pulled out a slip of paper. It was mostly dry, having been sealed in, and the small amount of dampness that had permeated hadn’t smeared the writing, which was surprising. She smoothed the fortune cookie–sized slip out and read the passage scribbled across, “Out of your vulnerability will come your strength.”

  “Freud,” Ben said.

  Libby arched a brow. “Impressive.”

  He shifted as the tent shook, praying he’d staked it deeply enough. “You mean for a strapping Alaskan fisherman?” That was the phrase she’d used, or at least the sentiment.

  “No.” She bit back a smile. “For a man in general.”

  “Of course. Let me guess, you’re one of those feminists.” He should have seen that coming. It was 1979, after all. A woman had just become Britain’s prime minister. If ever there was a time of women’s empowerment propelling forward, it was now.

  “No. Just . . . enlightened.”

  He kicked his boots closer to the front of the tent, stretching out his socked feet. This could end up being a long night. “I suppose that’s one way to view Freud.” Most did.

  “And your view?”

  He crossed his legs, bracing his weight on
his elbow. “There’s one source of truth in this world, and Freud isn’t it.”

  “Ah. Let me guess now. You’re a . . . tree hugger?”

  He laughed. “I respect creation, but, no, I’m talking about the Creator.”

  Her beautiful green eyes narrowed. “Creator?”

  “God.”

  She sat cross-legged, facing him. “There are a lot of different views on God.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, before she could continue with some philosophical debate, “but there is only one God.”

  “I see, and who’s that?”

  “The God of the Bible.”

  “And Jesus?” she asked.

  “My savior.”

  “So,” she said, clearly appraising him, “you’re born again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” She set the cap aside. “I wouldn’t have pegged that.”

  He chuckled. “So you have me pegged? That doesn’t sound very enlightened.”

  “Please. You think you have me pegged too. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She squared her shoulders. “So, let’s hear it. Who do you think I am?”

  “Okay.” If she wanted to play . . . “You went to Brown or. . . . No . . .” He snapped. “I got it, Berkeley. Philosophy major, perhaps?”

  “Yes on Berkeley.”

  He knew it.

  “No on philosophy.”

  “Women’s studies, then? I hear it’s all the rage at select colleges.”

  “Double major, actually. Comparative Literature and Math.”

  He had not seen that coming. “That’s quite the combination.”

  She shrugged. “I have diverse interests.”

  And yet she swam competitively. Intriguing. He wondered how she got on that path. He wondered about a lot of things about her. She’d burrowed into his mind, his thoughts, even his senses. It was difficult to ignore how good she smelled in such small quarters. Tropical and intoxicating, despite the hike and the rain. Her shampoo, perhaps.

  “My turn,” she said, her face scrunched as if deep in thought. He found the twinkle in her eye adorable. “College was a waste of your time,” she began. “Real men already know all they need to know. Am I right?”

  “Not even close. Atomic Physics from Princeton.” He wasn’t trying to brag, but she’d asked.

  She tried to remain still, but he could see he’d rocked her back on that one. “Then why are you—?”

  “Running an excursion business?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d been asked that a hundred times. “Because it’s what I love to do.”

  “But don’t you—?”

  “Think I’m wasting my life, talents, and degree?” Yep. He’d heard it all. But this was home. This was where he belonged. He’d learned the hard way, but at least he’d learned. Some folks spent their entire life searching, restless, but he was at peace. Well, as much at peace as possible while knowing what might be out there waiting to return to haunt him and the country he loved.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Are you a mathematician or literature teacher?”

  “No. I’m a professional athlete.”

  “But your degrees . . .”

  “That’s—”

  “Different?” He smirked. “How? I assume you compete because you love it, or is it because you have something to prove?”

  “Prove to who?”

  “You tell me.”

  She shook her head, a faint flush creeping over her cheeks. Pulling what looked to be a journal and a pen from her backpack, she said, “I’m not trying to prove anything.”

  He’d seen that look, the hunger dancing in her eyes. The need to please, to prove. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  He stretched his hands behind his head. “I bet I know you better than you think.”

  She shifted away from him on an exhale, opened to a fresh page in her notebook, and began scribbling—no doubt venting about him.

  Thunder cracked, vibrating in his chest, tremoring the earth beneath them.

  THREE

  Libby spent the night stewing, pouring her thoughts, questions, and frustrations onto her journal pages. She was thankful to find the sun shining when she awoke from the short stretch she’d managed to actually sleep. Ben was gone, probably seeing to his boat, so she took time to pull her hair back in a bun and her The Way Bible from her pack—turning to Habakkuk 2. Anxious to hear God’s answer to the questioning prophet. She was full of questions herself. The Bible had been given to her by her RA her senior year on campus, a Christian revival of sorts sweeping the nation with its distribution.

  “Morning,” Ben said, stepping inside the tent, a thermos and two blue metal cups in hand.

  “Coffee?” she asked, the aroma a welcome scent.

  He kicked off his boots by the entrance. “I checked out the Waves as soon as the surge settled. The damage isn’t too bad. She’s a sturdy ship. Made a thermos of coffee.” He lifted a mug. “Would you like some?”

  She could use something. His comment about needing to prove herself still stung, but why? He didn’t know her. Didn’t know what drove her. Or at least she’d kept telling herself that all night long.

  “Coffee?” he asked again.

  “Fine,” she grunted, wondering why was she letting him or his comment get to her. She barely knew the man.

  “So”—he filled her cup—“you’re a peach in the morning.”

  Something about him rubbed her wrong. He had far too much insight into her for a man she’d just met, and it irked her. “You know, for a man running a tourism business you really should learn better people skills.”

  “I think you have it the other way around.” He poured himself a cup.

  “Excuse me?” He was right. She was being rude, but he wasn’t exactly putting on the charm. Who talked like that? Said things exactly as he saw them? Heat flushed her cheeks. She did.

  “What I mean is people need to learn better people skills. Too many folks have forgotten basic courtesies such as please and thank you.” He nodded toward the cup of coffee he’d just poured her.

  Remove foot from mouth. She’d just been schooled. “You’re right. Thank you for the coffee, but are you always so vexatious first thing in the morning?”

  “See. Right there,” he said with a smirk, clearly finding the interchange amusing. “People skills. Why use a big fancy word to insult me instead of just saying annoying. Is that so difficult?”

  “Fine. You’re annoying,” she blurted, realizing she was being equally so, but unwilling to admit it. She always was a bear before her coffee.

  He nudged his chin at her Bible still open on her lap. “That’s something I didn’t expect to see, Miss Enlightened. Why’d you grill me so hard if you’re a believer?” He cocked his head. “Are you a believer?”

  She smiled and nodded. “One. I grilled you because I wanted to see how serious you were about your faith. A lot of guys say they’re Christians . . .”

  “But they don’t live like it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And two?”

  “I was giving you a hard time because . . .”

  “I was being a jerk,” he said to her surprise.

  A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. He certainly was honest. “I wouldn’t exactly say jerk, but you definitely riled me up.”

  He grinned as he hunkered down on the sleeping bag beside her. “I tend to have that effect.”

  She reached over and slapped his cheek.

  “What the heck?” He cupped his face.

  “I see you’re exuding your usual McKenna charm,” a woman dressed in orange coveralls said from the tent’s entrance.

  Libby looked to Ben. “You had a big black bug on your cheek.”

  He rubbed his skin. “You could have just told me.”

  “Sorry.” She gave an awkward smile. “Instinct kicked in.”

 
“Uh-huh.”

  “I’m serious.” She was.

  “Should we come back later?” the woman at the tent door asked.

  “Sorry, Nat.” He climbed out of the tent, and Libby followed to find a man standing beside the woman.

  “Libby, this is Nat and Greg with the coast guard.”

  They took a moment to exchange pleasantries, and then Nat said, “Gus insisted you should have been back by now, demanded we come check on you.”

  Libby frowned. “Gus?”

  “He’s a friend who worries way too much,” Ben said.

  “Also Yancey’s mayor and a royal pain in the tush,” Nat added.

  Libby narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t here for Kat’s body?” That’s why they’d called the coast guard in the first place.

  “Ben could have brought her in,” Greg said. “Does it several times a year.”

  “What?” Why did a fisherman bring in dead bodies?

  “You didn’t tell her?” Greg asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Didn’t see the point.”

  What was going on?

  “What happened?” Greg asked.

  “Doc Graham will have to take a look.” Ben shoved his hands into his cargo pants pockets, clearly trying to keep his voice low, but she heard him all the same. He hesitated, looking at Libby, then back at Greg. “But I think her neck was snapped.”

  “What?” Libby sputtered. Why would he even think . . . ?

  “Doc can take a look, but we both know you’ve got more experience than a transplant straight out of med school,” Greg said.

  “You okay taking the body in despite having a client on board?” Nat asked. “We’ve got a disabled trawler not far from here.”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck and looked briefly toward Libby. “All right.”

  Libby shook her head. “Why would you have a charter guy transport a body? You’re the coast guard.” And why would he have more medical experience than a doctor?

  “Ben’s head of Yancey Search and Rescue,” Greg said.

  “And EMT certified,” Nat added.

  The man was one jolting surprise after another.

  “So why do you think someone”—she swallowed the brutal word as they climbed back on his ship, Nat and Greg’s vessel already fading in the distance—“snapped Kat’s neck? And why didn’t you say anything earlier?”