him to take things slow during his recovery, Brent figured the four-mile jog fit the bill, since he’d normally run six. The rain didn’t slow him down. Instead, it washed the Southern California air so clean it almost hurt to breathe it.
Another ten to twelve days of leave from his job to rest from a concussion might as well have been an eternity, and a short run seemed like a better option than going slowly insane. Besides, he could not lose a twist in his gut, that same sensation that he’d gotten just before the last time he’d dropped from a helicopter into a heaving ocean. Something wasn’t quite right. He checked his phone again. No messages.
There were plenty of reasons why his sister, Pauline, might have split town for a while, leaving calls unanswered. She could be mad at him, which he richly deserved. He was probably in the running for the “worst brother of the year” award. Still, he felt a niggle in his gut. Pauline had a temper, but she was also quick to forgive and this period of radio silence had lasted longer than usual. He’d even gone so far as to let himself into her house, but found nothing out of place. Still, the uneasiness continued, so he’d snatched up an address tacked to her bulletin board and followed it to the front walkway of a neatly tended little building on Coronado Island at eleven thirty on a crisp December night.
His cell phone vibrated. “Brent Mitchell.”
No answer at first. “Where...where is she?”
He stiffened. “Who are you looking for?”
The breath on the other end was short, panicky. Click. Disconnect.
Brent stared at the phone. Wrong number? Or someone who was also looking for his sister? He pushed Redial and waited. Endless ringing. No answer.
Focus on the now, he told himself, though his nerves were firing like a rifle volley. Follow up on that call later.
Of course the business he’d sought out was closed, dark, except for dim light that shone through the shutters upstairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe for the beat-up truck parked in front. Not a neighborhood for trashy vehicles.
He headed up the walkway to read the lettering on the front window just as a big man with a crew cut stepped out from the shadows.
“Help you?”
His arms were muscled, damp with sweat, as if he, too, had been out for a run. He kept his hands loose, slightly away from his body, alert. Coronado Island was home to North Island Naval Air Station and across the water from Brent’s own coast guard base. The area was thick with military types. This guy could be anyone from a navy SEAL to a petty officer. Brent figured the guy was too old to be petty officer, and, since it was just plain stupid to antagonize a navy SEAL, he tried for a friendly tone. Brent could be a smart-mouth, but he didn’t have a death wish. “Just out for a run.”
“In the rain?”
“That’s the best time to run. The tourists are all inside.” He shot a look at the darkened building. “What kind of business is this?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Brent raised an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“You’re trespassing.” The man eased forward a little.
Brent tensed but did not back down. If it was going to come down to something physical, he wouldn’t run from it. “Public place.”
“Private property.”
The obstinate mule inside him kicked to life. “You don’t own this sidewalk and it’s an innocent enough question. Don’t see why you’ve got your back up about it.”
The guy looked him up and down. “You’re persistent. Navy?”
“Coast guard.”
A slight derogatory smile. “Puddle jumper, huh?”
Brent answered through gritted teeth. “Rescue swimmer.”
He humphed, but there was a slight relaxing in the posture. “Knew a coastie swimmer.”
“Yeah?”
“Got my buddy out of a jam after Katrina hit. You work that mess?”
“Fifteen saves in one night.” Including a three-day-old infant whose panicked father had shoved the baby into Brent’s arms while they were in a rescue basket at 150 feet in the air and Brent was struggling to operate the hoist. His fingers tensed automatically with the memory. That fragile life in his hands. All on him whether the child lived or died.
They stayed silent a moment.
Brent jutted his chin. “You military?”
“Navy.”
“Swabbie, huh?”
No smile this time.
“I worked Katrina, too. Helped out building Camp Lucky. Know it?”
Brent nodded. It was the makeshift facility built by the military to collect the animals rescued from the hurricane. “We pulled out a golden retriever who ended up there. There were plenty we couldn’t get.” Plenty of helpless lives all around him then. They’d lost people and animals alike. It stuck in his craw.
The big man shook his head and Brent saw that he, too, understood about rescues gone bad. Losses that neither one of them would admit to.
“Wanted to take all those animals home with me.”
Something squeezed tight inside Brent. Pauline had said the same thing after the Loma Prieta quake when she’d helped with rescue efforts and come home with Radar. He straightened. “Brent Mitchell.”
“Marco.”
“You always this hostile to passersby?”
“We’ve had some trouble.”
“Do tell.”
Marco remained silent, no doubt weighing how much to confide. The sensation in Brent’s gut kicked up a notch. Trouble seemed to be going around.
Where is she? The desperate voice stuck in his mind.
“That your ride there?” Marco gestured to the truck parked at the curb.
“Nope. Came on foot.”
“Got to go check something out.” Marco turned, stopping to throw a comment over his shoulder. “We’re a private investigation business. Now get lost, Coastie.” He took off at a brisk walk toward the building.
Private investigation? Why had Pauline been interested in such a service?
Where is she?
He mulled it over for a minute. Good sense would dictate that a guy with a concussion, confronted by a burly navy type, should turn around and go home. Then again, normal men with common sense would not dive into the heart of a raging ocean in high winds to snatch up a victim moments away from death. Pauline always said he had a decided lack of good sense.
Semper
