Dead Low Tide

by Eddie Jones

  What was meant by “bogus offer”? Had Mom been right? Was the sales job a scam?

  She is a fighter, your sister. I had a hard time getting her to settle down. But now she is … shall we say, dead to the world.

  I scrolled down. As I did, I noticed my hands trembling.

  You may be wondering what I want. It’s simple, really. I want my life back. And you are the only thing standing in my way.

  Do not try to trace this email. It would be a waste of time — time your sister does not have. And DO NOT show this to anyone. It would only make things worse for your sister. Yes, there ARE things worse than death.

  Enjoy the rest of your evening, Nick. I can assure you, your sister will not.

  The email was signed Heidi.May.Laveau@coolghoulgazette.com.

  Feeling light-headed, I sat on the side of the boat. Obviously the return email address was bogus, since there was no way my editor or anyone else on the staff would issue such an account. But that didn’t answer the question of who had Wendy.

  Certainly, someone who knew me, knew we’d come down for Dad’s job interview, and knew my parents were at dinner. Had Wendy told the kidnapper all this? Had she been tortured? And what did the sender mean: You are the only thing standing in my way. I didn’t know anyone on Palmetto Island, so how could I possibly cause problems for someone?

  The email ended any thoughts I had about going to see the Gullah woman. I needed to get back to the condo and make a plan. One that involved backtracking every place I’d been on the island and every person I’d met. Thing was, the only person I had talked to for any length of time was the new girl, Kat. Could she be the kidnapper?

  I put my phone away and walked numbly back to my bike. I did not remember the ride home or pulling into the parking lot. I popped the curb in front of the condo and let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized the Buick was still gone. I slipped into the condo through the patio door, kicked off my sneakers, and crashed on the couch. I thought about how scared Wendy looked in the email, how her sweat shirt was streaked with mud and her hair was damp. It was possible she’d fallen in. Or maybe she’d jumped and tried to swim away. Either way, she was trapped now.

  And it was my fault.

  Closing my eyes, I sent Wendy a silent plea to hang in there. Don’t worry, sis. I’ll find you, I promise. Just not tonight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PARENTAL GUIDANCE NOT ADVISED

  It was still dark when I heard my parents come in. They tiptoed to the master bedroom and the door closed. I felt a little better knowing Mom was sleeping with Dad and not in Wendy’s bed. That was a good sign, I hoped. Maybe my parents’ dead marriage wasn’t so dead after all.

  The next morning I woke up to the smell of bacon frying. Rolling onto my side, I saw Dad seated at the kitchen bar with a legal pad by his elbow and a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Any luck finding Wendy?” The way he sat there making notes, I wondered if maybe they had. Could be she’s in her bedroom snoozing.

  “They’re still looking.” My heart sank. “You sleep okay?” Dad asked.

  “Caught a few winks.” I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “How come you’re not at the creek? Not waiting on me, I hope. ‘Cause if you are, let’s go.”

  “Fog,” Dad said and made a notation on the yellow pad.

  Mom came from the kitchen and placed a jug of orange juice on the table. “Breakfast is almost ready. Wash up.”

  After brushing my teeth and stuff, I dropped into a chair and speared a piece of bacon. “How long did you two stay at the creek?”

  Dad shot Mom a look, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “We got back around two. By then the fog was so bad you couldn’t see your feet. It’s supposed to burn off, though. As soon as we’re finished eating, we’ll pack up, then head back down. We have to be checked out of here by eleven, anyway.”

  “But we’re not leaving, are we? Not without Wendy?”

  “We only had this place for the one night,” Mom explained. “Your father has worked things out so we can stay an extra night someplace else, if necessary.”

  “Does Officer McDonald still think it’s a prank?” I buttered a piece of toast and chugged the rest of my juice, then poured myself a second glass.

  “General feeling is the canoe got swept upstream,” said Dad. “Might have floated into the Savannah River. They’re widening the search area.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my phone resting on the coffee table. I guess I stared at it too long, because Dad asked me if something was wrong.

  “I … don’t think so, why?”

  “You have that look, is all.”

  I felt my face grow hot. “What look?” I had a terrible poker face and it showed anytime someone called me out. That was one reason why I almost never lied to my parents.

  “The look like the time you got after-school detention,” Mom said sternly, “and weren’t going to tell us.”

  “Did something happen after we left last night?” Dad asked.

  “After you left?” I felt sick — run to the bathroom and hurl your breakfast sick.

  Mom touched my elbow. “What is it you’re not telling us?”

  “I’m not … I wasn’t supposed … Please, can we just drop it? I’m not supposed to say anything about it.”

  “Well, I think you’d better, young man.”

  I surrendered my phone to Dad. He put on his reading glasses and read until Wendy’s picture came up. The blood drained from his face. Dad stared at the phone for several long seconds, then passed it to Mom.

  With a catch in his voice, my father said to me, “And you weren’t going to mention this?”

  “You read it, you saw what it said.”

  With tears forming at the corners of her eyes, Mom cradled the phone as if it was a small stuffed animal. “I th …” She paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and, pushing the phone toward Dad, continued. “I think Officer McDonald needs to see this right away, don’t you?”

  “Should have had this hours ago,” Dad seconded.

  “But you see what it says,” I protested. “I’m not supposed to show anyone that email.”

  “McDonald can probably figure out where it came from,” Dad said to Mom. “I’ll run this down to the creek while you two finish packing.”

  “I already tried. We have software up on the Cool Ghoul site that lets us map the route of an email packet. Calvin uses it when he’s trying to figure out who’s leaving nasty comments on the site. Right before I went to sleep last night, I ran a reverse lookup trace route. It showed that the email was sent from Kobuk Coffee on West 5th Avenue in Anchorage, Alaska.”

  “We’ll let the police handle it from here,” Mom said numbly. “They’re trained for this sort of thing.”

  “I am, too, Mom. I’ve traced emails bunches of times. I’m telling you, whoever has Wendy isn’t in Alaska. And they know we drove from Kansas to Palmetto Island, that you two were at a dinner meeting in Savannah last night, and wants us to believe he or she is connected in some way to Dad’s job offer.”

  “Your mom’s right. This is a matter for the police.”

  “Fine, but if you’re going to show them that email, take my tablet. I’ll need my phone in case Wendy’s kidnapper tries to reach me again.”

  “And if that happens, you’d better come to us pronto.”

  I gave Dad my tablet and showed him how to activate the email program, then asked, “What’s next? Sleep in the Buick while we search for Wendy?”

  Dad tucked my tablet under his arm, along with the legal pad on which he’d been jotting notes. “The realty company worked it out with the charter company so we could stay on a trawler. That’s like a big, fancy boat. Made it sound real nice.”

  “Speaking of the realty company, how much do you know about the people you interviewed with?”

  Mom paused in the middle of wiping down the table. “I was about to ask the same thing.”

  “You were
at dinner, Sylvia. Did Ms. Bryant strike you as the type of woman who goes around snatching children?”

  “These days, who can tell?”

  I looked up at Dad. “Ms.?”

  Mom said dryly, “Now you see why I insisted on going with your father. No telling what he might have said or done if I hadn’t been with him.”

  Dad snatched his keys from the counter and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Mom grabbed a sponge and began rinsing dishes. “Start gathering up your stuff. When you’re finished, you can vacuum. After that we need to take our trash to the Dumpster.”

  “But isn’t that what housekeeping is for?”

  “Nick, would you please just do like I asked? I don’t have the energy to argue with you and your father.”

  “Sure, Mom. Sorry.”

  “And regardless of what I think about Palmetto Island Realty and their supposed interest in your father, we can still act like we appreciate them letting us stay here. The condo was free, after all.”

  Oh sure, it was free. As long as you don’t include the cost of losing Wendy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A BIT OF MS. FORTUNE

  When Dad had said we were moving onto a trawler, I pictured a shrimp boat.

  Dad owns a copy of Forrest Gump. Actually, Dad owns every Tom Hanks movie ever made, including those early Bosom Buddies episodes starring Hanks and Peter Scolari. My favorite scene in Gump is where Forrest sees Lieutenant Dan on the dock and jumps from his boat into the water. But without a captain, the boat wanders off course and crashes into a dock.

  That’s what I thought we were getting — a Bubba Gump shrimp boat. But it turns out the word trawler is another way of saying big, honking, go-slow boat.

  While Dad received instructions from a guy named Dan, Mom stood on the dock with her arms crossed. Judging from the scowl on her face, she was not impressed with our new accommodations. In fact, she looked like she was about to be seasick … on land.

  “Did Dad happen to mention anything about the email?” I asked. “Like, say, that the officer in charge found the person that sent it?”

  “No. Only thing he said was that they took your tablet. Your father didn’t come right out and say so, but he got the impression that Officer McDonald was pretty upset. If I were you, I would steer clear of him.”

  “That’s fine. The way he’s going about trying to find Wendy is a waste of time, anyway.”

  I stepped aboard, dropped Dad’s bag on the deck, and looked back at Mom. “You want help getting aboard?”

  She uncrossed her arms but didn’t budge. “Bet you never knew that your grandfather owned a boat. Not this big, of course. It was more of a runabout. He wasted more money on that thing than he did on food, clothes, and farm fuel combined. My mom used to tell Molly and me that the only thing we needed to know about a boat was how to spell it: BOAT, B–O–A–T, or Break Out Another Thousand. ‘That’s how much it cost to get it fixed,’ Mom would tell us. A thousand dollars.”

  “Dad sure seems to like this one,” I said, hopping back on the dock.

  “He would. My father would have, too.”

  For a moment I thought she might smile, but then her face returned to an uneasy grimace.

  I strolled down the dock and noticed that our new home was named Ms. Fortune. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

  My father and Dan the boat man backed down steps and disappeared into the trawler. I grabbed Mom’s suitcase and my duffel bag and stepped into the cockpit. That’s what Dad had called it, a cockpit. I guess because the big space at the rear of the boat was large enough to hold chicken fights. I’d read in a Palmetto Island tourist magazine that cockfighting used to be popular in South Carolina and Georgia. Maybe it still was. I knew from billboards on the side of the interstate that the University of South Carolina called itself the Gamecocks, though personally I wouldn’t be caught dead cheering for a team whose mascot is a chicken.

  While I carried the rest of our stuff onto the trawler, Mom waited nervously on the dock. The boat was only a foot away, but from the way Mom eyed the chasm, you would have thought she was preparing to leap across the Grand Canyon. I’m sure part of her nervousness really did have to do with getting on the boat. If opposites attract, then my parents are a perfect match. The way Dad bounced on the balls of his feet when the boat man showed up, I could tell he was sky-high about being on the trawler. Mom, meanwhile, standing with her arms crossed, looked totally repulsed by the whole idea.

  But she also looked tired. I could imagine that she hadn’t slept much. There were bags under Mom’s eyes and her mascara was smudged from where she’d been crying. I felt bad for her, especially since all this was my fault. But I’d said I was sorry a gazillion times and couldn’t do anything more than that.

  Except find Wendy, of course.

  I stepped aboard and dropped my sister’s luggage into the middle of the cockpit.

  About the same time Dad poked his head out. “Oh, for the love of Pete, would you get on the boat, already?”

  “Don’t rush me, Frank. I’m trying not to fall in.”

  “You’re not going to fall in. Couldn’t if you tried. There’s not enough space between the boat and dock for that.”

  “What are you saying, that I’m too fat? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Here, Mom, take my hand. We’ll go on three. One, two …”

  Mom let out a tiny squeak and tumbled aboard. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to get off.”

  “You’ll find a way, Mom, I know you will.”

  As soon as Dan the boat man left, Dad ordered us to “stow our gear.” I wanted to tell him he sounded dorky but decided not to. I was already in enough trouble and I didn’t want to give Dad another reason to ground me for the rest of my life. Fact was, without my sister around, I was about the only thing left holding my parents together. Maybe all kids feel this way when their parents aren’t getting along, I don’t know. But I had a sinking feeling that if I didn’t do something to find Wendy, and fast, our family was doomed.

  I helped Mom down the short ladder. We both paused at the bottom of the steps and looked around at the inside of the trawler. Dad started pointing at doors and drawers and closets and saying things like: “Aft cabin, forward state-room, head, bilge, engine room, salon, settee, nav station, galley, hanging locker.” When he mentioned “hanging locker,” my ears perked up. I looked to where he’d pointed and opened the tiny door. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would call the small storage closet a “hanging locker”— especially since it was too small to strangle anything larger than a cat.

  “Nick, I gotta check the water tanks. In the meantime, show your mom to the master state-room.”

  “The what?”

  “Bedroom at the back of the boat. That’s where the two of us will be sleeping.”

  “Us.” Well, that’s a positive sign.

  I led Mom down a narrow hallway that forced us to walk hunched over. The back bedroom was actually pretty large. For a boat, that is. Mom did not appear impressed.

  “How can your father possibly expect me to sleep in here?”

  “Pretend we’re camping. Only we’re doing it on the water.”

  “But I hate camping.”

  “Then forget I mentioned camping.”

  After I showed Mom how to put her clothes in the tiny nooks beside the bed, we returned to the main part of the boat.

  “Frank, can we go back to the creek now?”

  “Sure. As soon as I show everyone how to use the head.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “Bathroom.”

  While Dad squeezed himself into a compartment the size of a broom closet, Mom and I gathered in the hallway.

  Mom looked incredulous. Incredulous means unwilling or unable to believe something. For example, when the word appeared on my English exam, I was incredulous.

  “Sink, shower, toilet,” Dad announced. “Now watch carefully while I demonstrate how to
flush.”

  “Frank, I really think we need to get back to the creek. What if they found Wendy and she’s down there shivering cold and needing dry clothes?”

  “Trust me, Sylvia, you do not want to be on this boat when the head backs up. This isn’t like a house where you can grab a plunger and shove it down. If the toilet gets clogged, I’ll have to remove those clamps down there, see?” Dad bent over and pointed like he’d repaired hundreds of marine toilets. “Then I’ll have to pull the hoses. Don’t need to tell you what is going to spill onto the floor when that happens. Now watch and learn. This will only take a few seconds.”

  Mom and I remained a safe distance away while Dad pumped a metal handle. He worked at it like he was auditioning for a job as a tire changer on a NASCAR Sprint Cup team.

  “You want to make sure it goes all the way down,” Dad said, sounding out of breath. “And even after it does, keep pumping. Otherwise some of it will float back into the bowl.”

  “Isn’t there a button I can push?” Mom asked.

  “On the newer models. But not this one.”

  I couldn’t imagine Mom would ever use the boat’s thimble-size toilet. Not when there was a perfectly good bathhouse at the end of the dock. The problem would be getting off the boat, but judging from her crinkled nose, I had a hunch Mom would find a way off … and probably stay off.

  “Well, that about does it,” Dad announced. “She’s ready for the high seas. While you two get settled in, I’m going to change into shorts. Forecast calls for sunshine and temperatures in the seventies once this fog burns off.”

  “I’ll wait for you on the dock,” Mom announced. “Nick, give me a hand.”

  A few minutes later Dad came out wearing a floral-print shirt, tan shorts, and loafers without socks. He looked goofy, but I wasn’t about to tell him.

  Mom would take care of that.

  “Your mom and I are heading back to the creek. I got the impression from Officer McDonald this morning that he’s not keen on you hanging around. Can’t imagine why unless he’s already checked on you and found out how you can be when you think the authorities aren’t doing their job. You are welcome to stay on the boat, hang around the marina and whatnot, but please try not to break anything.”