by Mark Stone
Author's Notes
Copyright 2017 by Mark Stone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written consent from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
Lost in the Storm is a work of fiction. All events, dialogue, and characters are a work of the author’s imagination. Therefore, any similarities to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Dedication
For the men who taught me how to be one and the woman who taught me why it was so important.
Cha pter 1
The salt smell from the water tickled my nostrils as I stood out on the pier beside Isaac. With a fishing pole in hand and a pair of casual shorts on in place of work slacks, I decided this was what life was supposed to be like.
It had been a few weeks since I’d folded to my lifelong friend Boomer’s insistence and taken a job working for him at the Collier County Sheriff’s Department. A good sheriff and a better friend, he had given me time off to talk to my newfound nephew with lines in the water in the middle of one of God’s most perfect Thursday afternoons.
“Need something to drink?” I asked him, shooting an eye over to the boy who wore more sunscreen than he did clothes. I swear, if his mother would have applied even one more layer, the poor kid would have toppled right over like a Jenga tower.
“I’m okay,” he answered in a voice that was trying way too hard to be chirpy and light.
If I had it my way, we’d be out on the water right now, drifting along in a boat and shooting the breeze away from the noise and distractions the land can bring. As it was, it had taken all I could do to get Isaac this close to the water, and that broke my heart just a little bit.
I didn’t blame the kid per se. He had been through a lot. The stepsister of a father he barely knew had just tried to kill him in order to inherit money she knew she wouldn’t get otherwise. Out of all those things, the fact that she did it on a boat was what stuck with the kid. This was as close as I could get him to the water, and even that was a victory.
“You gotta tighten your grip, kid,” I said, looking at the limp way Isaac held his pole. “Otherwise, one sharp tug is gonna rip that thing right out of your hands.”
He looked over at me, his seven-year-old eyes widening. “What’s going to tug on it?”
I couldn’t help but smile though underneath it, I felt more than a little guilty. Isaac might have been young, but he was a Naples boy. We lived on the water. He should have known how to fish long before this, and if I would have been there for him, he would have.
I shook my head, thinking about life and the way it twists and turns on you; that if you’re not careful, it can slip right by like sand running through cupped hands. In a different life, Isaac would have been my boy. I’d have stayed in town, married Charlotte, and we’d be raising up our own family on these shores. I didn’t stay though. I ventured up to Chicago, thinking I could outrun my last name and the long shadow it cast all over this city. Charlotte had found comfort in the arms of my half-brother, and now they’ve got Isaac. Not that my brother would be able to tell you much about that. It seemed he had taken after my father when it came to ignoring illegitimate children.
It didn’t matter. I was here now, and nothing in this world was going to tear me away. I was tired of running.
“You got a lot to learn about fishing, Isaac,” I said, grinning at the boy.
“Mom says that’s how your grandfather made a living,” the kid said, tightening up on the pole so furiously, his fists started to turn white.
“Used to,” I said, setting my pole down and moving over toward him. “He used to run an auto shop too and fixed boats on the side. He still does for some of the folks around town, even though his garage burned down. You should come by and visit sometime. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”
“Don’t you live on a boat?” Isaac asked nervously.
“I do,” I answered, thinking about “The Good Storm,” a gift from my brother and Isaac’s father.
“No thank you. I don’t want to see the boat,” Isaac said, blinking hard as I moved behind him. Taking his hands with my own, I moved them further down on the pole and loosened them a little.
“This’ll give you better control,” I said, stepping back. “And you don’t have to see the boat if you don’t want to. I’m sure he’d be happy just to take you out to lunch or something.”
Isaac nodded a little, but didn’t answer. I could see the wheels in his head turning as I stepped back over to my piece of the pier and picked my pole. Things were quiet today, but that was alright. I didn’t expect too much, and it wasn’t like catching something was my primary objective. Today was all about getting to know my nephew and, if I was lucky, maybe about starting the process of making him feel better about what happened to him.
“You’re my uncle, right?” Isaac said, looking over at me. “Because you’re my dad’s brother?”
“That’s right,” I answered, an image of my half-brother Peter flashing through my mind. Isaac had the same bright eyes as Peter, the same eyes as me. He was a Storm by the looks of him but, like myself, he would likely never be accepted as one. It was probably for the best, I thought. After I’d learned about the way our father had treated Peter, I was almost glad the old bastard never saw fit to so much as talk to me before he died. Isaac would be the same way. And, what was more, he’d have me watching his back.
“Does that make your grandfather my great-grandfather?” he asked, keeping his hands steady on the position on the rod where I’d placed them.
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “Peter and I didn’t have the same momma, Isaac, and since my grandfather is my momma’s daddy, you’re not related by blood.”
“Oh,” the boy sighed, and I immediately felt a stab in my chest.
“There’re more important things than blood, kid,” I answered quickly. “Besides, one of best things about life is that you get to pick who you want to spend it with. Boomer’s not my brother, not by blood. I sure consider him one though.”
“Does that mean you consider my momma a sister?” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Not exactly,” I answered, a rush of warmth passing over me; the same rush I always felt whenever I thought about Charlotte and the way things used to be between us. “But your momma is very important to me, and she always will be. Heck, if you want to call my grandfather ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Poppa’ or whatever, I bet he’d be just fine with that.”
Cause Lord knows I hadn’t exactly given him much hope of having a great-grandson of his own lately.
A slow smile spread across Isaac’s face. “Maybe if we only stay for a few minutes, we can go on the boat after a--”
His entire little body jerked forward and he tensed up, his line pulling so hard, his rod started to bend.
“Hold on, kid,” I said, dropping my rod and rushing over to him. Leaning down, I placed my hands over his and guided them to the right places. Taking his right hand, I moved it down and started reeling the catch in. Probably a red snapper. Those things were as common as a cold in these parts. Though it could have easily been any different kind of grouper as well. Whatever it was, the damned thing was big enough to quickly force me to take the reins completely. I pulled upright as gently as I could while still maintaining e
nough force not to lose the catch or even the whole rod. This thing was large and I was having a time with it.
“Stand back,” I said, gritting my teeth and motioning for Isaac to let go of the rod and step back further onto the pier. I wanted the boy to learn to fish, but this wasn’t a beginner’s catch.
I pulled at the reel again, realizing I was close to dragging this thing to the surface. Whatever it was, I’d probably throw it back, but not before presenting it to Isaac and congratulating him on catching a whopper. I still remembered the first time my grandfather did that for me. I remembered the salt in the air, the breeze through my hair, and the look on the old man’s face as he turned to me with a snapper the size of this head. I remembered how good it made me feel to think I had done something right, that I had made the old man proud. I could see now how I had barely done anything; just cast a line and stand back at the first sign of a nibble, letting my grandfather do all the heavy lifting. Still, it meant a lot. Hopefully, one day, Isaac would remember this moment the same way.
“It’s coming,” I said, physically exerting myself to pull the catch from its home in the endless waters. I blinked as it came up, hoping to find something on the other end of the line that Isaac and I could brag to Charlotte about.
Instead, what I found was blue. Not ocean blue or any blue you’d find in nature. This was the manufactured blue of a jacket. I kept pulling, my eyes widening as I took in the sight. The jacket wasn’t alone. It was paired with a light pink shirt and a pair of blue jeans with jagged rips at the knees. Inside of them, to my sickening shock, was the bloated and sallow looking corpse of a woman.
“Uncle Dillon,” Isaac said from far enough back on the pier that he couldn't see what I was looking at.
“Stay back,” I commanded, throwing him enough of a side eye to let him know I meant business.
“What’d we catch?” he asked, his face full of excitement and expectation.
I sighed, looking back down at the woman’s body.
“Nothing good.”
Chapter 2
It took Charlotte all of five minutes to get to us once I gave her the call. She had been at Rocco’s, pulling one of the double shifts that reminded me of the way my mother used to spend her days before she got too sick to work anymore. Like so many businesses that relied on the beach and proximity to the Gulf for its cache, Rocco’s wasn’t too far inland. Still, her efficiency in showing up shocked me. Judging by the concerned looked on her face as she jumped out of her car and rushed toward us, still wearing her uniform and apron, I guess I shouldn’t have been.
“Hey, sunshine,” she said, crumpling to her knees and scooping Isaac up into a huge hug. Though the kid hadn’t seen much of anything, he was acutely aware that something was wrong. My first call had been to the police station, and-since that moment- Isaac couldn’t get past the fact that he had done something wrong. “You okay?” Charlotte asked, her son’s face buried in her shoulder. She looked up at me as he answered, mumbling something against her shirt that I didn’t understand.
Charlotte’s green eyes burned into me. They weren’t filled with anger. She knew enough about this place, these beaches to know how rare something like this was. There was no way I could have foreseen a body on the other end of Isaac’s fishing line, but that didn’t make what her son was going through any easier.
“Aunt Rhoda’s in the car, sunshine,” she said, pulling Isaac’s face away from her shoulder and wiping his tears away with her thumbs. “You go sit with her. I’m going to talk to your Uncle Dillon for a minute, and then we’ll go to The Pink Cloud for some ice cream. How does that sound?”
Isaac sniffled, wiped his nose, and shook his head. I didn’t know my brother when he was that age. The first time I ever came face to face with Peter was when we were in high school. Still, it was hard not to see more than a shadow of him in Isaac. It was in the way he moved, in the way his hair jutted into a cowlick at the back. It was in his eyes as the kid dared to give me one last look.
“Can we still have lunch with Grandpa?” he asked, his tiny hands balling into nervous fists at his sides.
“Of course we can. I’ll set it up. The old man will be really excited.” I answered, smiled at him, and watched him run off toward Charlotte’s car and the family friend sitting in the front seat.
“He calls your grandfather ‘Grandpa’ now?” Charlotte asked, arching a red eyebrow at me.
“So, did you,” I answered. “Once upon a time.”
“That was different,” she replied, but I could see the hint of a smile start at the edges of her lips. “I spent a lot of time at your house.”
“I remember,’ I grinned.
“Stop it,” Charlotte teased, and this time she couldn’t stop the smile from appearing full force. “I’m just saying, Isaac doesn’t know your grandfather. It might be a little soon to start integrating him as part of your family.”
“He is part of my family, integrated or not,” I answered. “And you know my grandfather. He loves kids. He’d be thrilled to get to spend some time around Isaac.”
“How’s the old man doing?” Charlotte asked, her voice growing somber at the question.
I nodded firmly, showing an equal amount of reverence. “Been tough,” I answered. “The chemo is kicking his ass, giving him night sweats, making him sick to his stomach. Dr. Day says it won’t be long before what’s left of his hair starts to go, but he’s in good spirits.” I shook my head. “Says he’d rather be with the Lord any day.”
“He’s always been a strong man,” Charlotte replied, blinking at me and then looking to the ground.
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” I admitted. Running a hand through my sandy hair, I thought about when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I thought about how quickly she passed on and then about how slowly those horrible days after that went. It was an eternity of mourning after we buried her. My grandfather might have been strong, but that didn’t mean I was. I wasn’t sure that I could deal with that again.
“Nice day though, isn’t it?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.
“Too nice for something like this,” Charlotte answered, her eyes moving past me right to the bright yellow sun sitting in a cloudless blue sky. It was the sort of pristine day that could only happen in Florida. “Who is she?”
I turned, looking back at the pier and the forensic team that had gathered around the body. If it had taken Charlotte five minutes to get there, it had taken Emma about half as long.
“No idea,” I admitted. “She must be a tourist because I don’t recognize her.” I nodded, looking back at Charlotte. “I should go and see what’s going on. Take your son. Go get some ice cream. Maybe, if you don’t mind, I’ll stop by later and see how he’s doing.”
“Of course, I don’t mind,” she answered. ‘You know you’re always welcome.”
I didn’t know that. We had been separated during my twelve years in Chicago and, though I had thought about her a lot, it wasn’t like we talked. It was nice to hear it though, even if things had changed.
There was something else going on between us now though. The unspoken ease that existed between us before I spent twelve years in Chicago was gone. I still felt like I could tell her anything. The thing was, I wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it anymore, regardless of what she said.
“I appreciate that,” I answered and turned, walking out toward the pier. It took a few seconds for the sounds of her feet to start shuffling against the sand, which made me think she might have been watching me for a few heartbeats. I had never minded the idea of Charlotte watching me. I just wasn’t sure what to do with it anymore.
I made it out onto the pier, ducking under the caution tape I’d put up as soon as Emma arrived with Jonah Fisher, a kid of about twenty-two who was serving as Emma’s understudy as he learned the ropes of crime scene forensics. I knew Jonah’s mother. She was a friend to my own back when the woman was alive, and she had been good to me in the months after my mother’s
death and then to my grandfather after I left for Chicago. Jonah had a lot of his mother in him, and I didn’t just mean the bushy black eyebrows and the long shaggy hair to match. He was a good kid, quiet, polite, and always up for advice. Even if he was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I'd bet the kid was going to grow into his job pretty well.
Emma obviously trusted him, given the fact that while Jonah was crouched over the body, inspecting it, Emma was off toward the end of the pier, talking on the phone. It struck me as strange. Emma was a woman who took her job seriously, and she wasn’t one to get distracted when she ought to be working. Still, maybe this was some kind of trial by fire exercise. Maybe Jonah had been on the beat long enough to convince Emma he needed to try this one on his own. Though, it seemed odd that she’d use something as rare as this to let the newbie experiment.
“What have we got?” I asked, crouching alongside Jonah. Now that the shock of everything had worn off and I’d managed to get Isaac away from the scene, I could take a minute to look over the body.
The woman was blond and looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her lips were blue, as was her skin. Her eyes were open and glassy, and her right hand was balled into a fist.
“I think it’s a homicide, sir,” Jonah said, swallowing hard and looking up at me.
“And what would make you think that?” I asked, taking a deep breath. I knew the answer. I saw the bruises on the woman’s neck and arms as soon as I pulled her up onto the pier. I always thought bruises like that were exceptionally rare when it came to accidental drowning. Of course, I would let Jonah tell me that. If Emma saw fit to let the guy learn on the job, then who was I to get in her way?
“Bruising on the neck and arms,” he answered. “As well as this.” With a gloved hand, Jonah pulled the neck of the woman’s jacket and top down a little, revealing the flesh of her shoulder and collar bone. There, near the bridge of the woman’s neck, was a bullet wound.
