The Man on the Cliff

If there was any correlation between bad luck with men and a poor sense of direction, Kate Neeson thought it might explain a whole lot about her life.

She was lost. Again. She turned off the ignition and peered gloomily through the window of the rented Peugeot at the unfamiliar Irish countryside. Isolated cottages, stunted windswept trees and stone walls. Endless stone walls. Around the twists and turns of the road, she'd caught glimpses of pale ocean merging into pale sky. Before the road started climbing again, she'd heard the low roar of waves breaking. On the coast, obviously, but in Ireland that wasn't much help.

With a sigh, she reached for the map and spread it out over the passenger seat. Cragg's Head, the village where she'd arranged to meet a local reporter, was barely more than a dot on Connemara's ragged coast. She'd set up the meeting before she left the States, but had forgotten to ask him for directions. Jet-lagged and cold, she rubbed her eyes. On the map, the area looked like a piece of china, picked up and hurled to the ground in a tantrum.

Moruadh had fallen from Connemara's steep cliffs nearly a year ago. Kate tucked her hands under her arms, chilled by the damp air seeping into the car. Moruadh, the young Irish folksinger whose songs of love, doomed, lost and unrequited, rang uncomfortably true to life. Or at least to her own life. Moruadh was why Kate was in Ireland, but she didn't want to think about Moruadh right now. Specifically, she didn't want to think about Moruadh's death. Tomorrow would be time enough for that. Tomorrow - after a decent night's sleep - she wouldn't be plagued by a spooked feeling that had her glancing over her shoulder and checking door locks.

Tomorrow, she would wear down the widower's resistance. If Niall Maguire had something to hide, she would ferret it out. Reluctant interview subjects didn't discourage her.

Unable to stop herself, Kate again glanced over her shoulder, but a drifting fog only heightened the sense of isolation. Did anyone actually live in the west of Ireland? With her palm, she wiped away condensation from the windshield and tried to decide whether to plough on, in the unlikely hope she was headed in the right direction, or turn back to the last village.

Through the swirling air, she saw two figures out on a narrow footpath. She rolled down the passenger window to ask for directions, then changed her mind. Irish advice on such matters, she'd discovered, was picturesque, convoluted and usually wrong.

A car's yellow hazard lights drew close, fog curling around the lamps like ghostly ballerinas. Out on the footpath, the two figures merged briefly. A moment passed and then the smaller of the two broke away and began to run. The tall one followed in swift pursuit, and both moved wraithlike in and out of the fog. When it cleared again, she saw only a tall, dark silhouette, motionless before it, too, disappeared, leaving the footpath as empty as if she'd imagined the whole thing.

Teeth chattering, she started the car. The tall one had done away with the small one, she decided. He was out there now looking for his next victim. A deranged woman hater. She could feel his eyes boring into her head. Probably deciding whether to drag her out of the car or just roll the car with her in it over the cliffs.

Panicked enough to convince herself that the scenario might not be that far-fetched, she let out the clutch. The car shuddered to a halt. Cursing manual transmissions, she started the engine up again and let it idle for a moment. Her hands on the wheel were shaking. Get a grip. There's no one out there. This is Ireland not Santa Monica.

And then she looked up to see a man at the window.

She screamed. His face, like an apparition in the swirling fog, was narrow with dark eyebrows and light gray eyes. For a moment he stood motionless at the open passenger window, evidently immobilized by her scream. Then, hands up at his chest, palms out, he slowly backed away from the window.

"God, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Kate stared at him. Even as the adrenaline rush of fear slowly faded, the scream still rang in her ears. She took some deep breaths. He was probably about her age, mid-thirties, tall and slender. He wore a rough woolen jersey, unraveling slightly at the neck, and an open sheepskin jacket, dark with moisture. A couple of cameras were slung around his neck, a leather gadget bag over one shoulder. A smile flickered tentatively across his face.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Given her panicky state a few minutes earlier, the presence of this complete stranger was oddly reassuring. "It's kind of deserted out there, I don't see a soul for a couple of hours. Then I see two people in the fog. One of them disappears and then the other, and suddenly you're at my window." She managed a shaky laugh. "Another minute and I'd have had my can of Mace out."

"Would you now?" The faint smile appeared again. "But what if I'd been wanting to help you? Which I was."

"I'm naturally suspicious," she said, distracted momentarily by his eyes. Pale as the fog and fringed with dark lashes, they seemed focused on something beyond her shoulder. In a split second, though, she realized they were actually watching her. It was disconcerting. Like looking through a one-way mirror and finding someone looking back at you.

Moments passed. She stared through the open passenger window at him. He gazed into the car at her.

"Did you see anyone out there on the edge of the cliffs a few minutes ago?" she asked, thinking again of the disappearing figures.

"I didn't. But I was supposed to meet a girl up here at six ..." His glance took in the mist-shrouded landscape, then he looked at Kate again. "I was beginning to think I'd been stood up, but maybe it was her you saw. A few minutes ago, you say?"

She glanced at the dashboard clock, then up at him and felt vaguely envious of the girl who'd stood him up. "About that, I guess."

"Did she have long fair hair?" he asked.

"I don't even know if it was a girl. I just saw two people. One was smaller, I assumed it was female. She - if it was a she - wasn't alone, though."

"Right." He studied her face for a moment. "Well, I'll take a look around then. Maybe she's just late."

Kate eyed the cameras slung around his neck. The breast pocket of his jacket bulged with what she guessed was film and, in a lower pocket, she could see the corner of a green-and-white carton. "You're shooting a new Waldo book? Find Waldo in the fog?"

He gave her a blank look. "Waldo? Little blue-and-red-striped figure? You have to find him in a page of ... Never mind. I was just curious about what kind of pictures you could take under these conditions." The thought flashed through her brain that she wanted to prolong this encounter.

"It isn't ideal," he said, "but there are certain settings and film speeds that compensate." He leaned into the window a little. "Listen, I'm sorry I frightened you just now."

"You didn't frighten me." She met his eyes. "You startled me."

"Ah."

"There's a difference."

"Right, of course. I didn't mean to suggest ..." He shifted his bag to the other shoulder. "Can I do anything? Your car's running all right, is it? You're not out of petrol?"

"No." Kate took another look at the clock. It was five minutes to six. "Am I headed the right way for Cragg's Head?"

Excerpted from The Man On The Cliff by Janice MacDonald Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.