Free Cloaked in Malice by Annette Blair Page A

Mad,” Paisley said from her end of the hall.
    I peeked around Nick. “How much worse?” I asked.
    “You’ll have to walk through a farmyard with chicken, turkey, and duck poo everywhere.”
    “No dead animals, though, right? I mean, you didn’t just leave the sheep, cows, and chickens there, did you?”
    “Of course not. When Pap knew he was sick, he butchered and dressed everything, so Mam and I would have provisions. The animals are all smoked, canned, pickled, or frozen.”
    “But the chicken poop is still there?” I asked.
    “’Fraid so. It makes great fertilizer, though, so I’m guessing the grass is tall and green, and full of snakes.”
    “I think I’ll stay home,” I said, passing her to head for the stairs in yesterday’s outfit, but Nick took me by the shoulders and turned me back toward my room.
    “We’ll be ready in ten minutes, Paisley,” he said. “Jeans and boots and slickers or trench coats, against the sea spray,” he said, shutting my door.
    “What about breakfast?” I asked him as he prodded me into my bathroom.
    “We’ll catch some at a drive-through.” He turned on the shower.
    I crossed my arms. “We don’t have time for one of those kinds of showers.”
    “Too bad,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck until he got to my ear. “I looked up Paisley on the computer yesterday,” he whispered. “There is no such person as Paisley Skye on record . No birth certificate, no social security number.”
    “So her name is fake. Even she suspects as much. What? You don’t think it’s an alias, do you?”
    “No, her legitimate birth might never have been recorded, if she was born in the backwoods somewhere, but I thought you should know. Keep up your guard.”
    I saluted, kissed him a good one, then left him to the shower while I went to my dressing room.
    When we met in the hall, Paisley and I compared outfits—jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies against the sea air. Cowboy boots for me, gun boots for her. And then there were the trench coats. Hers was a savvy, rust-colored swing coat. Mine, a black Burberry military trench. We admired each other verbally, even in our worst outfits, though we’d both chosen well in the trench coat department.
    “Will you two stop talking about clothes and move your sweet tushies out to the Hummer?”
    “Who’s got a sweet tush?” I asked.
    “You both do, Ladybug. I may be yours, but I’m not blind.”
    “Why, thank you,” Paisley said.
    Nick and his Hummer got us to the Noank docks in record time, but we barely caught the Concertina .
    From a distance, the white-bearded captain seemed unnecessarily terse when he spoke to Nick then looked over at the Hummer, and I wasn’t sure if he saw us or not. Then Nick flashed his badge and the captain grudgingly replied to Nick’s questions.

Twelve

The trench coat is the only thing that has kept its head above water.
—JACK LIPMAN

    That we watched the Concertina motor away confused me. I’d expected it to take us to the island.
    I elbowed Nick when he got back into the Hummer. “Why did you let him go?”
    “I had no reason to arrest him,” Nick said. “Though if I could have found one, I might have searched his boat for contraband.”
    I silently agreed with Nick’s take on the guy. “I mean , how are we getting to the island?”
    “After that attitude, I wouldn’t have gone with him if I planned to. No, I rented us a boat online early this morning.”
    “Where is our boat then?”
    “Our boat? I love it when you put us together in the possessive.”
    “You’re such a romantic for a gun-carrying thug.”
    “Barf,” Paisley mumbled. “You two need to get a room.”
    Nick winked and I chuckled.
    “Our boat is the Misty Maid and it’s right there,” Nick said. “Ours for the day anyway.” He jumped onboard, and gave us each a hand down, then he pulled a captain’s hat out of his pocket, slipped it on, cast off the lines, and started the boat.
    “You’re a handy one, being a Fed