cubes of safety glass that rocketed the width of the vehicle. His mind took him right back to Afghanistan, the moment when he had driven in the armored vehicle they affectionately nicknamed Nellie to assist a badly wounded soldier who could not be extracted from his Humvee quickly enough.
He remembered the rocket-propelled grenade that struck the road twenty feet from their transport, shaking the ground worse than any earthquake the California boy had ever experienced. A haze of dust, shouts of confusion, the intensity of the gunny who took charge and got his men to safety before they returned fire. Running boots, the punch of bullets into the ground, the groan of a shell-shocked man he finally realized was himself. The incredible courage he’d been honored to witness in the men and women he served, the realization that life was as delicate as a spring flower and as tenacious as a bulldog.
He’d learned not to try and shut out the memories, but to let them come, experience the pain again and extract himself from it. He did so now, as the glass settled all around him. Then he uncurled himself and continued on to the rear windshield, where there were helping hands, Good Samaritans braving the smoke, to assist him out and away.
Coughing, shaking the bits of glass from his hair, he saw that the ambulance had arrived and paramedics were working on Lila. A heavyset police officer had pushed the crowd back; another was talking into the radio and taking statements. He twisted around, blinking against the smoke that stung his eyes. Where was Angela?
A stocky cop approached, a smudge of black on his tanned face. “I’m Lieutenant Torrey. Do you need medical attention?”
“No. I’m looking for someone. There was a woman here, with Lila.”
“Lila?”
“Lila Brown, the lady trapped in the car. I need to find the woman who was with her.”
The kid with the goatee pointed toward the cliff. “She ran. That way. We tried to stop her, but she looked wild, you know?”
He thanked them. “I’ll be back,” he said to the cop.
The officer’s thick brows drew together. “This is a crime scene and I need to talk to you. I’ll send an officer to find your friend.”
“No,” Dan said. “I’m going to find her now.”
“I need you here.” There was a warning in the tone.
He had no patience for questions. Not then. “My name is Dr. Daniel Blackwater. I live just up the beach. Here’s my cell phone and wallet so you know I will return. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.” He strode away, feeling the officer’s gaze burning into him, hearing a muttered oath behind him.
She looked wild, you know?
He did. He’d seen the seeds of that look when he’d not been able to save Julio Guzman, and he suspected her departure from Afghanistan had not been the end of it. In spite of some soreness along his belly from the glass that had cut through his shirt and into his skin, he moved through the crowd and jogged again to the beach.
The sun sank below the horizon just as he made it to the stairs, leaving him blinking to adjust to the meager light. The fog didn’t help. Everything was gray shadows and glittering sea. He moved down to the sand, calling softly.
“Angela? It’s Dan Blackwater.”
The only answer was the waves scouring the shore. A distant boat motored by, heading to tie up at the nearby marina for the evening.
“Angela?” he said again.
He must have sensed her rather than noted any sound. She sat, curled into a ball, knees drawn up under her chin, hands clasped together.
She didn’t look up when he drew closer, so he stopped a few yards away and crouched down, making himself as small and nonthreatening as a six-four, soot-covered guy could be.
“Hey,” he said.
She stiffened but did not look up. He could see only a glimpse of a tearstained face, hollow eyes that bored right into him down to a tender place he hadn’t known was there. “Lila’s on her way to the hospital, pulse is strong, looks like minor burns at this point. Breathing on her own. All good signs.”
He heard a sniff. He moved closer until he could see the tight grip of her hands, the tension in her neck and shoulders, the slight trembling.
“The explosion was frightening,” he said.
Sounds of crying. Slowly, very slowly, he touched her hand. “Hey. Why don’t we talk? This stuff is hard, I know. It will help you to talk.”
Her head jerked up then. “I don’t need to talk. And you don’t know anything about me.”
He smiled. “Actually, I do. We were in the same place together, remember? A place that very few people in Cobalt Cove can conceive of, unless they served there, too.”
She chewed her lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I didn’t, either, but you’ve got to get help.”
“I am the help,” she snapped.
He got it then. “Oh. Because you’re a chaplain, you’re supposed to be the expert, the one who comforts others.”
She didn’t answer. When she looked out over the water, there was only despair on that lovely face, the look of someone who had been left behind, without hope of rescue.
“Angela,” he started.
She waved a hand. “I’m sorry. The explosion and the fire. It got to me. It was silly to run. I’m sure the police want to talk to me.”
“As a matter of fact, they do. I’ll walk you back.”
“Thank you, but I can find my way.”
“Oh, they need to talk to me, too. I left at an inopportune moment.” He gestured to the top of the stairs, where the silhouette of two approaching cops stood out against the dusky sky. “Torrey’s steamed. Cops don’t like it when you keep them waiting.”
“Why did you then?”
“I wanted to find you.”
She scrubbed the tears from her face with her sleeve. “No prize here.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Offering a hand, he helped her stand. “Why did you come here to Cobalt Cove? Why were you talking to Lila?”
She hesitated. “I was looking for someone, and I heard Lila speaking to him on the phone.”
“Who?”
There was a long pause. He guessed she was weighing whether or not to trust him.
“Tank Guzman,” she said finally.
He raised an eyebrow. “Then I guess you accomplished your mission.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy who helped out with the fire extinguisher.”
She stared at him.
“That was Tank Guzman.”
Angela tried her best to focus on the questions being fired at her by Lieutenant Torrey. At Dan’s insistence they had moved inside, to a table in the back room of the Grotto, a hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant complete with a rowboat suspended on the wall and crab traps piled in the corner. The smell of cooking fish made her queasy.
“Why?” Torrey said again. She realized she hadn’t heard the question.
“I’m sorry?”
“Why were you looking for Tank Guzman?” Dan supplied.
The lieutenant’s wide chin went up. “Stay out of it, Dr. Blackwater.”