Terror Stash Read online

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Patrick frowned. “Somewhere around here. Bought it last week in Marg’s. Hey, am I in trouble for somethin’?”

  “Only with your neighbors.” Steve adjusted his hat. “Just don’t turn the music on again, okay?”

  “Yessir.”

  Patrick escorted them to the front door, the obliging host, shoveling spoonfuls of the cereal into his mouth as he went. Milky drops trailed after him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Neither did the sleeping bodies on the floor.

  When they reached the car, Chris chucked his hat onto the back seat and leaned his arm against the roof, sniffing the air. “Fresh!” he said, pleased.

  The radio buzzed. “Scarborough, y’there?” It was Borelli, at the station. Steve pulled the handset out of its holder. “Yeah, here.”

  “You still in Yallingup?”

  “Yeah, just finished dealing with the neighbor complaint.”

  “Anything?”

  “A never-ending stag party. It’s shut down now. Something up?”

  “Just got a call from the local emergency coordinator. There’s been a call from The Bommie. You’re closest.”

  Chris started the car and shut his door.

  “We’re leaving now,” Steve assured Borelli. “Ten minutes, tops.”

  “Five,” Chris murmured and peeled away from the curb, the tires spitting blue metal chips.

  When Steve stared at him, Chris shrugged self-consciously. “Someone’s in trouble, right?”

  “True.”

  Chris kept his eyes on the road, concentrating on driving. But after a minute he glanced at Steve quickly. “The Bommie. Isn’t that where your beach-bum girlfriend hangs out?”

  Steve sighed. “Just drive, will ya?”

  Chapter Four

  Montana sat on her board, her legs suddenly shaky now she was safe, and let the adrenaline take her. She hung her head, breathing deep, pulling in oxygen.

  A hand rested briefly on her shoulder. Squeezed. Then it was gone.

  She lifted her head. One of the Australian guys, a short, mouthy redhead...Bruce, that was his name. He stood with his hands on his hips, resting on the waistband of his long board shorts. “Slick trick, Yankee lady. Gutsy move.”

  She nodded. She had no intention of speaking because the adrenaline would either make her voice shake, or make her cry. She didn’t want to do either in front of him.

  He smiled at her. “I think they’ll wanna chuck a party for what you did. You’ll come, right? Greg’ll wanna buy you a drink at the least.”

  Montana hid her surprise. They were asking her? “Sure, that’d be great,” she told him, deliberately using the phrasing and inflections that Bruce himself might have used. She didn’t ape the accent, though, because everyone here knew she was American. The words emerged without a quiver, to her relief.

  He smiled, pleased. “Great. Tonight at the Pink Galah. ‘Kay?”

  She nodded.

  Bruce gave her a tiny wave goodbye and tramped back up the beach to where the rest of the group stood about, discussing Greg’s close call. A few of them standing around in the group also lifted their hands, acknowledging her. Some smiled. But they left her alone because over the last five years she had carved that niche for herself—the woman who liked to be left alone.

  While she knew she could never be one of them, they didn’t know that. She had acceptance from them. Now, even, respect. They tolerated the idiosyncrasies of the dozens of different nationalities and peoples that found their way to this particular surfer’s paradise, so they tolerated Montana’s quirks and habits. She was one of them, in their eyes.

  Montana unzipped her wetsuit as she walked up the beach. Already, at ten in the morning, it was dazzlingly hot. Five summers in Australia and she still hadn’t properly acclimatized to the torrid blast of a ‘mild’ December day.

  She pushed through the sand to where the group of surfers were dissecting Greg’s venture.

  Casual glances, brief smiles. A wave of a hand to scare away a fly. The conversation went on, but with miniscule, restless little movements, the group split open and reformed with her as part of it. She had been included as gently as that. She waited for the opening she needed to ask the question that was burned into her brain cells.

  “Hey, remember that big, freaky guy that comes around every couple of years?” someone asked. Montana couldn’t see the speaker. “The American with the funny accent.”

  “The one that took on the cops a couple of years ago?” Bruce swatted at a sand fly on his ankle with a flat slap of his hand. “What happened to him?”

  The South African—Montana could never remember his name—rubbed the ball of his thumb over his bottom lip thoughtfully. “He’s bad news.”

  Montana thought that a remarkable statement coming from someone that the other surfers tended to walk around stiff-legged, to avoid stirring his temper.

  “Yeah, real bad news,” someone agreed. “Glad the cops took him away.”

  “He’s back.” This from the one other woman standing in the circle. Someone’s girlfriend, in a light cotton top and short skirt. Montana had never seen her around here before.

  “No way!” Bruce declared. “Here in Marg’s?”

  “I saw him on the main drag in Yallingup this morning,” she confirmed. “He was talking to the friend of Argio, you know, the guy from Argentina that went to hospital last week?”

  “Hey, cops,” came a low, contained exclamation. Everyone looked toward the car park, wariness dropping around them like a shield.

  * * * * *

  The cleared and graveled area that was used as a car park was elevated thirty feet above the beach proper. Steve could see the double handful of surfers grouped in a ragged circle, close to the salt bushes that delineated the back of the beach, talking hard.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for surfers?” Chris asked, getting out and putting on his cap.

  “Surf’s up.” Steve nodded towards the thunderous waves. “About twenty-five foot, by the look of it. Even with the cross wind.” He grinned. “Gnarly, mate. Very gnarly.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “You’ve lived in Margaret’s way too long.”

  “Probably,” Steve agreed. He studied the loose circle of surfers again. They had shuffled a bit closer together and there were several glances towards the car. “Whatever the emergency was, I think we missed it.”

  “So let’s leave them to it,” Chris suggested.

  Steve considered it. Shook his head. “Let’s find out what caused them to call it in. We’ve been spotted, anyway. Might as well put them out of their misery.”

  “Why bother?” Chris was the type of officer who preferred to sow discomfort and a touch of fear where he could. He believed it helped him keep control.

  It would take too long to explain why he thought that was a bad idea, so Steve put on his hat and headed for the sandy trail through the saltbushes down to the beach itself.

  At their approach, the surfers all turned to face them, the conversation halting completely. They were a guarded bunch at the best of times, so the defensive postures and stony faces didn’t dismay him. He glanced at every face there, cataloguing. It was pure habit.

  Montana Dela Vega was part of the group.

  Steve hid his shock, as he quickly took in the familiar details. Very long hair, still damp and slicked back from her face. A simple one-piece black bathing suit. Tall. About five-seven or eight. Not obviously muscular, but a toned body, all the same. He’d watched her in action before today and knew she was strong for a woman. No extra fat anywhere. A light tan because she wasn’t a permanent surfer.

  But it was the eyes that got him, every time. They were a direct, clear sea green, surrounded by a black border. Very unusual and, combined with her uncompromising stare, quite compelling. She was staring at him now.

  Montana Dela Vega. Steve rolled her name through his mind. He thought she was one of the most stunning women he’d ever met. She wasn’t beautiful in a classic way
, but she was athletically lean and moved with fascinating grace. Her skin glowed with good health.

  She had made a small reputation as a world-class, self-taught wind-surfer. Admiration amongst the hard-to-impress surfers that congregated in the area was rare, so Steve had slipped into his surfer’s identity one weekend and headed for the beach to watch the Margaret River classic. She had won easily. What had captured his attention, though, was her quiet, unassuming manner. Amongst the egos and testosterone that littered the beaches, she slipped by almost unnoticed. Only observant men saw her. They saw the odd beauty in her and were caught.

  Just as Steve had been.

  He pulled his gaze away from her before it tipped her off and nodded pleasantly at all of them. There were a couple of other women in the group, but it was mostly tanned, big-shouldered men in board shorts and the odd short-sleeved, short-legged wet suit. “Mornin’ people. Can any of you can tell me about the emergency call we just got?”

  A short man with red hair and freckles stepped forward. “Friend of ours wiped out on the reef. Cut him up pretty good, ‘specially round the head. We didn’t want to wait for the ambulance to get here, so there’s three of them driving him to the hospital in Marg’s.” He crossed his arms defensively. “We told the emergency person we’d do it that way.”

  Steve held up his hand. “It’s cool. We’re just following up, making sure everything’s okay. How did it happen?”

  “You seen the waves out there?” the small man said, jerking his head towards the surf.

  “I don’t think anyone saw his dive,” another man volunteered. He was taller than the first, with a very blond crew cut. He had a slight accent. “No one realized he was in trouble until we saw Montana trying to get to him. Then we saw his board.”

  Steve frowned, faking ignorance to hide this fresh surprise. “Montana?”

  The surfer touched Montana’s shoulder. “This lady.”

  “You were the only other surfer out there?” Steve asked carefully.

  “Windsurfing,” she amended.

  “You were the only one there?” The question came out more gruffly than normal. He was overcompensating and knew it. Better to sound like an official prick, though, than to reveal that he already knew who she was.

  “Greg was there,” she pointed out.

  “Greg?” Steve looked around the group for him.

  “The guy who wiped out,” the redhead supplied.

  “You saw him fall?” Steve asked Montana.

  “I only saw his board, at first. Then I saw him in the water and pulled him out. I got him out the back behind the breakers but he was bleeding, so instead of waiting for a rescue boat, I brought him in on the wind surfer.”

  He couldn’t help it. Her dry recitation held up against the size of the waves curling over and pounding the sand behind her provoked him into it. “You’re the hero of the day then, huh?”

  Her shock was quite genuine. The gorgeous eyes widened. “Hardly. I’m not the brave sort.”

  He jerked his chin at the waves. “There were two of you out there. You’re the only one left standing on the beach. Those waves are twenty-five feet or more.”

  She looked even more puzzled.

  The South African beside her stirred. “She’s a two-time Margaret River Classic champion.”

  His strident defense muffled her response. “Waves aren’t people,” she muttered.

  Steve would have missed her answer if he hadn’t been concentrating. He filed the odd words away for future consideration and nodded at the South African. “That explains it, then.”

  He considered her a moment more. “You’re the American?” he said. “You live in the city, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s cool, she’s legit,” the short redhead inserted. “She’s been surfing here a few years now.”

  “I know.” Steve gave him a brief smile, to calm him down. He glanced over his shoulder. Two guys were walking a piece each of a surfboard back up the beach, the ankle rope trailing through the sand behind them like a morose tail. He’d rarely seen one of the tough fiberglass boards split apart like that. “Is that his board?”

  Montana swiveled to look.

  “Oh wow, yeah,” the redhead said. He sighed. “That was his favorite, too.”

  It suddenly occurred to Steve that the surfers hadn’t all scattered away to their own concerns, removing themselves from the area of a discomforting authority figure. They were still gathered close by Montana. Like the redhead, they hovered at her elbow.

  Protecting her.

  He’d never seen them do that before. He relented, knowing that his brusque manner wasn’t helping, and dug his pad and pen out of his breast pocket. “It probably wasn’t the smartest move, going out when the swell is this high. Greg is lucky you were there.” He clicked the pen. “I’ll just get your contact information and we’ll stop bothering you for now.” He looked directly at Montana.

  Montana gave him her private address and phone number and stopped short, shifting a little on her feet.

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Work address?” he prompted gently, pen poised.

  She took a breath and glanced out of the corner of her eyes at the surfers beside her. He could almost feel her sudden caution. Then a tiny shrug, which he would have missed if he hadn’t been watching her so closely. “I work for the State Department of the United States.”

  Steve could feel the shock run through the others, even though no one gave off any sharp physical reactions.

  He hid his own surprise. “The consulate in Perth, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Phone number?”

  She gave it.

  He nodded at her. “We may not need to reach you again, but one never knows.”

  “It’s really not a problem, Officer,” she assured him, using a soothing tone which caught his attention. It was too smooth. Too diplomatic for the audience standing around them and Steve sensed from the restless little moves around her that she had surprised them all with the sudden change in demeanor and attitude. They’d never seen her in her day-job role. Here in Margaret River, she was the loner surfer girl who knew everyone by name and hung around the fringes of the surfing crowd on weekends and holidays.

  She took a deep breath and bit her lip. Then again, the tiny shrug. She looked at him squarely, equal to equal. “Have you heard how Greg is doing, Constable Scarborough?”

  Steve blinked, surprised again. He hadn’t caught her reading his badge. She pronounced his last name with three syllables, unlike most Australians who shortened it to two. “Sorry, no. Just that there’d been an accident here.” He softened the answer with an alleviating fact. “If it was a full-on alarm, they would have told us, so I think your friend is probably okay. I wouldn’t be able to tell you more even if I knew it. You understand, right?”

  “Perfectly, thank you. I appreciate you sharing that much.”

  Steve pushed his pad back into his pocket and nodded at them all one more time. Some of the defensiveness in their postures had loosened. A couple even nodded back.

  He turned and headed back for the car, Chris slogging through the sand beside him. “That was her, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly. “The wind-surfer?”

  “What about her?”

  “Your girlfriend.” Chris grinned.

  Steve sighed theatrically. “Y’know, I mentioned her—what?—once, maybe twice, nearly a year ago. When are you going to stop giving me shit about it?”

  “Never, mate. Never.”

  * * * * *

  Montana watched the two officers walk back to their cruiser. The older one kept turning his head, taking in the people accumulating on the beach. It was going to be a hot day. The beach was filling up despite the high waves and choppy crosscurrents making the water a mess for both surfers and swimmers. He was checking them out, looking for potential trouble.

  He was clearly good at his job. He could have been much more arrogant and overbearing. She closed
her eyes for a second, let the gold badge on his pocket slide back into her mind’s eye. She reread the inscription there. Cpl. S. Scarborough. She had been careful not to focus sharply on it while they’d been talking because she hadn’t wanted him to notice her attention to such a detail.

  “You really work for the American consulate?” Bruce asked.

  “I really do.” She looked at her watch. “What time’s drinks at the Pink Galah tonight?”

  “Oh, four-ish. Session times. You know.”

  She did. It was Sunday. Pubs in Western Australia only opened between four and seven-thirty on Sundays—the notorious Sunday Session when regular drinkers packed the bars, getting their quota for the day. Good pubs would lay on a decent live band, put on a wild party and sell as much alcohol in those few hours as they did all day long during the week.

  “So, we’ll see you there?” Bruce asked.

  “Sure.” Keeping it really casual, she added, “Oh and hey, do you know a guy called Stewart Connie?”

  Bruce shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You do?” She was astonished. Finally, was she about to get a break here? “You’re the only one around here that does. Is he here today? He’d have to be one the hardest guys in the world to find.”

  This time, it was Bruce that was astonished. “You’re looking for him? Stewart Connie?”

  She could feel caution flood her. “Sure. Is that a problem?” There was something going on here that she didn’t understand. Bruce’s face was normally open, good natured and as easy to read as a book but now it was like an internal shutter dropped down behind the back of his eyes.

  He shrugged. “I haven’t seen him here today, but he’s most prob’ly going to be at the pub tonight. He likes to hang out where there’s lots of folk.”

  “Like there isn’t here?” The beach had quickly filled with weekend tourists, families and casual swimmers. The surfers were filtering away. Their best hours were early and late in the day.

  Bruce was already heading for the car park, leaving her question unanswered. “Bruce?” she called.