Michael flinched. “Good Christ, man! Do something about this infernal racket!”
Williams strode swiftly along the port side, hands clasped at his back, peering into the distance. He shook his head. “We’re experiencing variable winds, sir. You’d have better luck requesting God to intervene than to ask the impossible of me.”
“Then adjust your heading, dammit!” Seavey snapped. “The passengers enjoying the excesses on offer in my dining salon will be ill within minutes.”
“And run us upon the rocks? I’m having enough trouble—dear God!” Abandoning all manner of poise, Williams raced to the bow. “Lay aloft and furl fore and main courses!”
The first mate bellowed orders, and men leapt to, scrambling up masts.
What the devil? Michael straightened, tossing his cigar into the water.
Williams clutched the railing, bending low and staring down. He reared up. “Let go port anchor!”
Uneasy, Michael pushed away from the taffrail just as the Henrietta Dale gave a tremendous, grinding jolt, slamming him to the deck.
From below, a woman screamed. The crack of the mizzenmast giving way rent the air like a gunshot. Michael glanced skyward as crew fell from yardarms like rag dolls.
Rigging and canvas rained down, obliterating his vision. Cursing, he shoved with both hands, managing to rise to his knees.
He was tossing aside lines and sheets when a massive weight crushed him, turning his world black.
Chapter 1
Dungeness Spit, Admiralty Inlet, Washington
July, present day
CALL me crazy, to use an imprecise term,” Jordan Marsh huffed as she trudged down the beach, “but you know when your surgeon cleared you to start physical therapy? I don’t think she had in mind a ten-mile forced march through sand.”
“Is that a whine I’m detecting in your voice?” Darcy Moran’s pace showed no sign of moderating. As she was built like a modern-day Valkyrie with the inseam of a pro basketball player, Jordan had to take three steps to Darcy’s two.
They’d planned the hike the night before while comfortably ensconced at their favorite pub, listening to live jazz. Darcy had waxed poetic about the trek along the west side of Dungeness Spit. She’d made it sound as if Jordan would emerge from the experience renewed in both body and spirit.
Five miles in length, the spit—a driftwood-strewn, narrow stretch of windswept sand and intrepid beach flora—hooked away from the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula, into the busy shipping lanes of Admiralty Inlet. Their destination was the area’s oldest lighthouse, built in 1857. They had the hike to themselves; Jordan hadn’t seen another soul since they’d left the parking lot.
The lack of fellow enthusiasts should have been a sign.
“We have just three hours to reach the lighthouse and make the return trip before the tide comes back in,” Darcy pointed out as she attacked the beach with militaristic zeal. Unlike Jordan, she’d dressed practically for the day in a silk turtleneck and Gore-Tex jacket, jeans, and rugged hiking boots. “Do you want to crawl over those stacks of logs, or stroll through this nice, soft sand?”
“Stroll?”
“Besides,” Darcy continued, showing no sign she’d caught Jordan’s sarcasm, “I thought you said you wanted to lose a few pounds.”
“Well, sure, but I hadn’t envisioned losing them all in one day.”
Their hike was along a gently sloping beach that—by mile two—had threatened to permanently shorten Jordan’s uphill leg. She already had blisters, and her calf muscles were screaming. Since mile three, she’d had a clear vision of tomorrow’s front-page newspaper headline:
Port Chatham Resident Rescued from Certain Death
Jordan Marsh, the most recent owner of historic Longren House, was found unconscious this morning on Dungeness Spit. She was said to be suffering from advanced hypothermia.
Neighbors expressed shock, though some privately admitted she probably deserved to suffer, since she’d been responsible for the recent wounding of their beloved police chief, Darcy Moran …
“This is payback, isn’t it?” Jordan demanded. “You still blame me. Not, mind you, that I blame you for blaming me—I blame me.”
Darcy stopped, hands planted on her hips. “You had no way of knowing that the man had violent tendencies. A guy who has that many screws loose—”
“Another phrase reviled by the psychiatric community …”
“—whatever. A narcissistic stalker can turn on you in the blink of an eye.”
“Still, as a psychologist I should’ve recognized the signs. I didn’t, and you paid the price.” Jordan doubted many people could claim the distinction—only a few days after arriving in town—of causing the near-mortal shooting of a police chief. One, no less, who had gone out of her way to make Jordan feel welcome, offering both friendship and support.
Darcy heaved a sigh. “Look, I knew the guy was acting weird as hell, but even with all my law enforcement training, I didn’t put it together, either. I see no reason why you should shoulder all the blame.”
“Hmph.” Jordan waved off a pesky black fly suicidally attracted to the fragrance of her shampoo. “So explain to me again why we’re out here? We could have hiked North Beach, or taken any number of nice walks closer to town. Locations,” she emphasized, “that don’t require calling out a medevac helicopter when you collapse at my feet.”
Darcy shrugged and continued down the beach. “Chalk it up to having to play the invalid for the last several weeks. I wanted to get out of town, and I like to set challenging personal goals.”
“Right.” Jordan shook her head and slogged through more sand.
A hundred yards out, a seagull dipped in and out of a layer of fog floating just above the water’s surface. They were surrounded by three mountain ranges—the rugged peaks of the Olympics to the southwest, the British Columbia Coastal Range to the north, and to the east, the more gently formed, tree-covered Cascades, over which towered Mount Baker’s giant snow-covered cone.
Other than the occasional cry of an eagle perched on a piece of driftwood, the only sound was of the waves lapping soporifically against the sand. Jordan indulged in a moment’s fantasy of lying down in the sun and taking a nice, long nap.
Tragically, Darcy’s voice intruded. “A hike such as this requires discipline, planning, and timing.” She was once again warming to her favorite subject since The Incident: extreme goal-setting plus rigid control of every minute of every day. Jordan figured Darcy would eventually adjust, but it was a toss-up whether Jordan would expire before that blessed day arrived. “Discipline,” Darcy continued in a lecturing tone, “that is sadly lacking in your own life.”
“Did I mention that I read an article just the other day about the dangers of Americans’ obsession with discipline? Europeans focus on living life to the fullest, giving greater priority to such indulgences as relaxation and fine foods and wines. Go figure, but they have longer life spans than we do.”
Darcy’s only response was a loud snort.
“Besides which,” Jordan persisted, “Malachi and I walk every day.”
“Yeah, you walk to that French restaurant three blocks over to have breakfast.”
“Hey. Don’t knock it—that restaurant has great espresso and The New York Times. Neither of us sees the point in extreme exercise.”