Death on the Coast, M Comley [book club books TXT] 📗

developing stories. She’d already penned some copy and emailed it to Len, which he’d promptly acknowledged while demanding more.

Brendon left her to get on with things and checked regularly on how she was holding up.

There was a seldom used room at the back set up for the workers. Bunks, a snack area, and male and female showers came in handy for those who rode out such storms at the office rather than returning home.

Lucy grabbed a quick shower, changed her clothes to something dry and comfortable, and tried to get some sleep while the gale-force winds buffeted the wall behind her. It was a communal area; men and women sleeping in the same room, all fully dressed. One of the firemen was asleep on a distant bunk, but he snored horribly, and she couldn’t seem to get past it and fall asleep herself. Her mind was on Mark and his lack of contact.

Finally, Lucy rolled to her feet and gathered her things. She left the room and went in search of Brendon.

“I’m driving home,” she announced and turned to go.

“Lucy, it’s not safe!”

Just then, a member of the Coast Guard stationed locally burst into the room. “We’ve got a boat floundering,” he shouted. “I could use some coordination from you on the land side.”

“Got it,” Brendon responded immediately, moving away from Lucy. “You… stay put until I get back.”

He left her standing there, her mouth gaping open. Ignoring his instructions, she finished bundling up her possessions and jumped in her car. There was a story in the making, and she thought she might be able to lend a hand.

She took the time to drive by her house before she ventured down to the shore. She turned the corner, sure she’d see Mark’s car, but it wasn’t to be. The drive was empty. She swallowed hard and headed for the beach.

11

Greg Dewhurst’s blond hair was plastered wet against his unconscious head. He’d been battered by the tempest until his boat broke apart. The Coast Guard had reached him just as flotsam embedded in a massive wave caught him on the back of the head. He was out for the count and his possessions tumbled overboard like spices poured into a boiling soup. The rescuers strapped him into a hoist and brought him aboard, bundling him in blankets in their wheelhouse as they rode the gargantuan waves back toward shore.

Brendon and Lucy were among the others at the end of the rescue, who brought Dewhurst closer to the dock. The waves slammed the craft against the pilings. The rescuers on land had to form a human chain to pull him in, ensuring the Coast Guard’s craft didn’t crash into the rocks.

A short time later, Dewhurst was wheeled in through the emergency room entrance while Lucy, bedraggled, sought shelter again in the precinct. This time, she showered a second time to warm up. Exhausted, she passed out on the dry bunk and slept until morning.

Lucy awoke, stiff and confused as to where she was. Loud snores grunted around her in the dim light, and it all came flooding back to her. Pushing away the stiff, government-issue woolen blanket, she found her footing and headed toward the vague beacon of light beneath a closed door.

“Hello, sleepyhead.” Brendon came up behind her and affectionately tousled her hair. “You had quite a night. Here, have some coffee and one of Sal’s donuts,” he offered, holding out the tempting breakfast.

Lucy accepted gratefully, sliding into a metal folding chair in the command center. She sipped at her drink and asked, “How bad is it out there?”

Brendon put down some papers and looked at her. “We’re on a generator here, but the village is mostly out of power. We sent out a cruiser at first light. There are some roofs damaged, trees down, lots of debris, but thank God, no casualties. It’s still wicked out there, but it should subside in a couple of hours, then crews can get to work. Now, the Coast Guard will have different statistics, I’m sure. Even with all the warnings of this storm, some people just think they can ride it out.”

“You mean the likes of Greg Dewhurst.”

“Exactly, Greg Dewhurst. The hospital says he’s awake and salty this morning. His boat is gone, I doubt he’ll be happy about that since it was his home as well. More importantly, how are you feeling?”

Lucy shook herself out of the early morning daze and smiled. “Thanks for the coffee—it helps. I need to get back to the house, see what shape it’s in.”

Brendon tutted. “Not until it’s safe. It’s too dangerous out there, downed lines and trees are aplenty. I can’t let you go until those are cleaned up. Look, why don’t you use my office? There’s a computer in there, and you can write your stories. Of course, the internet is down, but you can save your work to a flash drive, and when the coast is clear, you can drop them off to Len.”

“That’s a very good idea, thank you, Brendon. For everything,” she replied, and they both knew what she meant.

Lucy busied herself writing stories about the storm from different angles. She was pleased to discover her phone had service, so many of her interviews were conducted over the phone. The storm had moved ahead with its punch, and it seemed that Sal’s was open and packed. Lucy got Brendon’s permission to walk over there, promising to watch for downed lines and to text him when she safely arrived.

Sal’s was, indeed, packed. She was her usual robust self, slamming baking sheets on the marble table to cool before she frosted donuts, cookies, and pastries. The room was alive with chatter as villagers exchanged the latest storm reports.

The door slammed open, and there stood Cecilia in her thigh-high rubber boots, a ball cap pulled low over her eyes. She held a pair of rubber gloves in one hand, and with the other waved it to get attention. “Who can