Night Tides

by Alex Prentiss

  He waved his hand in the air as he sought the word. “Manners.”

  Despite her anger, Rachel blushed anew, because he was right; she and Helena, half drunk and giddy, had laughed at it, with Korbus right there. He’d laughed, too, at the time, as if their scorn were no big deal. But that was no justification for this.

  Still playing helpless, she choked down her fury and said meekly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Korbus.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. His tone was not bitter or angry, just resigned. “Doesn’t matter a damn now.”

  “I didn’t mean it, Mr. Korbus,” she said. And it was true, she hadn’t intended to hurt anyone’s feelings.

  He laughed, cold and mirthless, like the sharp bark of a coyote standing over fresh roadkill. “You asked me before if I was ill. I’m close to my expiration date, for sure.” He ran a finger along the fresh line and flicked the tip of one breast for emphasis. “But I haven’t spoiled yet.”

  He rummaged on the table, then held up a long plastic tie, the kind used to bind the other victims. “I’m going to tie your hands again. You’ve been reasonably good, so I’ll tie them in front this time. Then I’ll give you some water before I take you back to the basement. I imagine you’re thirsty.”

  She nodded. Her thoughts, though, were on escape. With her arms tied in front she might struggle, but not while her ankles remained strapped to the table. And he kept the cattle prod within reach. He’d perfected his little procedure, all right.

  In moments he’d released her arms and bound her wrists, tight enough that she worried about the circulation. Then he held out a bottle of water. She took it in her hands and drank gratefully. Between drafts she asked, “What about food?”

  He slapped her behind. “Crackers when I feel like it. This isn’t a hotel.”

  She drained the bottle, and he took it away. When he tore off a fresh piece of duct tape, she said, “Do you have to? I won’t scream, I promise.”

  He smiled sarcastically. “Right. Stockholm syndrome in record time, eh? Sorry.” He pressed the tape to her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ETHAN SAT ACROSS from Marty’s desk. It was as disorganized and cluttered as his room had been when were kids. And just like then, Marty knew exactly where everything was.

  Ethan had a Band-Aid on his jawline and a gauze bandage on his hand; neither injury needed stitches. However, he was certain he’d have to replace all his trousers; they would no longer fit, now that Marty had effectively and thoroughly chewed his ass off.

  “The only reason you’re not in jail right now is that you were the one bleeding, and Caleb had enough pot in that basement to make what he was doing a felony,” Marty told him in the car coming back to town. “Not to mention that he confessed to vandalizing Rachel’s diner. He’ll make a deal to drop charges against you if we lower the charges against him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Gee, could it be because I’m a cop?” Marty almost shouted.

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan mumbled.

  “I think everybody knows that by now. Christ on a stick, Ethan, don’t you think Caleb was one of the first people we talked to? He had a solid alibi. If there had been any holes in it, any doubt at all, we’d have hauled him in for questioning, or at least had someone watching him.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said.

  “Yeah, no shit.” Marty sighed, tapping his hands on the steering wheel as they waited for a light to change. “You’re coming back to the station with me, so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll bring you back to get your truck later. And I don’t want to hear a goddamned word out of you, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Ethan agreed. He looked down at his knees, unable to meet his brother’s gaze.

  “I know you’re worried, man. I don’t blame you. But this isn’t like war. Or maybe it is, I don’t know, but the rules are different. You’ll have to trust us, trust me. Can you do that?”

  “If I have to, I have to,” Ethan said flatly. “How’d you find me?”

  “Helena called me. And you better thank your sorry white ass that she did, because if any other cop in the world had found you, you’d be in jail right beside Caleb.”

  Now it was late afternoon, and nothing had changed. There were no leads, no tips, no clues. The evening news would carry the story, but neither man held out hope for a break based on that. Being on TV hadn’t helped the others—especially Ling Hu.

  Marty dug under a pile of loose printouts for a folder. “You know, I think this is the most frustrating case I’ve ever worked on,” he said. “Five girls, one dead that we know of, and all taken from the middle of town, without a single substantial clue except their abandoned clothes. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and none of the victims seem to have anything in common. I tell you, the hardest thing to track down is a truly random criminal.”

  “Did you check The Lady of the Lakes?” Ethan asked.

  He nodded. “Nothing. Not even a mention of this. I sure wish I knew how they got their information and why they know all about some things and nothing at all about others.”

  Ethan looked at the picture of Marty and his longtime partner, Chuck, in sweaters before a cozy fireplace. They seemed happy to simply be in each other’s presence, similar to the childhood picture of Rachel and her sister. “Do you think she’s dead?”

  “Honestly, Ethan, I don’t know. Ling Hu died of an asthma attack, according to the preliminary report, so she wasn’t murdered. She also wasn’t sexually assaulted, even though we found her nude.”

  “But she could’ve died before the kidnapper got around to either of those things.”

  Marty nodded. His computer chimed to announce an e-mail, and for a long moment the only sound was his typing a response. Across the room, the phone rang at another desk, and a gruff, unsympathetic voice answered it. Finally Marty said, “I hate that I brought you into this, you know. Sending you to the diner like I did. I just thought you and she…” He ended with a shrug.

  “We did,” Ethan said. “That’s the worst thing about it. She was great. Funny, sexy, smart…” He ran his hand through his hair. “Like Julie, except without the bitterness and paranoia.”

  “It’s not paranoia if people are talking behind your back,” Julie said.

  Ethan spun around in his chair. Marty stood and said formally, “Ms. Schutes, what a surprise. Normally the desk sergeant calls up to announce visitors.”

  Julie was immaculate in a summer blouse and skirt, her bag over her shoulder. Her blond hair was pulled severely back, and she wore black-frame glasses. Her face twisted for a moment as her personal reaction battled her professional detachment. The latter won. She kept her gaze resolutely on Marty and said, “Actually, I wasn’t here to see you, Detective Walker. I thought I’d stop by to say hello on my way out of the building. But since I am here, I’d like to ask you some questions about the latest disappearance.”

  “And I’d like to answer them, but I can’t.”

  “No comment, then?”

  He sat again. “No comment. Except to tell everyone, especially women, to use extra caution.”

  “Is this latest disappearance connected to the others?”

  “He said no comment, Julie,” Ethan snapped without looking at her.

  Julie started to bark a reply, then noticed his bandages. “What happened to you?”

  “I cut myself shaving,” Ethan said through clenched teeth.

  She moved to the side of his chair. “I hear you reported her missing too. The anguished lover waiting desperately for news is always good for a few paragraphs of filler. Care to comment?”

  Ethan stood and glared down at Julie. For a moment he seemed about to strike out, if not physically then with a verbal tirade. A couple of other officers at nearby desks stood as well, ready to intercede at the signal from Marty.

  But Ethan clamped it down. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the men’s room.”

  He pushed past her, shoving the chair
aside to avoid physical contact.

  JULIE WATCHED him depart, then turned back to Marty. The cocky chill was replaced by real emotion as she said, “You could’ve told me he was involved. I had to find it out from the P.R. officer. And then here he is, big as life.”

  Marty sighed. “There’s not enough hours in the day for everything I could’ve done, Julie.”

  “So he does know the last victim?”

  Marty nodded. “She disappeared after a date with him. Their first date.”

  Julie turned again and looked down the row of desks to make sure Ethan was truly gone. She tapped her fingers on the chair back and said finally, “Doesn’t that make him a suspect, then?”

  “No,” he said sternly. “And this is all off the record, Julie. Seriously.”

  “I don’t blame you. This whole thing doesn’t make the police look very good.”

  “You mean it doesn’t make me look very good. Are you going to hang me out to dry in your article?”

  She tried not to smile, but it still crept out. “You’re a shit, you know that?”

  ETHAN WANDERED numbly through the police station. A few officers squinted at his visitor’s badge as he passed, but for the most part they left him alone. He’d visited Marty before, and word of his contretemps with Caleb Johnstone evidently hadn’t reached the rank and file.

  He opened the door to the fenced parking lot and went outside. A half dozen white police cruisers waited for their patrolmen to return, some with their engines idling. The metallic squawk of the dispatcher rang through open windows.

  He went to the chain-link fence and stood with his fingers threaded through it, his forehead against the metal. It was warm from the sun. Just beyond the fence, past the narrow bike path and gently sloping bank, stretched Lake Monona, southernmost of the city’s lakes.

  The afternoon sun made the highlights on the lake sparkle. A Jet Ski bounced across the wake of a fishing boat, and in the distance he saw a small sailing craft making for one of the big houses on the far shore. Bicyclists and joggers passed within arm’s reach, but none paid him a second glance. No doubt they assumed he was a cop, and no one wanted to make eye contact.

  He turned toward a distinctive whirrrr-snik sound. An elderly man sat at the water’s edge, casting his rod and reel into the lake. He let the lure settle, then wound it in with slow, methodical movements. When it emerged from the water empty, he didn’t seem disappointed and immediately threw it back again, repeating the process.

  “Are they biting this time of day?” Ethan asked.

  The man turned. He had dark eyebrows and unruly white hair. His face was lined and suntanned. “You talking to me, Officer? I got my fishing license right here.”

  “No, I’m not a cop.”

  “If you’re a prisoner, then that’s a terrible bit of escaping.”

  Ethan laughed. “No, I’m just here visiting.”

  “I had a friend whose son was just visiting, for five to ten.”

  “My brother’s a cop.”

  “Oh. Well, no, the fish aren’t biting.” The lure came up out of the water again, fish-free. “The spirits aren’t with me today.”

  Ethan perked up at the use of the word. “Spirits?”

  “The spirits in the lake. If they aren’t with you, you could toss dynamite in there and not have a single fish float to the surface.”

  “I didn’t know there were spirits in the lake.”

  “Where’d you grow up?”

  “Monroe.”

  “Do you fish?”

  Ethan nodded.

  “And you never heard about the lake spirits?”

  “Not until recently.”

  The old man shifted so he could look at Ethan directly. “You know about the animal mounds in the area? The people who built them did it to honor the spirits in the lakes. If you want to do any good fishing here, you better bring along something to honor them too. They decide they don’t like you, you might never get back in their favor.”

  “What sort of things do they like?”

  “I bring ’em beer.” He nodded at the cooler beside him. “The first drink is always for the lake.”

  Just as Ethan was about to point out that his offerings seemed to do little good, the man’s rod bent sharply and he jumped to his feet. Within moments he’d landed a walleye that looked to weigh well over five pounds.

  Ethan was about to congratulate the man, when Julie said behind him, “Isn’t watching someone fish the only thing lamer than actual fishing?”

  He turned. She stood with her arms crossed, the light wind tousling loose strands of her hair. A pair of uniformed cops stood by their car and grinned as they appraised her. If she knew, she didn’t seem to care.

  “I’m not your story, Julie,” Ethan said. “Go away.”

  “I’d say a local builder and Iraq war vet who gets in a fistfight with another veteran over a dope deal gone bad would make a hell of a story,” she said blithely.

  “You wouldn’t dare. You know that’s not true.”

  She smiled in smug triumph. “But all the facts fit.”

  “What do you want?”

  She looked down and shook her head. The maliciousness left her face. “I’m sorry, Ethan, that was … thoughtless. Just when I think I’m over things, they come back stronger than ever. I didn’t expect to see you down here, and to find out you’ve moved on… it stings a little.”

  “Well, I’m going home, so you’ll have the place all to yourself.”

  As he walked past, she touched his arm. He stopped. She said, “I do miss you, you know.”

  He did not look at her.

  “I still say we could’ve made it work,” she continued.

  He whirled toward her angrily. “Is that some kind of joke?”

  “What? No, I didn’t mean… Look, I’m sorry for that too.”

  He saw the genuine regret in her eyes, and after a long moment he nodded. “Everybody’s sorry for something.”

  Her blue eyes fixed on him with all of her fierce, intelligent intensity. “Are you?”

  Ethan recalled his grandfather’s admonition: Never apologize; it’s a sign of weakness. He’d believed that for most of his life. Now he knew it wasn’t true. But he didn’t want Julie to know he knew. So he turned and walked back into the building.

  “That’s what I thought,” she called after him.

  Inside the building, he found a secluded hallway corner and dialed his brother’s cell phone. When he got voice mail, as he hoped he would, he left Marty a message saying he was going home. But he had other plans for the evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  RACHEL PRECEDED Korbus down the basement steps. Her hands were bound in front, her mouth taped, and the choke collar again encircled her neck. She felt the strap bounce between her shoulder blades.

  She stumbled on the last step and fell to her knees, then forward onto the concrete. With her wrists tied in front, she was able to stop herself from landing on her face. Still, her elbows and forearms scraped painfully on the cement.

  Korbus grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He swiped at the dirt clinging to her oiled skin. She pressed her arms against her nipples and glared over the tape.

  “Don’t get any dirt on that while it’s still bleeding,” he said. “Wouldn’t want an infection or anything, would we?”

  He guided Rachel to the back wall and gestured that she should sit against it. When she did, he pulled her legs out straight and put a plastic tie around her ankles, binding them across each other. Only then did he take the choke collar from her neck.

  His bald head gleamed with sweat as he looked at the others. Their eyes were wide above their gags. Faith and Carrie still huddled together, while Patty remained far back in the corner. They waited to see who he’d pick for the next session, but instead he yawned, went back upstairs, and closed the door. The bolt slammed home on the opposite side. Then, unlike before, the single dangling bulb went out, leaving them in darkness.


  Faith and Carrie began to scream through their gags. Rachel awkwardly got to her knees, sat back on her heels, and tried not to hyperventilate. The room was close, hot, and damp, and the darkness made it completely unbearable. She twisted her wrists uselessly; the plastic ties were unbreakable. And there would be no way of working her ankles free.

  She closed her eyes and tried to ground and center, to fight the panic. The pain from the tattoo made it easier than she thought. Instead of adding to her fears, it helped change them to anger. She had been defiled in the worst possible way, permanently marked by the will of a man who treated her body as nothing more than a canvas. How dare Korbus think he could force his precious designs on the flesh of unwilling victims? His captives weren’t even people to him, just tools to be used like paint and needles. Their feelings meant nothing.

  As her eyes adjusted, she realized some light was actually seeping in from a small window overhead, where the basement ceiling met the wall. The glass had been painted black, but in spots the edges had flaked off. The illumination was weak but definite, sending narrow beams of faint light—moonlight? sunlight?—that, combined with her memory of the room, allowed her to see enough to move around.

  Rachel crawled uncomfortably on her hands and knees over to Patty. The girl was absolutely wide-eyed with terror, her face sweaty and streaked from crying. She looked soft and achingly vulnerable; Rachel could not imagine anyone being aroused by the pitiful, slightly plump body normally hidden by clothes, now brutally displayed against her will. I’m so sorry I failed you, she thought. I should’ve done more. Then I might not be here either.

  She lightly touched Patty’s face. The girl whimpered and jumped. Fresh tears sparkled in the dim light.

  Rachel couldn’t just let this go on. These were kids, unprepared for this and entirely unable to cope. They might have read about brutal things, seen online videos of cruelty, but they’d never experienced it firsthand. They could never extract themselves from this, and she had no illusions that Korbus would release them once they were covered with his obscene art. He would bind them, photograph them one last time, and then probably masturbate to the pictures. Or, as she suspected, die quietly in bed of whatever illness racked him, leaving his body and theirs to be found only when the smell of decomposition grew too great.