Against the Tide (3 page)

As they stood at the door, Megan noticed what appeared to be a recently installed security system panel. “This is new to me.” She pointed to the sleek stainless keypad.

“Was it activated when you arrived?” Michael asked her. “Did you have to put in a passcode?”

“No. I don't even know the passcode.” She frowned. “Dad always made fun of these devices. He used to brag about how safe this town was. Sometimes he didn't even lock the door.”

“Well, times have changed,” Michael told her. “I'll call the security service and see if I can get them to activate it again when I leave. That might help ward off any more break-ins.”

“Yeah.”

“And I'll send the passcode to your phone in case you need to get back in here tomorrow.”

“Thanks, that'll be helpful.”

“I wonder why it wasn't set,” Garret said as he and Megan stepped outside. “Of course, the staff was probably upset and distracted by the news of Rory's death. Maybe they forgot.”

“That makes sense.” Megan nodded numbly. She felt she was walking through a weird dream. Like none of this was real. But outside, as the cool sea air washed over her face, smelling like a familiar mixture of rotten eggs and dead fish, signaling that the tide was low, she suddenly knew that this was all real. Painfully real. She was home in Cape Perpetua, and Dad was dead.

“I'm parked over there.” She pointed to the side street. “But you don't have to walk me—”

“I
want
to,” he insisted.

As she turned the corner, she noticed that the traffic in town had thinned considerably. Hers was the only car parked on the side street now.

“That's not your car, is it?” Garret pointed at the white Prius parked beneath a streetlamp.

“Yeah, that's it.” As she walked, she dug in the bottom of her purse, trying to feel her car keys.

“Check out your tires,” he said in an odd tone.

She paused from her key search, peering down at her tires.
“What?” She moved closer to see what was wrong. “They're flat!”

Garret knelt down, using his own car key to poke into a gash on the side of her car's front tire. “Slashed.”

“What is wrong with people?”
she demanded hotly. “Why would someone do this? What has happened to this town?” Hot, angry tears were filling her eyes.

“I don't know.” Garret just shook his head. “Either it was just a random act of meanness—or someone really doesn't like you.”

Despite her resolve not to shed more tears, it was too late, they were coming—fast and furious. As she dug through her purse for a tissue, she wanted to scream and shout—and punch something. This was all just too much. First her dad died. Then she was nearly murdered. And the newspaper office was broken into and Dad's office trashed. And now her tires were slashed. What had she done to deserve this? More disturbing,
what was next?

FOUR

S
till wearing Garret's fleece jacket, Megan attempted to calm herself as she sat in his SUV in front of the newspaper office. Garret had gone back inside to tell Michael about the slashed tires. But suddenly she felt uneasy about sitting out here alone—where a killer could be lurking around the next corner. She slumped down in the seat, hitting the auto-lock button on the door. And, with her phone in hand, she kept a wary eye on the people moving along Main Street.

At close to eleven o'clock, the town had quieted down some, leaving only the boisterous bar-hoppers still out and about—the usual mix of out-of-towners, fishermen and young, antsy locals. The late-night activity was somewhat reassuring. She felt a little less alone.

Just the same, Megan was relieved to see Garret emerge from the newspaper office. She watched him with stealthy admiration as he strode over to the driver's side of his SUV. But when he couldn't open his door, she felt embarrassed. Releasing the auto-lock, she apologized as he climbed inside.

“I'm glad you did that,” he told her. “After I went inside, I felt uneasy about leaving you out here by yourself. Michael suspects your attacker is probably long gone by now, but you never know. Can't be too safe.” He started the ignition.

As Garret drove them through town, Megan continued trying to compose herself. She hated feeling like such a basket case. She normally considered herself to be a pragmatic person, not overly emotional. Journalists couldn't afford to be. Yet the slashed tires had pushed her over the edge. Her heart was still pounding in fury, and it was hard to calm down.

Still, she reminded herself, tires could be replaced. Her insurance might even cover the cost. And her dad's office could be cleaned up and put back together again. Her dad...well, there was nothing to be done about that, except to remember him for all the good he'd brought into her life. He would want her to do that. And, really, she should be thankful to still be alive.

“How are you doing?” Garret asked quietly.

“I'm trying to get it together,” she confessed. “I'm not used to being this emotional or out of control.”

“Under the circumstances, it seems pretty natural.”

She felt surprised when he turned on his signal to turn onto Rawlins Road. “So you know where you're going?”

“Yeah, sure. I've been to your dad's before.”

She studied his profile as he drove. Firm chin, fairly straight nose, except for a slight bump, almost like it had been broken before, high forehead. Garret Larsson was very handsome. She didn't remember him being this good-looking back in high school. But to be fair, she barely remembered him at all. She knew about late bloomers. Those guys who slipped under the popularity radar in high school, but turned out to be pretty cool later on. She suspected that Garret was one of those.

“So you were obviously acquainted with my dad?” she said quietly.

“More than just acquainted. We were pretty good friends.”

“You were
friends
with my dad?” She peered curiously at him, trying to imagine that. “So how did this friendship come about exactly? I mean, considering the gap in your ages, I'm a little confused.”

“Rory kept his boat at my marina,” Garret told her.

“Oh, yeah. The marina your grandparents owned.”

“I started to manage it right after my grandpa died. It was too much for my grandma by then. She needed help.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Five or six years. The place was pretty run-down. Mostly because my grandpa got too old to keep it up. So I started doing some renovations. Then my grandma passed on, too. Anyway, I inherited the marina and cabins and everything.”

“And that's how you met my dad.”

“Yeah. Sometimes we went out on the ocean together.”

“You fished with my dad?” This spoke well of Garret. Her dad wouldn't fish with just anyone.

“Yeah. Sometimes. But your dad liked going out alone, too.”

“I know. I wish he hadn't done that yesterday.”

Garret sighed. “Me, too. I never like seeing anyone going out on the ocean by himself. I prefer the buddy system.”

“I used to go fishing with him. After I left for college, I nagged him not to go alone, even if it was pointless. No one could tell Rory McCallister what to do.”

“Yeah, but whenever I saw him going out on his own, if I was free, I'd just invite myself along. He never seemed to mind.”

Megan studied Garret closely. “Dad must've really liked you.” And this was no exaggeration. Dad had been picky about fishing buddies. Stubborn and picky and opinionated. Still, h
ow she would miss him!

Megan could feel herself slipping into an emotional tailspin again. She knew it was time to lighten the subject. If that was even possible. “So you and my dad were fishing friends... For some reason I can't quite see it.” Just then she remembered something Dad had said about his “young fishing buddy.” “Hey, you're not
Tangler
, are you?”

Garret chuckled. “That'd be me.”

“Tangler?
How'd you get that name?”

“That's what your dad called me when we first met. He saw me taking out a bunch of inexperienced fishermen—not my favorite thing to do, by the way, but these city boys booked a trip and I had to take them.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, these dudes didn't know a rod from a reel or a salmon from a halibut. Your dad was working on his boat while I was trying to get them loaded into mine and we must've looked like a floating circus.” He laughed.

“But what does that have to do with your nickname?”

“Tangler is what a good fisherman calls an inexperienced angler. Because he's always getting his line tangled up. Tangled plus angler equals Tangler. Get it? Anyway, it stuck.”

She almost smiled to remember how her dad could be such a tease at times. She would miss that, too. The lump in her throat was back, getting bigger as Garret turned down the unpaved road to her dad's house—the same house she'd grown up in. It was like she expected to see Dad there, standing on the front porch, cheerfully waving them inside, telling them he had tuna on the grill and a pitcher of homemade lemonade in the fridge.

“I admired Rory a lot,” Garret said solemnly as they bumped along the rutted sandy road shared by a handful of neighbors. “I looked up to him like a father figure.”

“Your parents were divorced, weren't they?” As soon as she said this, she regretted it. “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “It's none of my business. But you know how nosy reporters can be.”

“It's okay. And it's true, my parents did divorce. A messy divorce, too. Fortunately, I had my grandparents and the marina to fill the void after my parents went their separate ways.”

“It still must've been hard.” She sighed. “My mom and dad divorced, too.”

“According to Rory, they handled theirs in a fairly civilized way.”

“Right.” She wasn't so sure about that.

“Anyway, your dad was a good friend to me.” Garret's voice was laced in sadness.

Megan looked out the window, seeing the dark glistening strip of ocean out past the few houses that lined this portion of the bluff. “I wish I'd taken more time off work—to come down here to visit more. I'm afraid I've let my career take over my life.”

“Your dad was proud of you, Megan. He loved that you were working for a big Seattle paper. I know he missed you, but he did understand.”

“I know.” She sighed. “He always encouraged me to chase my dreams.”

“And did you find them?”

She shrugged. “I thought so at first. To be honest, I'm not so sure now. It gets to feeling like a rat race out there. Not like life here in Cape Perpetua.” Talk about an understatement.

Garret was turning into the sandy driveway now. It was hard to see the house in the darkness, but something about this scene didn't feel quite right. Probably the fact that her dad was missing from the picture. It was strange to see the house so dark. No glowing windows, no porch light, nothing. The house looked sad and lonely, as if it knew its owner was not coming home.

“Thanks for the ride,” she told Garret as he stopped the SUV. She suddenly felt glum about parting ways with him. He'd been such a comfort tonight and it felt like they'd actually started to get acquainted. But now it was over.

“You're welcome. But don't think you're getting rid of me that easily.” He was already getting out of the SUV. He hurried around, removing her baggage from the back, then joining her as she got out. “Let's make sure everything is okay here first.”

“It, uh, looks okay to me.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. “No sign of any vehicles around.” As they walked up to the house, she could hear the comforting rumble of the ocean. Everything about this scene felt so familiar—and yet it wasn't. Despite spending most of her childhood and adolescence here, she had been down only a few times over the past ten years. “I'm sure everything's just fine here.”
Why wouldn't it be?

“Well, I want to be sure.” Still carrying her bags, he accompanied her up the path of old bricks. She'd helped Dad put these bricks into place when she was twelve. “I don't really like the idea of leaving you out here by yourself without a car, Megan.”

“Dad has good neighbors.” She pointed north. “I can probably get Mrs. Martin to give me a ride into town in the morning. Then I'll get my tires replaced.” As they came up to the little house, she felt a chill run through her. Maybe it was the sea air or the damp fog that she knew was rolling in since she could hear the foghorn blowing over by the jetty. Or maybe it was something else. Like her frazzled nerves.

She had her house key ready. Just like the newspaper office key, she had held on to this one, too. Not so much as a memento, but because her dad always wanted her to feel like she could show up at any time. Even if he was gone on a week-long fishing trip in Mexico. It was similar to a security blanket. A reminder that this was home. Except with Dad gone, she wasn't so sure. Would she be able to feel at home anymore?

“I'll get some lights on.” She stepped into the house. “And I need to give you back your jacket, too.” As she reached for the entryway light switch, she paused to listen. “Did you hear something?” she whispered to Garret.

He set her bags down in the entryway, holding his forefinger to his lips. They both froze in place, listening intently. But now she heard nothing but the swooshing sound of the waves and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

“Must've been my imagination,” she said quietly as she turned on the entryway light. She looked around the living room, feeling relieved that everything was peacefully in place, from the corny nautical decor that Dad had always loved, to the stone fireplace that probably still smoked on a windy day. She looked wistfully at his worn leather recliner. A new military novel lay on the side table with Dad's reading glasses next to it. Everything was so much the same that she almost expected Dad to come strolling out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hand and a warm grin on his face.

“All's well,” she told Garret as she hung her purse on the hall tree next to the still-open front door.

“Seems to be.” He looked around in satisfaction. “So I'll bid you good—”

Just then they heard a loud crash from the kitchen.

“Let's get out of here.” Garret shoved her toward the door and without questioning him, she exploded out of the house and sprinted back toward his SUV. Garret was right beside her. He opened the passenger-side door for her then ran around to the driver's side. She insisted they get away from here, but Garret didn't start the truck.

“Not yet.” He reached beneath the seat to pull out a black hard case then pushed some buttons and removed a revolver.

She felt a jolt of panic. “What's that for?”

“Protection and defense.” He looked at the house. “Call the cops and stay put. In fact, stay
down.
Out of sight. And lock the doors.” Before she could respond, he was dashing back into the house.

Despite her concerns, she did as he said, hunkering down as she reached around on the floor for her purse and her phone. Then she remembered her purse was hanging on the hall tree by the door, with her phone inside it. She glanced around the darkness of the yard, trying to see what was happening and wishing she'd thought to turn on the porch light.

What if Garret needed help? Despite his instructions to stay put, she quietly opened the door and then, crouching low next to the vehicle, she took in a deep breath. Then she started to sprint toward the house. But halfway there she heard it—the sound of several gunshots in quick sequence.

Had Garret shot someone? Or...?
Please, no, God! Please don't let that be Garret on the wrong side of the gun!