Veil of Civility

Chapter Fifty-One

Declan dragged himself slowly up onto the beach, grabbing handfuls of wet sand with each reach. Cold, salty waves washed over him, doing their part to push him ashore. He stopped and turned over onto his back, breathing heavily. The late afternoon sun peered down from behind a springtime haze. He'd survived the jump from the plane and the free fall down; it was the landing that had nearly killed him. As soon as he'd opened his parachute he'd known he was in trouble. At four thousand feet, the wind had been blowing in from the southeast, up the rocky Welsh coastline, pushing anything brazen enough to be aloft to the west and into the Irish Sea.

Despite his best efforts to steer the ram-air chute onto one of the several islands that dotted the coastline, nature had won and he'd ended up taking a swim. In the northwest corner of Europe, early spring was no time for swimming. The temperature had to be near forty degrees and, coupled with the surging wind, it felt even colder. The risk of hypothermia notwithstanding, the riptides had been merciless and had grabbed a hold of his chute as soon as he'd hit the water, like the tentacles of some vengeful sea beast. Had Dean Lynch not so diligently prepared the two escape chutes, he'd have been pulled out to sea and drowned. Instead, the six inch bowie knife secured to the harness around his waist had allowed him to cut the tangled lines of the nylon noose. So much for burying the parachute so it won't be found.

Dragging himself the rest of the way onto the beach he became aware of a sharp pain in his right wrist. He cleared the salt water from his eyes to see that it was swollen badly. As he stood and took stock of himself a tear in the left leg of his jumpsuit caught his attention. Leaning down and doing his best to spread the polyester with his one good hand, he revealed a twelve inch gash on the outside of his calf. Blood dotted the sand beneath him, but he felt no pain; apparently his legs were numb from the frigid water. He didn't remember hitting anything as he'd struggled to swim ashore, but he must have, more than likely one of the many jagged rocks that populated the coastline like naturally formed Czech hedgehogs awaiting an invading army.

Slowly his legs began to regain feeling and he limped over to a nearby rock. Sitting against it he released the black skydiving rig from his torso. The main compartment that had been strapped to his back was now empty except for the ends of the severed nylon cords that had once held the parachute in place. Strapped to his front had been the tightly packed twelve inch by twelve inch compartment that held what little equipment the rig allowed a skydiver to bring along. Standing up and setting the rig against the rock, he unzipped the compartment and began removing the items Lynch had packed. On top was a Glock 17, two extra magazines and a suppressor, secured together with a Velcro strap. A man after my own heart, Declan thought, smiling to himself as he set the weapon aside. Next out was a compact first aid kit, followed by a foldaway shovel the size of a fist, a roll of paper money secured with a rubber band, a Thuraya satphone and a firmly packed piece of thin, square nylon with a another Velcro strap around it. He turned the square over in his hands wondering what it was. As he undid the Velcro strap, the square fell loose and began to unfold. Shaking it the rest of the way open he was surprised to see a miniature duffel bag complete with two handles and a zipper. I love you, Lynch he mouthed jokingly as he unzipped it and began placing the gear inside, leaving only the first aid kit out.

Opening the first-aid kit and removing the jumpsuit with one hand was slow going, but he eventually managed to clean the jagged laceration with antiseptic and wrap sterile gauze around it, using the tiny role of tape included in the kit to secure it in place and keep pressure against it at the same time. It was far from perfect but hopefully it would hold until he could get some proper treatment. Using the bowie knife, which he'd hung onto after cutting the chute loose, he sliced up the black nylon straps that held the rig together and gingerly wrapped them around his right wrist, securing the brace with more of the tape. Having inspected his wrist as well as possible, he was reasonably sure it wasn't broken, just sprained. The pressure from the makeshift brace was already beginning to make it feel better, the movement in his fingers was returning. He redressed in what was left of the black jumpsuit. He grimaced as he pulled on the wet clothes, the wind making it feel as though being naked would be preferable. He shivered almost uncontrollably as the material clung to his body, the damp soaking through his hasty bandages.

He pushed the cold out of his mind and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. In front of him was a half-moon shaped bay, flanked on three sides by tall moss-covered rocks topped with wiry grass that had been flattened by the constant wind, its color deadened to a sickly yellow by the clinging winter. Behind him one of the many offshore islands jutted out of the water. Atlantic Puffins massed on the rocky formation, some diving for fish, others hovering low above the water in search of a meal, the sound of their wings flapping furiously barely audible over the howling wind. He knew he was on the coast of Wales, a lot further west then he had hoped, but he didn't know exactly where along the seven hundred and fifty miles of coastline he was positioned. He'd have to climb out of the bay to get a better look at the landscape, a prospect that made him groan with anticipated pain.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable he scanned the rocks for the easiest way up and found it at his eleven o'clock. He stuffed the contents of the first aid kit into the duffel bag, zipped it up and walked the short distance across the beach to the edge of the cliff. The spot he'd chosen switch-backed several times and the surfaces were covered with heavy moss or course grass, meaning he'd have good traction.

Sometime later the moss had proven slicker than he'd expected, forcing him onto all fours at several points during his climb. He wasn't sure, but he estimated that it took him nearly an hour to reach the top. Breathing heavily, he struggled onto the plateau and looked east. All he could see along the horizon was rolling hills broken occasionally by jagged rocks. No buildings. No roads. Not even an old goat path. Overhead the sun was obscured almost completely by the low clouds, an ivory orb the only evidence of its existence. He guessed by its location that it was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon. At best, he had two hours until dark.

Calling up both his perfect mental map of the British Isles, and of Ireland across the Irish Sea, he decided, based on the location of the airport Fintan's plane had been heading for, that his most likely location was Pembrokeshire and that the large offshore island was Skomer Island. If he was right, he'd eventually meet with the small village of Marloes to the east, if he was wrong he'd meet a sheer cliff leading into the Milford Haven Waterway and be forced to turn north, having wasted a lot of the remaining daylight. There was only one way to find out. Throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he walked east.

One hour later the sun was sinking behind the rolling hills, its dying rays hidden by the gathering clouds. A storm was approaching from the east. Declan could see the rainfall many miles ahead of him, the wall of approaching precipitation giving the landscape the appearance of an old oil painting. About a mile from the coastline he'd gotten lucky and found a one lane dirt road heading east. With the injury to his left leg his progress was slow, although he was beginning to think it was due more to sheer exhaustion than the injury. He hadn't slept or eaten since he'd left the United States and with the physical rush that had accompanied his jump from the plane and his fight to survive the landing, his body was feeling the effects. It seemed as though every muscle ached, his head was pounding and his skin was pale, icy to the touch from the onslaught of the Atlantic wind against his wet clothes. He kept his head down in an attempt to keep his face warm, but it made little difference.

Again, for the second time in as many days, he found himself thankful for the Special Forces training he'd received in Afghanistan and for the lifelong fitness habits it had instilled in him. At the age of forty-one he was in better shape than most twenty-five year olds and it was a good thing, because without it he would not have survived. As he topped a small rise in the dirt road, he glanced up and his eyes settled on a much needed sight.

Directly ahead of him, no more than a mile from his current position, he could see the corrugated steel roofing of several buildings grouped tightly together on the right side of the road. There were no lights visible in the gathering darkness, but at least it was a sign he was heading in the right direction. He quickened his pace as much as possible, invigorated by the thought of a warm place to ride out the coming storm.

Favoring his right leg heavily, he cautiously approached the first of the buildings. A drab sign with white lettering positioned at the three way intersection in the dirt road where the buildings stood announced that they belonged to the Skomer Marine Nature Reserve, confirming his earlier decision that he was on the Marloes Peninsula in southwest Wales. That was good; it meant that the village of Marloes was only about seven or eight miles further to the east, but the thought of walking another seven or eight miles drained his enthusiasm. He decided the hike needed to wait until the morning. He'd take shelter in the Marine Reserve tonight. Perhaps his luck would hold and a worker would have left some food behind; an uneaten lunch or even a pack of wafers would go a long way right now.

He entered the property by walking down a short driveway between two stone buildings that appeared to have been there far longer than the other metal buildings that together made up the complex. Inside the tiny lot enclosed by the buildings there were no lights and the only vehicles were several ATVs in various states of maintenance. Looking over them quickly he realized none of them would be drivable. Standing in the center of what he guessed was a small parking lot he turned three hundred and sixty degrees looking for the building most likely to be the headquarters. There were seven buildings in total, three long and rectangular and four much smaller squares that he surmised were storage buildings. Three foot by four foot hedges were sporadically placed around each building in an effort to bring some life to the cold metal. Like the roofs he'd seen from a distance, the walls of most of the buildings were constructed from grayish corrugated steel, industrial looking windows and doors cut into the sides, a few dark red shutters hanging haphazardly beside some of the windows. He chose the building with the most parking spots and walked to the windowless double doors at the front. The doors were secured with a heavy, padlocked chain. He pulled on the lock in hopes that it was only dummy locked, but it wasn't. He turned and looked to see that the other buildings were all similarly secured. Damn.

Reluctantly he bent down and unzipped the duffel bag, withdrawing the Glock 17. With a magazine already loaded, he screwed on the suppressor and chambered a round. Pushing himself tortuously back to his feet he moved to the side of the doors and took aim at the lock. Suddenly a bright light washed over the metal in front of him and he was illuminated by the circular beam. He pulled the Glock close to his body and dived out of the light behind one of the hedges.

Listening carefully, he heard the unmistakable crunch of a gravel road beneath car tires, then the beam of light stopped moving forward. With the roaring wind passing through the joints in the corrugated steel and creating a piercing whistle, he hadn't heard the vehicle approaching. He knew that whoever was driving it had to have seen him. Seconds later he heard a car door open and his suspicions were confirmed.

"Whoever's there, I know you're here. Come out."

The voice was both distinctly Welsh and distinctly female. Declan bent left and right trying to get a look at its owner without revealing his position, but the hedge was too big.

"I know you're here. Come out," the voice repeated. Declan heard a hint of uncertainty, possibly even fear, and he weighed his options. Who was this person, night security? Some sort of caretaker, a camper, or someone else who'd seen him from nearby? He hadn't noticed any houses or campsites and the village was too far away for anyone there to have seen anything.

"Alright, then," the voice sang. "I'll go and tell the police and they'll be round to deal with you shortly. You'd best get back to the moor or wherever you came from. I'd hate to be outdoors on a night like this if I was you."

Declan stashed the Glock in the duffel bag and tugged the zipper closed as he stood and turned towards the vehicle. He couldn't afford to have the police involved and the voice was right, it was bitter cold and only going to get worse as the night progressed. If there was even the slightest chance this person could help him find shelter he had to take it.

"Well, there you are. Finally get done rolling around in the dirt, did you?"

Just beyond the halogen beams, Declan could make out the basic shape of a human. It was obvious from the bulk that she was bundled against the cold. He stepped around the hedge with his empty hands raised to get a better look. Standing behind the open car door as if it might offer her some protection was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, Declan thought. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her hair was covered by a wool stocking cap, and a thick down coat hid the rest of her body from view.

"What the bloody hell are you doing out here anyway?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I'm a paraglider," Declan lied. "My rig was blown onto the rocks a few hours ago. I barely made it out alive."

"Well, I expect not in this wind. What kind of bloody trick is that, paragliding in this kind of weather? What're you, mad? You damned extreme sports types. Not an ounce of sense in the lot of you, I'd say."

"Who are you?" Declan asked.

The young woman stepped around the Peugeot she was driving and said, "Hannah Sawyer. I'm the wildlife preservationist here. Just came by to make sure I'd locked up all these doors and they weren't blowin' in the gale. Are you injured?"

Declan was relieved that she seemed to believe his story. "My leg is cut up and my wrist is sprained. Other than that, I'm just exhausted."

"Well, I would expect so, after an ordeal like that," she said, stepping closer. Declan could smell a flowery perfume. "What in the name of Saint David are you doing paragliding in weather like this and in the dark?"

"It was for a new world record. I was attempting to sail around the entire British Isles without stopping. I left from the Firth of Clyde yesterday."

"Wrong time of year for that. Lot of good that record's gonna do you when you're dead. C'mon, let's get you to the village where we can get a better look at your injuries."

Declan breathed easy for the first time in several minutes. "Thank you. That'll be grand. I've some money on me. If you'll just drop me at an inn, I can make my way from there."

"Ah, you'll not find any inns around here that are open this time of year. Tourist season doesn't start for another two months. My dad and I have a place where you can hold up and get some rest. In a day or two I'll give you a ride to Haverfordwest and you can go about getting yourself back home."

"Aye, that's grand. Thank you again."

"Don't thank me yet," she said, with a wry laugh. "You haven't tasted my dad's stew."

Together they climbed into the Peugeot and she shifted through the gears as she turned the car around and drove east towards Marloes. The seven mile drive took about ten minutes over a roughly-maintained road that turned to pavement a few miles outside of the town. Halfway there it had started to rain. Passing a bent metal sign that read Marloes in bold, black letters, Declan looked from side to side at the stone cottages that stood barely arm's length from the edge of the one lane road that led into and out of the small village. Through the driving rain he could make out dim lights in some of the homes, but most appeared vacant. He supposed they were vacation homes or rental cottages that saw little use outside of the summer months.

Soon they pulled up to a gray stone house with a rust-colored roof made from what appeared to be clay shingles, and Hannah turned the Peugeot into a narrow gravel parking spot that was just big enough for the compact vehicle. The residence was small; its front yard surrounded by an aging stone wall, Light was visible through two windows beside the wooden front door.

"Well, you'd better give me your name," she said, as she shifted the car into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. "Dad'll want to know what to call you right off."

"Paul Flynn," Declan lied, combining his father's first name and his mother's maiden name. "I really appreciate your hospitality."

"It's nothing. Happens all the time, you lot getting yourselves messed up. The few of us that stay here throughout the year are used to patching people up. Just can't seem to get it through your thick heads that sports are for summertime and daylight."

Declan smiled as they exited the Peugeot. Hannah ran up the gravel path to the front door, the rain horizontal in the wind.

"Well, I found another one, I did," she announced, as she opened the door and walked in, hanging her stocking cap on a peg next to the door. She turned towards Declan and smiled, and he saw she had chestnut brown hair cut just below her ears and huge brown eyes. In the darkness, he'd failed to see how pretty she was.

"You found another wha—? Oh dear," Declan heard an older man's voice say as he stepped into the house. He found himself in the main living area, a brown leather couch in the middle of the floor dividing the living room and the small kitchen where Hannah's father stood with a tea towel in hand. Declan could tell right away that the older man was less enthusiastic about his presence than was his daughter. Drying his hands slowly with the olive green towel, he said roughly, "Rhys Sawyer. And you'd be?"

"Found him at the Reserve, so I did. Says his paraglider crashed," Hannah said, before Declan could respond to her father's question. "His name's Paul Flynn."

Rhys Sawyer stared suspiciously at his guest, his eyes narrowed, and Declan could feel the tension coming from him. He was obviously a great deal older than his daughter, at least sixty, if Declan had to guess. He had dark, narrow eyes bordering on beady, covered by thick white eyebrows. His hairline had receded, and most of his white hair was gone from the top of his head. What was left was thick and unkempt. Unlike his daughter, who was very petite, Rhys was broad-shouldered and carried at least an extra fifty pounds, making him an imposing figure despite his advanced age.

"My daughter has a bad habit of bringing home strays. Unfortunately she refuses to confine the activity to wildlife."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean to impose," Declan said.

"Well, of course you do. You lot with all your fancy gear and immortal attitudes coming down here looking to bounce around and make all kinds of commotion and then when you get yourselves in a mess you look for us regular folk to take you in and patch you up. You got lucky, see, and found the one person out here most likely to do it."

Declan stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He could understand the man's anger. There was a complete stranger standing in his house, someone whose intentions could easily be less than honorable.

"Dad, you're embarrass—"

"Embarrassing you how? You just met him! I've warned you about this, so I have. You cannot bring home every wandering soul you find out there on the moor who just happens to be ruggedly handsome."

Hannah's face flushed a deep red, but Declan couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment.

"I apologize for my intrusion, sir. If you could just point me in the direction of an inn or someplace I can wait out the storm, I'll be on my way."

"I've told you already, there's no place open this time of year," Hannah said, as her eyes bored into her father. "I'll drive you back to the Reserve. You can stay there in the office for the night."

"You'll be doing no such thing," Rhys said, his voice a low growl. "My daughter's right, Mr. Flynn, there's no place open. As much as I don't like it, you can stay in our guest cottage out back. Seeing as my daughter insists on ignoring my advice, I may as well keep you in my sight."

Declan was silently grateful. Even though he hadn't seen it, the guest cottage sounded like a slice of heaven. At this point he'd take a barn if it meant he could sleep out of the wind and rain.

"Here, sit down," Hannah said, and she walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table for him. She kissed her father on the cheek as he stood like a statue, still eyeing Declan. "Were you injured?" Rhys asked, finally exhaling.

"Just a cut on my leg and my wrist is sprained."

"Well, don't you worry a bit," Hannah said. "I'll have you right as rain in no time. Dad's just finished making cawl for supper and afterwards we'll get you all set up out the back."

"We have a small barn out the back that we converted to a cottage a few years back. We rent it out during the tourist season," Rhys said, taking a seat at the table.

"Aye, that sounds grand. Thank you both so much."

The house was warm and the food smelled amazing. The aroma of boiled potatoes, lamb, carrots and bacon filled the air. Declan took a seat at the table across from Rhys and placed his duffel bag at his feet. Looking around at the simple residence, he thought how nice it would be to share such a place with his wife, a simple life, free of the frustrations and complications of his current situation. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace behind him, he could feel the heat on his damp clothes.

"Oh my, your clothes are soaked,” Hannah said as she brushed past him.

"I'll get you something dry to wear." Rhys rose from the table and disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the kitchen. Hannah placed a bowl on the table and filled it to the brim with cawl. "Eat, eat," she said, placing a spoon in the bowl. Rhys returned a moment later with a pair of faded blue jeans and a dark red wool shirt.

After he'd eaten three bowls of stew and excused himself for his rudeness, Declan followed as they led him outside to the back of their small lot where a barn with a slanted roof stood. Inside it had been made over into a bedroom, a small bathroom off to the side with just enough room for a sink and a shower. Declan had been right. To a weary traveler, it looked heavenly.

Hannah showed him around the room. "In the summer months it stays rented, always someone from Cardiff or Swansea out here for the hiking or sailing. You know, all that macho stuff you boys are into."

He smiled at her, realizing that she obviously thought he was much younger than he actually was.

"Now, let's see to those injuries," she said.

"Thank you, but it's really not necessary," Declan said. "You've done so much already."

"Oh, don't give me that, you. I'll have none of it. Dad, get my veterinary kit, please."

Rhys sighed audibly and turned back towards the main house.

Her tone of voice was authoritative and, seeing she wasn't going to take no for an answer, Declan gave in. "You'll have to excuse Dad. He's suspicious of everyone."

"He has good reason to be. There are a lot of people out there who aren't very nice."

"Well, I'm a helper. It's what I do. My mum was the same way. Whether it was an injured puffin or a seal, she was always nursing something. She died a few years ago. Dad hasn't been the same since."

Thirty minutes later she had both his wrist and his leg re-bandaged and he already felt better.

"There you go," she said. "Good thing I found you when I did, that leg was pretty bad. Another few hours and you'd have had quite an infection, I expect. You were right about your wrist. It isn't broken at all. A day or two and it'll be fine." She stood up and looked at the shirt and jeans her father had supplied. "Those clothes look like they'll fit you, anyway," she said. "A guy about your age left them here last year. Amazing what people leave behind. We've found everything from cigarettes to foreign money."

"We should leave him be now," Rhys said from his post by the door where he'd been standing guard over his daughter. "I'm sure he needs to rest." Hannah smiled and walked out of the tiny house followed by her father. After they were gone, Declan washed up in the bathroom carefully to avoid his injuries and then, within minutes, he was asleep on the bed, the down comforter pulled up over his head.