Chapter 2

Copyright 2002 by Elizabeth Delayne



The heat of summer raged under the California sun, even as a dark cloud gathered far in the distance. It lifted the waves, bringing out the surfers, the daredevils. Derek stood on the deck of the station and watched.

His new uniform consisted of khaki shorts and a white polo embroidered with the station’s insignia, tennis shoes and sun screen. His gun was strapped to his belt, but he hadn’t felt the old tension from knowing he would need to use it eventually. It was a different life then the one he’d left behind.

Though he watched the crowded beach, it was not his primary reason for standing in the sun. He had taken a break from the paper work and phone calls. Mitch had told him he would be out surfing.

Amy would be with him.

“You should see her, man. She can handle the waves. And it looks to be quite a ride with the storms moving in.”

Derek had looked up from the paper work that never seemed to clear from his desk. “Is there anything she can’t do?”

Mitch laughed. "Get out of college."

"She's moving on to what? Twenty-four? There must be a reason."

"She has no clue what she wants. She's majoring in finance and business, to please her dad, even when she says she doesn't want to please him, and she's majoring in criminal justice to please Ham. She’s taken education and psychology courses, music classes and a lot of physical ed. When it's all said and done, she'll probably open up a surf shop on the beach front. She’ll set her own hours and surf whenever she wants. She's always had money, and she hates it."

Many lifeguards surfed—Derek included—neither as much as he wanted nor as much as he had in the past. There was no better way to understand the ocean than to ride it, to feel the power of the ocean under you.

Amy was, he’d discovered during his own evaluations the last month, a phenomenal swimmer, handling the water as if she’d learned to walk in it.

Headed for the Olympics—Ham had said.

During the first few weeks knowing her, Derek had assumed a great deal. She seemed neither to like authority nor help from other people; goal oriented—like a robot with a single route.

Lifeless.

He had been wrong. There was a passion in her, he had learned, which thrived wherever she went. It wasn’t just confidence. While she was strong and committed, while at times overconfident, she was also uncertain—and the passion made both a little slippery.

He had begun to see the more passionate side of Amy when he started attending Mitch’s church, now his own. It was also Amy’s.

Around the people at church, who nurtured and loved her so easily, she returned the affection. She loved life. She threw herself into worship. No one questioned her right to be there, worshiping, growing. She held up no defenses.

Unless, he thought, she knew he was nearby.

He saw the flash of red, a slim board with Ephesians 3:18 printed in bold gold letters. Mitch had said it would be easy to spot. The lifeguards had pitched in to get it for Amy.

“Captain Johnson.”

Derek turned, alert, at the use of his formal name. Few on the lifeguard staff used it. He accepted the phone from the on-staff police officer, a rookie, who dressed in a starched city uniform. His job was patrol and dispatch.

He placed the phone to his ear and scanned the crowded beach. Amy had moved into the water.

“This is Johnson.”



Derek climbed out of the red patrol vehicle, equipped with emergency lights, towing equipment and emergency rescue rafts with portable motors. He looked around, aware that eyes from the gathered crowd were on him. He waded through the crowd of onlookers.

The police tape was easy to spot. The pier was empty, unusual even for this time of the morning, the people held back with crime scene caution tape. A handful of fishermen and vendors normally lined the edge. Within an hour it would be crowded, a popular hangout for people of all ages.

“Lieutenant Johnson.”

The woman who addressed him was wearing a light summer suit of plain gray. Her hair was pulled back severely, her face unpainted, her eyes sharp.

She held out her hand, her shake firm, “Detective Miller. Detective Gillespy is in there.”

She nodded toward the center of the crime scene and he spotted the balding man stooped over the covered body.

When she turned to move in, Derek fell into step beside her. She pulled out a small notepad and flipped it open.

“Victim was found under the pier, tied or tangled in rope—we are unsure as of yet. The call came from a fisherman, a regular—your lifeguards knew him. Vester Lee. Cause of death—blow to the head, drowning. Marks are located in different areas of the body. We’ll know more after an autopsy.”

Detective Miller lifted the yellow police tape and dipped under. Derek followed.

“We are currently treating this as a homicide, but it is likely she fell off the pier, hit her head and the waves did the rest.”

Derek looked down the pier, deserted except for the police. Waves crashed against the stocks. A loan sea gull waddled across the edges before teetering into flight.

It would have been this lonely in the night. Dark.

A woman had lost her life here last night.

“Do we have an I.D. on the victim?” Derek asked.

“Maureen Childs. Know her?”

“No.”

Detective Miller only nodded. “You haven’t been around long. She was a good woman—aggressive, confidant, and … a steamroller in the business world. But good. We all knew her.”

She looked around, drew in a deep breath and let it out quickly. “We’ll have divers down within the hour. I need information on the tide patterns.”

Derek nodded. “I’ll tell you what I know, but should can tag Mitch Davis. He’s down by the station.”



“You okay?” Amy called out as she splashed, coming out of the water to the shore. Like so many others they had been surfing for a good part of the morning, taking advantage of the waves.

Mitch was holding his arm so he could take a look at the gash on his elbow. “Just banged it up a little. Stings though—quit laughing.”

Amy brushed at the cut with her wet hands and looked at it. “You may need a Band-Aid. Nothing serious,” she laughed again. “That was awesome. Olympic caliber backward somersault off the surfboard.”

“Where’s your board?”

“Aleena’s got it. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She reached up, stretched out her arms and laughed. She felt good, the sun on her back, her muscles good and sore. There was nothing like the waves that came from a good storm.

Besides, she had spent a good part of the morning with Ham, loosing several games of chess to him. He was defiantly getting better.

“Are we done for the day?”

“I am. I don’t think I could do anything more then get out there and go down hill from where I just landed, but if you want a few more runs, I’ll go in, wash this off and come back for you.”

“I’d like to go check next week’s schedule anyway,” Amy said, taking her board when Aleena brought it up to her.

“Afraid you’ve been assigned to the Junior Lifeguards again?”

Amy laughed. “Andrea promised she took me off the list this time.”

“You know those kids idolize you,” Mitch said as they gathered their gear.

Amy slung her bag over her shoulder. “They shouldn’t. I told Andrea to make me out to be a sloth and to encourage them to beat my records.”

“You could encourage them to beat the odds,” Mitch pointed out, then let it drop. “You going to make it to Kuzkos tonight?”

“I had planned on it,” Amy said, lifting her board as Mitch matched her pace, carrying his own golden board toward the station. Kuzkos was the local hangout for the locals, lifeguards and college kids.

“Good. I think I haven’t seen as much of you lately as you would like.”

“Me? You see more of me then I see of anyone. We’re both here everyday.”

“Yeah, but you’ve hung out a little less. Lately.”

“I’m here now. We’re together.”

“Mmm.”

Amy hurried up the wooden steps to the deck after him. “Stop it with the mmmm stuff. Just say it.”

“You’re giving the new Captain bad vibes. I’m not sure if it’s just him you’re afraid of or what happened with Carl you’re ashamed of.”

“Why would that matter? It's been over a month."

"I don't know. You tell me."

"I made some first impression,” Amy stopped, frowned as her mind immediately went back to that night. She would never forget it. Even though so much of it was just light and sound, a kaleidoscope of images, she would never forget the horror of seeing three people die—being there, being part of it, made her just as guilty.

And a town, her town, did not want to forgive.

She thought of Jenny and of Andrea. She thought of Matt and of Mitch. She thought of her dad.

“You don’t have to be ashamed anymore. Christ redeemed you from that.”

“But it’s still there.”

“And God can use it—you should let Him. You know He walked through the fire with you. You know Him now,” Mitch promised and opened the door.

“Amy—”

“What?” she turned around and he smiled.

“You don’t have to be afraid of Derek watching out for you.”

She did, she thought, when watching out for her meant he was learning about her. People were still willing, more than willing, to talk, to be vicious....

In any case, Derek knew too much about her already, no matter what other people would tell him. It was so lopsided. Which was why, Amy thought as she headed back into the locker room herself, she was afraid of him.

Reaching the locker room, she shoved the door open and went inside.



Derek was walking in the door from the garage when Amy came back out, feeling calmer after a cool shower and a half hour in prayer. He was with Detective Miller of homicide—Anna, one of her dad's on again off again friends. She’d known her mom, had grown up in the same rough neighborhood as her dad. Amy feared few in the department as much as she did Anna.

Anna had the eyes of a cop, with knowledge of the streets and determination to beat the odds. One might think she would blend in to the crowds because of the drab clothes she habitually wore, but her wardrobe only made her stand out as a harsh and cold.

“Where’s Mitch?” Derek asked. He seemed distant—a street cop instead of beach patrol.

“He headed toward the locker room when we came in. That was,” she glanced across the room at the clock over Mitch’s desk, “about thirty minutes ago.”

Derek walked passed and left Amy with the Detective. Amy took a step back.

“Staying out of trouble?”

Amy stopped and met Anna’s gaze—still as hard and punishing as ever. “I haven’t done anything illegal since the last time you checked in.”

“How’s school?”

It’s not high school—the words trembled to get out, but Amy bit them back. “Fine.”

Anna nodded, slipping her hands in her pockets, toying with her keys, “Your dad?”

The question wasn’t asked naturally. Amy studied the detective, remembered the years of being in her presence, of hiding from her presence, of disappointing her ... and knowing that Anna could have told her about here mom, when she was ready. Anna could have told her a lot of things.

She thought of her mom, felt the surge of grief, then thought of her dad and felt the anger.

“My father’s fine,” she said simply, pushing the memories and questions away.

“Good,” Anna said, her lips pressed in a thin line. “I heard you were in a traffic accident.”

“I wasn’t at fault,” Amy said on a surge of panic. “And I’m not a suspect for you to question at random.”

“I was inquiring—”

“Amy’s record is clear.”

Both women turned and looked at Captain Johnson flanked by Mitch. Right now was not the time for verbal sparring with the homicide cop. Mitch was no longer a lifeguard on his day off.

A chill skulked down her arms.



Kuzcos was the hangout for young; the skaters, the surfers, and in the winter, the snowboarders who were ready to head into the mountains. It was a place for those who grew up with the passion to be the cops and the lifeguards.

A place with an edge … but with a safe place, as it's owner had walked on the darkest side and chosen a better life.

The aged oak doors were rarely opened by tourists. Years ago it had been a Chinese restaurant and the oriental carved doors remained. It was kept dark, save a few bright lava lamps and the colored lights that beamed from corners. Showers of beads rained in archways and loud rock music—mostly live—thumping against the walls. The tables were different geometric shapes and sizes, painted in bright reds and golds and blues.

Amy walked in, the beads she parted trickled together. Andrea and Chloe were seated at a red rhombus-like table, each with a Kuzcos specialty. Chloe had the Dancing Mahoney—a sandwich piled with cheese, peppers and a spicy tomato sauce, while Andrea had a simple and healthy tuna club.

“You’re late,” Andrea said as Amy stole a pickle.

“What happened to your lip?”

“Boy, you two know how to great each other,” Chloe said as she reached for her drink. There was strain around her eyes that worried Amy, but she pushed it aside. Rarely did Chloe hide anything from her.

They had been through the fire and heat before.

Amy dropped down beside her, signaling to the cashier who knew what she would eat without taking an order—a monster sandwich, piled with vegetables and cheese and grilled to a warm toast.

“You don’t want to know anyway,” Chloe said. “It has to do with the Junior Lifeguards.”

Amy looked at Andrea, eyebrows lifted. “The Junior Lifeguards busted your lip? Did they gang up on you and throw you into the ocean this year?”

They had never ganged up on Andrea. The Junior Lifeguards, like subjects who trusted their beloved princess, adored Andrea. She was good with the kids, teaching water safety and conditioning, preparing them for the stalwart competitions. Amy had been a Junior Lifeguard herself, and knowing as much preferred to leave the job to the more patient of her coworkers.

“They were practicing with the fins this morning. One of the boys was having trouble and I—well, to shorten the story, I took the heel of his foot to my lip,” she ran a manicured finger over it gingerly. How she kept her hands manicured, Amy did not know. “Where have you been?”

“Mitch got detained at the station. He went into Johnson’s office and they talked forever, then he came out and handed me his keys,” she held up the set that dangled from a leather band. “He let me drive Buster.”

Chloe snorted. “Buster’s a lemon. No wonder you were late.”

The olive green convertible was Mitch’s dream—well, would be when he finally finished it. He tinkered endlessly on the engine, used beach towels to cover the upholstery, and usually drove his motorcycle when he was going to work so that he was on time.

And, if she ignored the springs sticking to her from the seats, or the rust on the exterior, she could close her eyes and pretend she was driving her mom’s car.

“Buster’s cool—and will someday look fresh as a baby. Besides—that’s not the point. Johnson and Detective Miller asked Mitch to stay. The chief came in right as I was leaving. Something big happened last night. There’s police tape at the pier.”

“A woman was found this morning,” at Amy’s look, Chloe shrugged. “Some of us watch T.V. instead of living at the beach.”

“I have yet to see how you can watch T.V. on a 10 inch television that doesn’t have a horizontal hold.”

“I crashed this afternoon at Stephen’s. He has better air-conditioning.”

“Chloe—” Amy shook her head. “I thought you broke up with Stephen because he was cheating on you.”

“He has superior television, okay? I didn't say we were dating again, I just said that I borrowed his TV.”

Amy only rolled her eyes. It took work not to bear down on Chloe—even today when she looked tired. She was a new Christian, coming from years of moving in circles Amy had left behind long ago. “What did they say? The news, not cartoons.”

“Hardy-har-har-har,” Chloe wrinkled her nose. “From all accounts they think someone went for a late night swim, diving off the pier like they are in some movie. Probably a tourist without an ounce of sense.”

“They’d have to be,” Andrea put in after taking a sip from her soda. “The pier isn’t well lit. It’s not a place you go at night.”

“Unless you don’t have a choice.”

An imaged flashed, dark and gritty and she was out on the back road and Jenny was there, pale and lifeless.

Jenny.

Andrea grabbed onto her hand and drew Amy’s eyes back up to hers. There was the connection, the love, and still the forgiveness.

“On other news, you should see the two hunks who moved in across the hall from us today,” Chloe said casually.

“I thought you swore off men for five years,” Amy asked.

“Not completely. Just some. And looking is not buying. I'm going to go see if I can bribe Danny out of another bowl of pretzels.”

"Get me a water," Andrea called and held a hand slightly off the table until Chloe disappeared into the crowd.

"She crashed at Steven's because she was hiding," Andrea said.

Amy leaned closer, "From whom?"

It would be just like Chloe to hide from friend as her foe. Sometimes she just got tired of people. Amy understood that. She also knew the reasons.

"She saw Benny."

"She went to the jail?"

"No. He's out. Mom told me this morning. Warned me. She said Chloe was real tense about it."

Amy closed her eyes. She'd been so caught up in herself that she had not noticed. "How long has she known?"

"The parole hearing was last week. So before that someone had called her. The only reason she went in to talk to mom is because mom called her."

Amy glanced across the sparks of color and blasts of music. Chloe was smiling. There had been a time in her life when that smile was lost.



There was a storm brewing over the ocean. Lightening flashed over the ocean and rain poured, moving toward land.

Derek watched the tide come in, the waves crashing against the shore until Mitch turned the borrowed cruiser off of Beach Front Avenue. Derek had run into work today, and Mitch had given his car to Amy.

Derek closed his eyes and let Mitch drive. He pressed a hand to where a headache was forming between his brows.

“You mind if we stop for a minute? From the looks of it Amy’s still here.”

Derek opened his eyes at Mitch’s tone—quiet, serious. He glanced over and looked at the bright orange letters of Kuzcos. Despite the rain that would soon be on top of them and the noise he knew to be inside, he thought of the food and made a decision.

“Why not? We might as well get something to eat.”

Mitch parked next to his car. Derek took a moment to look it over, shaking his head.

“What?” Mitch asked when he came around the hood.

“You’ve got work to do.”

“You know the saying. The harder you work for it, the more you’ll appreciate it. Grab me a Overload, will you?” he said and tossed Derek his wallet. The Overload was a pound of cheeseburger, fully loaded, almost as thick as a head of lettuce.

The rock music pumped through the building as Mitch swung open the front oak doors. Derek worked to balance the headache with the music. He nodded toward the takeout line, not trusting his voice to be heard over the guitar rift, and watched Mitch go to Amy.

The colored lights played across her face as she sat at the rhombus shaped table with her elbows on top, holding a drink cup loosely in her hands. Half of a Monster sandwich, her favorite, sat on the paper plate in front of her. She never seemed to finish anything in one sitting.

She laughed at something her roommate said—more open than she ever was when she was aware of his presence. She resented him, he knew, and prayed God would open up the door she kept so tightly closed.

He had started attending church with Mitch, where she was active, and he knew she felt as if he was invading her space. She spent little time in the lobby at work with her friends, never stepped in the office to talk, and sat in staff meetings never meeting his eyes—unless it was hard, straight on, unwavering.

She listened though. She walked on eggshells to make sure she did everything the way he wanted it. Not because she wanted to please him, he was sure, but most likely because she didn’t want to have to talk to him.

He looked at Chloe, her sly, witty roommate, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and dimples. It was impossible not to notice her. Chloe saw Mitch first and invited him to sit down with an animated gesture.

Mitch shook his head. Instead, he put a hand to Amy’s back and leaned down to whisper in her ear. Without question—so much trust—she pushed away from the table and followed him to the dark corner.

Derek gave his order and turned to lean against the counter as he waited. He could barely see them now, hidden in the shadows. Moments later she walked back to the table, grabbed Mitch’s keys and left.

Mitch stopped by and talked to Andrea and Chloe. Whatever he said made them want to go after her, but they stayed, casting worried glances to the door. Mitch grabbed Andrea’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and met Chloe’s gaze across the table. He lingered there, assuring, searching—Derek wasn’t sure.

By the time Mitch caught up with Derek he was paying for the food.

“Bad news?” he asked.

Mitch looked toward the door and waited until they were alone. “The woman who was killed—Maureen Childs. She was close to Amy’s dad.”

“A suspect?”

“No—at least—no,” he said firmly. “They dated for a couple of years and have remained friends for the last few, but she’s dated around more seriously since. I didn’t want Amy to find out after the fact. She will want to be with her dad.”

“Should I say something about privileged information?” Derek asked, handing Mitch his wallet as they headed out the door with the takeout sacks.

Stepping outside, Mitch met Derek’s eyes, his look unrepentant. “My guess is that her dad already knows. Anna would have called him. And it will be out soon anyway. Amy keeps a promise. She’s loyal.”

“You just have to earn it,” Derek muttered under his breath.

Mitch smiled. “Yeah, but you know the saying. The harder you work for it—”

“The more you’ll appreciate it,” Derek finished as he opened the door to the police cruiser.

Mitch only shrugged and dropped into the driver’s seat. “She’ll come around.”



Amy sat on the edge of the pool and watched the porch light glisten over the pool. It was beginning to sprinkle, causing a cascade of tiny ripples across the pool. Soon, the storm would be right on top of them.

But for now it was eerily quiet.

Her dad sat behind her, smoking a Cuban cigar, grieving in silence that seemed as hard as granite. He’d been doing nothing more when she’d arrived. He sat so still, his breath even, his eyes unmoving. He had barely acknowledged her presence.

God, help me reach him.

But she had no comfort; no peace and no words came to mind. Her father would not accept her own love or sorrow. He had slipped so far from the man she had known. He used and cast women aside. He'd used her friends.

Some things were harder to forgive, she thought, wondering if he ever wondered if he needed forgiveness. Ham thought he might.

So she sat and prayed.

It had been like this when her mother and Ryan died, except she had not sat with him. Sometimes he had watched clips of his old games, over and over, sitting in his easy chair with all the lights off. She had never understood why—it was not a place he would relive his time with her mother or Ryan.

She’d found her own comfort then in … behavior … fast cars and the boys that noticed her.

He would make sure she attended school, check on her grades, and state a curfew for the nights. He never checked to make sure she was abiding by it. She rarely had.

He noticed her when she went to jail.

God please, reach him. Help me reach him.

Finally her father stood and pushed the cigar in the ashtray to the side of his chair.

“Dad—” Amy said as he started to turn away. He stopped and looked at her, his face blank.

“I’m sorry.”

HEY! and don't forget to e-mail me if you have a comment!







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