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  Praise for Vickie McKeehan’s Novels

  “Strong, distinctive characters. I cannot wait to get my hands on the next book.”

  Just Evil

  - Coffee Time Romance and More -

  “Queen of suspense…”

  Just Evil

  - Jill D. Hidy, author of The Old World Series -

  “…an excellent storyteller…”

  Deeper Evil

  - Toye Lawson Brown, author of When the Music Stops -

  “A must read trilogy.”

  Ending Evil

  - Rosalie A. Pope, author of Puppies For Sale $25.00 -

  “A brilliant and rewarding read.”

  Promise Cove

  - Bestchicklit.com -

  “For an entertaining adventure and love story,

  I highly recommend.”

  Hidden Moon Bay

  - Marilyn Holdsworth, author of Pegasus -

  “You feel Keegan and Cord’s sorrows, pain, and love…”

  Dancing Tides

  - John Chavez, reader -

  also by Vickie McKeehan

  The Evil Secrets Trilogy

  JUST EVIL - Book One

  DEEPER EVIL - Book Two

  ENDING EVIL - Book Three

  The Pelican Pointe Series

  PROMISE COVE

  HIDDEN MOON BAY

  DANCING TIDES

  LIGHTHOUSE REEF

  STARLIGHT DUNES

  LAST CHANCE HARBOR (Coming)

  Skye Cree Novels

  THE BONES OF OTHERS

  THE BONES WILL TELL

  THE BOX OF BONES

  Exclusively at Amazon in print and Kindle format

  Starlight Dunes

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  VICKIE McKEEHAN

  Starlight Dunes

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  Copyright © 2013 Vickie McKeehan

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 0615941826

  ISBN-13: 978-0615941820

  Printed in the USA

  Cover design by Jess Johnson

  Pelican Pointe map designed by Jess Johnson

  Visit the author at:

  www.vickiemckeehan.com

  www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan

  http://vickiemckeehan.wordpress.com/

  www.twitter.com/VickieMcKeehan

  For Kevin with the tender heart and the best father I know

  To see the complete Cast of Character list go to my website:

  www.vickiemckeehan.com

  under the Pelican Pointe Series tab.

  Acknowledgements

  Thousands of years before the Spanish arrived in California, a Native American people called the Chumash, or “shell people” lived and thrived along the state’s rugged coastline, canoeing back and forth among the Channel Islands, specifically Santa Cruz Island. For years these native people fascinated me so much so that I wanted to bring a Chumash descendant to life in a contemporary setting. To do that in a creative way, there’s a lot of research and support involved. My thanks to Nakia Zavalla, Cultural Director of the Santa Ynez Band of Chumash Indians for providing me with translations, and to the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History.

  And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

  William Butler Yeats

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Welcome to Pelican Pointe

  Starlight Dunes

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  by

  VICKIE McKEEHAN

  Prologue

  Three weeks earlier

  Santa Cruz, California

  A storm churned out at sea. He could smell the rain on its way in. He might not possess the same psychic ability as his brother, Ethan, the now full-time mystery writer, but Brent Cody recognized a good Pacific squall when he saw one forming on the horizon.

  He’d grown up around the ocean, not five miles from the spot where he now walked. Except for the fifteen years he’d given to the military, he’d made this coastal town his home. Now as he left work and crossed the dark parking lot to his truck, he stared up at the ugly-looking, purple clouds moving inland. The heavy low-hanging marine layer had blacked out the stars and more than likely meant before nightfall they’d get wind gusts and rain.

  His mother’s garden could use a good soaking, Brent decided as he climbed into his Dodge Ram pickup to head for home. He placed his briefcase on the passenger side of the bench seat, and started up the engine.

  After putting in a fourteen-hour day Brent was more than ready to kick back in front of the flat-screen. He was pretty sure the pre-season San Jose Sharks were on the road tonight in Detroit hitting the ice against the Red Wings. Of course, he’d already missed the first two periods. Good thing he’d remembered to DVR the game.

  He could already taste a cold Anchor Steam to go with the leftover pizza he’d ordered from the night before. All he had to do was toss it into the microwave, zap it, and he had dinner. With the comfort of cheese, pepperoni and beer, he’d be set to catch the last of the hockey game.

  With his mind on slapshots, he scanned the secure lot out of habit before exiting onto the deserted side street. He hadn’t been a member of law enforcement for the better part of a decade not to key in on his surroundings this time of night.

  Since the people of Santa Cruz had elected him county sheriff six years earlier, most of his days were like today, long and exhausting. He didn’t like to admit how much time he spent sitting on his butt plopped in front of his laptop, handling paperwork these days. Because of it he did whatever it took to stay in shape.

  Since he’d celebrated his fortieth birthday over the summer, he was mindful his body wasn’t the same as it used to be. Even though he’d once been able to throw a ninety-five mile per hour fastball for his high school baseball team, he knew those days were long gone. Though he did play softball on Sunday afternoons on a team with his co-workers, the long days were one of the reasons he made sure he jogged at least five miles three times a week. Whenever his schedule permitted, he also tried to hit the state-of-the-art gym down the street from the office to lift weights or work up a cardio sweat on the elliptical. Plus, he’d gotten into the habit of limiting his bacon and egg consumption to a measly two times a week. For all his efforts he still weighed the same as the day he’d landed in Iraq.

  Bottom line, it sucked getting older, he thought now as he made the
four-mile drive to his house. When fat drops of rain began to splat on the windshield, he turned on the wipers and listened as the blades began an annoying back-and-forth, rubber-on-glass screech. He countered the whap, whap, whap sound by turning up the volume on the Pearl Jam CD already in the player.

  Glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror, he caught the shadow of a man with Native American features, the straight nose, the strong chin, deep-set eyes so brown they were almost black. He audibly sighed at the makings of crow’s feet at the corners and the fact that his raven black hair was starting to turn a little gray at the temples. Something his father, Markus Cody, teased him about.

  It was hell turning forty, he decided as he drove the streets of the neighborhood where he’d essentially grown up. On impulse he pushed the button to roll down the window several inches on the driver’s side in spite of the mist so he could breathe in the cool night air. If there was a benefit to living next to the sea, this was it. The fresh, salty air always made for a good night’s sleep.

  Once he’d gotten his bad marriage behind him, he’d finally taken the plunge and bought a little Spanish bungalow with a pretty view of the water. The place wasn’t large, no more than twelve-hundred-square-feet, but it suited a single guy who had no plans to ever make a family. That’s why when he got home tonight, there would be no one waiting for him, no woman, no girlfriend, not even a dog.

  It was best that way, he thought, even if he did on occasion dip his toe into the shallow end of the dating pool. After all, he was anything but a loner. He was social enough when the occasion called for it. His mother saw to that because she seemed hell-bent on fixing him up with…someone. Especially since his little brother had settled down in wedded bliss a couple of years back with Hayden and they now had a son.

  Since Ethan’s marriage, Lindeen seemed more determined than ever to get her oldest to follow in Ethan’s footsteps. Hell, she wasn’t even subtle about it anymore.

  He could laugh about it—most of the time. Mainly because the woman thought she was so damn clever whenever she invited him over to supper—as if he hadn’t caught on years earlier to her interfering ways when it came to his social life.

  But what kind of social life did he really have when he was married to his job? He supposed he needed to put his foot down and take a stand with her one of these days, tell her to knock it off. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. Lindeen Cody had invented stubborn and patented the formula.

  But the truth was without his mother’s meddling, he rarely bothered doing anything on his own about it. For one, the long hours made it damn near impossible to sustain a relationship. In his experience women required assurances they were in it for the long-term. The one time he’d walked down the aisle to say ‘I do’ had been a disaster. While he’d promised to love and cherish, his bride had been the unfaithful one who’d had a hard time remaining steadfast for one damn tour of duty in Iraq.

  But that was ancient history. He’d gotten past the cheating Cindy and never looked back.

  Didn’t his mother realize that the only women he met on a regular basis worked for him in some capacity or another? And Brent Cody refused to cross that line at work mingling anything personal at the office. Been there. Done that before, too—and it hadn’t worked out any better. In his experience office affairs never worked out.

  But if Lindeen Cody came across an attractive medical assistant at the doctor’s office who she thought might interest her eldest son—or a cute saleswoman she happened to run into at the mall who looked like future daughter-in-law material—Brent would hear about it. Then he’d inevitably give in and meet her through his mother.

  Which meant Brent went on a lot of first dates—or met up with women over coffee on Saturday or Sunday mornings—to talk. If the two of them happened to click, they might plan a couple of movies or dinner dates before they’d tumble into the sheets. They might text during that time—hot and heavy. They might even resort to calling each other for a little phone flirting. It might last three weeks or three months. But it never led to anything more permanent or more serious than that.

  Brent was aware that at his age it was plenty embarrassing to leave it to his mother to hook up with the opposite sex. But on fourteen-hour days like today, he didn’t really see much hope that Mrs. Brent Cody was out there somewhere, waiting in the wings. And at this stage of his life, he didn’t dwell on it.

  He made the turn onto his street, a nice residential area where young families made children. On automatic, he reached up to hit the remote to open the garage door. The rain picked up as he pulled into his driveway. Slowly, he inched the big Dodge inside the narrow garage opening. Grabbing his briefcase, he crawled out of the pickup, absent-mindedly wondering whether or not the Sharks were adding a win to their column.

  When his stomach rumbled craving the leftover pepperoni and cheese, he remembered he hadn’t eaten lunch until four that afternoon and it was now well past eleven. Maybe he’d forego heating up the greasy pie and opt for a quick bowl of Cheerios instead.

  Before he reached the door going into his house, however, he held the clicker for the remote over his shoulder and hit the button to close the garage door. With that one push, the door blew. The force of the explosion blasted him through the air, knocking him back into the wall.

  Brent never even had time to reach for his .45 still in its holster strapped to his shoulder. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway. The ensuing fire had him trapped.

  For a span of several seconds, he couldn’t feel his body, didn’t remember how he’d slid onto the concrete floor. The blinding light of what seemed like a thousand stars impaired his vision. But then just as quickly, the bright white color leveled out and speared to blazing red. He struggled to move, to lift his arm to dial the cell phone he still gripped in his other hand. He realized then and there he could only move one arm.

  Brent heard sirens in the distance. At least he thought he did. It sounded as if two dozen freight trains were roaring through his head all at once. He fought to stay conscious. When his eyes did finally clear enough, he zeroed in on all the blood covering his hands. He realized then how badly he was bleeding. As his strength faded, the blazing hue of red came back threefold.

  And then, there was nothing but blackness.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Pelican Pointe, California

  Brent Cody’s physical injuries were healing. Gradually, a little more each day, he made progress. After three weeks, he could hobble across the street to the pier if he felt like it, even though he still walked with a noticeable limp and the aid of a cane.

  Yesterday he’d even walked down to Main Street and back again. It had taken him damn near an hour and a half to do it but he’d managed to work the slight hill at the top and stay upright.

  The blast had dislocated his shoulder and wrenched his back out when he’d been thrown against the garage wall. He’d suffered cuts from flying glass, numerous contusions and abrasions. He’d suffered burns, a concussion, which had kept him unconscious for close to five days. The pain was still with him every single day. He did his best not to rely on the Demerol the doctors had prescribed him. Instead of the opiate, he popped naproxen like they were M&M’s.

  Thanks to his father Marcus Cody, twice a week he took the trip into Santa Cruz for PT, his physical therapy. There he worked like a dog on getting his legs to move the way they once had and his body to loosen up. The doctors had convinced him his back would get better. It would take time but if he stuck with the routine he would begin to see results.

  Bottom line. Brent was grateful he still had all his limbs. That fact alone made him very aware he was damned lucky to be alive.

  But his mental state was a lot more undefined and shaky. He’d decided not to mention that little fact to his family or his friends. His mind kept going back to that night, replaying the explosion and what he could have done differently.

  He no longer had his little house. It w
as in shambles, pieces here and there strewn about like toothpicks. His totaled, mangled pickup truck had no doubt saved his life. The ten-thousand-pound mass of metal and steel had somehow shielded him from the full impact of the bomb. Something the person who had placed it there hadn’t counted on.

  It hadn’t taken all that long for investigators to determine that an explosive device with a sophisticated timing mechanism put together to make sure he was in that closed up space of a garage, would detonate the second time he pressed his remote-controlled garage door opener. Experts in matters like this were impressed with the workings of the device. Whoever had been responsible for making it possessed a decent knowledge of detonation, specifically experience with radio control. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the bomber first had to get Brent into the confined garage for greater impact. It meant the detonator couldn’t go off with the first click but had to ignite the switch the second time Brent pressed down on the remote.

  Someone wanted him dead. And they were willing to go to extreme measures to see it happen. Added to that, they were still out there.

  With all his years in law enforcement, the list of suspects could be long and varied. Any number of people—from drug dealers with friends in low places—to murderers he’d help put behind bars. Maybe they had family on the outside willing to take the grudge to the next level.

  He didn’t think it had anything to do with the serial killer, Carl Knudsen, he’d put away months ago. Since the pharmacist’s arrest, the man’s wife had been so humiliated she’d sold the business to a family from Portland, Oregon. It hadn’t taken Elaine Knudsen long for her to file for divorce and move away to parts unknown. Ten days ago, the Knudsen’s sign had come down. The new owners, Jill and Ross Campbell, had renamed the place, Coastal Pharmacy. A name change meant things were finally headed in the right direction there.