by L. T. Vargus
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Scott. Calm down. Getting all worked up again isn’t helping anything. We need to stay calm. Isn’t that right?” Lesley asked, posing the question to Darger.
“Absolutely.”
“Calm and calculating,” Lesley repeated with a nod. “I still think that what we really need is to get the word out. If my little girl gets in the hands of sex traffickers—”
Loshak stood up a little straighter.
“Who said anything about sex trafficking?” Loshak asked.
“No one had to say anything. It’s absolutely rampant down here,” Lesley said.
“And this Christiaan Brinkman… he’s somehow tied into that?”
Lesley and Scott exchanged a look. Scott scratched the back of his overly tan neck.
“Well no… not that we know of.”
Loshak raised his eyebrows.
“I didn’t mean it so literally,” Lesley said. “The sex trafficking angle would really just be a way to get the spotlight on us, you know? Get the media’s attention.”
“I really don’t think—” Loshak started, but Lesley had already turned her attention on Darger.
“Two words,” she said. “Jillian Barrow.”
“What about her?” Darger asked, not knowing what the Court TV host would have to do with any of this.
“Do you think she’d take an interest?”
“I have no idea.”
“But… you know her, don’t you?”
“No,” Darger said, more confused now than ever.
Lesley recoiled as if shocked by this revelation.
“But she did that feature on you. The one about the Leonard Stump case.”
Darger felt her face grow hot. That fucking feature. Tabloid garbage. Full of exaggerations and trumped-up melodrama. She hadn’t been able to watch more than two minutes at a time before getting so pissed off she had to turn it off.
“I didn’t have anything to do… it was unauthorized… I’ve never met or spoken to Jillian Barrow.”
Lesley didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. Her neatly plucked brows knitted together. But she recovered quickly, putting a hand on Darger’s arm.
“Oh but surely you would have some way to get in contact with her? I mean, just imagine me on camera, begging for whoever took my little girl to bring her back home.” Lesley’s eyelids fluttered, and Darger got the sense this was something she’d imagined many times since Micaela had gone missing. “No one would turn a blind eye then. How could they? We could really get the ball rolling . And I could do as many interviews as you think would be necessary. I’m thinking that once we’ve got it on TV, then I could start talking to the newspapers, magazines.”
Loshak cleared his throat.
“I think we should put this idea on hold for now.” He spread his hands apologetically. “It’s really best if we do some preliminary investigating before getting the media involved. The last thing we need is a bunch of reporters scrambling around, muddying the waters.”
“Agent Loshak is being kind,” Spinks said. “What he means to say is that the press are like a tank of piranhas. They have no interest in solving the case. They’re just looking for their next feeding frenzy.”
Lesley’s mouth twitched.
“But don’t you think that overall, what a case like this needs is more people asking the hard questions?” She slammed her fist into the railing. “More people demanding to know what happened to my daughter?”
“Of course,” Spinks said. “And who better than two FBI agents?”
Loshak aimed a thumb at the reporter.
“Actually, Spinks here is a special media consultant. So when the time comes to get the press involved, he’ll be the guy to go to.”
Darger bit the inside of her cheek, knowing this was an absolute load of baloney. Spinks only smiled and nodded as if he knew exactly what Loshak was going on about.
“I can’t make any promises, but I might be able to get Jillian Barrow,” Spinks said, punctuating the sentence with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I know some people who know some people, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.”
Lesley’s eyes glittered, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Spinks held up a finger.
“But that’s to be discussed at a later juncture. For now, we let our two FBI sleuths do what they do best. Without outside interference.”
Before Lesley could think up a way to argue with that reasoning, Loshak stepped toward the couple with his hand extended.
“Thanks again for coming down. It was very helpful to get this background on Micaela. Gives us a lot to work with, right off the bat.” He tucked one of his cards in Lesley’s hand. “Please don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything else. Otherwise, we’ll keep you posted.”
“Oh, but I—”
Scott, all business, was the one who took the hint. He locked an arm around his wife.
“Come on, honey. It’s time to let the professionals do their job.”
“But I still think we should act quickly.”
“You heard the man,” Scott said. “Muddy, uh, muddy waters and all that. Come on, now. Let’s go back to our cabana. Get out of the FBI’s, you know, hair.”
It was clear by Lesley’s body language that she wasn’t happy at being dismissed so abruptly, but she allowed her husband to lead her away. As they watched the two disappear around a bend at the far end of the marina, Loshak turned to Spinks.
“A tank of piranhas?” he said. “Is that how you really feel about your colleagues?”
“I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. Of course, I myself have only the purest of motivations.” Spinks waggled his eyebrows. “Now, does this new Special Media Consultant position come with any benefits? A bump in pay?”
“You’re not getting paid as it is.”
“Oh. Right.” He sighed. “In any case, I get the sense that’s a woman used to getting her way. And she is not pleased being told no.”
“Let’s just hope she doesn’t go rogue and call up Jillian Barrow or any of the other tabloid ghouls.”
“Sorry about them ambushing you like that,” Owen said. “Somehow they got word that you all were flying down, and they just showed up here this morning, insisting on having the first word. They have a bit of a rivalry, Sully and Lesley, Micaela’s, uh, biological parents.”
“How much of a rivalry?”
“Oh, from what Sully’s told me, it wasn’t too bad before. Sounded like normal ex-spouse stuff. Disagreements on little things. Him being too lax with Micaela. Her being too much of a control freak. But since the kid went missing, it’s gone up a few notches. Lesley more or less blames Sully for the whole thing. She’s been dragging out every old hurt from their divorce and before.”
“That’s never pretty,” Spinks said.
“In any case, my real regret was that I’d intended on giving you a true island greeting after your long flight, and those two kind of threw off the whole vibe.”
“Oh yeah?” Spinks asks. “What’s a true island greeting look like?”
Owen leaned over and flipped open the top of a cooler nestled near the cockpit. The tops of a dozen beer bottles poke up above the ice.
CHAPTER 4
Sipping their beers, Owen gave them a quick tour of the boat. The cabin was cozy, with rows of small portholes running along the walls to bring in a surprising amount of natural light. It reminded Darger of an old VW camper a neighbor’s parents owned when she was a kid. They’d used the space as a playhouse in the summer months, folding and unfolding the small galley, climbing into the bunks.
Except that Owen didn’t just play here. He lived here. And Darger considered just how tiny the area was. It was only after they were finishing the tour - it didn’t take long when you could fit the entire place in the square footage of a city bus - that she realized how neat everything was. Owen wasn’t neat. Owen left the tops of cereal bags unrolled inside the boxes. He kicked his dirty clothes into piles a
t the corners of rooms instead of putting them in the hamper.
As if reading her mind, Spinks said, “You must have to be kind of minimalist to live in such a small space.”
“Oh yeah. You end up deciding pretty quick which things are important enough to bring along and which ones aren’t. I brought in like three duffel bags’ worth of clothes at first and ended up taking most of it back to storage.”
Spinks nodded.
“I did a story once, on this ultra-minimalist couple. They were into it, man. Like, really into it,” he said, pausing to take a sip of beer.
“Like a tiny house, all that?”
“Oh no. A house of any size would have been akin to gluttony in their minds. They each had a single pack for their stuff. Lived in a tent.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. They were a little… culty, frankly.” Spinks gestured at the neat cabin area. “This would have been too much stuff to them. I mean, these people shared a toothbrush.”
“Ew,” Darger said.
“I know. They also didn’t wear shoes.”
“Shoes are too materialistic now?”
Spinks took another drink, smacking his lips.
“They called it the ‘barefoot lifestyle.’”
Owen shrugged.
“Well, I must admit that I’m barefoot about ninety percent of the time I’m on the boat.”
“Sure, but these people lived in Palm Beach. Can you imagine walking around the city — any city — barefoot?” Spinks shuddered at the thought.
“Didn’t they get kicked out of places?” Loshak asked. “You know… ‘No shirt, no shoes, no service?’”
“If they went into shops and restaurants, they probably would have, but they barely went anywhere like that. Did most of their shopping on the street. Farmers markets and whatnot. They didn’t want bags or receipts. They were vegan. Ate mostly beans and rice they bought in bulk and fresh vegetables from the market. And they had one spoon, one fork, one knife each.”
“You mean they didn’t share those like they shared the toothbrush?” Darger asked. “Where’s the commitment?”
Spinks chortled.
When they reached the front of the boat where the “master suite” was, Darger spotted a familiar face lounging on the bed.
“You brought Clancy?” She bent and scratched the enormous black cat under the chin. “I thought your mother was taking him.”
“She was going to, but… I got selfish and wanted the companionship,” Owen said.
Darger was about to say something about Owen being crazy for bringing a cat onboard a sailboat, but she kept her mouth shut. She was supposed to have been on that maiden voyage. Had Owen been that upset when she backed out?
“And he… likes it?” Spinks asked. “Being on the boat, I mean.”
“Oh yeah. He loves it.”
Owen scooped the cat into his arms and held it like a baby, stroking its belly. The cat purred and stretched out both front legs.
“He was a stray anyway. Just wandered up to my doorstep one day, all skin and bones. I don’t think he trusted people so much, but I think he got desperate. He had a wound on his leg, so I fed him and took him to the vet. They gave me some antibiotics to give him if he stuck around, but I think we all figured he’d wander off once he got his strength back. He was pretty skittish at first. Didn’t want to get too close. Didn’t necessarily like being pet. But I propped the front door open and let him decide when he’d come and go. At first he’d only poke his head inside. But after maybe a week, he was coming in for longer exploratory missions. He’d let me pet him some by then. And then one night it was raining and cold out. I could tell he didn’t want to go back out, but that he was also nervous about staying in the house. So I left the door open in case he decided he had to go and went to bed. And when I woke up the next morning, he was asleep at the end of the bed. He followed me around everywhere after that. In the house, out in the yard. He does the same here. As far as he’s concerned, I think as long as I’m here to provide food and a warm, dry place to sleep, he’s happy.”
Owen dropped the cat back onto the bed.
“Isn’t that right, Clancy?”
The cat stared up at him and meowed while kneading the bed with his paws.
“Does he get up and walk around on the deck?”
“Oh yeah. I figured he’d only want to go up when we were anchored and things were still, but he took to it immediately. He loves to prowl around up there when we’re sailing. His favorite thing is to stare into the water in case there are any fish around.”
“And he doesn’t try to escape when you’re docked?”
“No. He’ll wander a little, but never very far.”
Water lapped against the hull of the boat, sounding muffled in the cabin. It reminded Darger of a heartbeat.
“Anyway, why don’t we go above deck to finish our beers? It’s kinda cramped down here,” Owen said.
They filed up the narrow set of stairs and spread out along the bench seating near the cockpit.
Condensation dripped down from the beer bottle in Darger’s hands, moistening her fingers. The ropes lashing them to the docks creaked as the boat gently bobbed and swayed in the water. She peered over the edge, down into the sea that looked dark emerald green in the shade of the boat.
“I’m still waiting on a part for my engine, or I’d offer to take y’all on a short cruise while you’re here,” Owen said. “It’s supposed to come in any day now, so maybe I can get the repair done before you go.”
“What do you need an engine for?” Spinks gestured to the mast. “I thought the sails did all the work.”
Owen smiled.
“Well yeah, but there’s a backup engine for emergencies. And even though odds are we’d be fine, I don’t like taking any chances. The number one rule of any boating, but especially sailing, is to maintain a healthy respect for the water. If you don’t, well… My favorite sailing quote is from this guy that used to do those completely bonkers, solo, around-the-world races. He said, ‘The sea finds out everything you did wrong.’ And it’s true. Every wave is a new test.”
The lapping water took on a new context for Darger… now she couldn’t help but imagine the rippling water as a thousand fingers, poking and prodding to try to find any weakness in the boat. It was an unsettling thought. She again wondered how Owen could stand living on this thing. It was peaceful, sure, but he himself acknowledged the danger in it.
Spinks crossed his legs and leaned back against the padded seat.
“What’s the longest you’ve ever been out on the open water, alone?”
Owen knew the number off the top of his head. “Twelve days.”
“You ever think about doing one of those solo races?” Loshak asked. “I read a book about the Vendée Globe race. Sounded pretty intense.”
“Hell no.” Owen was already shaking his head. “Those people are masochists.”
“What’s the Vendée Globe?” Darger asked.
“It's considered the most dangerous sailing race in the world. Solo. Non-stop. You can anchor to rest or make repairs, but you can't draw alongside another vessel or receive any outside assistance. The course is 24,000 miles, and it goes around Cape Horn, which is known for incredibly rough seas. Icebergs. Rogue waves of up to nearly a hundred feet. No, thank you. Comparing what I do to the Vendée Globe is like comparing cross-country skiing to the ski-jump. Those people are truly nuts. I got into sailing because I wanted to relax.”
“Sounds like they found a way to turn it into the exact opposite,” Loshak said.
“Exactly. Although everyone who sails will tell you that if you get into it thinking you get to spend all your time sunning yourself on deck, you’ll be sorely disappointed. See, if I’d been smart, I would have just buddied up with someone who already had a boat. Let them handle the responsibility of maintaining it and all that. But I chose to do it the hard way.”
“Do you regret it, then?” Spinks asked.
&
nbsp; For some reason, this question made Darger uncomfortable. She picked at the label of her beer bottle and stared down at her sandal-clad feet.
Owen inhaled, pausing a moment before answering.
“Nah. I mean, when I’m trying to get to harbor during a storm and the engine dies on me, and then I have to spend over a month diagnosing the problem and waiting on parts… sometimes I have a day here and there where I ask myself if this is really worth it. But all I have to do is look around and remind myself of the big picture. Every responsibility I have fits in these one-hundred-and-fifty square feet. And that simplifies things. Most of the time it feels like I’m utterly free of all the bullshit I hated about what us liveaboards call ‘the real world.’ Paying rent and keeping the lawn mowed. Property taxes. Parking tickets. There’s plenty to worry about out here on the water, but it’s different. It all feels… necessary. When I gotta climb up the mast to do a repair, that work means something. It’s the difference between getting where I need to go and drifting aimlessly in the current.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Well shoot,” Spinks said. “When you describe it that way, kinda makes me want to pull up stakes and buy me a boat.”
Darger couldn’t help but agree with the reporter. Then again, Owen could make a lot of things sound enticing.
CHAPTER 5
Darger was still staring over the side of the boat, watching the water ripple along the hull. The movement was endless. Mesmerizing.
“You’re not getting seasick over there, are you?” Owen asked.
It was a moment before Darger realized he was talking to her, and she snapped her head up.
“Me? I’m fine.”
“Seasick?” Spinks repeated. “We’re barely moving.”
“Even so, sometimes this is when I get a little queasy. There’s something about being so close to the docks, I think. Being able to see the solid ground but also feel the boat moving underneath you. Adds to the disorientation.” Owen squinted at her. “We can always go sit on land. There are some picnic tables down there.”
“I’m OK,” Darger said, blushing and feeling awkward at the fuss. “Really.”