Dead Low Tide

by Eddie Jones

  We’d almost reached the parking lot when Dirk said to me, “Sorry ‘bout your sis. Must be hard on you and your parents, but try not to worry. It’s probably like Officer McDonald said: she spent the night with friends and now she’s too scared to call because she knows when she does, your parents are going to be mad at her. Thing is, no matter how upset parents get, they love their kids and just want them back home safe.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I’ll pass it along.”

  Resting his hand on my shoulder, Dirk said to me, “Also tell them I’m praying for your sister.”

  I studied those chlorine-blue eyes and sensed Dirk the surfer and Bible study leader would pray for Wendy — that he genuinely cared about her. Problem was, the really good liars are like that: smart, credible, and dangerous.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I’M A DEAD MAN

  The shuttle let me out in front of the entrance to Turtle Dove Estates. I crossed the grassy playground and approached two mothers sitting on a bench. One was changing a diaper; the other rode a toddler on her knee. When I asked if either of them had heard about a missing bike being found, the young mom stopped bouncing her child and pointed to the end unit of a complex.

  “I saw patrol cars there this morning when I was jogging. A couple of officers loaded it in the trunk and drove away.”

  I thanked the women and strolled to the front of the building. Without being too obvious, I gave the place a once-over. Faded brown siding covered the exterior. On the roof there were signs of missing roof shingles. The hedge growing under the front window needed trimming and the porch railing, a fresh coat of paint. I shoved my hands into my pockets and continued to walk along the sidewalk. At the corner, I knelt as though tying my shoe. When I looked back, the two moms were pushing strollers in the opposite direction.

  I fumbled with the knot in my sneaker, counted slowly to ten, and returned to the unit. Standing at the bottom of the steps, I found a place where the ends of red-tipped bushes had been snapped back. There was the slightest hint of tire tracks in the dirt next to the steps.

  I took a deep breath and approached the front door, knocked, and waited.

  What if it’s a setup? The caller warned that it was what he or she wanted. Did Officer McDonald feed me the information knowing this was exactly what I’d do?

  Mosquitoes sang into my ears. In the adjacent unit, a dog barked. I pressed my ear against the door. No voices or music or television set blaring. This place wouldn’t be this deathly quiet if my sister were hanging around.

  After my second knock I tried the knob. Locked. Taking a quick look up and down the street, I checked to see if anyone was watching. When I felt certain no one was, I snuck around back.

  Rusty patio furniture sat on the cement slab. Weeds grew between cracks. A window screen lay against the side of the unit. I pressed my face to the sliding glass door and peered inside, looking past discolored floral-print drapes. There were white baseboards showing scuff marks, linoleum flooring starting to peel, fast food bags and soda cups piled on the round glass breakfast table. I tested the door. It rattled open on a wobbly track.

  “Hello, anybody home?” I waited several seconds. “Wendy?” When no one answered, I stepped inside.

  The place smelled musty and reeked of garbage. I inspected the fast food bags, two from Buffalo Bob’s Burgers, the other McDonald’s. I knew Bob’s. Back in Wichita we’d eat there sometimes. Buffalo Bob’s was a local company with stores throughout Kansas. Question was, how did bags from this particular burger joint end up in a townhome on Palmetto Island?

  Inside the first bag I found two crumpled burger wrappers smeared with ketchup and an empty sleeve of fries. The date on the sales receipt matched the exact day we’d left Aunt Molly and Uncle Eric’s cabin and began driving to Palmetto Island. The receipt in the second bag was from two days later. I couldn’t remember our exact route, but I was pretty sure we’d taken I – 35 south to Oklahoma and turned east toward Arkansas. Along the way I’d seen a couple of Buffalo Bob’s signs outside Oklahoma City. I wondered, were I to check, if I’d find that the store number on the receipt was from the Oklahoma City area.

  For a long while I clutched the two receipts in my hand, staring at the dates, pondering their possible meaning.

  Possibility number one: Zombies are the almost dead. A person or persons knew about our temporary move to Uncle Eric’s lake cabin and somehow learned about my father’s scheduled interview with Ms. Bryant. Then said individual sent the unflattering letter of recommendation (knowing it would arouse Ms. Bryant’s interest), tailed us to Palmetto Island, and waited for my parents to leave for their dinner meeting, then stalked Wendy and me to the boathouse and grabbed her. The person must’ve seen me pick the lock and steal the canoe. Or maybe not. Maybe swimming out to the boathouse was a last-second decision. But why dress up in the Heidi May Laveau outfit? Why not wait until we were back onshore? And why take Wendy (or me, for that matter)? I mean, there was no way I could give someone their life back unless … unless the individual needed my organs. Is that what this is about, harvesting my organs for someone who is dying? Immediately I rejected that idea. It was too farfetched.

  Possibility number two: Monsters are real and a dangerous individual took my sister, the letter was sent by an accomplice from Kansas, and the food bags were shipped by the accomplice and planted in the townhome to throw me off. Leaving Wendy’s bike outside the townhome would arouse suspicion and once Officer McDonald located the canoe and bike, the search for my sister would switch from Savage Island and the creek to combing the island. The email warned me to keep quiet. I hadn’t shown Dad’s letter of recommendation to Officer McDonald or mentioned the phone call. One fact about sociopaths: they like seclusion and secrets. That meant I was the only one who knew about the Kansas connection.

  Kansas … isn’t that what Kat keeps calling me?

  Possibility number three: Kat was the kidnapper. What if Kat was not some playful friend trying to help me find my sister, but a seriously disturbed young teen? She seemed to know my every move. Was she stalking me? Had she meant to surprise me at the boathouse the night before, but then found Wendy already in the canoe? Was Kat vicariously living the life of Heidi May Laveau by dressing up as the dead girl and kidnapping boys and girls — and if so, why?

  Possibility number four: Random, unrelated events. Maybe … Wendy escaped from the prankster dressed as Heidi May Laveau and paddled the canoe to shore … One of the kids from last night’s campfire borrowed my sister’s bike and dumped it in the bushes … The tenant in the townhome lived in the Kansas-Oklahoma area and was a fan of Buffalo Bob’s … Matt found out about Dad’s job interview and faked the letter … After beaching the canoe, Wendy walked back, arrived while I was at the church with Kat, and found the condo locked. She crashed someplace and returned this morning, only to find we’d already checked out.

  What if Wendy was, in fact, looking for us? What if she thought we went home without her? Sure, that makes the most sense, but how do you factor in the picture of Wendy in the email and her terrified voice on the phone?

  Too many possibilities — too few hard facts pointing to a solution.

  The clock over the microwave read 2:53 p.m. Three hours until dusk. I shoved the receipts in my pocket.

  In the living room I found a plaid, swaybacked sofa. On the opposite wall stood an entertainment center housing an old flat screen television. The bunk beds in the first bedroom had the crisp, made look of professional housekeeping. Pillows fluffed, stuffed animals arranged for decoration. No damp towels in the middle bathroom. A master suite occupied the back bedroom. One dresser drawer stood partway open. Covers turned back, a pillow on the floor. Wash towel on the floor next to the bathroom door. Hanging over the bed was a portrait of a sailing dory. I eased closer, stepping over a single gray sock. No way to know for certain if it’s the same painting from the email, but it could be. It most definitely could be. I wondered if I could pull the picture
up on my phone. On a hunch, I walked across the room and stood in the corner looking back toward the bed and painting. I raised my hands to my face and imagined I was taking a picture. Yes, the kidnapper would have been standing right about …

  From the kitchen I heard the patio door slide open.

  My heart stopped.

  Heavy footsteps clomped across linoleum flooring.

  I hurried back to the doorway and looked down the hallway. A man-size shadow passed across the wall. Quickly I glanced around the room. No door opening onto a deck or balcony and no chance at all of opening the window without rattling the blinds. A cabinet door opened. Water ran from a faucet. A glass clanked on the counter. Sneaking into the townhome was stupid. I should have sat outside and waited until the owner came home.

  My only hope was to reach the front door. I heard my pulse pounding in my ears. With each step, the gulping of someone drinking grew louder. Sweat trickled down my ribs. I reached the living room and managed to cross the room without alerting the person in the kitchen. My hand found the doorknob. I turned and pulled. The dead bolt bumped against the frame. With my back to the kitchen, I twisted the lever until I heard the dead bolt make a hard clicking noise.

  The sound of running water stopped.

  If I’d been smart, I’d have shot out the door. And I might have made it, too. But I had to see, had to face my sister’s kidnapper. With my hand still on the doorknob, I peeked over my shoulder.

  Officer McDonald stood behind me with his weapon drawn.

  Possibility number five: Officer McDonald is the kidnapper and … I’m a dead man.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BUSTED

  Who let you in?”

  Officer McDonald waited calmly for my answer, his large brown hands holding the gun on me.

  My mind raced feverishly, eyes shifting as I searched for a way to escape. “The back door, it was … open.”

  He holstered his weapon but continued to watch me carefully. “Open or unlocked?”

  I tried to swallow but my throat felt like it was coated with dust. I needed a plan, one that did not involve getting shot as an escaping intruder, but my options were limited.

  “Unlocked,” I admitted.

  He glanced quickly down the hallway, then back at me. “Anybody else here with you?”

  I needed to settle my breathing and relax. Otherwise I’d make a mistake. Maybe my last one.

  “No one, it’s just me. I came by to see if I could figure out how Wendy’s bike ended up outside this unit.” Frantically, I tried to change the subject. “There’s a portrait of a sailing skiff in the main bedroom. It looks like that one I saw in that email I received.”

  “That old thing? There’s probably hundreds — maybe thousands like it on this island. It came with the unit.”

  “You mean this is … your place?”

  His pale-green eyes locked onto mine. “Bought it a few months ago as a fixer-upper to be used as rental property. So far it’s worked out pretty well. Except for when someone breaks in.”

  McDonald carefully positioned himself so that he could quickly grab me if I went for the door. I had a pretty good idea what he had in mind. Tie me up and wait for darkness before hauling me away to the hideout where he kept Wendy.

  “But when I spoke with Ms. Bryant, she told me you couldn’t afford a second home on the island.”

  The muscles in his neck bulged. “Ms. Bryant … if I’d waited on her help, I might have never gotten this unit. Thank goodness her assistant hooked me up with a mortgage company that was willing to work with me.”

  “Assistant? You mean Matt?”

  “He took care of all the financing. He also manages the rental calendar. He’s had someone in here since day one.”

  Okay, so maybe I’ve misjudged him. Perhaps McDonald doesn’t know he’s leasing his townhome to a monster.

  “Do you know who’s staying here now?”

  McDonald rested his hands on his bulky gear-laden hips. “I do not. That’s private information. But if you’re suggesting I’m harboring a criminal …”

  “You saw the bags on the table, right? From Buffalo Bob’s? I know that fast-food joint. We have them back home. Know what I think? I think—”

  “What you think or don’t think makes no difference. Fact is, you’re trespassing … again.”

  “So are you going to arrest me?”

  “Haven’t decided. Depends on if the occupant finds anything missing. Meantime, let’s you and me take a ride.”

  “Where were you? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Mom stood in the cockpit of the trawler with fists on her hips. I couldn’t tell if her cheeks were pink because she was upset at me or because she’d forgotten to put on sunscreen.

  “I need to speak to you two about your son, ma’am.”

  I stood beside Officer McDonald on the dock. As soon as he’d spat the word “son,” I dropped my head and focused my attention on the barnacles growing on the trawler’s hull. McDonald held his hat in his hands and kept running his thumb along the brim, waiting for Mom’s response.

  Dad poked his head out of the companionway hatch. “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Yes, sir, there is. I was just explaining to your wife that we need to have a chat about your son and what he’s been up to.”

  Dad glanced over to me, a look of disappointment on his face. I felt like an ant; small, insignificant, and about to be stomped on.

  “If it’s about that canoe he stole, we’ll pay for whatever damages there are,” Dad offered.

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that. May I come aboard?”

  Dad waved us onto the trawler. I chewed my lip, fighting the urge to explain what I’d found in the townhome and my theories for who was behind Wendy’s kidnapping. Officer McDonald still had not told me if I was being charged with breaking and entering, but the fact that he had not taken me to his office was encouraging. I followed him aboard and noticed our luggage stacked beside the little door leading into the cabin.

  “Your son broke into a townhome,” Officer McDonald stated.

  Mom gasped. “What?”

  “Is he under arrest?” Dad asked.

  “Why would you do that, Nick?”

  “Why do you think, Mom? I was trying to find Wendy.”

  “Your son entered through the patio door. Thankfully, it was me who found him snooping around and not the person renting the unit.”

  “What were you thinking, son? You could’ve been shot.” Turning to Officer McDonald, my father said, “Sometimes Nick gets so wrapped up in this TV Crime Watchers business that he forgets he’s not a real detective.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mom cut in. “You’ve never broken into a house, not ever.”

  “Unless you count the boathouse,” Officer McDonald countered.

  I knew better than to open my mouth. Chewing on my lip, I propped my backside on the stern railing and stared at the pile of suitcases. For a split second I got excited, thinking that Wendy had escaped from the kidnapper, found her way to the marina, and we were leaving. But then I remembered that was impossible — my sister’s kidnapper still had her and would keep her until I solved the riddle of who snatched Wendy.

  “What your son did is bad enough, but there’s another thing that concerns me,” Officer McDonald was saying. “Earlier, when I mentioned that we’d found your daughter’s bike, I told you we thought she was staying with friends. I still think that’s the case. There are several girls your daughter’s age staying in Turtle Dove Estates. What I didn’t mention is that her bike was found outside my townhouse.”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Yours? Are you saying Nick broke into your home?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a rental property. I would have already notified the occupant, but the rental agency handles everything and I don’t have the contact information. On the way here I called over to the rental office and let them know the situation in case the renter finds anything missing
and wishes to file charges.”

  Missing? My sister is what’s missing. That’s what you should be focused on.

  Mom scowled. “You have some serious explaining to do, young man.”

  “I swear, I didn’t do anything seriously wrong, Mom. I was just trying to find out where Wendy is.”

  “Like you don’t already know,” my mother shot back.

  I studied her face — and Dad’s — wondering how much I should share. Maybe if they knew the truth, they wouldn’t care that I’d slipped into Officer McDonald’s townhome and almost discovered the identity of the kidnapper.

  “Here’s what I know,” I felt tempted to blurt out. “I know Officer McDonald probably rented his place to someone living near us in Kansas and that someone probably wrote a bogus recommendation letter for Dad and mailed it to Ms. Bryant. Why, I do not know. That person might even be working with someone from Ms. Bryant’s office, like Matthew Carter, because in the email, the kidnapper claimed credit for lining up your business dinner. The sales receipts from Buffalo Bob’s can probably tell us who that someone is. I have them in my pocket. I also know the painting in Officer McDonald’s master bedroom is probably the same as the one in the email I received. The other thing I know is that Wendy probably did not run off and spend the night with friends. That is what I probably know.”

  Of course, I didn’t say any of this. How could I? The kidnapper had warned me to keep quiet or else. Instead, I nodded in the direction of our luggage stacked by the companionway door and asked, “Are we going home?”