Body Search. Jessica Andersen
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“Go! Get the hell out of here.”
“Not without you,” she yelled back. “Come on, we’ll jump together and swim away.”
Dale knew there’d be suction when the plane went down. They had to get away, and fast. He scrambled to the door, kicking a pair of floating equipment cases out of the way, and boosted Tansy out the door as a wave crested over the plane and swamped the cockpit.
He choked, spitting more seawater. God, he hated the taste.
“Dale, come on. Hurry! I don’t think it’ll float much longer.”
He hauled himself through and jumped. His foot slipped on wet metal and he landed almost in the plane’s shadow. The water was cold and harsh.
Like coming home.
Striking out hard, he saw Tansy paddling for all she was worth. Not fast enough.
He was a strong swimmer. He’d had to be, growing up on an island with one of the highest lost-at-sea rates in the Northeast. He grabbed Tansy’s jacket and struck out for the beach, hauling her along over her feeble protests. The lights on shore slowly grew closer, though part of him wished they wouldn’t.
Halfway there, he heard the unforgettable hiss-chug sound of a lobster boat’s engine. He tamped down the memories and lifted an arm to the shabby-looking vessel that slowly approached out of the twilight. “Over here!”
“’Hoy there, did everyone make it out?” The man’s voice was muffled by wind and wave, but it sounded familiar.
If he weren’t already freezing wet, Dale might have shivered as childhood ghosts crammed his brain in a sudden rush. He blinked against them and focused on the cold, hard water and the woman beside him. He raised his voice and called, “Yes. Everyone’s out.”
It was a lucky thing, too, he thought as the last slice of wing disappeared into the oily, black sea. The water just beyond the runway must be deeper than he remembered, or else the tide was running high. He felt a twinge of remorse for the field kits that had seen them through so many tough assignments, so many exotic locales. The cases were waterproof, but he doubted they were that waterproof.
“Hang tight,” the helmsman shouted over the noise of the waves and the motor, “we’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.” The near-derelict boat lurched through the surf and Dale could just read the faded name on its bow. Churchill IV.
The name brought a twist of guilt. Dale had promised his parents’ friend, Walter Churchill, that once he left the island he’d make a new life for himself and never look back. Well, he was back, and so far it had been a hell of a homecoming.
“Climb aboard, you two. What the heck happened to your plane?” The helmsman steered the Churchill IV in close, and another rain-suited figure leaned over and tossed a thick, greasy rope.
“We crashed,” Dale answered shortly, though he wanted to know the same thing. One moment, Tansy had been landing as deftly as ever, and the next, the plane was sliding down the runway on its belly.
It made no sense.
He helped her aboard, then scrambled into the boat in a motion that came back easily after all these years. He checked on Tansy. She was pale and shivering, though the men had wrapped her in a coarse, soggy wool blanket. “You okay?”
“Never better,” she answered with a crooked smile that squeezed his chest.
Her aplomb was ruined by a thin trickle of blood from a cut on her temple, and the fine tremble of her lower lip. He took a step towards her. “Tansy—”
“I’m fine, Dale. Really.” She leaned away.
He knelt down in front of her and took her chilled hands in his own. “Tans—”
She pulled free and stood as the helmsman gestured his companion to the wheel and strode over. The boat’s running lights picked out the glittering tracks of salt spray that trickled down his yellow rain suit. A billed hood cast the man’s face in deep shadow, but there was something familiar about the rolling walk, the wide, powerful shoulders. A chill skittered through Dale.
Letters and a phone call hadn’t prepared him for this. Not really.
The slickered figure lifted a hand and pushed back his hood to reveal a shock of white-blond hair above a weather-beaten face that might once have been pale. The man’s tired blue eyes were clear, but dulled with worry. Dale steeled himself to shake the proffered hand. “Mickey.” He saw the face of a boy beneath that of the man. “It’s been a long time.”
“Welcome home, Cousin Dale.” Mick nodded and glanced down at Tansy, who sagged against the railing. “And you’d be Dr. Whitmore. Welcome to Lobster Island. I’m sorry for your plane, but thank God you’re both all right.”
Dale let the voice wash over him as he tried to fit Mickey’s image to the memories he’d carried for fifteen years. They’d been as close as brothers until the day Dale’s family had gone down in a ferocious spring storm, leaving the seventeen-year-old at the mercy of his grief-maddened uncle.
Trask. Even the memory of the name brought impotent rage.
“I see some debris. I’ll bring her around to it,” the other slickered man called, interrupting the memory, though not the anger.
“Some of the cases may have washed out of the plane,” Dale said harshly, trying to find his doctor’s focus. The job, he thought. Focus on the job. “Pick up as much of the equipment as you can. We’ll need it to investigate your shellfish poisoning.”
At his elbow, Tansy was ghost-white. Guilt seared through him, layered atop the anger. He should have told her about the island. He should have prepared her better for the shock of learning that this poor, wretched place had once been his home. That these people were his family, such as it was.
Mick muttered a dark curse at the mention of the outbreak. “It’s bad, or I wouldn’t have asked you to come. We’ve had three deaths since I called, and another two sick, including the mayor and the sheriff.”
Dread curled through Dale, though he hid it deep down with all the other emotions.
“That’s impossible,” Tansy said after a moment. “PSP isn’t fatal, and certainly not in those numbers.” Dale could see her mind working.
Personal problems, plane crashes, the cold and the wet faded to the background as his mind clicked over to field mode alongside hers. “You’ve had more cases?” he asked. “I thought the fisheries people locked down all your lobster traps.”
Mickey cursed and jerked his chin toward the dock, dark in the gathering twilight. Black, boat-shaped shadows bobbed gently at their moorings. “The fleet hasn’t put to sea in over a week. The catches were bad after the spring storms, but this is a disaster. If we don’t get the docks open, the whole island will be hungry by winter. That’s why I asked you to come.” He glanced out to the end of the marked runway. The landing lights shone bright in the darkness. “Though you almost didn’t make it. What the hell happened?”
Tansy answered with a tiny quiver in her voice. “It was like the landing gear…collapsed. Or maybe it fell off. But that doesn’t make sense. Landing gear doesn’t just fall off.”
A shiver started deep in Dale’s gut. No, landing gear didn’t just fall off.
Not unless it had help.
IT WAS RIDICULOUS, TANSY knew, to think the crash had been anything but an accident. Accidents happened. A pothole in the runway could have snapped a weakened strut. She might have missed a loose nut in her preflight check, or a bolt could have sheared.
But that didn’t explain why both wheels failed at once.
She glanced over at Dale, deep in conversation with his cousin, and she felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. She didn’t understand what was happening. Chillier than a corpse, she pulled the wet wool blanket tighter. Control. She wasn’t in control of the