Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller

by William Michael Davidson

  It wasn’t long until Drake had done whatever business he wanted to do beneath that bridge, because he started coming back. I ducked low behind the bushes, and he rode past without slowing down. A few flickers of lightning turned everything—the surface of the stormy water, the row of boats, the cloud-filled sky—ghost-white for brief, popcorn moments. Following the flickering and flashing came the low drone of what sounded like giant rusty gears turning behind the clouds: thunder.

  I waited behind the bushes to give Drake enough time to get back to his berth, tie up, and get back inside without noticing the crazy writer across the canal following him in the storm. I was soaking wet. Fortunately it wasn’t cold, but the unusual humidity made me feel gross.

  The whole time I couldn’t keep the obvious questions out of my mind. Why did Drake have a rifle with him? Was that what was in the duffel bag, a rifle? Had I seen correctly? And why was he so interested in that bridge?

  By the time I reached home, Drake’s Duffy was tied up on his dock and he was nowhere to be seen. Good, I thought.

  I walked to the front door of my house. My shoes squished like sponges around my ankles. I thought of running to get out of the rain, but after all that time out in the storm, there was no point.

  As I neared the front door, I realized I wouldn’t have to knock. No need.

  The door opened, and my wife stood there. Beside her, my son, Owen. Beside him, Candice, his teenage crush. They all looked at me like a freak of nature, and I realized how ridiculous I looked.

  There I was, fully clothed, soaked head to toe, binoculars around my neck. I was half-surprised my wife didn’t take out her phone and snap a picture to put on social media to make fun of me. She’d done it on many occasions, and her not seizing this wonderful opportunity was my first indication that something was wrong.

  “How’s everyone doing?” I said.

  Owen and the skinny girl just looked at me.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Madison said, but I didn’t like the tone of her voice. I knew that tone.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”I asked.

  “My jewelry,” she said. “It’s been stolen.”

  Chapter Eight

  “What? What happened? What’s been taken?” I asked.

  “My jewelry box is gone,” my wife explained. We were standing in the kitchen. Toby was in bed, and Owen and Candice had gone into the living room to watch television. The movie they had gone to see was sold out, so they’d decided to watch a movie at our house. “The little jewelry box I have. The one my cousin bought for me years ago. The one I put my bracelets in.”

  “What do you mean it’s gone? How could it be gone?”

  “It’s not there,” she said. “I happened to look for it, and I couldn’t find it. I turned the whole closet inside out.”

  “When’s the last time you saw it?”

  “About a week ago. It’s usually behind the big jewelry box.”

  “And you looked everywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  My wife had a tendency to be scatterbrained, and on more than one occasion, she has been known to lose things that almost require effort to lose; but she is quite tenacious, and when on a quest to find something, she’ll turn over every rock in her path. I believed that if she had really conducted a search of the closet, then she had done a pretty good job. Where the jewelry box had gone, I could only imagine.

  “But you’ve been here tonight, right? All night?”

  “Yeah, me and Toby especially. It couldn’t have happened tonight. We were sitting on the couch all night.”

  My mind worked hard to compute all the possibilities. I did have to agree with my wife: If someone really had taken the jewelry box, it must have happened at another time. No way could somebody have gotten into the house, snuck through the living room, taken the jewelry box, and gotten out without so much as stirring my wife or son. And why would a thief go right for a jewelry box tucked away in a huge walk-in closet? And why the small jewelry box? The more I thought about it, the more none of it made sense.

  “Are you sure you really looked everywhere?”

  “Yes, everywhere. Trust me, it’s not there. I went through every inch of that closet.”

  And then a disturbing thought occurred to me. Who else had been in our house that week? No thief would have found his way to the master closet and that jewelry box. There would have been more signs, more obvious things taken along with it. I didn’t have a degree in law enforcement, but it didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

  “Who has been here this week? Anyone at all?” I could tell by my wife’s expression that she registered exactly what I was thinking. If the jewelry box really had been stolen, then it must have been someone who knew the house and had been let in.

  She put her hands on the kitchen island, took a deep breath, and began to think about the last week, but as she did so, a completely horrific idea overcame me. It overcame me with such violence, I also had to grab the kitchen island, but more to steady myself and not fall over than anything else.

  Could it be Drake? Things had been silent for a while before I left Samantha’s bedroom. Could he have possibly crossed the canal during that time and stolen the jewelry box? Perhaps that was why he’d had that rifle with him. An armed robbery? I began to think of how he could have actually gotten into the house during the storm without my wife noticing. If he went through the back door and crept alongside the laundry room wall, he could have gotten to the stairwell without anybody noticing. It was possible, though ridiculously unlikely.

  I knew the backdoor was unlocked. My wife loved going out onto the back patio area and frequently forgot to lock that door. It was a relatively preposterous idea that Drake had stolen it, but I couldn’t help but wonder.

  We decided it would be best to deal with it the following day. My wife had no reservations about going to bed and ultimately became confused and thought perhaps she had misplaced the jewelry box. She had gone through our closet a couple weeks before and piled some clothes in the garage for a scheduled Goodwill run. Perhaps the jewelry box was part of that monstrous heap in the garage. She couldn’t take seriously the notion of somebody slipping into her house that very night, into her closet, and singling out that jewelry box. Neither could I; it was too ridiculous to believe.

  Candice’s parents picked her up, and eventually Owen went into his teenage-cave where he would most likely sleep until noon the following day.

  But I couldn’t sleep well. I was restless all night. In my dreams, I imagined Drake sneaking into our house and skulking up the stairs en route to our master closet.

  A missing dog?

  A missing box of jewelry?

  If only it had stopped with that.

  Chapter Nine

  The following day, July 3rd, we continued our routine and commitment to keep Toby’s young mind off Bessie. The thought of a fireworks show, of a picnic in the park right along the water, kept almost everyone in a cheery mood. It was a good thing, too, because I needed it just then.

  My wife, Toby, and I went for a short walk to our favorite bagel shop and talked about what a good night it was going to be. And to think, it was only a precursor to the following night and the “big” party at the central park of Naples Island. My wife and I sipped our coffee, goofed around with our son, and I was able to clear my mind.

  The sky seemed quite blue for a day following a storm, but there was, in the distance, another stretch of dark clouds that could reach us by evening. I had been so consumed with everything else I hadn’t taken the time to listen to the weather in detail, but my phone said another good possibility for rain that night. Hopefully, it would stay away until after the fireworks show and after we’d gone indoors.

  By that point, my wife and I agreed she must have misplaced her jewelry box. There was far more valuable jewelry right alongside it that a thief would have taken. As for Drake and his duffel bags, I began to seriously question if I had really seen a rifle in his hand. It
had been difficult to see through the binoculars in the rain. Perhaps it was something else? Some tool he was using to work on the boat? I tried my best to dismiss it because at that point I didn’t want to deal with it. I wanted to get back into my routine, my early mornings of drinking coffee and grinding out pages on my manuscript, and my afternoons at home with my family.

  We lounged around most of the day, and I went back into my office to do some editing that afternoon. I’m not sure when Owen emerged from his room, but I’m guessing it was sometime around two or three in the afternoon.

  By the time seven o’clock rolled around, we had gathered some blankets and chairs and a big cooler filled with wine, sodas, and some homemade turkey sandwiches. The walk to the park wasn’t far, so we decided to share the load and make our way there on foot. We met up with our neighbors, the Paisleys, and walked with them. They were traveling quite light: just a bag containing a bottle of wine, some plastic cups, and a corkscrew.

  Madison and Jenna, Darrel’s wife, walked ahead of us, and Darrel and I got into a brief conversation.

  “I saw you running around in the rain last night,” he said, and I was shocked that someone had seen me.

  “Yeah, long story with that one.”

  “Well, I was looking around outside, because a really weird thing happened last night.”

  Now he had my attention. Maybe I wasn’t the only one losing my mind the last couple days.

  “Jenna lost her wedding ring,” he said, but I could tell there was more to it. Darrel was a quiet, stoic kind of guy, and I could tell he didn’t like talking when the content primarily concerned feelings. “At least, she says she lost it. But she doesn’t know how. But it makes a man wonder, you know? Wedding rings don’t disappear.”

  The wives were well ahead of us, chatting. I was tugging the cooler on wheels and had a couple chairs slung over my shoulder.

  “That’s why I was looking out the window last night,” he said, but his voice sounded distant. Otherworldly. He was troubled. It was a bit shocking to say the least, because Darrel, as I usually understood him, was the calm, older guy who seemed unfazed by most of life’s troubles. “A friend of hers was picking her up to go out to a wine bar. I waited and watched. I just wanted to see, to make sure it was really Linda who was picking her up.”

  “And was it Linda?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but something about it didn’t seem very convincing. “It was her. That’s when I saw you running through the rain. But I saw you earlier too, Eddie. Leaving Samantha Wheeler’s house.”

  It was a simple statement, but there was something profound in it. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. Did he want me to explain myself? My explanation would sound ludicrous, so I just kept quiet for the time being. He could think what he wanted.

  “Maybe the reason I was so worried about Jenna last night is because, well, it all reminds me of what happened with my ex-wife,” he said, and then he slapped me rather gently on the shoulder.

  When we arrived at the park, there were still some decent spots left. We and the Paisleys made for a nice green spot near the middle of the park.

  Hot-rodder peddled past us, but I didn’t hear the phony motor sound of the card in the spokes of his back tire.

  “Word of the day!” he yelled.

  I couldn’t help but wonder. “What happened to your engine?”

  He stopped the bike right in front of us. “Someone stole it.”

  Stolen, I thought. Maybe that’s when I should have realized what was really happening. A lost dog? A missing jewelry box? A missing wedding ring? Maybe I should have connected the dots just then, but I didn’t.

  “Word of the day,” I said. I pointed to the lightning rod. “Fulmination! A violent explosion or a flash like lightning.”

  “Fulmination,” he said excitedly. If it was possible for a kid on a BMX bike to burn rubber, I would have sworn he did so right then and there. Because all of a sudden he was gone. Just like that.

  We put down our blankets and got comfortable. Owen, bored already, decided to go for a walk around the park because he was pretty sure Candice was here somewhere with her parents.

  Samantha emerged from the crowd. Apparently she had set up her camp not far from us with a girlfriend of hers and just wanted to come by and say hello to all of us. Darrel looked at me knowingly, and I felt uncomfortable. I would explain everything to him later, when I had more time and more privacy.

  It was very strange, really, to be chatting there about the weather and life and the coming fireworks show with a woman who had made an advance at me the night before. What was most interesting, however, was how rejuvenated Samantha looked. She seemed very happy, almost giddy, and yet she didn’t seem tipsy in the way a couple glasses of wine would have made her. I wondered if it was because some other man had put a deposit in her Attention Bank since the previous night.

  She didn’t stay long, and all of us only talked about the kinds of things neighbors who really don’t know each other all that well talk about. When she said goodbye to my wife and the Paisleys, she whispered something very quickly to me as she strolled away.

  “Thank you for last night,” she said. “I noticed.”

  And then she weaved in between the maze of blankets and chairs and back to her picnic table. I saw her flick her hair and glance back at me, a very beautiful and flirtatious smile glowing on her face. She winked.

  I noticed? What did she mean? Hadn’t I been beyond clear in my refusal? Or, after I left, did she somehow read between the lines of something I’d said?

  We sat in our picnic chairs, ate our sandwiches, and sipped our wine as the sun began to fall and the skies turned a deep purple. It appeared that nature would be on our side that evening. While there were dark clouds coming our way, it looked as if they would arrive after the fireworks show. The air was as hot and humid as it had been, and I kept picking at my shirt at the shoulders and lifting it off my skin to cool myself down.

  It wasn’t long before there wasn’t an unclaimed inch of green grass in the park. Lots of familiar faces were there, although I knew few of their names. But I’d seen many of these residents walking along the canals. There were also others who had driven over to watch the show. The July 3rd fireworks show mainly drew in the locals because those living outside of Naples were anticipating the big July 4th fireworks show over the Queen Mary, a retired pre-World War II ocean liner that was now a tourist attraction and hotel over on the mainland.

  Just as it was getting dark, and while in the midst of a conversation about inflation with the Paisleys, we heard a loud, obnoxious motorcycle drive up to the edge of the park. Several people shielded their eyes from the blinding headlight; many more covered their ears from the noise. After seeming to get the attention of every man and woman at the park, the driver killed the engine, got off his bike, and took off his helmet.

  To no surprise, it was the same guy I’d seen at the Captain’s Room the night before: Klutch. He looked amongst the crowd of picnickers as if he were looking for something or someone, and he looked pretty angry. I didn’t know him well enough to recognize whether or not this was his usual demeanor.

  I watched as he strode slowly through the park. Amongst the crowd of what most would call “white upper-class society” picnicking in the park, he looked completely out of context—a fresh fish out of water. But eventually he discovered what he’d come for. Klutch pointed his finger at someone, and it was Jesse, the owner and sometimes operator of the Captain’s Room.

  Jesse, who had been sitting on a picnic blanket while munching away on chips and guacamole, stood up. The lumberjack-look-alike wiped guacamole off the beard that hung from his chin like thick Spanish moss. He wore a red-and-black checkered flannel shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks.

  “What happened to my knife?” Klutch asked, but it wasn’t so much a question as it was an accusation. The nearby picnickers silenced themselves. This wasn’t the fireworks show they were expecting, but it was evident
that a fight was about to ensue.

  “What are you talking about?” Jesse asked wearily.

  I remembered his complaints about Klutch at the Captain’s Room. Maybe something had happened the previous night after I left, and Klutch had come here to finish unsettled business. I stood up instinctively and moved toward them. Maybe I would have to hold somebody back. I heard Madison tell me to stay put, but I didn’t really pay attention. I found myself, almost without knowledge, advancing toward the altercation.

  “I had a knife in my saddlebag. I take it with me every day. Spyderco Civilian. Reverse ‘S’ blade shape. It wasn’t there this morning.”

  “I don’t know anything about your knife, Klutch,” Jesse said.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say. Then why wasn’t it there this morning?”

  “How should I know, and why should I care? Why don’t you get on with whatever you’re doing and leave us in peace?”

  “You wanna be left alone in peace, huh?” Klutch said, and he looked at the silent picnickers surrounding them in amusement. “You all wanna sit here and drink your yuppie wine and sit on your yuppie blankets? Screw you! Screw all of you!”

  “Last I looked, I don’t look much like a yuppie,” Jesse said, stroking his beard. It was a funny comment, and I heard a couple spectators chuckle, but Klutch didn’t like that. He didn’t like it at all. “And there’s children and families here, Klutch. Why don’t you watch your language, huh?”

  “You accused me last night of taking money from the little rat-hole you call a bar,” Klutch said, and I realized something must have happened after I left the previous night. “I think when you went back into your kitchen, you went out through the backdoor and broke into my saddlebag, that’s what I think. You think I’m an idiot? I served this country, you know that? And I never lost a man in my convoy! So screw you for thinking you could take my stuff without me knowing.”