Dead Low Tide (5 page)

“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 you 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.”

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.”

A
s 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. They’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.

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.

Former Wichita police officer facing kidnapping charges …

D.C. police officer pleads not guilty to child abduction …

Ex-Moulton police officer charged with taking neighbor’s daughter across state line …

“Up for a picnic?”

Kat sauntered up the dock wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a small cooler. “I got pimiento cheese sandwiches, cola, and we can split a Moon Pie for dessert. I’m betting you’ve never had one of those.”

“Moon pie sounds like the sort of thing my Uncle Eric shovels out of the barn.”

“Mercy me, Kansas. You ain’t lived until you’ve shared a Moon Pie under a harvest moon while cruising down the
Savannah River. Stick around long enough, and I’ll show you how to make Moon Pie pudding.”

“Last night at the church, did you have your phone with you?”

She smiled mischievously. “If this is your way of asking for my number …”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
Not a bad idea
, I thought. “Did you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Mind if I check something?”

I didn’t really think Kat was behind my sister’s kidnapping. At least I hoped not. I’d sort of become fond of her.

Kat’s was an old flip-cover model. I scanned the sent text messages and instantly realized there was no way she could have sent me an email. At least, not from that phone.

“How much do you know about Officer McDonald?”

She put her phone away and parked the cooler beside the dock box. “Not much. Sometimes he and Uncle Phil will wet a hook together, but that’s about it.”

I scanned the marina parking lot. What I needed was a way to run down the few leads I’d come up with. None of them was very solid, but sitting around on a boat wasn’t going to find my sister. “How far away is the Palmetto Island Realty office?”

“Clear on the other end of the island. But then, the island ain’t that long. Why, your family thinking of buying a place?”

“I want to find out if Dad’s job interview is legit. Mom seems to think my father is about to be conned into buying something we can’t afford.” I paused, thinking about how we
couldn’t afford
any
kind of home. At least not until Dad found steady work.

“I can take you up there in our golf cart if you like. It’ll give me a chance to show you some of the funner things on Palmetto Island. Grab the cooler. We’ll make our picnic a road trip.”

As soon as we were out of the parking lot and on the road, Kat looked over at me. “You asked about Officer McDonald earlier. Don’t know if this means anything or not, but one time he almost got written up for something that happened off-island.”

The cooler sat between my feet. I’d looked for a seat belt and couldn’t find one, so I clung to the roof support to keep from getting slung from the golf cart.

“Had something to do with this young country singer named Hank Cash. He was supposed to be promoting his new album,
Necking and Pecking on Papa’s New Decking
.”

“Officer McDonald?”

“No, silly, Cash. Except right before Cash was supposed to go on the air, his manager phoned the station to say the singer was sick and cudden make it. The interview was a big deal for the station. They had been promoting it for weeks. So to keep from missing out on a big PR coup, the DJ that was supposed to be doing the interview dressed up like Cash, complete with wraparound sunglasses, cowboy hat, and boots. When the limo pulled up in front of the station, the DJ dressed as Cash jumped out and ran inside. The crowd went berserk and
stormed the building. A seventeen-year-old girl got trampled during the process and nearly died.”

“Hey, you know, I think I heard about that. Don’t tell me Officer McDonald was the DJ?”

“No, but he was working off-duty and in charge of crowd control, so they blamed him for not keeping folks safe. Later it came out in the papers that Officer McDonald and the DJ were related. McDonald’s cousin is the morning DJ at WSAV.”

Traffic slowed. Kat stomped on the brake and the golf cart nearly slammed into the back of a black SUV loaded down with beach chairs and boogie boards.

“McDonald’s cousin,” I said. “Does he still work at the station?”

“Not sure. Maybe. How come you want to know?”

“Just thinking that if a zombie festival is set to start tonight and Officer McDonald is familiar with publicity pranks, he might be the perfect person to help his cousin dress up like a corpse and stage a mock kidnapping of my sister. At the creek last night he did mention something about the possibility of this being a radio station prank.”

“Why not ask him? His office is close to the Realtor’s office. I can drop you off if you want. Meantime, if’n you don’t mind, pass me a sandwich. I’m so hungry I could eat a buttered monkey.”