Dead Low Tide (2 page)

“Wendy!” I teetered on the edge of the dock. “Jump in! I’ll toss a life jacket to you!”

“Nick, do something!” she yelled in a wheezing screech.

Grizzled gray fingers reached for my sister’s throat. “Wendy, jump!”

“I —”

Skeletal fingers clamped over my sister’s mouth; her muffled screams fell silent. In horror I watched as the canoe, my sister, and the stinking corpse of Heidi May Laveau glided into the bank of fog. For several agonizing seconds I watched my sister struggling to break free of the dead hand clamped across her mouth.

Then she vanished into the mist.

I stood frozen to the dock, unable to breathe. A final passing thought flashed through my mind as I jumped in and began swimming to shore to get help.
Ah, man, how am I going to explain to my parents that a zombie took Wendy?

W
hat do you mean you lost your sister?”

I straddled my bike in front of our rented condo. Dad hadn’t even let me get off before he grabbed me by the shoulders and started yelling at me.

“Dad, you have to believe me, it wasn’t my fault. I told her to wait for me but she got in the canoe, and a dead —”

“What were you doing down at that creek is what I want to know!”

Telling Dad I’d gone hunting for another
Cool Ghoul
story would only make things worse. He was already plenty mad; I could tell that from the way he’d gone ballistic and started
yelling at me when I rode up. I looked away from his hard gaze and studied the bike’s chrome fender.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Dad huffed.

“Dad, I’m sorry, but it happened so fast. One minute she was in the canoe floating away from the dock; the next, that thing had her.” Just saying it out loud made me queasy. Before then I’d been working off adrenaline but now, standing before Dad, I felt like any second I’d hurl. “I told her not to get into the canoe but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Don’t try to blame this on your sister. It’s your fault! The two of you were supposed to stay here — that was the deal.”

“Police are on the way,” said Mom, butting in. “Frank, are you driving or am I?”

Dad released my shoulders and stared blankly at Mom as though he’d forgotten she was there.

“Fine, I’ll drive,” Mom said coolly. She marched to the driver’s side of the Buick and slid behind the wheel.

I could tell she was working on autopilot, processing the situation and setting things in motion. While Dad screamed in my face, Mom had calmly demanded I tell her the exact time Wendy went missing (“I dunno, Mom, probably like a quarter to nine”), phoned the emergency operator, and checked the condo to make sure it was locked. My mother would fall apart later when she was no longer in charge.

“You two coming?”

We piled into the Buick. Mom and Dad in the front, me slumped in the back seat. With both hands on the wheel, Mom
backed out of the parking space and raced out of the parking lot. She knew the way to the marina. Or, sort of knew. At Dad’s insistence we’d spent part of the afternoon checking out boats. But I could tell from the way she kept slowing down to read street signs that she wasn’t 100 percent sure of where the turn was.

“Nick, this has to stop.” Mom glared at me in the rearview mirror.

I braced myself for Mom’s lecture. Normally Dad’s the calm one, but when it’s something really bad, Mom becomes quiet, stews, and then unloads with both barrels.

“No more ghosts. No more vampires and zombies, do you hear me? You’re done writing for that website.”

I leaned forward and pointed at the windshield. “Turn at that sign.”

“Did you hear your mother?”

“Yeah, Dad, I heard.”

“Don’t take that tone,” said Mom. “You’re in plenty enough trouble as it is.”

I almost started to explain (again) that Wendy’s disappearance wasn’t
all
my fault. That she and the zombie-thing shared some blame, but instead I kept my mouth shut. Not that my parents cared, but I felt horrible. It had been my idea to go to the boathouse. My editor, Calvin, had suggested the Laveau incident might make for an interesting article. He hadn’t exactly promised front-page placement on the website, but I knew with the right pictures it was a possibility. That’s why I’d wanted to go at low tide. To snap some pics and video with my tablet.

Mom swung the Buick into the marina parking lot and jumped out. A fleet of expensive-looking motor yachts and sailboats greeted us on the main dock. Floodlights illuminated a walkway as the three of us hurried past the marina basin and down to the creek. One look at the crime-scene tape blocking access to the pier’s busted dock pilings and Mom lost it.

“This is your fault! You’re the reason he’s like this!”

“Me?” said Dad, rounding on Mom.

“Yes, you, Frank. If you weren’t so busy trying to be Nick’s buddy instead of his father …”

I felt about an inch tall. Dad and I
had
become closer over the past year. Our buddy-buddy time began after our trip out west to Deadwood Canyon. Before then, the two of us could hardly stand to be in the same room. But after I’d solved the mystery surrounding the identity of Billy the Kid’s killer, Dad began treating me differently. “Not every fifteen-year-old gets a write-up in
Police Blotter
magazine,” he’d bragged to me. “You keep on solving cases and one day maybe you’ll be able to make a living doing this.”

Now Dad only looked disappointed.

Mom jogged up the beach to where the uniformed officer stood questioning a group of teens.

“You have to find my daughter,” I heard her say to the officer as we walked up. “You just have to.”

Mom had inserted herself between the officer and a girl who appeared to be about my age. The teen wore a baggy denim shirt, jeans, and bright red flip-flops.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do right now, ma’am. We’re just getting started on the search.”

The young woman quickly glanced my direction, then wandered back to join her friends by the campfire.

The officer introduced himself as Officer McDonald and pointed toward a marine patrol boat motoring past the boathouse. A uniformed officer leaned over the side of the boat as though searching the water for a body. “We hope to know more in a few minutes.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t tell me you think she drowned. Is that what you’re saying? That my daughter has drowned?”

Dad sidled over and placed a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Sylvia, please. That’s not what he said.”

Quickly Mom slapped Dad’s hand away.

Dad said to the officer, “I’m afraid we don’t know much other than what my son told us. He claims our daughter was in a canoe that drifted away from that dock.”

“Didn’t drift,” I corrected him. “Was pushed.”

The officer jerked his chin in the direction of the teens. “The girl I was speaking with said she heard talking in the boathouse. Walked down the beach to check, heard a splash, and saw someone riding away on a bike.”

“That was me.”

Officer McDonald eyed me skeptically. “You were there, you saw what happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was with my daughter,” Mom cut in.

My
daughter. As though she already had custody of Wendy. As though my parents were already divorced.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to your son.”

“Sure. Nick, tell the officer what happened,” Dad said.

“Alone, if you don’t mind.”

Before my parents could object, Officer McDonald walked me toward a makeshift command center, complete with tent, floodlights, and generator. Electrical cords snaked across sand. News crews began arriving. Already the dune separating the narrow beach from the golf course fairway was clogged with curious onlookers.

“Don’t suppose you know anything about a canoe that went missing from the outdoor rec center?” Officer McDonald’s pale-green eyes looked at me from beneath the brim of a tan patrol hat. He had a broad-shouldered, muscular build that strained the buttons on his crisp brown uniform.

“We only needed to borrow it long enough to paddle out to the boathouse,” I explained. “I was going to put it back as soon as we were done.”

“How, is what I want to know? Those canoes are chained to the rack.”

“Picked the lock.”

He eyed me skeptically. “You?”

“In my backpack is a KLOM lock pick set. Best forty bucks I ever spent. Takes some practice to learn how to trip the tumblers, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

“You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”

“No, not really, it’s just that … I needed to get out to that boathouse.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

I completely skipped over the part about wanting to see the spot where Heidi May Laveau had washed up days before and instead recounted how Wendy and I were killing time while our parents were at dinner. I told the officer my sister got bored, stepped into the canoe, and it floated off. When I got to the part about the body floating up, Officer McDonald stopped me.

“Run that last part by me again?”

“The person who took my sister was dressed like a zombie.”

“Sure it wasn’t a stump or a log floating?”

“It had hands and feet and a head. And it was wearing a dress. Look, I know it wasn’t a real zombie, okay? There’s no such thing. But it
is
my fault my sister is missing. I’m the one who talked her into coming with me to the boathouse. Come on, let me help. I can find her, I know I can. Put me in one of those patrol boats.”

“No chance of that happening,” Officer McDonald replied coolly. “I’m still trying to decide if I should charge you with theft.”

“But I’m the only one who saw which way they went. Please? Wendy’s probably scared out of her gourd right now.”

Officer McDonald walked behind the generator and returned with my backpack, handing it to me. “You might want to consider getting rid of that lock picking set.”

“Yes, sir. Good idea.”

“Why is everyone still standing around?” Mom demanded, waving her arms at the officers standing around under the tent. “Shouldn’t they be looking for my little girl?”

“There’s a bird in the air. Should be along any minute,” answered Officer McDonald. “If that canoe is in the creek, we’ll find her with that big spotlight. You can count on it.”

“By bird, you mean a helicopter?” said Mom anxiously. “Where is it? I don’t hear anything. Wouldn’t I hear it if it was on the way?”

Officer McDonald pointed toward a bright light approaching from the west. “Look, I know you’re worried. If it were my daughter, I would be, too. But the local radio station is always coming up with crazy stunts to boost their ratings. Starting tomorrow there’s a zombie festival in Savannah. Could be that some DJ got a little too carried away.”

“Are you saying this is somebody’s idea of a joke?”

“I’m not saying one way or the other. I won’t know for sure what we’re dealing with until we get more boats in the water. In the meantime, I’ve called in a canine unit. It would be helpful if you would let their dogs go through some of your daughter’s things. You know, in case she’s stuck on that island and hiking around trying to find a way off.”

“Frank, take Nick back to the condo and get him out of those smelly clothes. You two can wait for this dog squad. I’ll stay here.”

“I wish I could let you do that, ma’am, but we need everyone off this beach except official personnel. I’ll have one of my officers follow you back to where you’re staying.”

“But I want—”

“Come on, Sylvia, let the man do his job.”

Mom jerked her hand from Dad’s. “Fine. But I’m not waiting around in that condo all night. If I don’t hear something about my daughter soon, I’m coming back, and when I do, it’ll take a lot more than a couple of officers to keep me away.”

Mom and Dad started up the beach toward the marina parking lot. I fell in behind, then felt Officer McDonald tapping me on the shoulder. I paused and turned.

“That fellow standing over by the cart path?”

I looked to see where Officer McDonald was pointing. All I could make out was the silhouette of a person.

“He runs the Outdoor Activities Recreational Center. Came on board last summer after we had some trouble with vandalism and petty theft. Windsurfers and kiteboards and such kept walking off. If I was you, I’d apologize to him for taking that canoe.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“But you might want to wait until we get it back, first.”

You mean if you get it back
.

H
ow’d the dinner go?”

The Buick remained deadly quiet on the ride back to the condo. No matter how many times I apologized for dragging Wendy down to the boathouse (I was working on my third apology), Mom and Dad couldn’t seem to bring themselves to forgive me. I couldn’t blame them, really. Saying you’re sorry and meaning it aren’t the same, and lately I’d made it a habit of doing things against my parents’ wishes.

Dad answered my question about dinner by asking (
again
) what I was doing in an abandoned boathouse with my sister when we’d both been ordered not to leave the condo.

“Told you, I was working on an article for
Cool Ghoul Gazette
.” Trying to change the subject, I asked, “Did they make you an offer?”

Dad, wearing a serious scowl on his face, studied me in the rearview mirror. Mom sat in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window. I couldn’t tell if she was crying, but the way she kept putting her hand to her face led me to believe she was.

“Come on, Dad, give me something. Did they offer you a job?”

The wrinkles around Dad’s eyes deepened, hinting at a smile. “They want me to head up their sales referral department.”

“Head it up? Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“People adapt to survive, Nick. Part of the evolutionary process.”

“It’s straight commission,” Mom said, still looking out the passenger window. “Your father is not taking the job.”

“
I
haven’t decided what
I’m
going to do, Sylvia.”

Mom whipped her head around. “I’ve been in real estate long enough to know a scam when I see one, Frank, and that’s what this job is. One huge rip-off.”

“Lots of potential,” Dad said to me, trying to sound upbeat. “And obviously they must think a lot of me; otherwise they wouldn’t have paid to put us up in that nice condo. This is a hot area for retirees. I have a lot of connections in the Midwest. Kansas City, St. Louis, Des Moines. That’s a market they’re looking to penetrate.”

“Scam,” Mom repeated, almost spitting the word.

“So then you’re thinking about it,” I chimed in. “That’s great. I’d love to live at the beach.”

“
We
aren’t living here because
your father
is not taking a job doing something he’s completely unqualified to do. And don’t think you’re out of the woods, young man, not by a long shot. I haven’t figured out what your punishment will be, but believe you me, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never set foot in that boathouse.”

I was tempted to point out again that it was Wendy who got into the canoe without a life jacket or paddle, but didn’t. Once Mom gets her mean mask on, there’s no use trying to reason with her.

“Sylvia, don’t tell me what I will and will not do.”

“You’re not taking that job and we’re not moving to Palmetto Island, and that’s final.”

Mom hated most everything about the coast of Georgia and took every opportunity to point out to my father that she wasn’t about to move to a place overrun with flying cockroaches, mosquitoes, and alligators.

Dad shot back, “You want to pack up and move in permanent with your sister, go ahead, I’m not stopping you. Would be a relief not to have to listen to you complaining about how you can’t afford to shop for new shoes — as if you need another pair.”

“Frank, we both agreed we wouldn’t argue in front of the kids.”

“You started it.”

I slumped in the Buick’s back seat, resigned to the fact that my parents were splitting up. Thing is, I don’t mind my parents not
always
getting along. That’s normal. But saying bad stuff about each other in front of Wendy and me? It’s like they don’t even care how it makes the two of us feel. Or how hard it is for us to mentally referee their spats.

That’s one reason I wanted Wendy to go with me to the boathouse. I was hoping the two of us could come up with a plan for how to keep our parents together. I knew for a fact Mom had contacted an attorney. Not sure about Dad. He’s not one to give up easily. Not even on a lost cause. Not that our family was a lost cause, but it had definitely lost something.

Dad swung the Buick into an empty parking spot in front of our rental unit and turned off the motor. “I countered with a few conditions of my own. It’s in their ballpark now.”

As soon as we were inside, I bolted to the guest bathroom to shower. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the smell of that stinking creek out of my nostrils. I also couldn’t wash away the guilt. It was nagging at me, and I figured I wouldn’t be able to get rid of it until I found my sister. Worst part was, no one would let me help with the search, and that was the pits.

When I came out, the canine unit was in Wendy’s bedroom going through my sister’s stuff. Shirts and jeans were on the bed, and shoes and socks lay strewn across the floor. A dog’s furry head had buried itself in Wendy’s favorite pullover hoodie.

Officer Latisha Hightower asked me to explain what happened. I told her about the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
and my involvement with TV Crime Watchers.

“What exactly is that?”

“The Crime Watchers? It’s a group of us that analyzes crime, cop, and detective shows. We have a huge database going back almost thirty years. We use that information to catch real murderers. At least, when law enforcement officials will let us help. We have an 80 percent close rate. That means in most cases we can correctly identify the killer
before
the real detectives can.”

“Interesting.” I could tell from the way she said it that she didn’t believe me. “Tell me about your sister floating away in the canoe.”

I recounted how Wendy and I had taken the canoe from the rec center without permission, paddled out, and docked under the boathouse. How we’d waited for almost an hour and then Wendy got bored and wanted to leave. When I got to the part about seeing a dead person bobbing up and grabbing my sister, the nice police lady stopped taking notes.

“I’m sure you understand how important it is for us to get an accurate description of what happened,” she said to me in a patronizing tone.

“That’s what I’m doing, describing the thing that took my sister.”

“You said it was foggy, right? Maybe you just
think
you saw a dead body.”

“White dress, skin hanging off, head with a huge hole in the side. I got a real good look. It was a body, no doubt about it.”

Officer Hightower turned toward my parents seated at the kitchen table. “Okay, I think we have enough to go on.”

I could tell she didn’t believe me. No surprise there. If I’d been a police officer, I would have had a hard time believing me, too.

The canine unit packed up their gear and dogs and left. Once the front door clicked shut, the condo became deathly quiet. Without saying good night, Mom shuffled off to Wendy’s room. The door clicked shut. In a few minutes I heard her sobbing. I wanted to go in and give her a hug, but I was the last person she wanted to see, so I unfolded a sheet and sacked out on the living room sofa. Dad told me not to worry, that we’d find Wendy, and retreated to the master bedroom.

I lay there for a long time listening to a starfish wall clock click off the seconds. I couldn’t sleep knowing Wendy was in that canoe with some zombie-like person. Hoax or not, my sister would be a basket case. The thing that had me stumped was why Wendy? If she had not crawled into that canoe, would the prankster have taken one of the teens at the bonfire? Or had my sister been targeted? Zombie festival or not, I couldn’t imagine someone dressing up like that and swimming around in cold water just to play a joke on someone. I’d nearly frozen during my short time in the water.

Without meaning to, my mind replayed what I knew to be the basic profile of a kidnapping case.

From watching hundreds of TV shows and reading transcripts of real cases, I knew kidnappers normally target specific individuals. Only in rare instances is the abduction a random act. Most kidnappers either seek financial gain (victim held for ransom), have a political agenda (release of prisoners), or are emotionally and psychologically disturbed. It was that last category that concerned me the most.
What if a crazy goon took Wendy? Some freak who thinks he or she is a zombie and is acting out some fantasy?

The good news was, in hostage-for-ransom cases, the victims tended to survive their ordeal. Bad news was, my family was broke. I wondered if our presence in the plush condo at Palmetto Island had given the kidnapper the wrong impression. If so, my sister could be in bigger trouble than any of us imagined.

The light in Dad’s bedroom went off. A few moments later I heard him tiptoe into the kitchen and get a glass of water. The condo was so quiet I could hear Dad swallowing as he gulped water.

A few minutes later, I heard him quietly knocking on Wendy’s bedroom door. Mom came out, sniffling. They huddled in the kitchen, the two of them talking in whispers. It reminded me of when I was younger and I would sneak out of my room and watch while they put out our Christmas presents. Finally Dad’s car keys jingled, the front door opened, and light from the porch briefly fell across the living room carpet. Then it was quiet again.

I hated that Wendy was missing and I was to blame, but at least Mom and Dad were doing something together — even if it was only hanging out by the creek while awaiting an update from Officer McDonald.

Moonlight moved across the patio. The starfish clock ticked and ticked and … ticked. Outside I heard the Buick start.

I lay there thinking about my sister.
Bet she’s not sacked out on a sofa pretending to sleep. Bet she’s bawling her eyes out and yelling for someone to come find her
.

Turning onto my side, I closed my eyes and wished I could take back the past couple of hours, but I couldn’t. Wendy was gone, my parents upset, and for what? So I could write a stupid zombie story for
Cool Ghoul
.

I was still wide awake when soft knocking on the front door startled me. Jumping up, I went to the door and peeped out the little window. The girl from the creek, the one I’d seen wearing the faded denim shirt and jeans, was trotting across the parking lot, running away from our unit. I opened the door, looked down, and saw a note on the doormat.

The hum of an electric golf cart caught my ear and I jerked my head up just in time to see her speeding away up the darkened street.

In a kitchen drawer I found a small flashlight. It fit nicely into the front pocket of my jeans. I slipped on damp sneakers
and grabbed my lightweight rain jacket. For a few seconds I stood in the living room wondering if I should leave my parents a message telling them where I was going, but decided against it. The more it looked like a spur-of-the-moment decision, the better.

I eased open the sliding glass door, mounted my bike, and pedaled across the alligator lagoon into blackness.