Carla Neggers - Breakwater

She started across the road, then remembered she was in her socks. But they were damp now, anyway, and she continued on her way, taking the narrow, sandy path through the tall marsh grass down to the water. The tide was out, leaving behind wet sand, slippery grass and swirling shallow pools. Using one hand to block the sun, she squinted out at the enormous osprey nest, but it was empty, the female, presumably, still out hunting.

As she turned to head back to the cottage for her cell phone, a fishing boat out in the water beyond her cove caught her eye. Something bright drew her gaze downward, out past her waterfront to the edge of the protected marsh.

Red.

What would be red on the shore?

“I have a red kayak,” she said aloud.

Had Alicia left it in the marsh?

Why? Dropping her hand from her eyes, Quinn ran back up to the road and down to the marsh, pushing her way through thick marsh grass onto a narrow path. Her socks were soaked through now, covered with sand. Barely breaking stride, she lifted one foot and pulled off her wet sock, then lifted the other, leaving the socks on the path and pressing forward barefoot, the cold sand a shock.

She kept running toward the water, noticing gulls up ahead.

Gulls…

Why so many? Quinn counted five near the shore.

The path curved, and she saw the red kayak lying parallel to the beach, partly submerged in the receding tide. The gulls seemed to be picking at something in the tall marsh grass.

Quinn felt a crawling sensation at the top of her spine. Her mouth went dry. She tucked her hands up into the sleeves of her sweater and slowed her pace, ignoring her frozen feet.

More gulls arrived.

“Shoo!” She waved her arms at the birds, but they stayed with their find, whatever it was.

She looked up toward the road, hoping to see someone-anyone-she could call to walk with her down to the kayak and the gulls and see what was there. But there was no one.

With a nauseating sense of dread, she forced herself to veer off the path through the knee-high grass, still cold with the morning dew, slapping at her as her feet sank into the wet, shifting sand.

A dolphin? A small whale? Was it possible something had beached itself here on the edge of a Chesapeake Bay marsh? She was a historian, not a naturalist. She’d fancied that in her spare time, on long, lazy weekends, she could study bay life, learn the names of the birds and fish and wildflowers and grasses.

She came to the kayak and forced herself to look where the sea gulls were feasting.

A leg.

“Oh no.”

Now Quinn could see blond hair.

She recognized the blue sweater and the jeans Alicia had worn yesterday morning.

“Alicia!”

Quinn’s scream didn’t faze the gulls. She turned around, facing the road, and yelled for help, her stomach knotting, bile rising in her throat. She didn’t know if her screams were louder than the cries of the gulls or the tide, if anyone was nearby to hear her.

She made herself turn back toward Alicia and flapped her arms and yelled at the gulls, kicked sand at them, but only two flew off. When the rest refused to leave, Quinn took a closer look.

Alicia was sprawled facedown in the shallow water, strands of underwater grass tangled on her lower legs. Her feet were bare. Her sport sandals must have come off.

Quinn dropped onto her knees, shivering, her teeth chattering from cold and fear.

Please don’t be dead.

But she quickly saw there was no point in checking for a pulse.

“Oh, Alicia,” she whispered, sobbing. “You can’t be dead. Oh, God, no.”

“Quinn-”

Startled, she leaped up, spinning around right into Huck Boone. She took a step back, tripping on the kayak, but he grabbed her by the upper arm, steadying her.

He looked past her and tightened his grip on her.

“It’s-it’s my friend.” Quinn’s voice was hoarse. “Alicia. Alicia Miller. She’s…” I can’t say it.

“We need to call the police. Do you have a cell phone?”

“What?”

“A phone.”

“Yes. It’s at my cottage.”

He released her arm and touched her shoulder. “Go. Call 911. I’ll wait here.” When she didn’t respond, he squeezed her shoulder gently. “You’ve had a hell of a shock. There’s nothing you can do for your friend now except to call the police and get her out of here.”

Quinn knew he was right. He hadn’t known Alicia-he wasn’t facing the horror of seeing a friend dead. “The kayak…” Her entire body shaking now, teeth chattering, Quinn tried to point to the kayak. “I didn’t realize it was missing.”

“No reason for you to have noticed. Quinn-”

She tried to focus on anything but Alicia’s body, disfigured by seawater and seagulls. “The storms-Alicia must have been out in the storms yesterday. Why would she do that?”

“I’ll go make the call. Where’s your cell phone?”

“Kitchen counter.” But she grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his hard muscle. “Wait. Did you see the kayak on your run?”

“I wasn’t looking at the scenery.”

Suspicion rippled through her. “You weren’t out here to find her?”

Huck pried her fingers off his arm, holding on to them just for a second. “No, Quinn, I was out for a run. Come on. Let’s go back to the cottage and call the police together-”

“I can’t leave Alicia. I need to keep the gulls away.”

His expression softened.

“I’ll be okay,” Quinn added. “The shock-” She cleared her throat, stiffened herself against the trembling and shivering. “I didn’t expect to find her out here.”

“Of course not. I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t touch anything-”

“I know,” she said quietly. “The police will need to investigate.”

Huck gave a curt nod and, after a slight hesitation, as if he was reconsidering leaving her there alone, he headed back up the narrow path.

Quinn heard the sharp cry of a gull, and felt her stomach lurch. An autopsy. They’ll have to cut Alicia open.

Her knees buckled and she tasted bile.

She knew Alicia was dead and yet wished she could shield her friend from what came next. Police, paramedics. Reporters. People who never knew her asking questions. Speculating. Judging.

They would want to know what had happened and why.

They’d ask Quinn about her encounter with Alicia yesterday in Washington.

Strangers would determine whether Alicia’s death was an accident or suicide.

Would anyone even suspect murder?

“The osprey will kill me.”

The crazy words of a disturbed woman.

No, Quinn thought. No one would suspect murder.

Nate Winter glanced at the picture on his desk of the small cape house he and his wife, Sarah, an historical archaeologist, had bought. It was a fixer-upper. Worst house, best location. They looked forward to doing a lot of the work themselves. Moving day was coming up. They’d enlisted the help of family and friends. Sarah was already loading up the freezer with southern-style casseroles to feed their helpers. Her friend John Wesley Poe had promised to show up. That he was the president of the United States was only one of the many complications of Nate’s life.

The prospect of their new house only distracted him for a moment. He had wanted to give Juliet Longstreet the chance to digest the news he had just given her. Although she was a top-notch deputy U.S. marshal, even on a good day she didn’t like coming into the USMS headquarters in Arlington.

Today was not a good day.

“Nice of you to wait until this Huck Boone-Huck McCabe character finds a body before you tell me about him.” Juliet was known for her blunt manner. She was tall, in butt-kicking shape, but she was letting her fair hair grow out; it was curling past her chin now. “When did he arrive in Yorkville?”