On a Dark Tide

by Valerie Geary

  A shadow separated itself from the boathouse, and before Brett could react, Amma had launched herself at Clara. The force was enough to send both women toppling over the short dock railing and into the water with a thunderous splash.

  Brett ran to where they’d gone in. The two women were tangled up in one another. Amma, whose hands were still tied, thrashed and managed to kick away from Clara, knocking her in the face with a wild flail of her legs. Clara choked on a mouthful of water and swam away, coughing and fighting to keep her head above water.

  Brett called to Amma and stretched out her hand. “Grab on! Swim toward me!”

  But the kick had been a powerful one and had sent Amma spinning into a set of waves that pushed roughly toward shore. She struggled to keep her head above water, but the current was too strong, and she was dragged under.

  Brett worked her boots off her feet and peeled off her jacket. She scanned the spot where Amma had disappeared, saw a flood of air bubbles pop the surface, and dove in next to them.

  The water was ice cold, and the current tugged on her, trying to drag her out even deeper. Brett flailed a moment, then sucked in a breath and dove under, flinging her hands from side to side, feeling for Amma. Salt burned her eyes. Her lungs ached. She came up for air, then dove back under, the waves tumbling her, roiling her stomach.

  This time her hands brushed over something. Instinctively, Brett drew back, terrified by the idea of what might be swimming in the dark beside her. Then she lunged forward again, reaching for whatever it was she’d felt before. Her fingers tangled in softness, the hem of a shirt. She tightened her grip and kicked to the surface. Her head broke first, and she breathed in deep. Pulling hard, she yanked Amma’s head from the water.

  Amma floated limply in Brett’s arms. Brett couldn’t tell if she was breathing. She ripped the gag from her mouth and shouted at her but got no response. Wrapping one arm around her grandmother to keep her head above water, she used the other to stroke as hard as she could toward shore. It wasn’t far. Less than twenty feet, but it felt like she swam the entirety of the Pacific Ocean. Small waves spat them out onto the pebbled beach. Brett stumbled forward, dragging Amma from the greedy ocean. She laid her grandmother down and pumped her hands on her chest. Amma coughed and sputtered. Brett turned her over as she vomited saltwater onto the rocks.

  She was breathing, gasping and coughing, but breathing. Her eyes fluttered open, and seeing Brett, she offered a small, victorious smile.

  Brett tore at the ropes around Amma’s wrists until she was free. Amma started to shiver. Brett, too, was chattering hard, her bones rattling from the cold. She left Amma on the beach and ran back to the dock to grab her jacket.

  Up on the road, a car door slammed, and someone called her name.

  “Irving!” she shouted, then stood and waved her hands over her head. “We’re down here! Call an ambulance!”

  She draped her jacket over Amma and swept a hand over her forehead. “You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be fine.”

  Amma nodded. She was still smiling, though her teeth chattered hard. Brett couldn’t tell if the moonlight was making her lips look so gray or if it was from the cold.

  Irving appeared on the beach, panting from his rush to get down to them. He stared at Amma, at Brett, both of them dripping and shivering. “What the hell happened?”

  “Jimmy’s in the boathouse with a gunshot wound to the leg,” Brett explained as quickly as she could. “Amma’s showing signs of hypothermia. They both need the hospital. I have to go back in.”

  “You what?”

  But she was already racing toward the water again. “Clara!” she shouted over her shoulder at him. “She’s still out there!”

  She splashed in up to her knees, then dove forward into the rolling waves, taking long strokes, kicking hard to get back to where she saw Clara start to go under. Her shivering lessened as she swam, but she could feel her hands and feet going numb. She knew that she didn’t have long before she got too cold, and it became dangerous for her to stay in the water.

  When she reached the spot, she slowed, treading water, and scanned for any sign of Clara. A flicker of white, a hand raised, clawing for something to hold on to, or a body, floating face down, anything to suggest there was still a chance to drag her to shore and make her answer for the lives she’d ruined. Anything to indicate she wasn’t dead at the bottom of the bay, waiting to be tossed ashore or dragged out to the ocean to be picked apart by sturgeon and crabs. But there were only the waves and the tide and her own splashing arms, only the dark swirling water beneath her, a bottomless void she did not have the strength to swim through.

  For several minutes she thrashed. Diving and surfacing, diving and surfacing, searching for Clara, stretching her arms into the darkness, feeling with her fingers, but finding nothing.

  Thanks to Marshall, she had answers, enough to close three cases, but that felt like nothing. A hollow victory in the face of her losses. She wanted to know what exactly had happened the day Margot died, every damn detail. The words that were said, if Margot put up a fight or if she had tried to run. If her death had been quick. If she’d suffered. And why, and why, and why? With every stroke of her arm, every kick of her leg, the word thrust through Brett. Why Margot? Why Nathan? Why Zach? Why anyone? But the longer she swam in circles, the more she stopped caring about the reasons behind Clara’s choices. All her anger, frustration, and grief twisted into a tight knot until why was replaced with good and good and good. This is what she deserved—the ocean could have her rotten soul.

  In the distance, the night lit up with wailing sirens. Faintly above that, she heard Irving shouting at her from somewhere, telling her to swim back, but she had passed the point of rational thinking. She treaded water and stared out over the vast empty space of the ocean, unable to tell where the water ended and the sky began. She felt herself sinking under, but she no longer had the strength to fight against it.

  A hand grabbed the collar of her shirt and hauled her from the water. Her back scraped against a wooden railing, and she was tossed like a fish onto the boards. She hadn’t realized she’d floated so close to the dock. She would have struggled, would have fought to stay in the water and keep searching, but she had nothing left. The cold and the effort had left her empty and numb.

  “Brett.” Irving’s voice sounded miles away rather than right here beside her, throwing a blanket around her shoulders. “Are you with me?”

  She huddled in a ball, shivering.

  “It’s over,” he said, rubbing one hand over her back for comfort or warmth or both. “She’s gone. You did the best you could, okay? Listen to me. You did the best you could.”

  He stayed with her until the paramedics came.

  Chapter 39

  Two Whatcom County sheriff boats cruised the shoreline outside Amma’s house. Brett stood on the dock, watching them. Divers donned their gear and slipped into the water with barely a ripple. They were farther out today than they’d been all week, having exhausted the area closest to shore.

  Five days of searching. Five days coming up empty-handed.

  The water temperature hovered near fifty degrees, too cold for anyone to survive for more than an hour or two. And the current was strong enough to sweep a body far out to sea, farther than the boats and divers were willing to search. But the tide had carried Nathan ashore, lifting him from the deep to expose Clara’s secrets, and Brett didn’t think it was too much to hope that this same tide might pull Clara in as well. The longer the search dragged on, the more that hope dimmed.

  The sheriff’s department was doing them a favor, searching like this. Henry hadn’t even wanted to ask. She’s dead, Brett. You saw her go under, and she never came back up. What more do you want? She wanted a body. She wanted to know this was over. Really over. So she’d pleaded with him until finally Henry caved and placed the call to the sheriff asking for a couple of boats and extra manpower. But searching cost mon
ey, and the deputies had their own jobs to get back to. Today was the last time they’d go out on the water, the last chance for Brett’s luck to change.

  She turned her gaze toward the road, empty now, though the first day of searching had been a circus. Amma’s yard had been taped off again, and bystanders pressed against the perimeter, trying to get a good look at the boats in the water. Some brought chairs and coolers of beer and spent the whole day watching the divers. The Tribune sent reporters with cameras and obnoxious questions. Seattle’s KING5 even sent a crew. But after a few days of finding only trash at the bottom of the ocean, the crowds went home. Even the officers she’d recruited the first two days to comb the beaches, in hopes Clara would have washed up at some point, stopped coming. Brett didn’t blame them. The weather had been terrible all week. Rainy and windy and damn cold. Ice-breath, teeth-chattering cold. She understood not wanting to be outside in this kind of chill working over an empty beach, freezing your ass off for nothing.

  Brett dug her hands in her pockets and buried her chin into the collar of her coat, trying to stop her shivering. Ever since Irving had pulled her from the water, she’d been unable to shake the bone-deep ache of near-hypothermia. Hot showers, multiple cups of coffee, sitting in front of the heater, blankets piled on top of her—nothing warmed her. She was thinking about taking a vacation. California or Florida. Fiji. Hawaii. Someplace where she could lie in the sun all day.

  She glanced at the house where Amma stood silhouetted against the glass of the french doors. Pistol, that crooked-eared clown, pranced beside her.

  They’d gotten lucky. Amma had spent only one night in the hospital, for monitoring. She had a few bruises and cuts but no lasting problems from her near-drowning. She’d actually found the whole thing to be quite exhilarating—her words—and had taken to reciting the events in great detail to anyone who would listen.

  Brett had stayed at her grandmother’s bedside the entire night. Even after the doctors told her to go home, she stayed, watching her grandmother sleep. Her thoughts were a prayer as she watched the rise and fall of Amma’s chest—alive, alive, alive.

  In the middle of the night, Amma’s eyes had fluttered open. “Where am I?”

  “The hospital,” Brett reminded her. “You almost died.”

  But Amma swatted gently at her. “I did not. I knew exactly what I was doing when I pushed that bitch into the water.”

  “Amma…” Brett laughed at her grandmother’s crass language.

  She squeezed Brett’s hand. “I’m so sorry. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t let her into the house.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, it is. Jimmy told me to keep the door locked. He told me what Clara and Marshall had done to him, and I…” Her gaze drifted over Brett’s shoulder to the window. “I forgot. When I saw her on the porch, I thought I must have invited her over.” A shudder ran through Amma’s body, frail beneath the hospital sheets. “You almost lost him because of me. You almost lost both of us.”

  “We’re fine, Amma.” Brett bent and kissed her forehead. “We’re all going to be just fine.”

  Amma’s eyes started to droop shut. Just when it seemed like she’d fallen asleep again, she whispered, “I talked to the doctor when you were out getting coffee. They gave me the name of a neurologist in Seattle. He’s supposed to be the best.” She tapped a piece of paper lying on the bedside table. “I told them to write it down for you. In case I forgot. You know how I’m always forgetting.” Her words faded as she drifted to sleep.

  Brett tucked the slip of paper in her pocket.

  The next day, Amma was discharged.

  They had an appointment to see the neurologist in December. Until then, they were home again and had slipped into a quiet routine. Amma painted in the mornings when Brett was at work and the light was best. When she could manage it, Brett came home for lunch, and they took Pistol on a walk. Then Amma would nap or read in the afternoons. In the evenings, they watched television together. When Amma was feeling particularly energetic, they played board games. Amma sometimes forgot where she left her shoes. She sometimes asked Brett when Frank was coming home. She’d stopped complaining about the noises in the attic, though. Whatever she’d heard scratching around up there in October seemed to have moved on, but Brett left the traps set, just in case. She wasn’t sure how long this calm would last, but for now, she was grateful for it.

  Amma retreated into the house again. Pistol stayed by the door, though, nose pressed to the glass.

  Brett had stopped by Lindy Danforth’s trailer last night, intending to give the Chihuahua back to the woman. It had been wrong of her to take the dog in the first place. Lindy had been surprised to see them both. She’d reached to take the dog but then pulled back, shaking her head. He’s better off with you, she’d said. Out of guilt or a sense of fairness, Brett had pulled twenty dollars from her wallet and offered it to Lindy. The woman hesitated only a second before snatching the bill from her fingers and slamming the trailer door shut.

  “Guess you’re stuck with me,” Brett had said to the dog. Tail wagging, Pistol had licked her face.

  A car pulled up to the curb, and Pistol started barking, his yips muffled by the glass doors. Irving got out of the car, holding two Styrofoam coffee cups in each hand. He walked down to the dock and offered Brett one of the cups.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip, grateful for the brief second of warmth.

  They stood in silence, drinking their coffees and watching the divers work.

  After a while, Irving glanced at the house. “How’s Anita today?”

  “She’s fine,” Brett said. “She keeps hinting that she wants to take the boat out.”

  Irving raised his eyebrows. “Awfully cold for sailing, isn’t it?”

  “I keep telling her that.” Brett smiled. “But she says sailing is for all seasons as long as the wind is blowing.”

  Irving grunted a laugh and shook his head. “Don’t let her talk you into it. What about your friend Jimmy? Is he still around?”

  Instead of the usual button-down shirt and patterned tie, Irving was wearing a casual dark green polo. Brett found herself missing the birds.

  “He and Trixie drove back to Portland after breakfast,” she said.

  The bullet had missed every major artery in Jimmy’s leg and done no damage to the bone. A quick surgery to remove the slug, a few stitches, and with the help of a cane, pain killers, and sheer stubbornness, Jimmy was up and walking in two days.

  This morning as she helped carry his suitcase to the car, with Trixie weaving between their legs, he’d offered to stay in Crestwood. Permanently.

  “I’ll move here for you,” he’d said, and she told him that was the codeine talking. “I didn’t take any today,” he’d said, and then, “Bretty, I’m serious. Say the words, and I’ll stay.”

  She had tried a few times, practicing the words in her head—I love you, Jimmy. Yes, please stay. Stay here for me. Be with me. But they stuck in her throat whenever she tried to say them out loud, and she couldn’t tell if it was because she didn’t love him enough or because she loved him too much.

  There was nothing for him here. Seeing him shot, nearly bleeding out on the floor of the boathouse, Brett realized that she would never be able to give Jimmy Eagan the life or the love he deserved. She would forever be holding him at arm’s length, afraid of this—afraid of losing him forever. It was better, kinder, to let him go now before he got too attached.

  She’d given him a quick hug goodbye but felt him lingering, holding her tighter, giving her time to change her mind. She pulled away first. “Call me when you get there.” And then he was gone. The last she saw of him was a hand darting out the window in a quick wave before he turned onto the highway and drove south.

  “How many more times are you going to come out here?” Irving asked.

  “This is the last,” she said.

  “And then what?”

/>   She shrugged. “And then we write her off as shark bait, I guess.”

  They stared over the water. Waves lapped the pebbled shore.

  Without a body, it all felt so unfinished.

  Brett gestured to a small dark bird with gray and white markings bobbing off the far end of the dock. “What kind is that?”

  Irving squinted at it. “Hard to say for sure without my binoculars, but it looks like a Pacific Loon. They nest around tundra lakes up north during the summer but spend their winters here. It’s rare to see one alone like that. Last year, there were thousands.”

  They watched the bird paddle in lazy circles. Without warning, it stretched up from the water, extended its wings, and flapped wildly, running across the water’s surface a significant distance before taking flight.

  Irving gave a satisfied grunt, then turned to Brett and said, “I know it’s not exactly the ending you wanted, but it is an ending.”

  He left her standing on the dock and walked back to his car.

  * * *

  As the sun sank, the county sheriff’s boats took a final circle around the harbor and roared south, back to the mooring dock where the crew would unpack their gear and head to the bar for drinks. The search for Clara Trudeau was officially over.

  Brett sighed and turned to go back inside the house, but a figure standing on a small hill on the other side of the road drew her attention. The view of Sculpin Bay from that spot was expansive, and neighbors would often walk up to enjoy the sunset or watch for whales. This evening, Elizabeth stood alone, eyes scanning the horizon. She wore a puffy green jacket and a pink wool hat pulled low over her ears. Her face was wrapped in a striped neon scarf. When Brett arrived at the top of the hill, Elizabeth scooted over, making room for her on the flat patch of grass.

  Twice this week, Brett had stopped by the Trudeau’s ranch house to try and talk to Elizabeth, but she’d been turned away at the door. Her grandparents said Elizabeth wasn’t ready to speak to anyone, let alone the cop who arrested her father.