Dead Low Tide

by Eddie Jones

  “Sure thing, Dad.”

  As soon as my parents were out of sight, I crawled onto the swivel seat in front of the steering wheel and gazed past the front of the boat at the sailboats and yachts parked in the marina. A stand of palmetto trees marked the shore’s edge. Beyond the marina basin stood the faint outline of the boathouse perched over the creek. I spun the steering wheel and pondered what to do about Wendy.

  I felt bad about what had happened. As Wendy’s older brother, I was responsible for keeping her safe. She might not look at it that way. In fact, she hated it when I played the “big brother” card. But my parents had put me in charge and now she was gone.

  I cataloged the possible suspects in Wendy’s abduction.

  Heidi May Laveau. Real, live zombie? Doubtful. More like a real, live freak.

  One of the kids from the campfire? Kat was the only one I’d met, and she didn’t strike me as a crazed kidnapper.

  Someone connected to Palmetto Island Realty? Ms. Bryant, maybe? The email suggested the individual knew about Dad’s dinner meeting. Maybe taking Wendy was a competing candidate’s way of scaring us away.

  I thought about Mom’s comments regarding the reporters on the beach and Dad’s warning to stay away from the creek. Could be the zombie abduction was part of a publicity stunt, but boy, was that risky. Taking a twelve-year-old girl, even as a stunt, could get you some serious prison time.

  My phone buzzed. I checked the text message. It was from my editor, Calvin.

  Huge problems, bro. Site has been hacked! Don’t try posting anything on the Cool Ghoul website, not even to comment on an article. I’ve revoked all IDs until we can figure out how this happened. Seriously, this is not funny.

  Using my phone’s browser, I pulled up the Cool Ghoul Gazette’s website. Sure enough, a blank page appeared where previously there had been headstone tabs with labels like “Breaking Noose,” “Obits,” and “Dead Lines.”

  As long as I had my browser opened, I checked our TV Crime Watchers site to see if I could find any shows where zombies kidnapped someone. A short list appeared with titles like Skin of My Teeth (show about an orthodontist who moonlights as a mortician), Bare Bones (survivalist family living in the Dakotas), Dead Last (a race car driver running a funeral parlor across from the Daytona Speedway). A synopsis of Grave Discoveries caught my eye.

  In the second season of Grave Discoveries, Jordon Gross investigates a series of kidnappings in Las Vegas, in which bookies with ties to the Campino family keep turning up dead in the trunks of cars, trash compactors and dangling from interstate bridges. In each case, witnesses claim a man fitting the description of a Las Vegas bookie was seen fleeing the crime scene. Problem is, the police sketch of the potential killer matches a man Jordon knows. A man last seen dead on a slab in a Brooklyn morgue! To solve the case, Jordon infiltrates the voodoo world and meets up with a Mambo — a voodoo priestess. At her underground temple, Jordon learns that a mobster from a rival family has been systematically abducting and killing those who were scheduled to testify against him in a drug running case. Each time, the mobster poses as the dead Las Vegas bookie in order to conceal his true identity.

  “Look at you, sitting behind the wheel like Captain Ron.”

  “Who?”

  Kat rolled her eyes. Kat’s unusual opal eyes looked beautiful even when they rolled.

  “Any luck finding your sister?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you go see Annie like I suggested?”

  “Nope, again.” I swung myself from the seat and jumped onto the dock. “Good thing I didn’t, too. My parents said the fog got so bad last night they called off the search. If I’d done like you suggested, I might still be out there, lost.”

  “If you want, I can run you out to her place. Won’t take more’n a skinny minute.”

  “Better hang around here. My parents are pretty ticked about what happened last night.”

  “You mean ticked about meeting me at church?”

  “They don’t even know about that, thank goodness.”

  Kat removed her Palmetto Islands Marina ball cap and tossed back her sandy-blonde hair. “Smart move, Kansas. Don’t want your parents to get the impression I’m a bad influence.” Nudging me in the ribs, Kat added playfully, “If you’re not careful, church can be habit-forming.”

  “Anyway, if I stay on the boat, I can still do research and try to figure out what exactly happened to my sister.

  “Hey, how did you know where I was? You spying on me?”

  “Like you’re that cute. Oops, did I saw that out loud?” With mock embarrassment she hid her face behind the ball cap. Peeking above the bill of her cap, she winked at me, then said, “Uncle Phil. He’s in charge of the charter fleet and I work at the marina. Help clean the boats and stuff. He told me we had a homeless family that needed a place to bunk down.”

  “I’m glad to hear someone finds our situation funny.”

  “Seriously, you need to go see Annie. She can help you find your sister.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Say, as long as you’re here, I could use your advice. I’m doing a little research on my sister’s abduction.”

  “Research?”

  “One of my hobbies — actually, it’s more like a job — is solving real murders by watching cop and detective shows.”

  “For real, you can do that?”

  “Oh sure. Sometimes I have to watch a bunch of shows, but I can usually pick out the killer about halfway through each episode.”

  I handed her my phone and showed her the summary of Grave Discoveries. She skimmed the synopsis and handed the phone back to me.

  “So?”

  “What I’m doing is looking for television shows centered around zombie abduction cases, or zombies that go around killing people. In every police procedure show, all the main suspects are revealed in the first ten minutes.”

  “All?”

  “Yep. There are usually no more than three. Later in the show, a couple more suspects might be added or mentioned but they are never the killer. One character in the show is always the most obvious suspect. Usually they have a secret that forces them to withhold evidence. This makes the person look guilty. But they’re never the killer. Same sort of thing happens in real murders. What I mean is, police will find someone who looks guilty, who has motive and means, and then the cops rush to build a case around them. But too often, that person didn’t do it. There are lots of innocent people behind bars. Thousands, probably.”

  “So what exactly do you want to know?”

  “Is it possible for someone who’s into voodoo to put a curse on a person? I mean for real? I couldn’t tell last night if you were messing with me or not, but if there is such a thing as black magic, I need to know. Might help explain what happened to my sister.”

  “Again, go see Annie. She’s an expert on voodoo, black magic, curses, potions, and raising dead people from the grave.”

  I thought about that last part for a few seconds. Raising dead people from the grave? I wanted to ask how that was possible but I let it go. This girl Kat definitely had a different take on things. “Was there another reason you stopped by? I mean, other than being concerned about the homeless Cadens?”

  “Oh, shucks, I totally forgot. You got a phone call. Come on, I’ll walk you up to the marina.”

  On the way up the dock I said to Kat, “How come you’re not in school?”

  “I’m homeschooled. You?”

  “Dad pulled us out for this trip. Called it an educational opportunity of a lifetime, which was basically Mom’s way of saying Wendy and I couldn’t be trusted to stay with Aunt Molly and Dad couldn’t be trusted to come down here alone.”

  The Palmetto Island Yacht Club was a white, two-story building with rockers on the front porch and ferns in straw baskets hanging from rafters. From a thatched-roof café came the ping-pong sound of steel drum music.

  Kat nodded toward the double screen doors. “Tell the cashier in the ship’s store y
ou have a phone call. When you’re done, come find me and I’ll put you to work.”

  I walked inside the ship’s store and glanced around. Framed portraits of sailboats hung along one wall. Near the door stood a long bookcase filled with paperbacks and magazines. I waited for the woman behind the register to finish ringing up an older couple, then explained why I was there. She told me to go back out and wait on the porch by the pay phone, that she’d put the call through.

  I picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  In a husky feminine voice the caller said, “Morning, Nick. Is now a good time to talk? Your sister is dying to get this over with.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DYING TO GET SOME ANSWERS

  I read that article you wrote about me on the Cool Ghoul Gazette.” At the mention of the Cool Ghoul website I felt my stomach muscles tighten. “You have an interesting way of weaving facts into a story without making it seem dull. I especially liked the quotes you used from the fisherman.”

  Probably using a voice modulation device, I thought. Or a smartphone app that alters the voice.

  “Should have been you in the canoe, not your sister. I thought it was.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Who knows about the email?”

  An older couple wandered onto the porch and parked themselves in rockers next to the pay phone. I shifted the phone to my other hand to create a barrier between us. In a hushed whisper I said, “Let me speak to my sister.”

  “The email, Caden, who did you show it to?”

  The back of my neck felt prickly hot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man in the rocker leaning toward me as if listening.

  “No one.”

  “We both know you’re lying.”

  Droplets of perspiration tickled my ribs. With a slight quiver in my voice, I confessed. “My parents. They know about the email.”

  “And?”

  “I … they showed it to Officer McDonald.”

  “Bad move, Caden. Now I know you can’t be trusted.”

  “Told you, it wasn’t my idea. My parents made me.”

  “By the way, that reverse lookup trace route trick you tried? Not bad. Certainly a much better effort than what McDonald’s people are doing.”

  A sour sickness settled in the pit of my stomach. “You have to believe me, I tried to do like you said, really I did.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “Look, if it’s money you want, my family doesn’t have any.”

  “I already told you, I want my life back. And you’re going to help me.”

  “If this is some kind of prank, you can —”

  “No prank, Caden. I’m dead serious. Now then, let’s see how serious you are about keeping your sister alive. Give me your log-in ID and password for that Crime Watchers database.”

  “Why? You going to crash that site, too?”

  “What I do or don’t do is none of your concern.”

  It occurred to me that only a few people on the island knew about my work with the TV Crime Watchers group: Kat, Officer McDonald, and the officer from the canine unit. Sharing my log-in with anyone was a huge risk. Not because of the database of TV shows. I doubted anybody cared about those. But because we’d paid a white-hat hacker to get us access to the National Crime Information Center — the FBI’s database of all criminal records. Using my log-in information, someone could, theoretically, get into our system admin’s directory and find the file.

  “I … can’t.”

  “Oh, I think you can. ID and password — spit it out!”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “You want me to hurt her, Caden? Is that what you want? ‘Cause I will.”

  “Okay, okay, but first I need to talk to Wendy. I need to know she’s okay.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Please, just let me talk to her. Then I’ll give you my log-in information.”

  I needed to keep the caller on the line, needed to know how badly he or she wanted the Crime Watchers information.

  There was an audible sigh on the other end, followed by, “Make it quick.”

  I strained to hear any background noises: footsteps, horns honking, a clock chiming, anything that might suggest Wendy’s location. Only my sister’s choking sobs interrupted the silence.

  “Ni … Nick.” The laryngitis had turned Wendy’s words into a raspy croak. “Please, Nick, just give h —”

  “Wendy? Wendy!”

  The old man spun in his chair and stared at me.

  “Now you listen and you listen good, Caden. No more messing around.”

  “Put her back on, please.”

  “ID and password.”

  Haunted by my sister’s broken voice, I cupped my hand over the speaker and betrayed the trust of my friends from the Crime Watchers site.

  “Good boy. Mention this conversation to anyone and you’ll never see your sister again, got it?”

  Beads of cold sweat erupted on my forehead.

  “Got it?”

  A sickly wave of apprehension swept over me. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I won’t say a word.” In the window’s reflection I saw my parents coming up the sidewalk. Neither looked happy. I could imagine why. Obviously Wendy remained missing, but now, even though I knew how much danger she was in, I couldn’t say anything to them. “So what’s next? You want to meet someplace? Exchange Wendy for me?”

  “Wave to your parents. I need to know that you know I’m watching your every move.”

  I threw my hand up, signaling to Mom and Dad that I’d be right there.

  “Dusk. I’ll find you at dusk. That’s when the undead come alive. Enjoy the rest of your day, Caden. It might be your last.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TIDE WILL TELL

  As I stood on the porch of the marina, the mallet sounds of steel drum music still beat out a festive tune, but the tenor of the day had hit a sour note. In the boatyard the modulated drone of a power washer dampened the slap-slap of ropes hitting sailboat masts. I pulled out my cell phone to send the Crime Watchers admin a quick message to let him know the site was about to be attacked, but first I needed to find out what, if anything, my parents learned about Wendy.

  I shoved the phone back in my front pocket and joined Mom and Dad in front of a large sport fishing boat.

  “Marine Patrol found Wendy’s canoe in some reeds not far from here,” Dad announced. “That’s the good news.”

  I couldn’t bear to look them in the face. The guilt of knowing Wendy was alive but being unable to share that news with my parents was killing me.

  “She, ah …” My voice cracked under the pressure. I cleared my throat. “Is she okay?”

  “Officer McDonald thinks her leaving in the canoe and you claiming a dead person took her might have been a ploy. He wonders if she snuck off to spend the night with friends. Tell the truth, Nick. Did you and Wendy plan all this?”

  “What? No! It happened just like I told you.”

  Mom speared me with a glare. “See, Frank? Told you. He’s incapable of telling the truth, even when caught in a lie.”

  “No, Mom, really. It happened just like I said.”

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Officer McDonald also said you picked the lock and stole the canoe. Is that true, son?”

  I studied the tops of my sneakers. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt so bad. Wendy was in the hands of some deranged kidnapper dressed as a zombie who at that moment was doing who knew what to my sister. Worse, my parents had no idea how much trouble she was in.

  I lifted my head and said as calmly as I could, “I wish you would believe me. Someone or something really did grab Wendy. We didn’t plan any of this, honest. They have to keep looking for her — they just have to.”

  “Oh, they will,” Dad replied. “Officer McDonald thinks they’ll probably find her hanging out on the beach or in one of the boutiques. That’s where kids on the island usually congregate during the day. T
hey’re checking the shopping center as we speak.”

  Mom turned to Dad. “Come on, Frank. Let’s drive back to the condo and wait in the parking lot. Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll spot her on the way.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “What I want you to do is find your sister and tell her we’re ready to leave,” said Dad sternly. “And if it turns out that Officer McDonald is right, that you and Wendy hatched this scheme yourselves … well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Cross that bridge,” Mom corrected Dad.

  “Let’s go, Sylvia.”

  I watched my parents trudge toward the parking lot. As soon as they were out of sight, I sent the admin of our TV Crime Watchers group a text message.

  Just a heads-up to let you know our site might be hacked. I had to give someone my log-in info. If you can attach a worm to my account and follow it back, we may be able to find out who is behind the attack. Of course, you’ll want to delete this text message as soon as you get it since the individual is probably monitoring my phone.

  I sat on a dock box in front of the sport fishing boat and looked up at blue sky. Who on Palmetto Island knew about my hobby of solving murder cases? That was the big question now. And how had the caller been able to ditch the canoe without anyone spotting him, her, or Wendy? Quickly I went down the list of everyone I’d met who knew I solved crimes by watching TV. It was a small registry.

  Kat, Officer McDonald, and the canine officer. Officer McDonald had jumped on me pretty good for taking the canoe, but he didn’t strike me as the sort who would go around kidnapping girls. Then again, the caller knew immediately that I’d shown the email to my parents and they, in turn, had shown it to Officer McDonald. To satisfy my own curiosity and perhaps cross a name off the suspect list, I decided to do some research.

  Using my phone, I ran a quick web search of the words “cops” and “kidnapping.” The results surprised me.