Dark Water

by Laird, Chynna

  DARK WATER

  Chynna Laird

  DARK WATER

  Copyright © 2012 by Chynna Laird. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  http://www.chynna-laird-author.com

  FIRST EDITION trade paperback

  Imajin Books - http://www.imajinbooks.com

  July 15, 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-926997-73-5

  Cover designed by Ryan Doan, http://www.ryandoan.com

  Praise for Dark Water

  "Dark Water is a riveting story of parental loss and a young girl's journey to find justice for her mother's death with the help of a boy who becomes more than her childhood friend. I didn't want this to end." —Sharon Sala, author of Lunatic Revenge

  "Dark Water is a brilliant and original story for readers of all ages that will touch every corner of your heart, mind and soul." —Charlotte Blackwell, author of The Embrace series.

  "A ghost story that combines elements of mystery, suspense, and the stirrings of young love, Dark Water will send a delicious shiver up your spine." —S.G. Rogers, author of The Last Great Wizard of Yden

  "Chynna tells a suspenseful, nightmarish, haunting tale while like a master seamstress, she weaves real insight throughout the story into the world of war, mental health and special needs. This one will be with me for a long time." —Doreen McGettigan, author of Bristol boyz Stomp

  For my Grandpa who was my 'watcher' when I was growing up; and even more now that he's gone.

  Acknowledgements

  I am so proud of this book and have a handful of people to thank for it becoming a reality:

  Steve and my kids: for tolerating staring at the back of my head while I obsessively got this story out (and edited it).

  The SPD Community: for helping me not only understand SPD in general but my daughter's specific form of it, as well as giving me the tools to help others understand.

  My grandparents: for inspiring me to be all I can be, even when I didn't see my potential.

  Cheryl Tardif: for giving me a chance, and believing in my story. I'm also grateful for the editors at Imajin for helping to polish my story to take it from 'Good' to 'GREAT!'

  My mom: I know that we couldn't be as close as a child and parent were supposed to have been but I acknowledge the gifts you gave to me: The gift of music, the gift of creativity and a love for nature. For those things, I will be eternally grateful to you.

  Prologue

  September 2009

  Jagged streaks of lightning zigzag across the midnight sky. He only counts to four before the thunder rumbles over the tree he's standing under. He pulls the hood of his fishing jacket farther down over his face as the rain falls harder. The wind stirs the waves even higher around the floating dock his fishing boat is tied to, threatening to toss it over like a paper boat in a stream.

  He throws the bundle over his shoulder, grunting from the weight, and clambers across the slick dock. Feeling like a child on a funhouse ride, he loses his footing, falling to one knee, and drops the bundle half into the fishing boat.

  Cursing under his breath, he kicks the bundle into the boat, pulls up the motor and then unties the boat from the dock. Another flash of lightning lights up the sky.

  He counts. One…two…

  Thunder explodes above him. The waves form whitecaps, throwing the tiny boat around like a tumbleweed in the desert. The oars feel like lead as he uses all of his strength to pull them out of the water, pushing against the wind, forcing them back before plunging them back down. He clenches his teeth with each movement. His arms ache, his shoulders burn.

  After what feels like hours, he reaches the middle of the lake and positions the oars in the clamps. The rain pours down in sheets. A fork of lightning shoots across to the forest on the other side of the lake. Two seconds later, he jumps as a loud crack echoes across the night sky.

  A wave crashes over the side of the boat, water pouring in around his feet. He bails water out of the boat as fast as he can and grabs his net. Rolling the bundle in the net, he ties his three heaviest fishing weights to the ends. He steadies himself and lifts the bundle up to the side of the boat, balancing it against his thigh. His overworked muscles shake as he tosses the bundle overboard. It bobs in the whitecaps.

  He picks up the first weight, tossing it into the water. He grunts, picking up the second weight. The bundle is tugged under the surface. She's crying now. He can hear her. Just like earlier, but weaker. He glares, a half smile stretching his lips.

  The boat rocks harder, the waves throwing water in the boat. He's tossed backward, hitting his head on the seat. He feels a trail of warmth oozing down the back of his head and neck.

  He struggles back up to his knees, lifts the last weight up and tosses it over the side. The bundle bobs for a second before finally submerging under the water.

  He releases a sharp breath.

  The rain eases up on his row back to shore. Thunder growls off in the distance, with a flutter of light sparking over on the other side of the lake in response. The worst of the storm seems to have passed. As he steadies the boat against the wild wind, the choppy water threatening to overturn the tiny fishing boat every second, he whistles "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

  It's done.

  Or so he thinks.

  He doesn't see the tiny rowboat bobbing in the sheltered bay not too far away. Or the black eyes seeing it all. Whispers swirl around in the wind from the watery grave as the fishing boat gets smaller, enveloped by the darkness and raging water.

  Help me…

  Strong hands with long, narrow fingers grip the well-used oars. The Watcher rocks, tiny ripples spreading out from the tiny vessel, mixing into the rough waters beyond. He sings his song, calling to her.

  She answers. Help me, please…

  The Watcher nods, his eyes narrowing. He stops rocking and lowers the oars back into the water. He rows backward and his boat disappears into the sheltered calm of the Bay.

  Help…me…

  "Soon enough," the Watcher whispers to the lake.

  Chapter One

  Eleven months later…

  "Can you girls come down here, please?" Gran called.

  Freesia Worth broke from her communication game with her younger sister, Sage, to respond. Can't keep Gran waiting for too long, after all. She didn't tolerate being ignored or being sassed. Any question not answered in a minute had her stomping up the stairs.

  "We'll be right there, Gran," Freesia yelled back. "We just have to clean up the cards."

  Sage had to be the smartest eight-year-old Freesia knew. Just because a group of people had decided she had some condition called Sensory Processing Disorder, or SPD, it wasn't going to stop her from being everything she could be and more—at least not if Freesia had anything to say about it.

  Their mom worked really hard making sure Sage had everything she needed to be right out there with all the other kids her age. And Freesia didn't want their mom coming back and seeing that Sage had stopped talking. It wasn't supposed to happen to a high-functioning 'sensational' girl who had never stopped talking before a year ago, but it had.

  They—all those 'experts' trying to tap into Sage's brain—decided that she didn't have the huge social struggles that other kids had with things like autism or Asperger's. They told Mama th
at Sage responded to things in ways that those other kids didn't or couldn't. Something about the social piece of what was going on with Sage wasn't a problem, really. You know, except that she yelled at people not to touch her, or not to sit too close to her, or whatever.

  Freesia guessed that with that social piece missing, Sage didn't fit nice and neat into any of those other big categories. So they stamped her with SPD. Mama was relieved just to understand what was going on. But Sage wasn't supposed to stop talking.

  Doctors were stumped. The occupational therapist, or OT, was stumped. Their grandparents were stumped. No one had any clue why Sage stopped talking. They called it 'a response to trauma.' She's more sensitive to these things than regular people, they said. No matter who called it what, Freesia was going to help her sister talk again. Despite being sixteen, she was the only person Sage responded to now that Mama had…gone away.

  "C'mon, help me put these back in the box before Gran comes up here," Freesia said to Sage.

  The young girl dug through the pile of noun cards with both hands. She found the card for lamb and shoved it in Freesia's face.

  "Lamby?"

  Sage nodded.

  "You need Lamby?"

  Sage nodded again.

  "C'mon, Sage. I know you can say Lamby. He's your favorite thing in the universe."

  Sage looked down and started arranging the cards in a circle around her.

  Freesia grabbed her hands. "Sagey, I'm just trying to help," she said in the same silky-calm way their mother had always spoken. "Please talk to me. Even though you used to blabber on forever about things I didn't always know about, it was just awesome hearing your voice. Just say…something."

  Not a word. Sage pulled her hands away, tucking her fists under her chin, and hummed the song "Michelle."

  Their mother used to sing that song to Sage during her home therapy sessions to calm her. Except she always sang, "Sage-y, my belle…these are words that go together well…my Sagey."

  Freesia let out a sharp breath, tears stinging her eyes. She reached under her leg, retrieved the lamb and rubbed it against Sage's hands.

  "Fine. Here's Lamby."

  Sage grabbed her lamb and snatched up a card before Freesia could put it back in the pack, shoving it in her face. Mom.

  See? You're in there. No matter what 'they' say. "I know," Freesia whispered, brushing hair from Sage's face. "I miss her too."

  Their grandmother's gruff voice from downstairs startled them both. "Girls! Please come on down. What's keeping you? Don't make me put the timer on."

  Both girls scrambled to pick up the last few cards, leaving the Mom card on Sage's bed. Freesia put an elastic around the rest of the pile, then stuck the deck on top of her bookshelf, out of Sage’s reach. Sage frowned.

  “Sorry, kiddo, but the OT is right. Signing is faster and better for you. I shouldn’t have let you bring the cards back down. We were only supposed to use them until we all learned the signs for the words. You don’t need them anymore.”

  Sage crossed her arms across her chest, deepening her furrowed brow.

  “Yeah, I know. More changes. It sucks. But if you get the keyboard that Gran’s trying to get for you, you won’t need to sign as much. They’re just trying to make it easier for you to talk to us. Writing and the cards take forever to get everything out, right?”

  Sage held her stance.

  Freesia rolled her eyes, grabbed her sister’s hand and then rushed downstairs. Sage ran her fingers along all the family portraits lined up on the wall going down the staircase. It drove Gran insane when she did that. It left crooked pictures and fingerprints behind.

  Freesia loved her grandparents. Her grandfather, George Freisen, was a retired general and her grandmother, Lillian, was an artist. She even had her work put up in galleries. You'd think Granddad would be the super-strict one since he spent all of his workdays giving orders, but he wasn't at all. He was as soft as a teddy bear. Gran was the stricter one, but more about the order of the house. She never yelled or punished. She just had the view that everyone should put his or her effort into making things run right. And she was super protective of her family.

  She had so much respect for her grandparents. They didn't have to take on the challenge of caring for them after their mom, Tamara, disappeared. They weren't old or anything. They were both in their early sixties. Freesia remembered hearing them talking about looking forward to spending their twilight years up at their cabin tucked in the hills of West Hawk Lake, Manitoba. They planned to winterize it so they could even spend the colder months there.

  Their plans changed after tragedy hit their family twice. Freesia and Sage's dad, Lieutenant Colonel James Worth, was killed on a special peace tour mission in Afghanistan. Their mom fell into a deep depression, but she seemed to be doing okay. She was a clinical psychologist, after all. She'd have known when to get help. She disappeared without a trace a month after their dad's death.

  Tons of rumors started up around their mother's disappearance, like she couldn't handle their dad dying and took off or she killed herself or she was kidnapped. Freesia tried her best to shield Sage from all the crappy stories. People can be so stupid sometimes.

  Search parties were put together and a hefty reward was set, since the Freisens were really well off. Not rich, but doing pretty good. Nothing happened. No one saw her. They'd found a few clues, but the trail seemed to go cold. Almost a year later and not one person had come forward, not even to try to get the money.

  But Freesia didn't buy any of it. No one can just disappear like that, right? It wasn't like her grandparents kept her updated with her mom's case. They didn't want her to worry. But she listened in when the police came over or whenever Detective Barry Cuaco, the head investigator of her mom's case and a close family friend, came to update her grandparents. And she watched CSI and Law and Order and all of those other detective shows. Granddad watched the shows with her and deciphered the forensic and police lingo for her.

  "Something is always left behind," he said whenever the team came to a dead end. "Someone usually knows something or forgets to cover something up."

  And that was what Freesia held on to. No matter what happened, her mom would never have just left them behind, especially without Dad. And not when Sage needed her so much.

  Gran lifted her arms up and nodded to Granddad. "Well, hallelujah! They're finally here. Granddad and I thought we'd have to send ole Rudy here to go up and find ya."

  Rudy was a St. Bernard the same age as Freesia. The gentlest dog you'd ever meet, she was even more protective of the family than Gran. She and Mama were the best of friends. Rudy lifted her head off her favorite pillow when she heard her name, slapped her tail in acknowledgement a few times and then lay back down.

  "Okay, girls, why don't you both sit down so we can have a little chat?" Gran lowered herself into her favorite recliner. Freesia never minded the chats because there were always snacks involved. And she could tell the level of seriousness of the chat based on the type of snacks served. This chat was at the Rice-Krispie-squares-and-fruit-smoothies level. Since those were their favorites, she knew something had to be up. An icy pain shot through her stomach.

  Gran slapped her palms down on her thighs. "Okay, girls. We have a bit of great news. Looks like Granddad and I have been granted guardianship of you. Remember? We talked about that a few months ago?"

  Freesia remembered. When Dad died, the military had set up Mom, Sage and her with his retirement funds. That just meant they'd be given his monthly retirement payments for life. Not too shabby.

  Not only that, but they also promised to take care of Sage's therapy, equipment and medical bills as long as she needed it and arranged college funds for both girls. Freesia had no idea how much money was involved, but it was enough for everyone to be concerned about who'd handle everything after Mom disappeared. Her grandparents had applied for guardianship to oversee the finances until Freesia and Sage were older, or until their mom came back—whichever
came first.

  It also meant they'd be like temporary parents. Freesia's tummy ache went from icy cold to burning hot. She couldn't even think about eating any Rice Krispie squares or sucking down a strawberry, banana and peanut butter smoothie. Sage had wolfed down one square already and was reaching for another as Gran went on.

  "So, that works out great because we decided to get Sagey one of those keyboard communicator things that her main OT, Misty, uses at the clinic. What do you girls think?"

  Freesia shrugged. "Cool. We were just talking about it upstairs. Sage seems to like the keyboard. It gets what she wants to say out faster, you know, when she's concentrating well. What do you think, Sage? Good idea?"

  Sage signed 'yes' without looking up before shoving the rest of her second Krispie square in her mouth. After a few chews to reduce the wad of food in her cheeks, she picked up her smoothie and sucked until her straw made a loud airy noise. When Granddad did the same thing with his own straw, she snickered.

  Gran glared at Granddad, which didn't stop the sucking competition. "Great. It's all settled."

  Granddad brushed Krispie crumbs off his chest. As he and Sage both reached for another square, he winked at her.

  "Slow down on those, you two, or you won't eat any supper," Gran slapped Granddad's hand.

  Granddad grabbed another square despite Gran's warning and leaned back in his recliner. "You shouldn't put them out if you don't want them eaten up, love. Right, Sagey?"

  Sage giggled, staring at Granddad's hand until he pulled it away. She peeked over at Gran before grabbing another one too.

  Gran clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "Okay, girls. This next thing isn't quite as happy, but it needs to be talked about. Your Granddad spoke with Detective Cuaco this morning."