Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

her dream, bothered by whatever she had seen or imagined in Lucy’s eyes. She looked again at Lucy.
     
    Lucy shrugged.
     
    “What is going on?” Margred asked.
     
    “I don’t know yet.” Caleb’s deep voice was hard. Flat. “I’m on my way to find out. Stay put, okay?”
     
    She appreciated his concern when he was so obviously preoccupied.
    But she resisted his assumption he could tell her what to do.
     
    “I have work at ten,” she said.
     
    “Tell Antonia you can’t make it. Somebody may be by later to talk to you.”
     
    “Then he can talk to me at Antonia’s.”
     
    She heard his indrawn breath. “When they get there—”
     
    They ?
     
    “Tell them the truth. As much as you can.”
     
    Maggie bit her lip in vexation. What truth ? He didn’t want her truth.
     
    As much as you can ? Or as much as Caleb and his mysterious “they”
    could accept?
     
    “Caleb—”
     
    “I’ve got to go,” he said, still in that abrupt, official voice. “Maggie.”
     
    She waited, her heart racing, her fingers curled around the phone, willing him to dispel the darkness cast by her dream with the light of his reason, his warm, strong, steady heart.
     
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    “Take care of yourself,” he said, and disconnected.
     
    The beach boiled with activity.
     
    A temporary command post had been set up under the trees on the headland until the scene could be released and the whole police circus moved to the common room at the community center. Which would inconvenience a lot of islanders and piss off Antonia, but the mayor was the least of Caleb’s worries now.
     
    The medical examiner had come and gone, transporting the body to his office in Augusta. No bloated drowning victim this time. This woman had died recently. Violently.
     
    Even Caleb, hardened by war and accustomed to death, had been shaken by the condition of her torn and naked body. The nature of her wounds.
     
    The webbing between her toes.
     
    But he couldn’t dwell on the victim’s feet. He couldn’t think about Maggie. He’d reacted according to his training, calming the hysterical dog owner, notifying CID, securing the scene.
     
    And then he stood by while they took over.
     
    One of the state cops had accompanied the medical examiner to the mainland. By Caleb’s count, that still left five detectives from CID, three techs from the Evidence Response Team, ten members of the Maine warden service performing a meticulous search of the surrounding woods and slopes, and a dive team searching for evidence offshore.
     
    The mist had burned off. Caleb squinted against the glare, watching the sergeant in the shadows confer with his detectives.
     
    God, he wanted a cigarette. His hands fisted uselessly in his pockets.
     
    He needed something to do .
     
    This was his island. His responsibility. But this wasn’t his case.
    Outside of Portland, homicides in Maine belonged to the state. In the past, in the city, Caleb had worked Major Crimes. But here and now, all
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    he could do was stand outside the crime scene tape with his thumb up his ass as the experts did their jobs.
     
    He paced, getting sweatier and more frustrated as the sun crawled overhead, cutting the hill in light and shadow. The flat blue ocean mocked the bustle on shore, the turmoil inside him.
     
    In his mind, he saw Maggie sticking out her pretty bare foot.
     
    “ Explain this .”
     
    “ What ?”
     
    “ My toes are webbed .” She’d wiggled them to prove it.
     
    “ They’re still toes ,” he’d told her. “ Not fins or flippers. I need more from you than that .”
     
    His brain reeled. His gut twisted. How much more did he need?
     
    Two violent attacks. Both on the beach.
     
    Two women. Both with webbed feet.
     
    My God, Maggie . . .
     
    Sam Reynolds and one of the female detectives peeled away from the knot under the trees and strolled through ankle-deep weeds toward Caleb.
     
    Caleb stood at attention and watched them come. Reynolds massaged his mustache. “Got a minute?”
     
    “As many as you need.”
     
    The state guy nodded toward his companion. “You’ve met Detective Hall.”
     
    Unlike the female cops on TV, Evelyn Hall was gray and plain, weathered as a barn and thirty pounds overweight. She had a fisherman’s grip and a farmer’s tan.
     
    “Detective,” he acknowledged.
     
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    “Evelyn.” Her smile was more polite than friendly. Maybe it was a turf thing. Or maybe it was a gender thing. The state bureau was almost