by L. B. Carter
Barnacles. How far off course were they now? The water surface rose and fell all around in lumbering cascades that heaved and overturned slowly as if the ocean were too lackadaisical to move any faster. They were tossed like a nuisance fly creeping across an arm. Shoo.
“Check the gauge and correct for the diversion, Guppy,” Grandpa suggested from behind her, his voice tight with nerves or pain.
Right. Rena found the right thingy-mabob on the huge dashboard of do-hickies and adjusted their direction until the numbers matched those Grandpa had translated from the garbled radio he clutched in his uninjured hand—Gil’s last recorded location, according to Dave’s or Sam’s last communication—they were impossible to tell apart via radio.
The transmissions had been absent for the last eon, ramping up both of their anxieties. Probably just the storm messing with the signals. Gil would be okay. He had to be.
Rena had only saved one so far… Sort of, she amended as Grandpa moaned with another pitch of the boat. Rena needed to up her score if she was going to break even.
Maintaining course took all of her attention as rocks appeared in the periphery to the right every time they dipped downward. A natural fly swatter. With each crest they went over, Rena over-corrected to the left to keep them from drifting too close. What had that meteorologist said? Everyone would be fine as long as they stayed off of and away from the water?
“There!” Grandpa surged out of his seat, emerging next to Rena as he peered through the glass.
She leaned forward too. It wasn’t until they rocked back and the tumultuous sky filled her view that she spied what he did: a red glow behind a large cloud. A flare. A guide for their rescue mission. A beacon of life; Gil had to be okay if he could set it off.
Rena aimed for where the smoke tail met the ocean, ignoring the numbers on the dial now that she had a visible goal. It appeared and disappeared as they seesawed back and forth. Grandpa’s nervous energy both hindered and helped her own jitters: his urge to get to Gil as fast as possible made her forget her anxieties for a second.
A contrasting reminder, the waves got rougher with the boat’s new angle, slapping the sides and shoving them to a tilt. The dual directions of manhandling made Rena stumble a bit in the galoshes she’d grabbed from the house.
Don’t think about it. Two for one. Totally acing Dr. Spelmann’s homework. Hopefully they survived until her next appointment so she could brag.
They were encroaching on the cliffs that lined the shore south of their little town. It was looking like the storm had washed Gil into the rocks. A slight indent in the jagged wall of rocks lured their tiny vessel to the right despite Rena’s grip, and they experienced a sudden thrust thanks to the swirling eddy lurking there, fueled by each successive wave getting trapped in the little alcove. The boat drifted sideways. Rena struggled to offset the change. Their bow swung wide, pointing straight at the oncoming current as the stern slipped into the alley.
Oh God. Face the fear.
Rena pushed up on the lever, gunning the engine. The little tugboat was not intended for this job. It reminded her of that train book she’d read the Rugrats when she’d arrived at Kayna’s before their bedtime for a movie night. I think you can, little tugboat.
On the plus side, their makeshift rescue boat was surrounded in rubber, enabling them to bounce harmlessly off the jagged cliff face a few times before the engine gained enough momentum to overcome the onslaught. Rena glanced back at the wet, black stone only once; Grandpa was keeping an eye on their tail. He’d yell if anything bad happened.
Waves were now splashing down over the bow, occasionally washing across the windshield, giving the illusion of diving underwater. Rena’s breathing became heavier. The lack of rubber band on her wrist was glaring as she turned the wheel back and forth, unwilling to let go. That wheel was her brace and lifeline, more so than her life vest.
Face the fear.
They chugged too slowly out of the menacing hole and turned again slightly right. The flare had lost its glow quickly and the tail was distorted thanks to the wind and cloud cover. Rena couldn’t tell from where it had launched anymore. She cast about, disoriented. Grandpa came up beside her again, searching for himself. This had been his job; he was better at it than she.
Suddenly the sweep of a wide band of light beamed in an arc across the purple and greys of the sky ahead of them, barely penetrating the fog. The lighthouse! Was that where Gil was? Rena aimed for it, regardless, so they didn’t lose track of themselves at least. As they grew closer, their bobbing increased in frequency but dropped in amplitude. Closer to the jetty, they were past the point where the waves crested. Instead the boat rocked in shorter periodicity on the sweeps of foam. Rena widened her stance and Grandpa was forced to sit again, without a free arm to brace himself.
There. Rena’s padded lifejacket pressed into her thumbs as she tried to get a better look at the view unveiling through the fog and rain.
The black top of the lighthouse was visible between two clouds and she followed the white tower down its widening frame toward the rocky base. More than halfway to the bottom, she noticed a second, thin column, leaning as if tired against the vast concrete cylinder, silver in color like metal.
“What in the—?” Grandpa mimicked her sentiments aloud.
A gust of wind shifted the cloud next to it like a sheet being shaken out over a bed.
Oh—
“Shrimp!” Grandpa exclaimed.
Gil’s wasn’t a sailboat. This was someone else. The other victim of the storm the lobsterman had been after. Suddenly Rena recalled Reed’s words earlier that day about sailing. Nor? He wouldn’t be that stupid. It had to be some other classmates of Rena’s. Where was Gil?
The answer emerged over the next lurch in waves. A black stern bearing the white stenciled name Dorothea was exposed in another gap in the craggy cliffs the lighthouse warned against, listing to one side, a massive boulder propping the dirty-white barnacled bottom above the water. If the tree in Grandpa’s yard had been a stumbling drunk, Gil’s lobster boat was several drinks further along, passed out on its side. Miraculously, several faded yellow lobster traps remained stacked on the uneven back deck. Dorothea bobbed ever so slightly in the current but didn’t shift. She was stuck fast. Was Gil still with her in her final moments, contrary to her namesake?
Rena cut the engine down to an idle and spun them around so the competing propulsion from the waves and their little engine kept them in place. She checked on Grandpa over her shoulder, keeping her hands steady. He was gazing off their stern at the wreck. The flashlight in his hand lacked the power to penetrate the combination of inky skies and obsidian rocks in blacker water. It was impossible to see much more than the name, boat bottom, lobster traps, and a few red and orange striped buoys tied to the sides, thanks to their bright coloring—Tom was great at keeping up with peeling paint.
Rubber had saved them once, but Rena didn’t trust that they could get much closer. There might be rocks hidden under the surface that would beach them like Dorothea. Why had Gil come this close? He was a seasoned boatman and had seen these storms before. Perhaps he hadn’t anticipated how much worse this one would be. The jetty led back to the cliffs Dorothea was snagged below; they could maybe get there that way but Rena would have to find a way to get them to the lighthouse base. Rena turned back to the lighthouse, with which they were roughly abreast.
Shrimp. She’d forgotten about the sailboat.
It was there, clear as day—well, as the day had been before the storm rolled in. The rigging was loose and flailing around like a tentacle, letting the white sail flap exaggeratedly in the strong gale. It was surprisingly whole. The rest of the boat—assuming it was a boat—looked much like Grandpa’s shed. Her cream body lacked sides and some of the bottom—maybe all of it; it was hard to tell as somehow it remained upright balanced on the rocks. The entire front was sheared off like it had been severed with a pizza cutter. Jagged bits of wood lay in the crags be
tween the rocks, like dismembered limbs, some ebbing out and then flowing back in, being smashed again and again into smaller and smaller pieces by the waves crashing into the rocks. Salty barnacles. The little sailboat had been snatched by the storm and crushed in its grip. Where were its sailors?
Rena was about to get Grandpa’s attention when he slipped up beside her, also staring off their starboard at the second wreckage. He continued talking into his radio. She wasn’t sure if it was working or he was just hoping someone might finally hear his broadcast. His flashlight didn’t even cut through the window, reflecting back in Rena’s eyes making her blink.
“Guppy, you need to pull us closer.”
She gaped at him. The storm already destroyed two boats on the rocks. He wanted to make it three?
He turned back when they didn’t move. “It’ll be fine. The storm is calming.”
How could he tell? Rain still lashed the glass in between the spray of waves. The clouds hovered in patches of pea soup and darkened the skies so the lights from the controls lit up Grandpa’s face. She couldn’t read his emotions. Should she do what he suggested or resist some overzealous refusal to give up?
He took a step toward her and winced. His face paled and he let go of the radio with his free arm to cup the injured one to his life vest again. He closed his eyes to breathe for a moment and Sirena’s concern grew. He needed a hospital. How were the two of them going to be of any use even if they could get closer and look for survivors?
“Guppy, we don’t have time to dally. I’m not getting any response from Sam and Dave. I have no idea if they’re receiving my transmissions or if they’re okay. We’re all these guys have.”
If there were any guys left for them to save. Rena immediately regretted the thought. As much as Gil would be happy to be with his real Dorothea again, she truly hoped he hadn’t drowned. That was not a good way to go.
Her mind pictured it in a flash, like a bubble escaping her box and popping behind her eyelids. She shook her head.
Face the fear.
On the bright side, if everyone was already dead, there’d be no one left for Rena to kill. Except Grandpa.
Enough morbid thoughts. Two for two. Or maybe even three given the reveal of a second marooned boat.
The tugboat made slow progress as Rena tried to angle it just a bit to the right without getting totally flipped by the currents. A little to the right, then back straight. A little closer. The rocks looked sharper the closer they got. As she pulled up, in a manner, next to the jetty, Grandpa did something to the controls with his good arm, hissing without the support to the fractured one.
“Okay, Guppy. I need you to hold her steady. Can you do that for me?”
What? She twisted around but kept her arms locked as he moved toward the opening behind their little windowed-off section.
The wind whisked most of his volume away. “’et a closer loo’.” Then he was around the corner with his flashlight, and Rena lost sight of him in the downpour and darkness. Shit. This was definitely a night to swear.
Now what? Rena tried to peer out the window, lifting onto her toes, but the tugboat shifted and she dropped her heels heavily. Driving the getaway vehicle counted as being a hero, right? If there was anyone to drive. Wasn’t there some autopilot mode on this thing? She couldn’t make sense of all the knobs, buttons and dials, besides the location, power and obviously the wheel. Then again, she wasn’t sure her fingers could physically let go. With the panic and coldness locking her in, she was going to become part of the tugboat. Then it’d have an autopilot.
She heard a shout cut through nature’s roar. Grandpa? Or someone else who’d seen his flashlight?
Her fingers were too slow to peel off; Rena might’ve left some skin behind, she wasn’t sure with the numbness. It didn’t matter. She skidded around the edge of the enclosed section and slipped a few feet towards the back of the sodden deck and gazed around the darkness. Grandpa wasn’t on the boat. The flashlight was though.
Fuck.
She snatched it up and swung it about wildly. It glanced across bits of wood floating around on the undulating surface and lit the shiny surfaces of wet rocks. Rena couldn’t tell a body from the other flotsam.
Without her holding it steady, the little tug gave in to the surf and swung around. She ran around the rear, trying to keep pace with its spin, her eyes staying in place, searching the waters between her not-so-safe vessel and the hellish crags of the jetty. She had to move closer to the bow as the current sucked the boat towards the gap between the sheer cliffs, like Dorothea had been only a snack and it was still hungry. Rena glanced behind her at its gaping maw then forward at the fathomless water and knew she didn’t really have a choice.
There were already too many lives at stake. Grandpa only had one working arm and she was sure he wouldn’t have dived in if he hadn’t seen someone else. Gil? One of the sailing team members? Didn’t matter. Face the Fear. Three for three.
With a final glance behind her at the looming mouth, Rena acknowledged that the boat wasn’t going to make it. The storm was also three-for-three. Time to abandon ship.
She’d be four for four if saving her own life counted.
She stepped up onto the rim, staring her nemesis down—or at least staring down at her nemesis. Her confidence was swiftly snatched by the wind. She bravely lifted her chin, taking a deep breath and trying not to look at the choppy waves, below which the depths were a life-snatching mystery, just like herself. The sail waved goodbye morosely.
Rena was hoping for at least one for one. She had a feeling the ocean would claim her this time. Perhaps she could save the others from the horror of drowning that she saw in her nightmares. If not, at least this time it wouldn’t be her fault. If it was Nor somewhere out there, she was going to go out proving that she was the hero.
Don’t fall in, she thought without humor and tipped off the edge.
Chapter Fourteen
“He’s gone,” Nor rasped out to Reed as soon as his eyes shifted from the blinding fluorescent lights in the ceiling tiles to the face next to him. He only noticed the IV attaching his hand to the saline bag like a dog leashed when he grabbed for the metal bar along the bed to pull himself upright.
Reed fumbled at a switch beside the mattress and a motor lifted Nor into a seated position. He wasn’t getting it, wasn’t paying attention.
“Reed.” Christ, Nor’s throat felt like it was full of knives. Talking more than that was impossible. Swallowing burned. He accepted the offer of a cup of water and straw, taking huge pulls and coughing at the sudden influx. Thank fuck this water was not salty. He pushed it aside with his non-tethered hand when Reed offered it again. He didn’t need any more water in his body. His brother unnecessarily fluffed the pillow, jostling Nor’s head in the process. It struck him then, watching the certain and cocky Reed flounder helplessly, a feeling associated with the last time they’d been in a hospital. They’d both been sitting on hard chairs under the glare of fluorescent lights with the sharp scent of alcohol filling their noses only months prior with Mother. Feelings of helplessness and uncertainty filled Nor, raising the speed of the beeping heart-rate monitor. He swallowed the heartache and winced. Enough with the distractions. A life was at stake. Mother would want them to protect it.
“Reed!” It was a croak, but the force was enough to finally draw attention.
Reed stopped messing with the stupid sheet over his legs. “Whose gone?” He had heard.
Nor shook his head, and a headache started behind his eyes. “Our murderer,” he clarified, hoarsely. “Gone.”
Reed sat bolt upright, intensity snapping over the confusion and concern. His eyes darted to the curtain surrounding them, the color of toothpaste. Looked like a group ward. Reed leaned closer, his body pressing unconsciously on the IV line, keeping his voice low, intense. “Who? How do you know he’s our killer?”
“Andre—” He coughed again. Painful swallow. “Andrew Shepherd.”
“
You were right?” A lot of shock and a little pride lit up Reed’s face. He was probably already imagining Father’s response when he reported they’d completed the mission. He needn’t look so excited. It probably wouldn’t have been more than a quick nod, or a single pat to the shoulder and then a reprimand for taking so long to solve whodunit and a mandate to head to the gym. If that. Father had gotten a lot more silent, though Nor hadn’t thought it’d be possible, after Mother…
The report wasn’t going to be what Reed hoped anyway.
“But.” Breath.
“Did he confess?”
“You’re missi—” More breathing. Nor was thankful he had the chance to inhale again, but hated it for the sting on his abraded airway. “—the point.”
Reed’s brows furrowed, his glee immediately allayed. “Doesn’t matter that he’s gone. We can find him again if we need to.”
Nor shook his head, frustrated he couldn’t express himself faster. “No...” He coughed again.
Dawning realization blanked Reed’s face. “What do you mean he’s gone?” He stood as though to run out of the hospital and chase him on foot.
Nor forced his hoarse words out through the tightness in his throat. “He’s—”
“What’s going on in here?”
A doctor in a white lab coat that had the name Doctor Lin on the chest bustled through the curtain, thin with a sharp nose and straight black hair pulled back from her face in a bun. Either she needed to pit-stop at the cafeteria more often or her hair was tight enough to work like Botox, the way her cheekbones stuck out and her eyes sunk in like a villain in a movie.
“You should not be talking just yet, young man.”
Young? The lady was probably only a few years older than him, assuming the faux botox wasn’t actually that effective at minimizing her age. They probably had his fake identification on the charts she was currently scanning.
She fidgeted around him, checking scanners and squeezing the IV bag for reasons unknown. It was transparent. She could see how much remained. And the regulator attached controlled the flow. Reed was forced out of the way, shifted to the foot of the bed. His expression was anxious and he moved about, glancing at the small opening the doctor had left in their fabric room, eager to make chase of their actual villain.
