Grave Danger

The person pulled harder, but Lydia held on as though a life depended on it. And it did. Hers. Without her tool kit, she couldn’t do her job.

She raised her gaze to see who she fought so hard, but all she caught was the pulled down bill of a black baseball cap. Big black sunglasses covered more than half of her assailant’s tilted-down face. She wanted to rip the hat off, but getting her tool kit took precedence.

With all her might, Lydia pulled up. In the same moment, her arm was yanked forward. She refused to let go and gave one more yank back. The force sent her body twisting and flying back into the air, the case out in front of her, still attached to her hand and leading the way.

She had no time to think more on it as her time of flying airborne came to an end after mere seconds. She fell hard on the splintery planks of the boardwalk, her chin taking the brunt of the fall, her teeth jarring in her mouth.

But the pain had to wait because her tool kit kept moving!

On the impact of her landing, she’d let go! The case that contained everything she needed flew from her hand and now skidded away from her on the wood—heading straight for the edge of the pier and the sharp rocks far below.

Lydia pushed up on her hands and knees and scrambled across as fast as she could to save it. Tears pricked her eyes as the edge drew near. She couldn’t lose her kit. Dr. Webber would kill her. Or at least humiliate her to no end. He would be sure to note that her father would never make such a mishap.

Lydia threw herself into the air to make one final leap at catching the case before it disappeared into the ocean. She landed hard on her elbows, the case centimeters from her grasping fingertips. The kit continued to approach the edge, and just as she was about to watch it disappear, a black boot came down hard, cracking the wooden planks and stopping the kit dead in its tracks.

“Fall again, Doc?” a man’s voice called from above, halting her scrambles. The only person who called her Doc was the sheriff. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the boot in her face for confirmation.

“Did you attack me?” she asked, looking up and down the empty boardwalk. Then looked for his gloves. Bare hands. But he could have taken them off.

“Attack you? No. I just walked down from the road and saw you going after your case. You didn’t fall?”

Lydia stood on shaky legs, her case held close to her chest. She shook her head in answer to his question and observed various pain points settling in. “Someone tried to steal my case. I managed to stop them, but in the process got thrown to the ground.”

“Stay here,” Sheriff Grant said in his deep, commanding voice, but somehow it sounded more comforting to her now. He ran down to the other end of the walk, looking into the alleyways as he passed them. After a few minutes of searching, he came back with palms up. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Well, I’m not making it up.”

“If you say so, Doc.”

“Well, I do.” Lydia hiked up her case, perturbed with this guy’s quick switch from helpful to skeptic. “I’m not lying,” she huffed. Something in the sheriff’s life made him really distrustful, and that was too bad, but she wasn’t here to fix it. She was here for one thing only. “Can we just get started?”

“Don’t you want breakfast?”

Lydia glanced at the restaurant. “It’s too crowded. There’s not an empty table anywhere in there.”

“Doesn’t matter if there was an empty table, you wouldn’t be seated at it. That’s not the way Tildy runs the place. Nobody sits alone.”

“Tildy?” Lydia rubbed her throbbing elbows, grateful her plushy parka absorbed some of the shock.

He stopped in front of the glass door. “The owner. And the local news reporter.” He made quotation marks with his fingers around news reporter. “You want to know something about the goings-on here on the island, all you have to do is ask Tildy. She’ll be happy to explain it all to you. And I mean all.” He opened the door and waved a hand. “After you, Doc.”

“Lydia,” she corrected him, not moving from her place. “My name is Lydia.”

He paused for a few beats. “All right. I guess since we’ll be working together, first names are fine. I’m Wes.” He waved again for her to enter.

Her knees locked and her heart rate sped up. She could hear her own breathing and it didn’t sound so good.

“What’s the matter, Doc...uh, Lydia?” He shut the door.

“Nothing. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“I—I don’t do well in crowds. I think I want to try the other place.” She jutted her burning, scraped chin in the direction of the restaurant at the end of the boardwalk.

“The Blue Lobster isn’t open for breakfast. Plus, I think there’ll be a lot of people disappointed if the island’s first anthropologist visitor didn’t come to be welcomed appropriately.”

“What’s the big deal? I’m not some spectacle at the zoo.”

His hands went up surrender-style. “Whoa, I didn’t say you were, Doc. They’re good people. I know they’ll want to meet you. Come on. I’m going in with you.”

“I don’t know you any more than them.”

He smiled a Cheshire Cat grin. “You’re right. Maybe I should hold off introducing you and sell tickets in a big-top tent. I could put out flyers inviting one and all to the greatest spec—”

“Stop it, Wesley.”

He froze. His icy blue irises pierced her through his long strands. His Adam’s apple bobbed a couple times before he jerked a nod. “Sorry.”

“You know, I’m not even hungry. Let’s get over to the site and get set up. Did you get access to the list of supplies I gave to Owen? The tent and boxes?”

“Already been delivered. Owen’s there now getting ready. We can head over right after I grab a bite to go.” He peered through the glass door. “You can wait here if you want.”

Lydia looked down the boardwalk for the man who tried to steal her tool kit. Her decision came swift.

She went inside.

What she thought should only take thirty seconds turned into ten minutes. She stood by the door while customers smiled at her as warmly as the fire blazing in the stone hearth at the back of the restaurant. Wood beams and the old country with the friendly camaraderie relaxed her anxious nerves of crowds. She found herself smiling back at the islanders, but still not sure of what to say.

Lydia looked for Wesley and found him behind the bar pouring his coffee and talking to a young waitress dressed in a cobalt-blue dirndl dress. Lydia knew the garment’s technical name, having done her dissertation in Germany. The white front laces and apron shone brightly against the vivid velour—but not as brightly as the girl’s smile aimed at Wesley. Someone was sweet on someone. But then, Lydia couldn’t blame the girl. Lydia had looked the same way when she’d caught her reflection in the window before.

“How do you take your coffee?” Wesley called to her. “Sugar, cream?”

“Black, one sugar,” Lydia answered.

The swinging doors at the back of the restaurant burst wide. An older woman with a pouf of frizzy, bleached-blond hair bounced out. “A girl after my own heart,” she announced as she zigzagged through the maze of tables and patrons until she stood in front of Lydia. “Strong, but a little sweet. Hiya, I’m Tildy, and you must be the anthropologist. I’ve never met an anthropologist before. To be honest, it sounds a little creepy to me, but please come sit. Tell us all about it.”

Wesley saved her. “Actually, Tildy, we can’t stay. We’re eating while we work today,” he informed her as he passed Lydia a tall white to-go coffee cup and a brown paper bag of some kind of food.

“Oh, right. Those boys found some pirate bones, I hear.”

“Pirate?” Lydia questioned. Was that what everyone thought? Then she remembered Wesley’s statement about protecting the islanders. He must have told them the bones might be ancient. “Could be,” she said, going along with it, suddenly not wanting to upset anyone here in this comforting and homey atmosphere, either.

“Wesley, don’t work this lovely lady too hard. And be sure to bring her back for lunch. I think once you taste what’s in the bag, you’ll be back for more.” She winked at Lydia and touched her hand that held the bag. Her gentle touch felt motherly and gave Lydia’s heart pangs. It had been twenty years since she felt her mother’s touch. Her breath caught at the unexpected pain of loss, but she smiled through it at this woman who looked at her with such openness. These were the good people Wesley was trying to protect.

“I’ll be back,” Lydia promised, and meant it as she let Wesley lead her out the door.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Wesley snatched the bag from her hand. “Are you ready for this? Tildy makes a great apple strudel.” He removed a flaky pastry from the bag and took a bite, then held it out in front of her mouth. “Go ahead. You’ll love it.”

Lydia hesitated with a little shock. Never had she eaten from someone’s hand. It felt so personal and intimate. Butterflies fluttered about in her stomach. You’re making too much of this, she told herself. It’s just a bite of pastry. Not even from the same side he bit from. Just take a bite.

Lydia opened her mouth to the sweet. She meant to take a nibble, but Wesley pushed a little more in her mouth and she ended up with a generous amount. “Mmm. This is good.” She licked a smudge of apple filling from the corner of her lips and dived back in for another bite.

He laughed, a rich deep sound. “If you could see your face.”

“What about my face?” she asked while still chewing.

“I guess there’s a good reason Tildy calls them her German delights. Your face is quite delighted.”

“Well, it’s good. Real good.”

“Told you so.” He held up his coffee cup and took a sip, reminding her of her own delicious drink in her hand.

She sipped carefully of the rich molten lava. “Mmm. Perfect.” She licked the nutty flavor from her lips. “I can see why you come here.”

“Wait till you see what she gives you for lunch. It’s because of her that I’m so healthy.” He patted his belly, or non-belly, from what she could see. The man was sure fit.

“She takes good care of you, does she?”

“Especially since my mom died.”

That’s right. He said he lost both his parents. “Oh, I’m sorry. When—?”

“Eight years ago. No big deal. We should get going. You ready?” The swift subject change told her he might not mind sharing his pastry, but all intimacies ended there. He continued. “No roads lead to that part of the island, so we’re taking the boat. I see you don’t have gloves still. You can wear mine.”

The sight of the black leather gloves he held out to her stumped her. The image of the gloved man who had tried to take her kit flashed before her eyes. Were they the same pair? She reached for the soft leather but couldn’t be sure. They were sure alike.

“Do you want to drive the boat?”

Her head shot up, gloves forgotten. “Really? Are you sure? I’d love to, but I’ve never driven a boat before.”

“You should probably learn, then, in case I’m not available to bring you over to the site.”

If her hands were free she would have clapped. She settled for smiling big. “Let’s do it.”

Wesley smirked. “I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about driving a boat. You look ready to burst. When you grow up on an island, piloting a boat isn’t a big thing.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty exciting.”

Within minutes his sheriff’s boat zipped them away from shore with Lydia beside him, memorizing every piece of equipment and direction he threw at her. “You’re a fast learner, Doc,” he yelled over the motor. “Hold on while I get us through the rocks, and then I’ll give you the wheel!” Even though he smirked from the helm, his concentration was fully on maneuvering around the huge flat rocks sporadically jutting out of the water’s surface. Danger signs bounced on buoys all around, warning of the submerged rocks, until they finally broke through.

“Okay, you ready?”

She nodded emphatically, and he took her hands and placed them in the positions where his hands had been. He might have removed his hands but not his body. A little beside her, a little behind her, he guided her every move. His close presence brought back the butterflies again, but soon her task at hand overcame them.

After a few minutes of puttering, Lydia got the hang of manning the vessel and opened her up. She screeched at the power the fast pace gave her. Exhilarating didn’t come close to describing the freeing feeling. Her screeches turned to all-out laughter.

She never heard Wesley laugh, but when she peered out the sides of her eyes she found his smile locked on her.

As well as the dented eyebrows of puzzlement. Something confused him.

She raised her own eyebrows at him to ask what, but he changed his attention forward. “So, do I pass the driver’s test?” she asked.

Wesley didn’t answer.

Lydia thought maybe he hadn’t heard her over the engine noise. She repeated herself.

“Hold on, Doc,” he said, taking over the wheel. “There’s an unknown vessel out at sea a little too close to my liking. Might be someone off course.”

Lydia moved back and scanned the horizon. At first she didn’t see what he was talking about. Then a speck of something white appeared way off in the distance. “Is it a boat?”

“A yacht.”

“You don’t know who they are?”

“We’re going to find out.”

He shifted the boat into high speed, buckling Lydia’s knees. Her hands shot out for the bench seat behind her before she fell to the floor. “A little warning next time, please.” She put a little bite into her words as she took her seat.

“I’ll try to remember.” He didn’t sound too convincing.

Wesley skimmed across the ocean until they finally pulled up to the yacht’s portside and turned off the motor. He lifted a bullhorn to his mouth. “This is the sheriff of Stepping Stones. I need the captain of the vessel to please step out on deck.”

No sound but the waves lapping the hulls below and the seagulls squeaking above in the sunshine could be heard.

“You have thirty seconds to come out or I come aboard,” Wesley warned through the megaphone, but still no reply came.

Lydia offered her two cents. “I don’t think anyone’s here. It’s too quiet.”

“I agree,” he replied, his voice deep and serious. His hand went to his belt to flip the holster cover off his gun. “Wait here. I’m going aboard.” Leaning over he pulled his boat closer to make the leap across to the aft of the yacht. His body moved in a perfect blend of fluidity and muscled strength.

She watched him slink around the side of the yacht and up the stairs to the pilothouse with its black-tinted windows. He disappeared through a portal as though its dark shadows swallowed him whole.

Minutes went by with Lydia turning an ear for Wesley’s or anyone’s drifting voice. The small police boat rocked in the swells, up and down, lulling her senses until she realized a lot of time had passed. Going aboard didn’t feel like an option and was way out of her expertise, unless someone was dead and decomposed.

She checked her watch and drank her coffee but couldn’t shake her gut feeling that trouble brewed out on the high seas.

* * *

Wesley held his gun as he traversed through the rooms of the ninety-foot luxurious Expeditions yacht. The place was beyond anything he’d ever been in or imagined. He knew there were people out there who lived in the lap of luxury—he knew of some—but that didn’t make this experience any less eye-opening.

He passed through the dining room, the table set with gold utensils. Gold, seriously? Does it make the food taste any better? His head swiveled and met the golden statue head of an Egyptian princess sitting on an ivory carved pedestal. He peered closer. They both looked pretty old. In fact, as he roamed through the room and down the hall into the last great room, everywhere his eyes landed, he gawked at ancient art in one form or another.

Either whoever owned this vessel had spent their lifetime collecting antiquities or Wesley had happened upon an art thief’s black-market pillages. Perhaps they were modern-day pirates seeking to hide their stash on these shores again. Wes snickered at the idea but secretly wished that was the case. He knew he wouldn’t like the real reason this boat was near his island.

Especially since its owner was missing.

Wes had covered every square foot of the layout and had come across no one. The yacht was empty except for its expensive contents.

He scanned the large and final room. Past a bar and leather furniture. Past a pool table with a game half played, the black eight ball eyeing him from the center of the table. The largest flat-screen television he’d ever seen hung from the back wall, a closed metal door a few feet to its right.

One more room to explore. Judging by the metal door, he figured this was the engine room. Wes kept his gun ready as he approached the door. A twist and pull swung it wide. The room gleamed spotless...and empty. The engine was closed off behind a metal gate. A clean stainless-steel counter with drawers below shone. A tall steel locker cabinet stood cornered in the small room.

Tall enough to fit a person.

As Wes approached with careful steps, the door behind him swung closed on a bang. He shot around to no one. Automatic hinges. He crossed the floor, his boots light and silent. Another twist and the metal doors clanged open to empty hooks.

Nothing and nobody. This vessel was unmanned.

He headed for the exit, but a last gaze around the room halted on a black duffel bag sitting on a shelf. Curiosity had him moving in. Maybe there would be something identifying in the bag.

The top flap was unzipped, partially open. A quick flick lifted it up. Wes’s stomach dropped to his knees at the sight of the bag’s contents.

A bomb!

The homemade contraption had a tangle of colorful wires connecting one small black box to a liquid explosive in a clear container. The red digital numbers counting down halted his inspection and hope of disabling it. If his eyes were reading the dropping digits correctly, they told him he had less than two minutes to get off this boat. No time to fool around with wires.

Wes made a dash for the metal door, his hand outstretched for the doorknob before his feet could reach. A twist and pull did nothing. Dear God, no! I can’t be locked in here. He yanked harder and harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His hand slipped off the doorknob, also slick with sweat.

A minute five and counting.

Wes contemplated yanking all the wires out but knew that could detonate the bomb immediately. His hand fisted and relaxed, fisted and relaxed as he came to the acceptance that he was locked in here with no hope of an escape.

Thirty seconds.

He looked around the room. The metal locker was his only choice. He made a mad dash for the container with five seconds remaining.

* * *

A loud, muffled bang from the boat’s interior jolted Lydia to her feet, and then down to the boat’s deck. Coffee sloshed all over her before the cup rolled away, forgotten.

Lydia twisted around, pushing herself up on her knees to find black smoke drifting up into the atmosphere, coming from the other side of the yacht.

Questions ran through her mind. What was that bang? Is that a fire making the smoke?

Is Wesley alive?

Lydia jumped to her feet in the same moment the two-way radio on Wesley’s boat chirped. “Wes, do you read?”

Lydia’s lips grew pained from her teeth biting into them. She stood on her tiptoes, squinting to see through the tinted pilothouse’s windows. Where was Wesley? Had he been hurt in whatever that bang was?

“Wes, this is Owen. Do you read?”

Lydia stepped to the side of the boat. She kept her eyes on the handheld radio still chirping, and shot her hand out for it, finding the button on the side. “Owen? This is Lydia. Wesley went aboard a yacht in the ocean and there was some sort of bang, and now there’s a fire on the other side of the hull. He hasn’t come back out. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” She searched the land to give a frame of reference. “I see the ferry dock from here, but it’s pretty far. I see a big red boathouse straight ahead on the island. At least I think that’s what it is. It’s pretty substantial. Looks like it holds a lot of boats.”

“Hang on. I know where you are. I see the smoke now.”

Lydia climbed up on the side to try and get a better view inside the yacht. A few steps later, and her feet hit the vessel’s deck.

She halted. Should she go any farther? Father, I know what I heard was an explosion. If someone is hurt, then that is something I can help with. Please stay with me, though. Lydia ran toward the stairs as Wesley had done and reached the top. She peered in.

Empty.

“Wesley?” she called out again, her voice squeaky like the seagulls. She swallowed hard and called again.

A door at the back of the pilothouse was closed. Lydia stepped up to it, placing her hand on the cold metal latch. She froze in indecision. After a few deep breaths, she opened it toward her and a cloud of smoke hit her in the face. She waved her hand to peer through and found a dark, steep staircase going down to the bottom floor. She took the steps while she listened intently.

No sound of people could be heard ahead, just what sounded like the crackle of fire.

“Wesley? It’s me, Lydia. Are you down here?” she yelled at the last step, standing on the outskirts of a large room filled with flames and smoke.

“Go...back!” A muffled voice grabbed her attention from somewhere close by.

It was Wesley. She was sure of it. Even faint as it was, she knew. She also knew he sounded distressed. Was he hurt or blocked in behind the fire? She couldn’t leave him. But where was he? She could barely see her hand in front of her face. How would she find him in here and in time?

Lydia headed to her right and found a wall. Her hand felt along a few steps. “Hang on, Wesley! I’m coming!”

“No! Lydia, get off the boat! Now!” The voice came from her left. She whipped around to find where he called from. Somewhere on the far side of the room. “I’m coming!”

Her hands went up in front of her to feel her way across the room.

As she stepped out, debris tripped her up. She fell to the floor but kept crawling. A little easier to breathe down near the floor, she crawled forward, but her throat burned from the smoke. Her lungs ached and her eyes burned. She told her body to move, to find Wesley, who was in this room somewhere. He could be hurt. He might need help. She forced her eyes to open and felt heat dry the surface of her eyes as she realized fire lapped directly in front of her. She tried to turn back but couldn’t go anywhere.

Two flaming tongues blocked her in. She’d come to a dead end.

Just beyond the flames, she could hear Wesley banging on something. A door? He was blocked in, too. All she wanted was to help him, but with the barrier of scorching heat between them and around them, she could do nothing for him now.

Or herself.

The flames pressed in, searing her lungs with each of her breaths and leaving little doubt that helping Wesley might have been a bad decision on her part.

* * *

Wesley kicked and kicked, trying to get out of the cabinet. The explosion had dented it, making its hinges unmovable. After many attempts, the door gave way to a smoke-and fire-filled engine room. As hard as getting out was, the cabinet saved his life, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, the bomb hadn’t done what it was supposed to do. It must have malfunctioned...not that he was complaining.

He ignored the pain in the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the impact and the ringing in his ears. He checked the doorway and saw the door had blown off.

He was free—except for the fire blocking his path.

Glad for his fireproofed uniform coat, Wesley hiked it up over his face and began to dodge and weave through the growing flames. The engine could still catch fire and blow the whole boat sky-high, but he wanted to be long gone by then.