Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

it.’ ”
     
    He leveled a look at her, and she flushed.
     
    “Sorry, that was unfair,” she admitted. “But why don’t you go after her? It’s obvious you’re both miserable.”
     
    So he wasn’t the only one suffering. He was glad. Which made him a selfish bastard, because . . .
     
    “She was right,” Caleb said. “I’m too close to her case. I can’t be involved with her and do my job.”
     
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    “Maybe she needs you to do more than your job.”
     
    His job was all he had. All he knew how to do. Weigh the facts.
    Keep the peace. Protect the innocent.
     
    Only with Maggie, the facts were all mixed up with his feelings. His gut wanted to trust her. His head told him to dismiss her as a nutcase.
    And his heart . . .
     
    He drained the dregs of his coffee. “Come on, Pop. You’ve had your fun. Let’s go.”
     
    “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”
     
    “Which is the only reason you’re not sleeping it off in a holding cell tonight.”
     
    They drove in silence as thick and cold as a coastal fog. Not looking at each other. Not speaking. Just like any car ride twenty years ago.
     
    Except now Caleb could ask—had to ask—the questions that lay unanswered between them.
     
    “Why did Mom leave?”
     
    “What the hell difference does it make? She left. Took the boy with her.”
     
    Caleb wasn’t a kid anymore. He was used to dealing with uncooperative and hostile witnesses.
     
    “Where? Where did they go?”
     
    “Back where she came from.” Bart turned his face to the darkness beyond the window. “Damn her.”
     
    “Where’s that?”
     
    “None of your damn business.”
     
    “She’s my mother.”
     
    195
    “She was my wife !” Bart roared. “Fourteen years I lived with that woman. Loved her. But that didn’t stop her. Oh, no. First chance she got, she ran off.”
     
    “Where?”
     
    His father slumped against the door. “I’m going to be sick.”
     
    “Not in the Jeep.”
     
    Caleb managed to pull over and open the passenger door before Bart lost it in a violent, stinking stream.
     
    Caleb handed him a handkerchief and helped him back into the Jeep.
     
    His father couldn’t hit him anymore to shut him up. But being dog sick in a ditch and then passing out in the backseat were just as effective.
     
    Caleb steadied the old man out of the vehicle and up the porch steps.
    At least with the poisons out of his system, there was a chance Lucy wouldn’t have to clean up after him tonight.
     
    Propping the old man under the yellow porch light, he patted him down for his keys.
     
    The door cracked open. Lucy stood in the illuminated rectangle, barefoot and with her hair in a braid. She looked about twelve years old.
     
    “Is he all right?”
     
    “He’s drunk,” Caleb said bluntly. “Go back to bed.”
     
    Her wry smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Newsflash, big brother.
    My bedtime’s after nine o’clock now. And I have as much experience putting him to bed as you do.”
     
    Guilt twinged. “So take a night off.”
     
    Lucy stepped back as Caleb supported Bart over the threshold.
    Laughter and applause wafted from the television in the living room, and then Maggie was there, taking in the scene with her big, dark-as-chocolate eyes.
     
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    Caleb’s heart pumped like a fist, knocking the air from his lungs.
     
    Bart trembled. “Who’s that? Who are you?”
     
    “That’s Maggie, Pop.” Caleb nudged him toward the stairs. “She’s staying here for a few days.”
     
    Bart lurched forward and gripped her arm, hard enough to bruise.
     
    Wincing, Maggie tried to peel his fingers from her arm.
     
    “Easy.” Caleb grabbed his jacket. “Let her go.”
     
    His father barely noticed, thrusting his head forward to peer into Maggie’s face. “Are you her? Have you come back?”
     
    Maggie made a soft, protesting sound.
     
    Caleb shook his father by the collar. “Let her go,” he repeated through his teeth.
     
    Bart dropped her arm and swung at Caleb.
     
    He didn’t have time to duck. The punch glanced clumsily off his jaw, stunning him. It had been years since his father hit him.
     
    He wanted to hit back.
     
    But he never had. Even when he was big enough. Strong enough.
     
    He caught his father’s fist on the next swing, pulling his arm up and behind him. “Enough,” he growled.
     
    Bart made a sound, a terrible sound like wet rope rattling through rusty hinges, and collapsed against him. It