Sins Against the Sea (7 page)

Corey’s gut squirmed as she made her way over. Her boss might be a mere mortal, but he generated enough power to dominate any room he occupied.

“We’re flying into someplace called Benbecula.” He passed her his briefcase like she was his secretary instead of his communications director, “which, if I’m not mistaken, is Gaelic for Bum Fuck.”

“Actually, it’s one of the more populated islands in the Uists,” Corey offered, biting back her rising antipathy. “There used to be a military base in Balivanich, the capital city, which is why they have an airfield, although it’s been civilianized…”

Noting that her self-absorbed boss looked utterly uninterested in anything she had to say, Corey didn’t go on.

“Like I said,” Peter added with a dismissive shrug. “Bum Fuck.”

Now even more on edge, Corey trailed Peter through the door and down an outdoor walkway to where the corporate jet was waiting on the tarmac. Following his lead, she heaved her suitcase onto the tiered metal cart parked near the airstairs, keeping hold of the briefcases.

“We’ll be stopping in Glasgow,” he called over his shoulder as they climbed toward the cabin, “to change planes and pick up a Scottish geologist who knows the area. He’s going to brief us on the ecology…to give us a better idea what we’re dealing with.”

Corey was glad to hear it, but still worried. “Speaking of what we’re dealing with…have you been able to learn anything more about
Ketos
?”

“Like what?”

Peter, once again, sounded completely oblivious. Corey’s gut tightened. She could practically hear the rumble of the approaching bus.

“Like what an undocumented tanker was doing in the Minch.”

“Oh, that.” Peter shrugged again. “Afraid not, but do be sure to have a press statement ready by the time we touch down in Bumfuckula.”

They took their seats and Corey worked on her statement until they landed in Glasgow, where they changed to a twin-engine prop plane. Jets, apparently, weren’t permitted to land in Benbecula.

The new plane was small. Only three seats across, split two and one on either side of the aisle. To Corey’s great relief, the geologist they’d picked up in Glasgow—a ruddy strawberry blond named Glen Brody—took the seat beside her.

“The whole island’s just under fifteen hundred acres,” Glen began once they’d achieved cruising altitude, “and the terrain is treeless and rough—mostly low hills, grasslands, peat bogs, and the like. The coastline’s about a mile long, rocky, and cut up by several lochs. Nine, if I’m not mistaken.”

Images of a barren, stony shore strewn with dead fish, birds, and otters ran through her mind. Blinking them away, she asked, “What about the wildlife?”

“The surrounding sea is home to a rich variety of sea life. Porpoises, dolphins, otters, seals, mackerel, salmon, scallops, crabs, cockles—you name it. The shore is a sanctuary for birdlife—grouse, golden eagles, falcon, shags, and gulls of all sorts. There’s also a small population of deer, though their numbers have diminished significantly on account of the sheep stripping away the vegetation. Fortunately, the sheep have now been removed to allow the grasses—and the deer population—to replenish.”

“What about people?”

“It’s uninhabited,” he said. “Except for the odd tourist now and again. Since the nineteen thirties, though there are ruins—crofts, cottages, and burial cairns, as well as an old druid temple and a nunnery.”

Corey was intrigued. “Wow. How early did people settle on the island?”

“The recorded history of the area dates back to the Sixth Century, when it was settled by an order of monks.” He gave her an eye-crinkling smile. “If you like, when and if you’ve got any free time, I’d be happy to take you through the ruins, including the old monastery on Benbecula.”

She just smiled. As much as she’d love to check out the sights, she doubted she’d have a moment to herself. Looking past Glen to Peter, who, from his seat across the narrow aisle, had been listening to every word. She couldn’t help wondering, as she often did, if he’d survived the wreck that killed her dad by pure luck or sheer ruthlessness.

“What can you tell us about the place they’re setting up the command center?” Her gaze met Peter’s across the aisle. “What was the place called again?”

“The Dark Island Inn.”

“Ah, the Dark Island Inn,” Glen put in. “Though I’ve heard of it, of course, I’ve never been there. It’s in the village of Liniclate—about ten minutes from the airport.”

“Is it easy to get to Ronay from there?” she wanted to know.

“Not really,” the geologist answered, “but as easy as anyplace, I suppose. Ronay, you see, is extremely remote. The only lodging is a self-catering vacation cottage. The only access—other than by sea—is via a one-lane road. No more than a glorified goat path, if you want the truth.”

The final leg of the flight, over the Sea of the Hebrides, reminded Corey of one she’d taken a few years back to Catalina, the biggest of the Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California. She’d gone there for a romantic weekend getaway with a man she’d dated briefly—a condescending cardiologist who’d later broken up with her by postcard.

Much to her humiliation, the postal service knew she’d been dumped before she did.

Now, as then, she held her breath as the plane touched down with a hard jolt. The moon was out—a waning crescent dimmed by swirling mist. As they taxied toward the trailer-like terminal, she rubbed her eyes. She was beat. Too beat to think on her feet—a serious handicap if there were reporters waiting to confront them. Responding to their questions when she was so fuzzy-headed wouldn’t be easy. Not that she had any answers to give them.

Miraculously, she’d come up with a statement—a complete load of bullshit, of course, but how was she supposed to draft anything but obfuscating drivel with zero information? She’d kind of been hoping the scientists who joined them in Glasgow might be able to shed some light on the mystery of
Ketos
, but they were just as baffled by the incident as she and Peter were.

She, Peter, and Glen shared a tense cab ride to the hotel. Small white cottages dotted the mostly flat landscape—housing for the military base, Glen told them. As the taxi pulled up out front of the Dark Island Inn—a low, white building trimmed with dark, Tudor-style timbers—Corey breathed a sigh of relief when no journalists swarmed out to greet them.

Climbing out of the taxi, she sized up the humble-looking hotel. The most she could say in the inn’s favor was that it was near the beach. Then again, so was everything else on the tiny island.

As they waited to check in, a blond woman Corey didn’t know handed Peter a stack of messages. He flipped through them, shaking his head, then handed them to Corey. A quick shuffle through the slips told her all were from reporters.

Peter stepped away, pulled out his cell, and placed a call. He kept his voice low. Corey watched and listened, wondering whom he might be talking to. The minute he hung up, he stepped back into line and said, “There’s been a change of plans. We’re going to need you at ground zero. We’ve already arranged for you to have the cottage. The rental agent will meet you there in thirty minutes. You’ll find a taxi waiting out front to take you there. First thing after you get the key, head down to the beach. Apparently, there’s some obnoxious reporter from Skye down there making a nuisance of himself.”

Feeling like the rug had just been pulled out from under her feet, Corey shook the stack of pink message slips at him. “Shouldn’t I take care of these first?”

Peter shrugged. “Where’s the statement?”

Screaming inside, Corey dug out the piece of paper on which she’d jotted the press release. Peter, snatching it away from her, started to read.

Corey braced herself for the usual nit-picking critique.

After a minute, he looked up, but made no effort to catch her eye. Instead, he frowned at the statement and said, “You’d better pray this works. That was Finlay Trowbridge, the on-scene commander, on the phone. After you get there, seek him out and he’ll brief you on the clean-up operation. Then, do whatever’s necessary to make this whole mess go away. I’m counting on you, Cordelia. Don’t let me down.”

“B-but,” Corey sputtered. “There’s no way to—”

“Find a way,” he snapped, cutting her off. He handed her back the statement. “Or find yourself another job.”

Chapter Four

Corey hugged herself to ward off the cold as her gaze roamed over the face of Ronay’s only dwelling, a white-washed stone cottage with a small wooden porch and a dormered slate roof. The windows were dark, as was everything else on the tiny island, but, thankfully, the owner—a balding, barrel-chested Scot named Donald MacLeod—had brought along a flashlight. As she followed him up the rickety steps to the door, he shone the beam back toward the water, whose gentle splashing was making her sweat despite the freezing wind.

“In the daylight,” he said, “there’s quite a nice view of the loch from the front windows.”

Corey didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see how close the enemy was to the front of the house. It was bad enough she could hear it slapping against the rocks a few feet away. As always, it seemed to be saying, “I’ll get you one day…just like I got your parents.”

Gulping, she threw an anxious backward glance at the loch. Except for the crescent moon’s dancing reflection, the water looked as black as the granite on her kitchen countertops back in Belmont Shores. Black and menacing. Long gone were the days when she’d taken comfort in its sultry smell and the soft sound of it licking the shore. Once upon a time, she’d felt a soul-level connection to the sea.

MacLeod fiddled with the lock for a moment before pushing through the front door. The smell of damp and stale cigarettes rushed out to greet them. With the flick of a switch, light filled the space—a quaint sitting room with a rose settee, small fireplace, and mint-green walls. Corey set her suitcase down just inside the door. It was as cold inside as out, but a relief to get out of the biting wind.

“Burr.” Shivering, she rubbed her arms.

“I’ll just light the stove then,” he said, crossing to the black-metal box.

When it was going, he took her on a tour. “The house was built in the sixties by my parents… and completely refurbished by me and the missus ten years ago,” he told her as he showed her around. “It’s solar, for the most part. Except for the stove, obviously, and a generator we keep out back to operate some of the bigger appliances. Oh, and we’ve got satellite for the telly.”

The cottage had five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a good-sized kitchen with bright yellow tile, open shelves crammed with glassware and dishes, and a shiny black “cooker.” Seeing how large the place was, Corey wondered why Peter hadn’t opted to use it as the command center instead of the hotel in Benbecula, which was a good forty minutes away.

“I’m going to need to make some calls,” she said as they returned to the living room.

“I’m afraid there are no landline and no internet…and the mobile coverage from the house can be a bit spotty.” He motioned toward the back wall. “Coverage is better a few yards up the hill.”

Up the hill? In the dark?
Corey’s already sagging spirit wilted further. She could hear wind whistling around the windows—wind she knew cut like icy knives through her clothes. Shivering at the memory, she followed McLeod back into the sitting room and gazed uneasily out toward the loch, seeing nothing apart from blackness. A harrowing feeling of desolation swept over her.

“There’s tea and coffee in the larder…and some of that powdered creamer. Oh, and some nice salmon filets in the freezer if you’re hungry. I’ll be sending Mrs. MacLeod around in the morning with fresh milk and other provisions. There’s no grocery this side of Benbecula and your employer’s offered to pay for everything. So, if you’ll be wanting anything special, just let the missus know.”

The messages in Corey’s pocket jabbed her conscience. “Are there any, em…wild animals on the island I should know about before I head toward the cliffs?”

He shrugged and offered her a small smile. “Nothing apart from the birds and a few red deer…and the occasional storm kelpie, of course.”

Corey’s mouth fell open. Had she heard him right? “Did you just say storm kelpie?”

“Aye, lass.” His eyes twinkled and his smile broadened into a grin. “The Blue Men of the Minch. Have you never heard the legends?”

Eyeing him skeptically, Corey took a minute to think back on her mom’s stories. There had been merrows, finfolk, selkies, and nuggles—Orknian lore’s version of the water horse—but none, as far as she could recall, had been blue-skinned storm kelpies.

“I don’t believe I have,” she said, “but do feel free to enlighten me.”

“It’s said they live in a sea cave under the Shiant Islands,” he said as casually as if they were discussing the price of tea, “and haul out here from time to time. To sunbathe, mostly…and during the breeding season, which doesn’t start for a few days yet.”

She blinked at him in disbelief. Surely, he wasn’t serious. “How will I know if I see one?”

“Ask the missus when she comes round in the morning.” He moved past Corey toward the front door. “She can tell you more than you’d care to know about the wily blue buggers.”

As soon as MacLeod departed, Corey set out toward the beach. Flashlight beam leading the way, she picked her way across the loose rocks, stumbling more than once.