Dead Low Tide (8 page)

“Quite the opposite. Whoever wrote this
wanted
me to interview your father.”

“They did?”

“Oh, absolutely. After receiving a letter like that, I
had
to meet your father — if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. In all my years of screening applicants, I have never seen a letter that set the expectations so low. At dinner last night, the only thing your father had to do was say hello and not talk with food in his mouth and I would have been impressed. Look at where the letter came from.”

I studied the envelope. “Hey, that’s
our
zip code.” I peeked inside the envelope to see if there was a business card or any other clue, but it appeared empty. “Would it be okay if I hung on to this?”

“Be my guest.” She held open the passenger door. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’m heading back to the office.”

“I’m supposed to meet someone at the main beach access. Is that far from here?”

“Too far to walk. Hop in.”

We pulled onto the road and headed toward a water tower painted to look like a giant golf ball on a tee. For the life of me, I could not think of anyone back home smart enough or creative enough to compose a letter like that, but it confirmed my hunch that the author of the email had orchestrated our family trip to Palmetto Island. And if so, then maybe my sister’s abduction wasn’t a random act or a publicity stunt, but a carefully planned act — one designed to terrorize my family.

While waiting for a pair of golf carts to cross the street, Ms. Bryant said, “Earlier you mentioned something about Officer McDonald thinking your sister is with friends. But the way you said it, I got the impression you don’t believe him.”

“I know for a fact that’s not what happened. I just can’t seem to convince him of that.”

“You know, that’s not surprising. Officer McDonald can be pretty headstrong. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised he is still working here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Palmetto Island can be an expensive place to live. Especially for someone in the service sector. Most of the island’s labor force lives off-island and commutes, but not Officer McDonald. His home isn’t lavish: a two-bedroom cottage in a
cluster community. But it’s not cheap, either. That may be part of why he’s behind on mortgage payments.”

“How would you know that?”

“He made an offer on a townhouse a few months ago. Told me he wanted to get into passive real estate investments — you know, rental property. We ran a credit check. I suggested he get current with his mortgage company, clean up his record, and try again in six months. And I hinted he might want to sell his condo and move off-island. He nearly bit my head off at that suggestion. He must’ve found another Realtor willing to work with him because somehow he got approved for the loan. But unless his finances have changed, I cannot imagine he’s able to make two mortgage payments.”

“Maybe someone cosigned the loan. Mom says that happens all the time.”

“Possibly. His cousin is a hotshot radio host over at WSAV. He might have come into the deal. Even so, I still would not have been comfortable selling Officer McDonald that townhome. An officer under financial stress can be tempted to do some pretty shady things.”

We turned into a beach access parking area and she nosed the Jag into an empty slot.

“Thanks for the ride.” I stepped from the Jaguar and started to close the door, but stopped. “Mind if I ask why you kept that letter of recommendation?”

“No reason, really. Just a hunch.” I noticed her fingering the cross on her necklace. “Sometimes I get a sense that I’m
supposed to do, or not do, something. A lot of times if I pay attention to that gentle nudging, I find out later there was a divine purpose behind it.” She smiled warmly at me. “Good luck finding your sister.”

As the Jag rolled away, a red Jeep Wrangler loaded down with surfboards pulled into the vacant space next to me.

Dirk reached into the back seat, held up a pair of faded yellow swim trunks, and tossed them my direction. “You ready to catch some waves?”

“Now?”

“I only get an hour for lunch and I’m not going to spend it in a parking lot. You want to talk, we do it in the water. See you on the beach.”

I
stood at the tide line with cold water swirling over my bare feet. In addition to the swim trunks, Dirk had loaned me a full wet suit, but that did nothing to take the chill from my frozen toes. Dirk had on a surf vest and surf trunks. He did not seem bothered at all by the chilly water.

“We paddle out, clear those breakers, and wait for the set,” he instructed.

“I only wanted to ask a few questions.”

“So ask when you reach the lineup.”

He splashed into the water and with a few quick strokes left me standing at the water’s edge. Taking a few tentative steps
forward, I lay down on the long board and began paddling. Every few seconds white water rolled over me, shoving me back. It took all my energy to keep the board moving forward.

When I finally reached the last line of breakers, he asked, “You the one who stole my canoe?”

“Yeah,” I huffed. “Where you going now?”

“Outside. Set’s coming.”

I lifted my head and looked at the horizon. Nothing. Not even ripples from fish jumping. The sky had lightened to a pale blue. High clouds scudded overhead. I slapped the water and followed Dirk toward the imaginary “set.”

“Is this a good break?”

Dirk glanced over his shoulder. “Not really. Hardly ever gets good except for hurricane swells. But if you’re a surfer, whaddya gonna do?”

I couldn’t imagine what kind of shape you had to be in to surf. In just the few minutes I’d been paddling, I could already feel my calves starting to cramp and my arms … my arms felt like limp noodles. “You could surf somewhere else.”

“Going to Costa Rica in a month. It’ll be my second trip this year. But I grew up here. I can’t imagine living anyplace else. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

I felt anxious to get to the bottom of what had happened to my sister. I would have preferred to question Dirk in the parking lot because splashing around on a surfboard was a huge waste of time: time Wendy did not have. For a few seconds I thought about going back in and catching the shuttle. I needed
to check out Turtle Dove Estates, the place where Wendy’s bike had been spotted that morning. Maybe there was a clue there that might point me to where she was being held.

But having gone to all the trouble to suit up and paddle out, I decided to press Dirk on his whereabouts during Wendy’s abduction.

“Last night, right before the police arrived, where were you?”

“Why? You think I had something to do with what happened to your sister?”

“I saw you standing near the cart path. You must’ve been close to the boathouse to get there that quickly.”

“I was.”

Without elaboration, he paddled straight for the smooth green wall towering over us. He pivoted the board quickly and reversed course, took three forceful strokes, and jumped to his feet. With his lanky frame arched backward, he looked like the pictures you see in surf magazines of soul surfers. I managed to clamber over the wave just as it broke under me. There wasn’t enough time to clear the second wave; I was too far inside, so I frantically kicked and clawed and spun the board around at the exact moment the wave began to rise beneath me. As the board slid forward, I grabbed the sides and pushed myself first onto one knee, then my feet.

The surfboard shot down the wave.

I bent my knees and felt the fins respond to the shift in weight and turn the surfboard. I cranked a bottom turn and brought
the nose around, drifted up the face, and made a slight correction that, for a few moments, kept me tucked in the pocket. Then suddenly, the wave’s smooth, green wall slammed into me and knocked me off, burying me beneath cold salt water.

A half hour later I sat on cool, dark sand with the sun warming my face. My feet felt numb, but I didn’t mind. Surfing, even in small waves, was way better than snowboarding at a crowded ski resort.

“I was at a coffee shop near the marina.” Dirk sat beside me with his wet suit tank top peeled to his waist. “That’s where I was last night, hosting a Bible study at the coffee shop.”

“How many in your group?”

“Last night? None. I’m a member of the International Christian Surfers Association. Our numbers fluctuate.”

“You know, you’re the second person I’ve met today who mentioned something about a Bible study.”

“This is the Bible belt, bro. Get used to it.”

I hesitated for a moment before saying, “So … nobody can say for sure you were really there?”

He cocked his head and smirked. “I guess not. I help run the coffee shop sometimes, but like I said, on Wednesdays we use it for the Bible study. The staff leaves at eight since I’m there. Why? You really think I’d dress up like a zombie and take your sister?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think. Obviously, you’re in great shape. I mean, you could probably hold your breath for, what, a couple of minutes if you have to?”

“Longer. Three minutes easy if I’m not exerting myself.” He jumped to his feet and peeled off his wet suit. “Lunch break is almost over, so I’d better get going.”

Three minutes. Just long enough to swim from shore, surface, and grab the canoe. What if Dirk saw me talking with Officer McDonald after the disappearance, became concerned, and warned the receptionist to keep an eye out for me? Maybe that’s why Officer McDonald spent so much time answering my questions earlier today. It could be that Dirk told McDonald to learn all he could about what I knew, then debrief him in the conference room. The two men had looked as if they shared a secret. Had Officer McDonald hurried me along so the pair could discuss what to do with the nosy Nick Caden?

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.

T
he 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
.