Shattered Haven. Carol J. Post
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itself was hidden from view by the MasterCraft in the next slip, but the mast stood out against the charcoal-gray sky. It swayed back and forth, moving with the gently rolling sea.
Suddenly he tensed, his back ramrod straight. From his angle, looking abeam, it was hard to tell. But the mast had just seemed to dip away from him, as if someone had climbed aboard. Was Allison out here in the middle of the night? Somehow he doubted it.
He slipped on his other shoe and yanked the laces tight, then tied Brinks off to a cleat. If there really was an intruder out there, a trained canine would be an asset. Brinks would get in his way. Or lead him on another middle-of-the-night chase.
As soon as he stepped onto the dock, he knew. Someone hadn’t just boarded Tranquility. He had gotten off. A crouched figure moved silently up the short span of dock that ran beside the boat. When he reached the main dock, he glanced back, straightened to his full height and ran toward the marina.
Blake shot off after him. Nine chances out of ten, he was the same guy who had broken into Allison’s house. Twice. If he could catch him, he could put an end to her ordeal. And maybe find out what she had to hide.
He reached the end of the dock, rounded the side of the Cedar Key Beach and Yacht Club and pounded across the asphalt. The distance between him and the intruder was expanding. The creep was losing him. He was going to get away.
Not if he had anything to say about it. He pushed himself harder, giving it all he had, forcing his leg to function the way it was supposed to. The dull ache intensified, becoming a burn, then a stabbing pain.
Too late, he realized that his center of gravity was no longer over his feet. He was toppling forward, his struggling leg unable to keep up. He thrust his hands outward and, a fraction of a second before hitting the pavement, twisted sideways to protect his knee.
He landed on his left leg and arm, skidding several inches before coming to a stop. For some time, he lay there, taking inventory. Nothing seemed to be broken. And his right leg didn’t hurt any more than it normally did. He slowly sat up, and that’s when the stinging throb started. His entire left side was on fire. He turned his hand over to examine it in the light of the nearby streetlamp. From palm to elbow, he was scraped and bleeding. The side of his left leg looked the same, with bits of gravel mixed with the blood.
He rose to his feet and stumbled back to the dock. There was no sense in pursuing the chase. Allison’s intruder was gone. Tomorrow he would have to tell her. He had seen the creep sneaking away from her boat and given chase.
And he fell.
Embarrassment washed over him. What kind of cop was he? Couldn’t even chase a criminal and stay on his feet.
What kind of man was he?
He stepped onto his boat, untied Brinks then coaxed him back down the companionway steps with the promise of jerky treats. The walk no longer had appeal. Brinks could wait till morning. He would call nine-one-one, then doctor his wounds. And leave the police work to those more capable.
A few hours ago, he was thinking of going back. It was nothing but an impossible dream. He had lost his edge. He was physically impaired. Who would want him?
He had been stupid to even consider it.
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