McCloud's Woman (20 page)

“I’m Paul Harris from
People
magazine. Is it true that you and Mara Simon are an item?”

TJ’s insides froze at the mention of the magazine, but he
didn’t let that hold him back. “Afghanistan has been bombed into a hole
in the ground,” he said to his beer bottle. “Israel is on the brink of
exploding. The population of much of the Third World is starving. And
you write for a magazine that reveres shallow punks who do drugs because
they’re bored. Ask me another.”

Beside him, Ed cackled with glee. One of Ed’s World War II cronies leaned closer to catch the joke.

“When was the last time you read the magazine?” the reporter asked dryly.

“The last time you did a story on my kid brother. Cute
story. Missed the whole point.” TJ drained his bottle and wondered if he
ought to walk out now or drink himself into a stupor.

“The locals claim you and Miss Simon are an item, but my
sources claim you’re at loggerheads over the film location. Would you
care to comment?”

“Loggerheads,” TJ mused. “Interesting choice of word. Did
you know a loggerhead is a subtropical carnivorous turtle? Which one of
us do you think they mean is carnivorous?”

Ed and a few more members of his pack roared and smacked
the bar in appreciation of his wit. Nothing beat an audience who had
been drinking since sundown.

“Hey, TJ,” one of the pack shouted, “You found any more of them pirate bones?”

“They’re not pirates,” Ed shouted back. “He done tole you that. It’s Germans, dollars to donuts.”

Uh oh. With a sigh, TJ stood up and placed his money on
the bar. He’d sat through plenty of the barroom brawls that ensued when
hostilities arose this late in a crowd of drunks, but the topic of this
argument would only incite the reporter’s imagination. Time to depart.

“I read the newspapers, McCloud,” the reporter called
after him. “I looked your name up in our files. Your work in the Balkans
gives you an international reputation. You might prefer talking to me
instead of the rabble that will be down here once I send in this story.”

Yeah, right, like telling
People
magazine he and
Mara were an item would happen any time in his universe. TJ stalked out
into the humid August night and kept on walking as the noise in the bar
escalated.

He might as well be a carrier of a violence virus,
trailing havoc in his wake. Maybe he belonged in war zones, where
violence was normal. Maybe he’d lived in war zones so long, he accepted
violence as a normal way of life. Who the hell knew?

He just knew he was tired of it.

That was a realization it had taken a long time to reach.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, TJ wandered the empty streets to the
inn parking lot. He was tired of war. He was tired of living alone. He
was tired of drifting homeless.

Damned good thing, he thought cynically, because he could
be going to jail along with the colonel unless those boxes proved
Martin’s innocence. So far, they hadn’t. If anything, they made it a
virtual certainty that some of the criminals he’d fingered had never
come to trial.

Since TJ had worked with Martin, he could be accused of
covering up the crimes as well, not to mention protecting Martin while
he was at it. Concealing evidence was a crime in most states, but if he
turned the boxes over to the authorities, he might be writing his own
warrant. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. So much for truth and
justice.

The
People
reporter knew he’d worked with Martin. All hell could break loose soon.

Might as well begin saving what he could from the dig.
Between the restraining order and nosy reporters, he wouldn’t work on
the site much longer anyway. He’d really wanted to solve the mystery of
the bones, too.
Shit
.

He glanced up at the inn as he climbed into the Taurus,
but the place wasn’t swarming with police or ambulances. Instinct told
him to find Mara, to be certain she was all right, but his people
instincts were lousy. More likely, he wanted to console himself. Mara
had already proved she was strong and didn’t need him.

Drained and empty, he drove back to the island, filling
his head with the proper procedures for securing the site rather than
examine the loneliness gnawing at him.

How had it come about that a man of near-genius IQ, with
halfway decent looks—if not charm—from a perfectly normal, well-to-do
family, had no life? He really ought to sit down and figure out where
he’d gone wrong, but if he hadn’t seen it when he’d done it, he’d not
recognize his error now. He knew how to investigate a crime site,
examine evidence, analyze details, and solve a decades-old murder, but
he couldn’t apply the same intelligence to his own damned life.

It was a little late for working it out now. With the refrain of
Doo-wah-diddy-diddy
humming through his head, he turned down the sandy lane leading to
Cleo’s. TJ passed her house and drove as far as the lane took him.

A movement in the shadows of the dune below the dig site
caught in his headlights. TJ’s already simmering adrenaline boiled over.

Slamming on the brakes, hitting the ignition, TJ leapt
from the car. With the ease of experience, he dodged through the wax
myrtles to the nearest path up the hill. The mood he was in tonight,
he’d single-handedly take out any fool mucking with his project. He
didn’t need any weapons but bare fists and fury.

He understood action far better than analyzing his life.

He heard rustling in the bushes on the far side of the
hill. Without hesitation, he clattered across the board platform
supporting his excavation, slid down the sandy path on the beach side,
and tore off after the dark figure racing toward the ocean.

TJ had long legs and temper to carry him, but the intruder
had supernatural powers—he disappeared into the shadows of the rock
jetty.

Cursing, TJ stalked up and down the canvas-covered rock
pile of Mara’s movie set, looking for some sign of the culprit. Nothing.
Had it been daylight, he might have examined footprints, but he had no
flashlight, nothing but the moon’s fading glow to guide him.

A motor roared to life just on the other side of the
rocks. Tearing across the artificial turf, TJ scrambled to the top in
time to see a headlight beaming out to sea. What in hell was going on
here?

Scrambling down the rocks, he jogged back to check the dig
site. He’d fenced in the excavation and locked it more to prevent
curious teenagers from hurting themselves than to keep out thieves. A
good hacksaw would take out the lock or the chain link.

Sure enough, the lock was off and the gate open.

TJ entered cautiously, not wanting to disturb more
evidence than necessary but needing to know what the intruder had
wanted. He had a flashlight in his tool box, and he dug it out now.
Normal thieves would have stolen the equipment he kept in the box.
Flipping on the light, he thought the tools were more jumbled than he’d
left them, but they all seemed to be there.

He widened the light’s beam and scanned it over the sand and boards where he’d worked this past month.

The boxes of artifacts had been dumped and scattered
across the sand. He couldn’t easily tell if any were missing. All human
remains had been taken to his office in town, and a bolt of fury tore
through him. Had they torn the office apart again?

They hadn’t stolen anything last time.

What the devil was the thief looking for?

With a sigh of exasperation, TJ pulled his cheap plastic
lounge chair across the gate and prepared to spend the night guarding
the site.

At least this time, he knew it wasn’t Mara or her crew
messing with his head. Now that they had legal permission, they’d be in
first thing in the morning with bulldozers.

Unless he stopped them.

He’d let Mara spin his head backward tonight. The vandals
had done him a favor and spun it back. Why should he go down without a
fight?

Grimly, TJ pulled out his cell phone and the business card
Cleo had given him for her legal shark and punched in the office
number. He’d have a message waiting when the office doors opened.

Let
People
decide if slapping a federal court order on Mara’s film company constituted being at loggerheads.

“Sid, I am not taking bulldozers out there, and that’s
final,” Mara screamed into her cell phone as she paced the B&B’s
breakfast room. “That’s a rat-fink thing to do. This is
my
film, and I’ll handle it my way!”

She glared at Irving who sat at a table, prodding
cautiously at his bandaged nose. She smacked his hand away in passing.
He returned to sipping his coffee without a word—passive aggressive to
the bone.

“Don’t give me that guff, Rosenthal. I’ll have my lawyer
on the phone so fast, your lawyer’s head will spin. It’s my film and my
career on the line. If it sinks, I lose, so keep your damned shysters to
yourself.”

Constantina offered her a biscuit in passing—bagels
weren’t on the B&B’s menu. Mara shook her head and continued pacing.
Her stomach wouldn’t accept food right now. She had frigging
Irving
down here, and Sid and his lawyers were giving her hives. Who could eat?

“You have no idea who you’re messing with here, Sid, and I do. Lay off, or you’ll ruin the deal.
Capisce
?”
She slammed the phone off, folded it, and slid it into her shorts
pocket. Now she had to find TJ and make certain he didn’t draw and
quarter her and hang her out to dry.

She still got a hot thrill reliving TJ’s vengeful punch at
Irving’s nose. She suspected half his fury had been at her, but once
his temper exploded, it had morphed rapidly into a different kind of
heat. He’d looked at her as if she were the moon and stars and they both
belonged in heaven together. For that look, she’d work a little harder
to find a compromise over the access road.

“Constantina, did you find those headbands?” she demanded,
still pacing. If she could control the small things in life, maybe the
big ones would fall in place.

“Gave them to Jim to take out to the island,” her hairdresser agreed. “They don’t work on you anyway.”

Nothing worked on her, but that was beside the point. She
didn’t want Kismet thinking she’d been forgotten. Maybe one good deed
balanced the sin of enjoying Irving’s bashed nose.

“You belong at home, taking care of your mother,” Irving said disapprovingly. “Let Sid fight with the lawyers and do his job.”

She didn’t have to hear this. She wasn’t married to the
whining sexist anymore. Ignoring the roll of Constantina’s eyes, Mara
propped her palms on the table and put her face up to his. “I’m only
saying this once, Irving, old friend. I have a
life
. You don’t. You stay out of my life, and I won’t disturb your nonlife. Mess with me, and I’ll cut off your
cojones
. And you can tell Aunt Miriam I told you so.”

With the adrenaline high of pure fury, Mara slammed out of
the dining room. She couldn’t believe Aunt Miriam would send the
stinking, lying, whoring bastard down here after her. Did her aunt think
she’d forgive the creep, go home, and settle down like a nice
Jewish-Italian girl in the old neighborhood?

Of course she did.

What was even more appalling was that Irving seemed to
think the same thing. And wouldn’t that be a feather in his cap—movie
star and producer for wife, showing off his lingerie inventory in high
society? Delusional. Positively delusional.

Storming outside, Mara scowled at the heavy clouds
overhead. They wouldn’t get any filming done today. She would have to
concentrate on completing the camouflage job on the jetty. It wouldn’t
show up as more than a small angle shot in the ship scenes, but she
wanted the authenticity. Big hulking gray rocks weren’t authentic.

She was almost afraid to have Jim drive her out to the
beach after last night. TJ’s red-hot streak wouldn’t have had time to
cool off. She glanced at her watch—nearly noon. She’d wasted the entire
morning waiting for a decent hour to call Sid in California. She should
have roused him from bed. Actually, she had.

She rubbed her forehead, but that didn’t stimulate any
ideas on how to pacify TJ. She’d just have to crawl and tell him she
wouldn’t enforce the cease-and-desist order.

She
wanted
to enforce it.

Her future depended on pulling this film in under budget.
With Glynis’s name on it, they had major sales locked in. She could buy
Sid out, turn the company around, buy her own house to replace the half
of Sid’s she’d traded, and provide her mother a place of her own. She
wouldn’t have to look to any man to support her ever again—unless she’d
inherited her mother’s psychosis. Worrying about that now would
definitely make her crazy.

Were TJ’s old bones really worth losing her home and her career and any hope of independence?

Research! She’d promised TJ she would research the
project. Maybe she could prove the bones belonged to some long-ago
drowning victim and weren’t worth his time and effort.

With a much jauntier step, she set off in search of the
library. She’d once entertained thoughts of a career in law, doing legal
research. The summer she’d spent working in a law office had cured her
of that foolishness, but she still loved digging through musty old
tomes. Her Gemini mind saw both sides of the story too easily for law,
but TJ’s problem didn’t require making judgments or searching for
loopholes.

The library was housed in one of the old antebellum
mansions, and the wood frame was sagging beneath the weight of the books
inside. Paint peeled off the gracious columns, but the bearded oaks and
rampant azaleas disguised the decay. Mara asked the librarian for old
newspapers first, and any books on the history of the area. The elderly
lady behind the desk was thrilled to help.

Surrounded by cartons of microfiche film, dusty volumes of
bound newsprint, and a few self-published pamphlets on the islands, she
joyfully settled in to work. Thunder rolled and cracked overhead, but
the patter of rain on the roof only settled her more thoroughly into her
seat. If she could make a living sitting on her rear end in a library
all day, she’d be in hog heaven. She could wear her glasses and blue
jeans, tug her hair into a ponytail—become the nerdy teenager TJ had
once respected. And left behind.