The Scent of Forever Page 3

  The whale lay on a basalt slab at the base of a cliff. Its fins and tail bobbed on foamy thrusts of the sea.

  “I’ll have to swim over.” Swimming was something Nigel did well, thanks to a father who demanded he excel at something. He medaled at the Marlow River swim last year, finishing the race in twenty-five minutes. This was nothing.

  Sinead shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. If we phone it in, Gordon might be able to rappel down from the cliff.”

  Screw Gordon MacGregor and his six-pack abs, always swaggering about the pubs in his stupid kilt. That asshole thought he was Scotland’s own Indiana Jones.

  “He’d have to gather up men and equipment. A quad for sure. We don’t have time for that.” Nigel manufactured a forlorn glance and cast it at the whale. “He doesn’t have time for that. I can swim over with a bucket. If he’s alive, I’ll keep him hydrated until the tide comes in, and he’ll swim off into happily ever after. If he’s dead, I’ll take some samples and swim back. At the very least, we can try to figure out what killed him.”

  “Don’t be daft, Nigel. The tide will bash ye against the cliffs.”

  He squeezed her shoulders gently and did his best to look sincere. “Sinead, this is why I signed up.” Honest, it had nothing to do with your ass. “I have to try.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “This is a bad feckin’ idea.”

  Ten minutes later, Nigel agreed with her. The problem wasn’t the ebb tide, which pushed him back two strokes for every three he made. It wasn’t the weight of the rope around his waist or the bulkiness of the lidded bucket he hauled behind him. The real problem was the rocks lurking just below the water’s surface. Although somewhat rounded by erosion, they were rough, and they abraded his shins and bruised his pelvis as he swam over them. He hadn’t anticipated the battering, and as he struggled to make headway toward the whale, he wondered if he’d have enough strength to make it back to the boat.

  He rolled onto his back to float for a moment, lamenting the loss of distance as the tide sucked him back out to sea. His lungs and thighs burned, but he couldn’t let Gordon MacFucker swoop in and steal the limelight. He had to be the hero. He wrapped his arm around the bucket and allowed its buoyancy to hold him up while he looked for Sinead.

  A glint meant she’d focused binoculars on him. He waved and rolled over to give it another go. Sinead would be uber-impressed with his stamina, he told himself, and probably estimating his prowess in the sack. He allowed the thought to sustain him as he swam. By the time he reached the shore, just west of the whale, he’d convinced himself that Sinead would seduce him later.

  He hauled himself out of the water, shed the bucket and rope, and then sat on a rock, which was still warm from a day in the sun. When his heartrate returned to normal, he smoothed back his wet hair and stood. Ten yards separated him from the whale, which he could see was dead. Of course it was, because that meant he had to cut into the stinking thing to secure a goddamn liver sample.

  Better get started.

  He hopped across a checkerboard of interlocked rocks, aiming for a strange one barren of all vegetation. After landing on it, he turned to wave at Sinead.

  For a brief moment, he felt like he’d grabbed an electric fence. Then, the world went dark.

  Chapter 5

  When Nigel came to, he was standing and facing the sea. A dying sun reflected off the cabin windows of a cruise ship on the horizon. He watched it, unable to reconcile his perplexity over something so commonplace. He noticed other ordinary things, too—a jet flying overhead, a cell tower up the coast, and post-consumer litter strewn among the rocks.

  He was supposed to be doing something, he thought.

  A white bucket undulated in the waves. It banged against rocks near a dead whale. That was it. He was supposed to check out that dead whale. There’d been a girl, a pretty girl. Yes! Sinead. He looked for her, but she was gone, along with the boat meant to retrieve him.

  Surf foamed over his feet. The tide was coming in. There was nowhere to go but up. His skin tingled. He had the overwhelming sense that he was not alone.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  He took an unsteady step toward the eroding cliff, pressing his fingers against his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pain in his head.

  Did he fall? Surely, he fell. He leaned over a tide pool, where his reflection stared back at him. Nothing bled. There were no scratches or bumps on his head, just the usual stringy black hair parted down the middle and eyes that conveyed alarm and confusion.

  “Nigel!” some far-off voice shouted.

  He spun around too quickly, closing his eyes against the ensuing dizziness.

  “Nigel, can ye hear me, lad?”

  Who is that? “Hello?” His shout worsened his migraine. He vomited into the tide pool.

  “Nigel, it’s Gordon,” a man yelled. “Up here!”

  Nigel shielded his eyes and looked skyward. In the twilight, three silhouettes stuck out from the edge of the cliff like mushrooms.

  “Stay put,” the man shouted. “I’m comin’ doon for ye.”

  A while later, the man rappelled down the cliff face with a stainless steel litter. He settled the litter on a rock, then unsnapped his harness, and trotted over with a first aid kit pressed to his chest.

  “Jesus, man, we were worried sick. Ye scared the life oot of Sinead. Ye okay?”

  Gordon, that’s his name. Gordon MacGregor.

  Nigel didn’t like him, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Gordon popped open the first aid kit, then withdrew a pen light. “Who’s the prime minister?” He lifted one of Nigel’s eyelids to shine the light in his eye.

  Nigel swatted the light out of his rescuer’s hand.

  “Easy there, mate.” Gordon retrieved the light.

  “There’s something bad here.” Nigel surveyed the cliff face. “It’s watching us.”

  “Look, mate, ye took a knock to the heed. Let’s get ye—”

  Nigel fisted the pockets of Gordon’s shirt, feeling the hard pecs they covered. “I’m telling you, there’s somebody here!”

  Gordon’s countenance softened, and his voice turned soothing. “Come on then, lad. Let’s dander on o’er to the litter and let him have this place all to himsel’. That’s it,” he said, as Nigel walked with him. “Careful. Dinnae skite on the seaweed.” He lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Command, this is—”

  Nigel squealed and pinned Gordon’s walkie-talkie to the burly man’s chest. “Turn it off, you ballocks! Turn it off!”

  “What? Why?”

  “It stings my skin.”

  “Rrright.” Gordon pocketed his radio without taking his eyes off Nigel. “It’s off. It’s off. Just lie doon there in the litter, and I’ll strap ye in. We’ll have ye up and oot of here in no time.”

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time the moon rose over Portrush, Nigel was back in street clothes and feeling better. The doctor released him with instructions to rest for a day or two.

  “I don’t know why everyone panicked. I only had a migraine,” he told Gordon, who turned his Land Rover into the parking lot of the Shamrock Motel.

  “Aye, yer arse.” Gordon grinned. “Too many pints of Guinness. Been there a time or two mysel’, lad.”

  Nigel remembered now why he hated Gordon MacGregor.

  “Ye sure ye feel well enough to be on your ain?” The Land Rover’s brakes squealed as Gordon stopped the vehicle under a street lamp.

  Nigel pulled his duffel bag off the backseat. “Yeah. I need a good night’s sleep. That’s all.”

  “I’ll head then. We’ll see ye at the office Monday, aye?”

  “Right. Thanks, mate.” Nigel shut the door, then tapped the hood.

  As Gordon drove away, Sinead came runnin
g. “Nigel!” She threw her arms around his neck. “I thought ye shit the bed, sure. I didn’t know whether to bring the boat about or call for help.”

  He pushed her against a parked car, his pelvis grinding against hers.

  “Hey, what are ye at?” she squeaked.

  He didn’t know. He had the overpowering urge to shag her, to shag anything.

  Sinead glared and wriggled away. “Listen, I’m glad ye’re okay, but that’s not on.” She stormed away to her room, then slammed the door.

  To hell with her. She hadn’t even given him a proper hard-on.

  He fumbled in his pocket for his key, then entered room 104, his home away from home. The cleaning staff left last night’s clothes folded on the bed. Last night. Last night felt like ten years ago.

  Switching on the desk lamp made his fingers prickle. He ignored his discomfort and ran his hand over the shade, marveling as if he’d never seen artificial light before. He inspected the electric teakettle, the television, his laptop—which he switched on—and the hair dryer hanging on the bathroom wall.

  While his computer booted up, he stripped out of his clothes. He stood naked in front of the dresser mirror. His eyes looked funny. He still felt watched, like a bloke in a horror film who couldn’t see the reflection of the ghost standing right next to him. The thought should have unnerved him, but he was too tired to be afraid. Post-concussive syndrome, the doctor called it. Rest was what he needed, but something deep in the recesses of his consciousness demanded he surf the Internet instead.

  He typed the word “torc” into the search bar.

  Why?

  He should call the hospital. The doctor missed something. He looked for his mobile phone. It remained on the nightstand, where he’d dropped it last night to jack off a grand Viagra chubster.

  What a waste of a pill Sinead turned out to be.

  Google displayed six pages about torcs. He clicked the first, which loaded a site called TreasureFinders.com. The top thread on its forum was labeled “HOT!” due to popularity, and although its author chose a masculine ID, Moles_Gold, Nigel guessed she was a woman. An American woman. One he knew already.

  American women were a different breed. They were rough-and-tumble. They dug in the dirt and found torcs. That great melting pot across the pond probably gave Moles_Gold a lean frame her active lifestyle honed to perfection. He guessed she was in her mid- to late thirties. With middle age looming, she would be hot to trot with anything that silenced the voices saying she was getting old. “God, I love your accent,” she would declare while he banged her from behind.

  The thought sent blood racing to his cock.

  No way.

  He rushed back to the mirror to inspect his first natural erection since sustaining an injury at university. It wilted before he could do anything with it, but still, it had been full-on and throbbing.

  Back at the computer, he whispered to Moles_Gold, “You did that.” Then, he danced and shouted, “You did that!”

  Shaking with excitement, he created an account to post a reply. It had to be friendly, something that would entice her into messaging him privately.

  A knock sent him scrambling for his clothes.

  “Nigel?” Sinead’s muffled voice sounded outside the door.

  To think he wasted two months and a bottle of Viagra tailing that slapper . . .

  “Hey, listen, Nigel, it’s me. Look, I’m sorry. I think maybe ye’re acting funny because ye’re unwell.”

  No, he acted that way because he wanted to sink his cock into her. Now, he didn’t. Now, there was someone else out there, someone who already gave him more than Sinead ever did.

  “Nigel, come on, I’m worried. Maybe ye should go back to hospital.”

  Where they’ll keep me overnight.

  No way. He had things to do, like find the American woman. “Go away,” he shouted at the door, surprised at the malevolence scalding his words.

  Sinead persisted. “Ye don’t sound good. Look, open the door or I’m calling nine-nine-nine.”

  Stupid cunt!

  He peeked through the vertical blinds in time to see her march past the neon sign at the motels’s front entrance.

  Shit.

  He emptied his duffel bag of equipment from his worthless internship, then refilled it with a few necessities. He wouldn’t need much, just some clothes, a knife, his wallet, and the laptop. Oh, and the Viagra! The American could probably handle him without the pills, but just in case, he should—

  Empty! The bottle was empty!

  Nigel hurled it against the wall. It ricocheted into the bathroom where it skittered across the tiles and banged against the bathtub. He toppled the nightstand, shouting, “Bastards!” then yanked the bedside lamp out of the wall. This he threw against the mirror, which shattered onto the dresser top and carpet. “You filthy whores can fold my clothes and leave a one thousand pound laptop untouched, but you steal my goddamn Viagra?”

  He wanted to kill someone.

  The phone rang. That would be the hotel manager, calling because the tosspot in the next room complained about the noise. Or maybe it was Gordon MacWanker, if Sinead went running to him.

  He ignored the phone, grabbed his duffel bag, then rushed out of the room. At the back of the motel, he heard the buzz of the building’s main electrical panel. Without knowing why, he pressed his hands against the pad-locked door. Bolts of lightning shot up his arms. He screamed.

  A man came out of room 123 wielding a pocket knife.

  “Ye all right, mate?”

  Nigel pressed his palms harder against the access panel and squealed.

  “I’m calling nine-nine-nine.” The man slammed his door.

  Energized, Nigel stumbled away, disappearing into a copse of ash behind the motel.

  Chapter 6

  Maggie reclined in a lime green chair with her hands behind her head and her feet up on a boomerang coffee table.

  “So, let me get this straight. This guy’s cologne gave you a roaster.”

  “Jeez, Maggie, do you have to be so vulgar?”

  “Sorry, still in character. Let me rephrase. So this smell”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“aroused you.”

  “It was more than that. It made me feel nostalgic, like when you smell something that takes you back to a fond memory from your childhood.”

  “Pumpkin pie.”

  “What?”

  “Pumpkin pie. It always makes me think of my grandma.”

  “Yes, that’s it, but it’s more. It made me long for something, something special and important that I’ve forgotten.”

  “So, you smelled this before, then?”

  “Yes. . . . I mean, no.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  Ann rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know. That’s the most frustrating part of it.”

  “Gimme his card.” Maggie wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand.

  Ann reached for her purse, then pulled out the lawyer’s card. She handed it to Maggie, who gave it an exaggerated sniff.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Nothing? No pine, or”—Ann snatched the card from Maggie and lifted it to her nose—“that scotch-y, smoky smell?”

  “Nope. When you smell it, what image comes to mind?”

  Ann closed her eyes and sniffed. “Seagulls.”

  “Seagulls?”

  “Yeah.” Her belly fluttered. She dropped the card back into her purse.

  “Maybe you should give Alexander MacHottie, Esquire a call and see if he can make you go weak in the knees a second time.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Come on, Ann. Janet’s a bitch, but she’s right about Mike. It’s time to move on.”

 
“Not with this guy. Not. My. Type.”

  “I’m not saying you need to marry him. Why not just go out and have some fun?”

  “Maggie, I don’t even know if he’s single. He gave no indication he was interested.”

  “Bull. Look at you. How could he not be interested? You have a smokin’ hot little bod, and that hair of yours stops traffic. Why do you think I never invite you out with me? One flash of those green eyes and I don’t stand a chance.”

  Maggie was full of it. She got men whether Ann was there or not.

  Maggie snapped her fingers and leaned forward. “You know what? This would make a great plot.” She was always thinking about plots. “Scent is linked with memory, you know.”

  “Is that so, Professor Mason?”

  “Hey, laugh all you want, but it’s true. I saw it once in a documentary. Oo!” She spread her hands wide in the air. “Picture this: a character recognizes a scent, but he can’t recall when he last smelled it.”

  “Okay?”

  “And the reason he can’t remember it is because it’s from a past life. Oo! What if it’s the scent of his killer?” She dropped her hands and looked pensive. “I wonder if memory is inherited. What if that scent was important to your ancestors somehow, and you recognize it without knowing what it is?”

  Ann stopped short of mentioning her bizarre familiarity with the torc. It was a crazy notion, right? Inherited memory, indeed. Still, it would make an excellent plot, which she needed if she was going to keep her agent.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ann sat alone at her computer. She’d closed the blinds and lit a candle to set the mood for finding a character. Channeling, Maggie called it. Ann considered it writer’s meditation and no more. It was her first attempt since Mike left. She hoped she remembered how it worked.

  She shut her eyes and sniffed the lawyer’s card, opening her mind to possibility and ignoring the butterflies in her belly. Faces floated by, pale ovals with no features. She heard squawking seagulls and pounding surf. Green-capped cliffs unfolded before her.