Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

and responded to the olive branch. “The old quarry’s a swimming hole now— or a skating pond, in winter. Lot of vacation homes around here.”
     
    “You said we were headed to a homeless camp.”
     
    Caleb nodded. “On the other side. Used to be a waste dump for the mining company.”
     
    They passed more homes, the McMansions ceding ground to dilapidated cabins, the terraced landscaping replaced by abandoned appliances and rusting pickups. Not all the island had benefited from high lobster prices and rising property taxes. Here, Caleb knew, were households that had fallen off the beaten track and out of the mainstream, adults inclined to drink or drugs, children subsisting on deer meat and short lobster.
     
    Which brought them to the homeless encampment, strewn like garbage between the boulders. Waste disposal was a problem on the islands. Anything transported on had to be hauled off or burned. As a result, there were plenty of materials lying around for reuse. Caleb counted several structures built of plywood, cardboard, and scrap metal, and one honest-to-God tent pitched under the pines, its faded blue nylon spotted with mildew.
     
    The men around the fire— five, six, seven, not bad odds— were as ragged and seedy as their shelters.
     
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    Caleb got out first. Evelyn Hall waited by the Jeep, the door open and the shotgun within easy reach.
     
    A fat, muscled man sporting a red bandana and a graying ponytail stood as Caleb approached.
     
    Caleb greeted him. “Bull.”
     
    “Chief. You checking up on Lonnie?”
     
    Lonnie, the clinic patient, who claimed he was possessed by the devil.
     
    “How’s he doing?” Caleb asked.
     
    Bull shrugged. “See for yourself.”
     
    Caleb found Lonnie in the ring around the fire, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the smoke. He didn’t look up. In the good news department, he didn’t levitate off his boulder and start spitting pea soup either.
     
    “Make sure he takes his meds,” Caleb said.
     
    “I’m not his fucking nurse,” Bull said.
     
    “Me either,” Caleb said evenly. “I want to speak with Jericho.”
     
    “He’s sick.”
     
    Caleb’s gaze traveled over the encampment. “Mind if I look around?”
     
    Bull crossed his thick arms over his massive chest. “Got a search warrant?”
     
    “Got a camping permit?” Caleb asked evenly.
     
    “Fuck,” Bull said.
     
    “I’ll take that as permission to search,” Caleb said.
     
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    He regarded the dark opening of the nearest shelter, sprouting from the shadow of the trees like a giant fungus, and his mind flashed back to hot white streets and sharp black shadows, blank doorways and blind windows,snipers on rooftops. His belly tightened. He was glad to have Hall and her shotgun at his back.
     
    He ducked inside the structure, a finger of sweat tracing down his spine.
     
    A stench compounded of beer and urine, sweat and mold, hit him.
    No Jericho. Nobody at all. No body. Caleb didn’t know whether to be sorry or glad.
     
    He wiped his face. And heard a rustle in the leaves outside, a crackle in the stillness. Squirrel? Deer? His instincts jumped on high alert. His hand as he reached for his gun trembled. Shit.
     
    Light slanted beneath the rear wall where plywood rested on an exposed root. Caleb eyed the crack. Barely room for someone there to crawl out the back while he came in the front. Not two someones, not a man dragging a woman. (Bound, unconscious, dead.) But that rustle . . .
     
    He backed out of the structure— there wasn’t room to turn around—and signaled to Hall to hold her position. Would she understand? She nodded without speaking and leveled the shotgun to her shoulder.
     
    “Hey,” Bull protested.
     
    “Shut up,” she said.
     
    Caleb eased around the side of the shelter, his gaze sweeping the woods and slope behind. Tough going if he had to give chase. Leaves crunched. A bush rattled. He raised his weapon.
     
    And came face to face with his brother, Dylan.
     
    Caleb exhaled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
     
    Dylan’s black gaze lifted from the muzzle of the gun to Caleb’s face.
    “Your job.”
     
    Caleb’s job was protecting the island. He didn’t have time for this shit. “Where is she?”
     
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    “Who?”
     
    “Regina Barone. Have you seen her?”
     
    There was an instant’s utter stillness. Some expression flickered on Dylan’s face and was gone too quickly to be identified. “Two days ago,”
    he said