Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1) (14 page)

“What do you think, Laura?” he said, eager as a puppy.

She jerked away the cloth.

No hole.

“What do I think?” She turned as Cole and the DARK
gardener
named Isaacs entered the shed. “I think that
this
is my skiff. Someone switched boats so I got stuck out in the middle of the lake in a skiff with a badly patched hole. And whoever did it made sure I had no bailer or life vest. I bet mine is still tucked under the seat of this one.”

“What do you know about this, Burt?” Cole’s eyes had that cold, assessing look as he prowled around the shed examining everything.

Sure enough, the shed was neat. Gear was organized, more hooks hung on the walls, a cleared aisle for walking.

A puzzled frown on his forehead, Burt scratched his chin. “Geezum, I dunno. Me ’n Isaacs spent a couple hours in here, but we didn’t touch the skiff.”

“We didn’t have time for repairs,” Isaacs added. “We were in here together.”

She understood. He was telling Cole that Burt didn’t have the opportunity to switch skiffs. And why would he? Someone wanted her dead, but Burt couldn’t be involved. He was no Ph.D., maybe not even a G.E.D., but he meant well.

“After that we was working on the other side of the lake, by the campground. Anybody coulda come in here and carried out the skiff,” the young handyman added.

“He’s right,” she said on a sigh. “The shed’s never locked.”

Knowing the how didn’t deflate her anxiety, but only ballooned it. Knowing the
who
was the important issue. Who was the hired killer, this Janus? What kind of fiend could take money to kill people, innocent people?

To kill
her?

How foolhardy she’d been. She’d waved the red flag — herself — at the bull, but all the bull had to do was wait. Rather than avoiding her killer, she’d fallen into his trap.
Her pulse stammered, and her breathing turned shallow. She curled a hand into a fist and put it to her mouth as she sought calm.

When Cole’s arm came around her, she leaned into him, accepting his strength and protection. In spite of her fears about their relationship, she needed him. She knew that now.

No, not
him
.

She wouldn’t let herself need him. Just his protection. His hard-eyed federal officer competence.
Not him.

“Prob’ly some kids fooling around,” Burt said. “Got the two boats mixed up. Who would want to hurt you, Laura?”

“Who indeed?” Cole said as he ushered her out.

***

Later that morning, Cole and the East Pond Camp sailing instructor carried the last of four sailing dinghies down the boat ramp and slid it into Passabec Lake.

“Thanks for your help.” The instructor, a shaven-headed teenager in baggy shorts, shook Cole’s hand.

He held the dark-blue boat for one of his students, who paddled it to the dock where the other East Pond boats danced on the light chop, bobbing and weaving as if warming up for the race.

“Glad to help.” Cole was telling the plain truth. The physical exercise of moving the boats and equipment worked off some of the hyper-drive pumping through his veins.

Mopping his forehead with the paper towel he carried as a handkerchief, he strode around the lakeshore and sat in the shade. From there, he had a clear view of the beach, the lake and the sailing groups. Laden with binoculars and picnic baskets, families of the young sailors cluttered the sand beach. More spectators putted and paddled around the racecourse.
Among them were two DARK officers, in case Janus had more plans for the race. His gut knotted at the possibility the killer would endanger children to hit his intended victim. Shit, hadn’t he told Laura the kids wouldn’t be in danger?

After leaving the boat shed earlier, every nerve ending he possessed had twitched to quiz Laura about her solo defection. But she insisted on first telling Stan about the sunken skiff. At the inn, Joyce clucked over her and wrapped her in towels and a terry cloth robe.

Cole assured them his team would investigate, but Stan insisted that the owner should investigate a boating accident on his property. He relished the task like a starring role. Cole expected to see him skulking about in a deerstalker hat.

Bea, bearing a pot of chicken soup, and Vanessa met them at the cabin. Once the solicitous friends had departed, he raged at Laura like a wounded buffalo in the middle of the living room. Chin up and eyes calm, she listened to his rant. Then surprisingly, she apologized, admitting her move had been foolish. She promised not to do it again and then went to shower. He’d gaped at her retreating back.

He angled his body toward the clusters of chattering kids, Laura in their midst. She’d clamped her hair back. In her polo with the collar turned up and her khaki shorts, she was the princess — except for her overt and genuine warmth with the kids.

Who would guess the deadly danger she’d faced earlier?

She and the gangly East Pond leader were conducting some kind of icebreaker with the youngsters, so they got to know each other. Damn, but she was good with them. Her eight loved her, hugging her in relief she was safe and begging for the story of her adventure.

Right now he didn’t want to hug her. He wanted to strangle her. She’d give him gray hair. An ulcer. A heart attack. Janus and anyone else that slime Markos hired to kill her would have to get in line. Still, she had his admiration that she refused to be a victim. She charged into the boat shed, demanding answers. But that admirable courage placed her in unnecessary danger.

If she’d let him accompany her, he’d have freed her ankle and they could’ve swum to safety together.
He swiped at his brow, new sweat not from exertion. In the boat shed, he’d seen the aftermath catch up to her, the pastiness and hitched breathing that meant panic attack. The ache to protect her ignited a flame in his chest, but his arm around her didn’t seem enough of a shield.
Hell, his attempt at protection in general was a near bust. First the car brakes, now a sabotaged boat. He didn’t detect or stop either. She was still alive and unharmed. Thanks mostly to her own ingenuity and fortitude.

Pride in success at his missions was part of who he had become. Necessary to his identity and his self-respect. This time that inner drive took a back seat. Failure didn’t enter the equation for a different reason entirely.
Laura. The only woman he’d ever loved. Her life was at stake.
He couldn’t fail her again.

He wouldn’t.

A commotion among the jumble of children yanked his attention back to the present. The East Pond leader dragged a yowling blond boy aside while Laura headed Cole’s way with the Mohawk-styled boy in hand.

Anger pinched his face into a bulldog snarl. “I don’t care,” he growled. “Somebody done it, and they gotta pay.”

Laura drew him to a halt beside the shrub where Cole sat. “I know you meant well, but whoever switched boats, it wasn’t one of the East Pond sailors.” Softening, she placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders and beamed him one of her million-megawatt smiles. “Zach, I appreciate your caring, but accusing a person without cause achieves nothing.”

Giving Cole a questioning look, she continued, “Now I want you to sit here by Mr. Stratton and think about this until we’re ready to start.”

Cole gave her a nod.

“You’re still gonna let me race?” Zach lifted bleak eyes that glinted with hope.

“After you apologize to that boy and his instructor.”

The spy hunter slumped to a cross-legged position beside Cole. Even his normally rigid Mohawk sagged. He glared at the only adult within range. “Told you there were spies.”

“That you did.” Cole nodded morosely. “I screwed up too. Why do you think we’re sitting over here together?”

“This whole day sucks. My camera’s missing.”

Cole sat straighter. The burglaries. He’d nearly forgotten. “How’d that happen?”

Zach shrugged. “Mom said I prob’ly left it somewhere, but I didn’t. Kay’s MP3 player’s gone. With her fave tunes. Spies or burglars, I dunno.” He slumped deeper, chin on his fists.

Cole said nothing, giving him time to think.

The boy heaved a sigh. “That stupid dork shouldn’t have laughed about her boat sinking.”

Cole lobbed a pebble into the water. “You think a lot of her.”

“She listens to a guy. And she makes the sailing class fun.” Zach found his own pebble and copied Cole’s action. “Without sailing, I don’t got much to do but hang at the beach.”

“Your folks over there watching the race today?”

“Nah, my parents are divorced. Divorce sucks. Mom and Dad take turns at our cabin. This is Mom’s month, but she works in Alderport. She’s at work today, so I’m on my own.”

Cole could relate to that. For most of his childhood, he’d had only the one parent, such as he was. He came home from school more than once to find an empty fridge and his old man passed out on the floor. “That’s a rough deal. What did you do yesterday, when you had a day off from sailing?”

The Mohawk perked up as Zach’s eyebrows shot north. “Yesterday was sweet. Butch’s dad took me and him to a Sea Dogs game in Portland. They won, nine to five. And two of the Red Sox players were there. I got their new pitcher’s autograph.”

“Very cool. I’d like to see that sometime.” Cole heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad you weren’t on the beach, though. Maybe someone as observant as you would have noticed a spy messing with the boats.”

Zach scooted closer. “I been asking around. Chuck — that’s Kay’s brother — said they were on the beach except his sister kept hanging out at the boat docks.” He rolled his eyes. “Prob’ly looking for that dumb guy she likes.”

He cautioned the boy to keep his ears open, but not to confront anyone again. “I have to make it up to her, too, big guy. So if you tell me whatever you find out, we’ll both hit her A list.” What had he come to, running an eleven-year-old agent? “If you put yourself in danger, you’ll only worry her. You leave any interrogations to me. Agreed?”

He pointed toward the sailing group, where Laura was beckoning to Zach.

“You got it.” The boy grinned, leaping to his feet. “Geezum, I guess I have to apologize now, huh?”

“It’s the right thing to do. The honorable thing.” Cole bumped fists with him before he raced off.

The handyman again, he mused, remembering Kay flirting with Burt Elwell. Maybe he’d have a talk with Miss Hot-to-Trot Kay. For more than one reason.

“NO AFTER-EFFECTS FROM your dunking?” Vanessa asked when Laura and Cole arrived at the theater that evening. Her red-blond hair was piled on top her head in a froth of cognac curls. She gave Laura a comforting hug. “What a terrible thing. You’re sure you feel all right?”

“I’m fine.” She’d been more shaken up by the brake incident. After today she was more determined than ever to trap Janus. Tonight she and Cole would try to find out what anyone in the theatrical troupe knew about the boat sinking. “Of course, having my sailing class win the regatta against East Pond later perked me up considerably.”

“Congratulations,” said the other woman. “I’ll be down doing makeup. Come keep me company if you get a chance.”

Bea walked by with a stack of programs. She made a clucking sound. “Two accidents in a matter of days. You should be careful, dear.”

Laura forced a casual smile. “You’re absolutely right. And thanks for the chicken soup. Having something good and hot in my stomach made me feel much better.”

Tonight the elderly actress wore a velvet turban spangled with tiny mirrors. She whisked off in a flutter of paisley shawl and gauze muumuu.

Laura answered Cole’s surreptitious prodding and made her way backstage, where they were to help with props during the first act.

“Chicken soup?” he whispered, a glower knitting his brow. “I saw the pot. You sure as hell didn’t offer me any. I didn’t get any of her lasagna, either.”

She ducked around a tied-back curtain and skirted the old upright piano that was part of the set. “Anyone would think you were starving.” They’d cooked steaks and potatoes on an outdoor grill. “And you should thank me for not sharing. Bea’s sweet and generous, but she’s a terrible cook. I poured out the soup.”

His reaction could be described only as a classic double take. His head jerked back as if on springs. Mouth quirking up and eyes glittering with humor, he sputtered, “The powder-puff pigeon is cuisine challenged.”
Humor rumbled from his chest and burst from his mouth in a Falstaffian guffaw that crinkled his eyes and dimpled the grooves in his cheeks. His shoulders shook, and he slapped his thigh.

Seeing such a rarity as Cole laughing with uninhibited glee was worth a near drowning. Laura covered her mouth as she joined in his mirth. “Bea’s cooking is a bit like her fashion sense, extravagant.”

He frowned. “A little of this, a little of that?”

“A lot, not a little. The Van Tassels’ cabin porch is covered with pots of herbs. I think she dumps some of each in it — tarragon, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, you name it.”

Still chuckling, Cole looped an arm around her shoulders. “The Van Tassel sisters starred in the last play, I remember. Lucky they’re such good souls. With all the danger around you, I might worry they got ideas from—”

“
Arsenic and Old Lace
?”

They gaped at each other. Shook their heads.

Both erupted in a fit of laughter. People surrounded them — actors rehearsing lines, other stage crew carrying props, the director checking the lights. The ozone odor of hot lighting mingled with greasepaint. Laura buried her face in Cole’s shirtfront. Better if the others thought the reason for their merriment a private, romantic joke.

His other arm came around her, and his laughter reverberated in her, spiking sensation deep inside.

“Laura.” His voice was husky, but not from laughing.

She raised her gaze to his burning one. His masculine scent and the naked hunger in his face scoured heat through her and banished their surroundings.

“Cole, Laura, you’re just the ones I need to see.”

They jumped apart as Stan Hart approached.

The resort owner was tying his character Cookie’s white apron around his stocky body.
“Haven’t got any leads yet,” he said behind a hand. He clearly loved considering himself a coconspirator. “A lot of folks are on those docks all the time.”