Seaside Secrets. Dana Mentink
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the woman’s lips. “Then you’d better start praying, because Tank isn’t going to be alive for very long. And if you get involved with him—” she shook her head “—you won’t, either.”
* * *
Dan Blackwater remembered vehicles, makes and models, headlights and license plates. Mechanically, he scanned the parking lot, making mental notes. Since Afghanistan, he’d been forced to notice things, tiny things out of place, little details that could mean something was about to blow up. Something as simple as a soda can in an odd place could preclude a rain of fire and a parade of injuries. Now he couldn’t seem to unlearn the habit. He blinked hard. You’re here now, in Cobalt Cove. He sucked in a huge breath of ocean air. He was home, thank God. Mostly, anyway.
As he jogged toward the beach, carrying the bag Lila had left at the clinic, cutting through the parking area to avoid the crowds, he noted her Camry in the jammed lot. He’d gotten to know that car pretty well when he helped fix her flat hours before at the clinic. Their shifts overlapped sometimes, at the tiny building on the outskirts of town where he volunteered his surgical services stitching up wounds and arranging help for those living on the fringes of society. Lila worked there as a paid employee, a dental hygienist for those who needed one.
They’d chatted about her plans to go to the Beach Festival on her way home from work, but she hadn’t seemed very excited about the prospect. More nervous really, so nervous she’d left without the tote bag she carried everywhere with her. Odd. But people were odd, no two the same, except in some universal ways he’d noted in his time as a heart surgeon at the NATO hospital in Afghanistan. They all loved, laughed and died in pretty much the same ways.
His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He answered. “Blackwater.”
“You missed another one.”
“I called and canceled.”
His physical therapist sighed heavily into the phone. Dan could picture Jeb Paulson’s fleshy face scowling in disapproval, eyebrows like two grizzled caterpillars crawling across his forehead.
“The rehabilitation window is closing , Dr. Blackwater. If you don’t take your rehab seriously, you’ll never return to the operating room.”
I don’t want to return to an operating room. “I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”
“Puttering around in boats? You can’t be serious. You’re the best heart surgeon in the country.”
“Flattery. And it’s kayaks, not boats. You should try it, Jeb. It would relax you.”
“Having you come to your appointments would relax me. I’m scheduling you for Monday noon. If you don’t show, I’m saddling up Old Lucy and coming after you.”
He grinned. Old Lucy was Jeb’s ancient motorcycle, circa 1949. “That I’d like to see.”
“Monday,” Jeb said before disconnecting.
Dan stowed his phone and flexed his hand. It still ached a bit from his bicycle crash on his last race along the coast a month before. Too fast, too tight a turn, his brain had screamed, but the rush of adrenaline proved more powerful. Until he’d flown over the handlebars and skidded along the roadbed. Too bad he hadn’t won the race before he crashed, he thought with a grin. When he flexed his fingers, they were only a little sore, slightly stiff, but little and slightly wouldn’t do for a surgeon.
The window is closing...
Jeb was right. “I’ll make it to the Monday appointment,” he murmured to himself as he took off toward the beach, hoping to spot Lila along the way. He didn’t. Slowing when he reached the top of the rickety wooden steps that led down to the sand, he edged over as he heard footsteps moving quickly up the warped slats.
Lila appeared, mouth open, hair wild. She gaped when she saw him.
“Dr. Blackwater. What are you doing here?”
“You left this at the clinic.” He handed her the bag. “What’s going on? You look scared.”
“Never mind. I’ve gotta go. Thanks for bringing me my stuff.” She darted past him just as another woman reached the top step.
A shock ran through him as he took in her tall frame, the delicate curve of her mouth and cheek. He was back in Kandahar, Afghanistan, delivering devastating news to a young woman, holding her hands as she crumpled to the floor, advising her to take deep breaths as she hovered on the brink of passing out. Her eyes, misty green, had lingered in his memory throughout his transition to civilian life. Those green eyes regarded him now, and she stopped so abruptly she had to grab on to the railing for balance. Her swirl of dark hair was damp from the fog, curling in the barest of waves around her face. Her body was slimmer, her face a touch gaunt, he thought.
“I don’t remember your last name,” he said. “But I think your first name is Angela.”
Her lips quivered. “The hospital,” she said quietly. “You were a surgeon.”
“Still am, at least on paper. Dan Blackwater. And you’re Angela...”
“Gallagher.”
“Navy chaplain.”
A shadow of a smile. “At least on paper.”
He could see the perspiration on her temple now, the shallow breathing, tense shoulders that told him their encounter was not welcome. Made sense. He represented her darkest hour; at least he hoped it was her darkest. Civilian life had to be easier than what she’d endured, if she really had been able to leave it behind. He remembered certain details now. Navy Chaplain Angela Gallagher brought in with minor wounds along with her chaplain’s assistant, who had died from the bullets that tore through his aorta when he’d shielded her. God’s handiwork ripped to irreparable shreds by the merciless progress of metal and machine.
“I need to find someone,” she said, keeping a distance between them as she passed him.
“Lila?”
Angela started. “The woman who just ran up these stairs. Is that her name?”
He nodded. “She’s a dental hygienist. She works at the same health clinic where I volunteer.”
Angela’s gaze shifted as she thought it over. “I’ve got to talk to her.”
“She didn’t look in the talking mood.”
“I got that sense, too, when she pulled a knife.”
Now it was his turn to gape. “What?”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Bad idea. She’s got a knife and you don’t...”
She stiffened. “Carry a weapon?”
It wasn’t what he’d meant, but her reaction stopped him cold, her expression brittle as glass.
“You’re right, Dr. Blackwater. I don’t.”
The landing at the top of the stairs emptied out onto a cement sidewalk that led to the boardwalk. The crowds were thicker now, the lights in restaurant windows were advertising the beginning of the dinner hour. Paper lanterns that lined the sidewalks glowed in soft hues. While Dan struggled to think of how in the world he should handle the bizarre situation, Angela simply jogged by him and into the milling group.
Lila had pulled a knife on someone? The soft-spoken, tea-drinking woman who read poetry during her lunch break? After a moment of thought, he went after Angela. At first he could not find her. Then the failing light shone on a man with a cap pulled down low over his wide forehead and a wound on the back of his hand. Dan had seen the scar before because he’d stitched it up himself. Tank Guzman.
It was probably not outside the realm of possibility that Guzman was just coincidently attending the Beach Fest on the same night as Angela Gallagher, the woman who had watched his brother die. A chance meeting? And Lila just happened along, too?
Guzman