Return of the Wild Son. Cynthia Thomason

should have somebody look at it, someone who knows about architectural structure,” Nate said, hoping this logical step would put an end to his father’s irrational plan.

      “Fine.” He paused. “Maybe I should try to call—”

      Sensing what his father was about to say, and knowing how his brother would react to a call from Harley, Nate stopped him. “Let me handle it,” he said. He had been gone for two decades, only traveling to Michigan once or twice a year to visit his father at the Foggy Creek Correctional Facility. And he’d never been back to Finnegan Cove. But he did know that Mike, a contractor who lived in Sutter’s Point about twenty miles away, was a stranger to both of them now. That was how Mike wanted it. “Let me make the phone call,” he said, and then realized, because of his current schedule, there was nothing to keep him in Los Angeles. “Maybe I’ll fly out and take a look at the place myself.”

      “That’d be great, son,” his father said, clearly pleased. “I might be seeing you soon, eh?”

      “Maybe. I’ll talk to you.”

      He disconnected, shook his head and got out of his car. This was a crazy idea. If that lighthouse hadn’t washed into Lake Michigan, it had to be pretty damn close. But all at once the thought of buying that old place, fixing it up…well, maybe his father had hit on an interesting idea. A project like that, both of them working with their hands, as they had in the old days, when they used to pull in nets loaded with the catch of the day, might be exactly what he and Harley needed.

      Of course, the first step in evaluating the practicality of this plan wasn’t going to be easy. Nate hadn’t spoken to his brother in years.

      He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, went inside his condo and got his address book from the desk. He poured himself a gin and tonic and sat at the bar. Then he punched in the phone number of Mike Shelton. Maybe his brother wouldn’t be too busy on a Friday evening to talk to him. If he’d talk to him at all.

      A kid answered the phone. Nate’s nephew. He’d be ten now. “Is Mike there?” Nate asked.

      “Yes. Who’s calling?”

      The boy didn’t react to hearing Nate’s name, just said he’d get his dad. A few seconds later, his brother came on the line. “Nate?” He didn’t even try to hide his surprise. Or the mistrust.

      “Yeah, it’s me.”

      “What do you want?”

      He pictured his older brother, brawny, muscles bulging from hard work, eyes tired from reading blueprints. The perpetual scowl on his face that Nate hadn’t seen in years, but figured was still there. “I have news.” Nate waited for a reaction, received none. “Dad’s being paroled.”

      He heard Mike grunt. “They’re letting him out?”

      “It’s been twenty years, Mike. He was due to have a parole hearing.”

      “Whoopee. And this affects me how?”

      Nate thought about suggesting that Mike make an effort to see their father, but he knew the futility of that. Mike lived only two hours away from the penitentiary. He’d never once made the trip to Foggy Creek. He’d never even put a stamp on a Christmas card.

      “I could use your help,” Nate said.

      “Hey, if this involves Harley, count me out. You know how I feel.”

      “Yes, I do, but I’m asking for me.”

      Nate held his breath, knowing a favor between two estranged brothers wasn’t likely to get a more favorable reaction than one between an estranged father and son.

      Surprisingly, Mike said, “What do you need me to do?”

      “Dad’s moving back to Finnegan Cove when he gets out in a few weeks.”

      “He’s what?” The question was a bark of disbelief.

      “I know. I thought it was a bad idea, too. But he’s determined.”

      “He’s a mental case, Nathaniel.”

      Nate shook his head, not bothering to argue. The Harley Shelton Nate knew today was as calm and rational as anyone he’d ever met. At least that’s what Nate had believed until Harley said he was moving back to the Cove.

      “Nevertheless,” Nate continued, “he’s decided to buy the old lighthouse. That’s where he wants to live.”

      “Now I know he’s gone off the deep end,” Mike said. “Have you seen that place?”

      “No. You have?”

      “I’ve been to the Cove a time or two on projects. Drove by it.”

      “Oh.” Nate calmly explained the situation, giving Mike time to criticize between sentences.

      “I don’t want anything to do with this,” Mike said when he’d finished.

      “Just look at the place for me,” Nate said. “I need a professional opinion on how bad the building is, what it would take to fix it up. Can’t you at least meet me down there? You won’t have to see Dad.”

      An uncomfortable silence stretched into long seconds. “All right,” Mike finally said. “When are you getting here?”

      “I have to take care of some things, but I’ll be flying out on Tuesday. Can you meet me in Finnegan Cove on Wednesday morning?”

      “I’ll meet you at the light station at ten o’clock,” Mike said. “Before then, I’ll make a couple of calls, see what I can find out about the old place.” He paused. “And Nate?”

      “Yeah?”

      “This is it. Don’t ask me to get involved any more than this one visit.”

      “Okay. Deal.”

       CHAPTER TWO

       Finnegan Cove, Michigan

       April

      J ENNA RACED DOWN the narrow coast route. She didn’t have to worry about cars approaching on the other side of the road. Few drivers were out at six o’clock on a Wednesday morning. If she hurried, she’d just make it to the bakery in time to help with the first tray of doughnuts.

      She stretched her back muscles and stuck her arm out her open window. Maybe staying at the college library until eleven and then grabbing a few hours sleep at a friend’s place near campus hadn’t been such a good idea. She wasn’t exactly the fresh young age of a college kid, who could jump up from an air bed and jog into the start of her day. At thirty-three, she found her muscles were protesting.

      She rounded a bend and kept her eyes straight ahead, determined not to look at the lighthouse. But as always, she couldn’t resist the haunting pull it had over her. In fact, she slowed her Jeep to a crawl.

      The abandoned building rose like a specter in the dawn. Even through the grove of great oak trees, Jenna could see the peeling paint on the tower’s exterior walls, the crumbling stairs to the front door of the keeper’s cottage. The Fresnel lens at the top of the tower had been removed years before, after some kids had destroyed it with buckshot.

      Jenna’s grandmother hated to see the building this way. She’d been raised in the small cottage, where her father had been the last light keeper of the Finnegan Cove Station. Hester had fond memories of her childhood along the lake, and the man who’d protected the shoreline. Jenna used to feel the same, but that was before the murder.

      The For Sale sign that had been sitting in the yard in front of the lighthouse for over six months creaked in the early morning breeze. To Jenna’s knowledge, no one had made an offer or even looked at the place. But that would change if she had her way.

      She stepped on the accelerator and sped by. Ten minutes later she swept through the louvered doors that separated the public area