Still Waters: The Island / Below the Surface

But there was the other business, as well. And that kept him thinking, curious—and determined to find out everything he could about their fellow campers.

Clenching his teeth, he reminded himself that it was no surprise that tourists had come to Calliope Key for the weekend. But he couldn’t allow anger to waylay him, nor could he allow himself any emotional involvement. All he could do was seek justice now. And put an end to it all.

Beth Anderson was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

Keith swore softly in the night.

Then he spun, instantly alert at the smallest sound.

Matt, stretching, looking as if his joints ached and he wasn’t ready to pull a shift on guard duty, eyed him cautiously.

“Quite a conversation,” Matt said.

“I couldn’t exactly force her to go back to bed,” Keith reminded him.

“She’s something, huh?” Matt said, and grinned. Then the grin faded and he shook his head. “It’s dangerous. I wouldn’t want her to wind up...hurt.”

“She won’t,” Keith snapped out.

“If she—”

“She won’t,” he repeated.

“Hell of a story you told the other night,” Matt said, sounding somewhat sharp, as if the words were an accusation.

“It’s a well-known legend.”

“Did you tell it on purpose?”

Keith shrugged. “Why not? Throw it out there.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Matt shrugged, looking out to sea—and the yacht. “Nothing?” he inquired.

“All’s quiet.”

Matt nodded. “Actually, what else could we expect?”

“Nothing,” Keith murmured. He looked at Matt. Neither one of them felt at ease.

“Well, I’m up. You can catch a few winks.”

“Yup.”

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” Matt asked.

“I’m damn well going to try.”

“Don’t worry. I know it isn’t your lack of faith in me. It’s just your nature.”

“Trust me. I’m going to try to sleep.”

“That’s right. You’ve got a date in the morning, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You have to show Beth Anderson the yacht.”

“Oh. Right.”

Great, just great. His entire conversation had been overheard.

“It will be fine. It’s Sunday at last. The working world will return to work,” Matt said. “And we’ll have the place to ourselves again.”

Keith murmured a disjointed, “Not exactly.”

“I don’t blame you, by the way,” Matt went on.

“Blame me for what?” Keith said.

“If Beth Anderson had looked at me with so much as a slightly interested smile, well... I’d forget everything, too.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Keith said.

He left Matt by the palm and returned to his tent.

But Matt had been right.

He lay awake. And listened.

He couldn’t help remembering a picture that was as vivid in his mind’s eye as if he were back at the morgue again, staring down at Brandon Emery’s face. He’d been so young. Twenty-four and so damn good at everything he did. One of the brightest newcomers, filled with all the right stuff, as they said.

Too damn good. He shouldn’t have been out alone. Especially when he had seen something, known something. And he had known something. Keith could still recall the last email he’d gotten from Brandon, word for word.

I think I’ve got it. Honest to God, you’re not going to believe it. I’m going to check it out, and I’ll let you know next time I write.

But there had been no next time.

No next time for Brandon.

Keith had never heard from him again. Not until he had been called to see the body. What had seemed like a fairly easy—even run-of-the-mill—venture had turned deadly, and the image of Brandon Emery in the morgue was one that would never leave his mind.

His body had floated up near Islamorada. His boat had been found drifting a few miles farther north. But he hadn’t been anywhere near Islamorada when he had e-mailed.

He’d been here, working off Calliope Key.

And no matter what anyone said, he hadn’t simply drowned.

He sat up in a sweat. Swore.