In the Waning Light

by Loreth Anne White

  Blind adrenaline drove him toward the raging mouth now, bridges burning behind him. Only forward. Live or die. Last chance.

  You know what happens to guys like us in prison, Geoff …

  A horn blasted through the thundering noise of wind and surf. He tensed, looked over his shoulder, saw a white, angry row of lights barreling fast toward him through the fog and sleet. Shit. Blake must have launched the big speedboat. Shitshitshit. He tried to juice his little engine further, but his moment of lost focus cost him as a wave slammed him broadside, and he tipped. Geoff dived for the opposite gunwale of the boat, trying to counterbalance with his weight, but water poured in over the bow, and he started to go down into the churning monster that sucked at the weight of his sodden coat and jeans and boots as he flailed to stay atop the glistening surface.

  Meg battled against the wind to hold her camper on the road while she dialed 911 from her cell, her wipers fighting to slash arcs into slush plastering her windshield. She cursed as yet again she got no reception. Lights were out everywhere, even at intersections. Traffic was building in a steady stream from the opposite direction as people flooded onto the designated tsunami escape route. She turned up her radio. So far it was only a voluntary evacuation to higher ground. According to the announcer, some residents along the waterfront had opted to stay and try to sandbag their properties. There was also warning that the two massive storm fronts had clashed offshore far earlier than anticipated, catching pleasure boaters and fishermen making for safe harbor by surprise. A Japanese tanker that had lost power earlier was now also adrift, and washing dangerously close to rocks off Cannon Beach.

  And then she heard it: landlines were down, and many coastal areas were not receiving cell reception. She cursed as she neared the turnoff to the marina. No pink sign flickered above the building. Blackness down on the water. She turned into the driveway, her beams suddenly lighting on Geoff’s Wrangler parked at an odd angle halfway up the driveway. Her heart stuttered. The driver’s door was open, the tires flat. She hit her brakes, leaped out, and ran to the Jeep. A heavy smell of gas filled her nostrils. She peered inside the Jeep. It was packed with Geoff’s gear, and shopping bags.

  She stood back, fear closing her throat. Blake’s truck was down by the water. In the glow of her headlights she could see a boat trailer behind it, in the slipway, ocean rising around it.

  She hopped back into her rig and drove it down, parking it so that her beams illuminated the marina building. She left her lights on as she ran up to the office, and banged on the door.

  “Hello! Blake … Anyone here!?”

  Silence, apart from the thump thump thump of the buoys in the rafters as they blew in the gale. She sloshed through pooling water to the side window of Crabby Jack’s, wind tearing at her coat. Water drenching her hair. She peered in, couldn’t see a thing. She banged on the window. “It’s Meg! Open up. Hello!”

  The office door opened a crack. A tiny beam of light poked out at waist level.

  She ran to the door.

  Noah stared up at her, white-faced, his eyes holes. In his hand he held a little flashlight.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “It’s my fault.”

  She crouched down. “What … what is your fault, Noah?”

  He flung his arms around her neck and she picked him up. She carried him inside, kicking the door closed behind her. He was shaking like a leaf. Meg set him down. The building creaked and groaned like an ancient mariner’s ship straining against the mounting storm. Sleet thundered on the tin roof.

  “Where is your dad?”

  “He … had a fight with Uncle Geoff. He shot out the tires—”

  “Who did?”

  “Daddy did. He had a gun.” Noah started to cry.

  “Noah … easy. Focus. Just tell me.”

  “Uncle Geoff took a boat, from the docks.”

  “The little one?”

  He nodded. “Daddy took the big speedboat from the garage and went after him. He said Uncle Geoff might hurt himself. Or he might … hurt you. I … was scared. Hiding. He said to call 911 but the phones weren’t working and the lights went out. And the sitter didn’t come.”

  “Oh, Noah, come here.” She hugged him but fear beat a hammer into her heart. “How long has he been gone?”

  “I don’t know. Since before the power went out.”

  “And your dad had a gun?”

  He nodded.

  “And Uncle Geoff—did he have a weapon?”

  “I don’t know.” He started to cry all over again, deep, palsied shudders taking hold of his little body.

  Meg’s mind raced. No phones. No power … the two-way radio. She’d seen one in the living room.

  “Got any more flashlights, Noah?” she said.

  “In the kitchen drawer.”

  She felt in the drawer for a flashlight, clicked it on, panned it around the room, and found a gas lantern. She lit it and carried the shivering light into the living room. Noah followed. She found the radio, and clicked it on. She depressed the key, hoping that Blake kept it on the right channel and that it had enough battery juice.

  “Mayday. Mayday. I need help—can anybody hear me? Mayday.”

  She released the key. Waited. Voices crackled through in snatches, people talking to each other, sounding terribly distant.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Anybody?”

  She released the key, sweat dampening her body.

  A crackling hiss sound came through. Then a voice. “This is Coast Guard Auxiliary, state GPS position, please.”

  She had no flipping idea. “I’m at Bull’s Marina,” she said. “Shelter Bay. Two seamen are in trouble out on the bay.”

  Static crackled over the airwaves, chopping in and out. Then came the voice. “Copy. All resources tied up. Tanker adrift near Cannon Beach. Other craft all out on call. Will try to allocate resources. Meanwhile, please prepare for self-rescue. Copy?”

  Silence.

  Meg glanced at the black windows, sleet sliding down the panes. Panic flicked in her belly.

  “Bull’s Marina, do you copy?”

  “I … yes. I copy. Thank you.” She replaced the radio, hands trembling. What now? She tried her cell phone. Still no reception.

  “Okay, Noah, here’s what we’re going to do—”

  “We can’t leave Dad!”

  “We won’t. We’ll wait here at the marina until he returns, but we’ll stay in my camper. It’s warm in there. I have a gas heater, and a battery-powered radio—we can listen to the alerts. We have food and water and blankets and a small washroom. We’ll park facing the road, so we can be ready at a moment’s notice to drive to higher ground if we need to. I’ll tie one of your father’s spotlights to the rigging on the Crabby Jack deck outside, so he can see his way back, okay? We’ll be here waiting to help him if he needs help.” She swallowed, emotion suddenly thick in her throat.

  Please, Blake, don’t die with my last words on your mind … please, God, give me a chance to make this right …

  “Now, take a flashlight upstairs and go pack a bag of clothes, and anything else you might need. And your favorite book, okay?” She glanced around suddenly. “Where’s Lucy?”

  “I don’t know. She gets scared and hides when thunder comes.”

  “All right, up you go. Get your stuff. I’m going outside to lash that spotlight to the pole. Wait down here for me.”

  Meg found a headlamp in the office and positioned it on her head so she could work hands free. She took one of Blake’s spotlights, turned it on, and ducked outside. Wind ripped at her coat. Icy slush beat at her face. She dragged a table over to the railing and climbed on top. Reaching high, she managed to hook the spotlight onto a crosspiece and bind it into place with rope she’d taken from the covered deck area. As she worked she thanked her dad for teaching her everything she’d ever need to know about mariner’s knots.

  When she climbed down from the table, water was lapping over the sandbags and slinking its wa
y to the glass doors. Nothing she could do about that now.

  Once she’d gotten Noah and his gear secured in her camper, she warmed soup for him at her small stove. He sat eating and shivering while the gas heater fought to warm the interior with its clunky fan. Meg’s mind was going crazy searching for something she could do to help Blake. She would try the Coast Guard again later, but she knew they were inundated, and prioritizing. And they had her on the list. She’d keep checking her cell phone at intervals to see if reception had been returned. Short of that, all she could do was look after his boy and pray his dad would come home safe.

  “I want Lucy,” Noah said.

  “I know, hon. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Dogs are clever that way. She has her tags on her collar, right? We’ll find her when all this clears up. I’m sure of it.”

  “I want my daddy.”

  She tried to swallow, nodded. “I know … I know… .” The camper rocked as a blast of wind slammed them. Slush drummed on the roof. She tucked Noah into a down sleeping bag, and got out her laptop. She would write—to keep her mind off what was happening. As a way of moving forward. This is why she was here in the first place.

  Meg found some fingerless gloves and seated herself at her small camper table in front of her laptop. Blinds drawn against the storm, she tried not to think of Blake out at sea, or what might be happening with Geoff, and she began to type a draft opening to her book. Eventually Noah fell into a deep sleep.

  Partway into the first chapter, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, then scrolled quickly to the top of her document, and typed in a title. Stolen Innocence.

  She stared at the winking cursor. Thunder clapped and she flinched. Deleting the title, she retyped: The Stranger Among Us. But her hands froze as she heard an odd clunk outside the camper.

  A scratching came at the camper door, and the handle moved. Her pulse quickened. She heard another clunk and felt a sense of motion, as if something had bumped her truck upon which the camper shell was secured. The door handle jiggled louder. But the door was locked. She stared at the handle as she reached quietly over to the drawer below the fridge. She slid it open. Mouth dry, she closed her fingers around the hilt of a carving knife. Thunder crashed, and her heart kicked. Slowly, she got to her feet, knife fisted in her hand. She reached for the blind over the table, edged it open a crack. Lightning streaked into the bay, and in the freeze-frame she saw glistening black water, silhouettes of gnarled shore pines bending into wind, and silvery slush. Debris cartwheeled across the parking lot. A rope snapped in the wind. But nothing more.

  Carefully, she moved to the blind on the opposite side of her camper, and as she did, she got a whiff of smoke. Then stronger. Fire.

  As he neared the thundering reef at the mouth of Shelter Bay, Blake’s spotlights hit on a small, black shape, the size of a volleyball, bobbing in the foam, surging closer and closer to the crashing break against the riprap. He swung his boat around to better point his lights at it.

  Geoff.

  His craft must have gone down. Every instinct screamed at Blake to gun straight toward his drowning brother, but experience held him back until the next major surge began to push in. As the face of the wave swelled, veined with white foam, he waited a second longer, moving his engines in and out of gear to hold his boat in place. Then just before the wave began to crest, he gave full throttle and cut across the face, slowing slightly as he came upside Geoff’s head. One hand on the wheel, an eye forward on the wave face, he reached over the side for his brother’s hand. Geoff grasped for Blake’s outreached hand, but slipped free. Blake reversed, then moved forward again, losing precious time as the lip of the wave began to curl in behind him. With the second attempt, Geoff’s fingers locked fast around his wrist, and Blake clamped his brother’s wrist in return, forming a strong chain. He opened throttle as he struggled to haul his brother up over the gunwale. Geoff clambered over the side and dropped into the bottom of the boat just as Blake cleared the breaking lip of the wave. His heart thumped in his throat. Geoff scrabbled to the stern and dragged himself onto the bench as the boat pitched and rocked in the swell. Blake quickly brought his craft around in the calm of the next wave trough, and started back for shore.

  Only then, prow aimed for home, the swell and wind at his stern, did he dare tear his attention from navigating and look at his brother, hunched over, dripping, retching.

  “You could have bloody killed us both!” Blake barked as he swung one of his spotlights around to illuminate his half-drowned sibling hunched at the back of the boat. Geoff’s face was ghost-white. He was shivering uncontrollably, probably going hypothermic.

  “Should have let me go,” Geoff yelled back.

  “You pulled yourself up into the boat.” Wind snatched Blake’s words, forcing him to holler.

  Geoff looked at his hands. “I can’t. I can’t go back.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t go back!” he bellowed, reaching suddenly for the waistband of his jeans. He brought out a pistol.

  Shock slammed through Blake. He slowed engines. “Whoa, Geoff, put that thing away.”

  He raised it slowly, aimed it at Blake.

  “No … Oh no, don’t do this, bro.”

  “I did it,” he yelled. “I chased Meg. I left her to die.” He put his head back, laughed. Loud and maniacal. “God … feels good to get it out. I didn’t know how badly I needed to get it out.”

  Nausea washed into Blake’s stomach. His mind turned black. This was his worst fear confirmed—that his own brother had done this. This was the rabid wolf that had been prowling around the fringes of his consciousness, the beast he’d not been able to allow in, the possibility he’d been unable to entertain fully.

  Geoff’s features hardened suddenly. He cocked the pistol.

  “No, wait.” Blake held a hand out, his other remaining fast on the wheel. He prayed that perhaps the gun wouldn’t fire because it had gotten wet, but it had only been in water a short while, and the ammunition was probably still viable. “Geoff, please, let’s do this the easy way—right way.”

  “Police? Prison? Is that the right way? You know what they do to people like me in prison, Blake?”

  “Just tell me,” he yelled. “Why did you chase Meg?”

  “Because she saw—Meggie saw Henry fucking Sherry. Sherry screamed and screamed until Tommy smacked her in the face, held her down, squeezed her neck, choking her to death as he yelled at Henry to ‘fuck the bitch—fuck her hard, prove you’re a man.’ He called her a traitorous whore … He knew she was going to the spit to screw Ty because Emma had phoned to tell him.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Blake saw another swell rising. His attention split in two as he reversed the engines, holding back for the right moment, blood pounding in his head.

  “Tommy made Henry fetch him in his van from Millar’s Garage. All premeditated—King Kessinger, the psychopathic, puppeteer bully ever since elementary school, jerking people’s strings, making them all dance to his tune. And God forbid he ever targeted you …” Geoff’s voice faded, a strange look overcoming his face. The swell driving at them started to curl at the lip. Sweat drenched Blake under his heavy weather gear. He goosed the two-hundred-horsepower engines as the breaking wave came at them, trying to ride ahead of the surf. In the relative calm of the next wave trough, he slowed, and gave full attention back to his brother.

  “Please, Geoff, just put that gun away. We can work this out—”

  Geoff responded by curling his finger through the trigger guard, and keeping the weapon trained on Blake. “Tommy saw me and Henry together once. It was like he’d hit the mafia blackmail jackpot. From that day, Henry was his main target, his lackey, because Henry was softer than me and ripe for it—Henry’s dad was a school principal. A homophobe. His mom was a respected teacher. Tommy had a nose for this shit.” He couched, and retched again, over the side of the boat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

  “Tommy threatened to tell everyone
Henry was a fag, that he’d been caught with his pants down giving it to Geoff Sutton. Henry would have rather died, and Tommy knew it. He started small, making him do easy things first, building up slowly. Henry knew the stakes if he declined. So that day he picked Tommy up at Millar’s garage and they went to find Ty and Sherry—watched them first, screwing each other like rabbits. It drove Tommy-the-narcissist insane with rage.” Wind blasted the boat suddenly as they rounded the point. Worry sliced through Blake. From here he should be able to see the marina lights. But all was black, shrouded in fog. “What happened then?” he said, keeping his eye on a point in the distance where he expected to see the shore lights, his brain racing for a way to get that weapon away from Geoff.

  “Tommy had Henry follow them, and when Ty dropped Sherry off, he forced her into the van. They took Sherry back to the spit, to the scene of her ‘crime.’ Tommy raped and sodomized her first, showing Henry ‘how it was done like a man,’ then he made Henry do it while he choked her to death.”

  “So, you didn’t go to the spit to meet Henry?”

  Geoff snorted, wiped water from his face. “Just my goddam luck I was there. I was collecting flotsam, and heard the screams. I came over the ridge almost the same time as Meggie on the opposite side of the grove. Couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Henry with his pants down, sobbing as he fucked Sherry. I knew instantly what was going down, and it killed something in me. Meg took off like a frightened hare. Tommy yelled at me to stop her. I knew Henry would take the fall for this. I … I loved the bastard. I wasn’t thinking … I didn’t know what to do. It all happened so fast. I raced after Meggie, and when she reached the point, she fell, and I thought she was dead.”

  Blake reversed engines again, holding back until the right moment before gunning ahead of another wave, riding the swell further toward shore.

  “What about Tommy’s DNA?” he yelled.

  “They used condoms. Tommy pocketed his. Henry dropped his. It’ll match what’s on file. The hairs, too.”