P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

"I beg your pardon?" Kaz interrupted, her eyebrows arched, a slight smile on her face. "I don't remember getting a lot of sleep."

"—how about, when I get out of here, I take you out on a date?"

She made a production out of hesitating. "A real date, huh? Like dinner, and maybe a movie?"

"Yeah," he said. "I could put the moves on you after the lights go down."

"That's appealing." Her heart turned over. "I haven't necked in a movie theater since high school."

"Then you've been missing out," he said firmly. He reached out, took one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist. A small jolt of desire ran through her. "You'll stick around?"

"Of course. I've got the work on the Anna Marie , and Gary still needs help with the business. We'll have to recoup from our losses—" She shivered, heat flashing through her when he used his teeth on her palm. The man knew how to turn her into mush, thank God.

"I meant," he growled, "will you stay around for us? Because otherwise, we're trying out a long-distance relationship. I'm not letting go of you anytime soon."

A feeling of contentment washed over her. She smiled tremulously. "Yes."

She'd work out whatever she needed to with her business partner. She'd probably have to commute back and forth, but it would be worth it. There was no way she was going back to California on a permanent basis. This was where she belonged now.

"Yes, what?" he demanded.

"Yes, I'm sticking around." She leaned down and kissed him, placing her hand on his cheek. "For us."

The End

About the Author

RITA nominee and award-winning author P.J. Alderman has lived in the Pacific Northwest for more than twenty-five years, where she pursues her life-long passions of writing and native gardening. A Killing Tidewas originally published in mass paperback format in December, 2006, and was nominated for the RITA for Best First Book.

Alderman also writes the Port Chatham Mystery Series, published by Bantam Books, which blends the fascinating history of Pacific Northwest port towns with present-day supernatural sleuthery.

Coming soon, the exciting sequel to A Killing Tide:

Phantom River

River bar pilot Jo Henderson knows all the myths and legends of her native Astoria, but her knowledge of the undercurrents in local events proves more deadly than she thought possible when an explosion dumps her into the Columbia's icy winter waters. On the heels of another co-worker's death and uncovered suspicious shipping activity, these "accidents" have gained the attention of the authorities. Now, the only thing Jo has to fear more than someone trying to kill her is the someone who's trying to protect her.

When Bostonian John MacFallon took the job of Astoria's police chief, he left evil behind—he thought for good. But with the suspicious "accidents" piling up, he uncovers a bioterrorist threat that threatens to cripple the regional economy and kill thousands. However, nothing could prepare him to deal with the growing feelings he has for the one special woman who's put her life on the line. He'll do whatever is necessary to protect her, even risk his damaged heart.

In Phantom River, mysteries of the past will resurface to haunt them both.

~~~~

Prologue

Tuesday, 12:00 AM

Astoria, Oregon

John MacFallon wrenched the steering wheel to avoid the sudden drop-off into howling black at the bottom of the hairpin curve. The pickup's rear wheels spun on the waterlogged shoulder, then found purchase. He kept his grip at white-knuckle level, focusing on the narrow ribbon of pavement that ran along the bluffs of the Columbia River. Not for the first time during the drive down from Portland, Oregon's Highway 30 struck him as an irresistible temptation for anyone looking to commit suicide.

The white fog line demarcating safety from oblivion had become a distant memory just outside Longview. Rain hammered the windshield, restricting visibility to the front hood of the truck. Mac had the wipers on high, and it was as if he'd never turned them on at all.

When he'd flown out to interview for the job of Chief of Police several weeks ago, his old pal Michael Chapman hadn't seen fit to warn him about the weather.

"Yeah, it can get a little wet out here in the winter," Chapman had said, looking unconcerned. They'd met at a fisherman's hangout to down a few microbrews.

What Chapman had failed to mention—and Mac had learned with one quick Internet search—was that Lewis and Clark had nearly gone insane their first winter at Fort Clatsop on the Columbia River, battling the darkness and the damp that never went away. Even the NOAA precipitation tables hadn't provided a clear picture. Sure, they'd documented the number of inches per month, which had—admittedly—given him pause. But this? This was a fucking river pouring out of the sky.

The road straightened, but Mac knew the respite wouldn't last. He rubbed his jaw, three days of stubble pricking his palm. The smart move would've been to stop in Portland for the night, then tackle the last leg of his journey during daylight hours. But he'd pushed all the way across the country, his own private demons nipping at his heels, and he hadn't wanted to stop a mere hour short of his goal.

Don't think, keep moving. That had been his motto for far too long.

Leaning forward, he kept one hand clamped to the steering wheel while he held down the Scan button on the radio. He'd heard nothing but static since he left Portland—grating white noise that blended with the gray mist enshrouding the truck. And right about now, when it was easy to sink into the darkest corners of his mind, he could use a bit of human contact.

Surely he could find some local station. People lived out here, didn't they? A voice coming out of the night—any voice at all—would suffice. He'd take whiny, brassy, or slick and salesy—he really didn't give a damn. They could entice him to buy worthless products—at this point it would be a comfort. Hell, he wasn't even averse to listening to a prayer or two—

"If my grandmother were alive, she'd tell you I've never had much use for men who covet money and power."

The smoky voice flooded the dark interior of the truck, muting the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement. Mac froze, the tip of his index finger a hairbreadth away from the radio button.

With a throaty, contralto laugh, the woman continued. " Actually, my grandmother would tell you I haven't had much use for men lately, period . But that's not up for discussion this evening, fellas, so don't head for the phones, trying to change my mind."

Mac snorted. There wasn't a man alive who could resist that challenge. The call lines had to be lighting up. His Boston S.W.A.T. buddies already would've had their laptops open, attempting to triangulate off the radio signal.

"When I was eight, my grandmother told me a story that has stuck in my head even to this day. It's the well-known Northwest legend of how Coyote stole Fire, but I think you'll agree with me when I say that's not what it's really all about…"

What the hell?

"You see, there was a time when people were always cold and hungry. Fire, which could have kept them warm and fed burned high up on a mountaintop, jealously guarded by three greedy men. Those men weren't about to let anyone steal Fire, because then everyone could be as powerful as they.

"But Coyote wanted all men, women, and children to have Fire. So Coyote crept up that mountain to watch and to wait for his chance."

Mac stared at the radio console, intrigued.

"At dawn the next morning, the man on guard stood and went into his tent, leaving Fire momentarily unattended. Lightning quick, Coyote seized Fire and leapt down the mountainside.