Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  She’d heard a classmate talk once about how to break out of plastic tie wraps like these—some dork showing off in homeroom what a tough guy he was, and she wished she’d listened more carefully.

  The tie wrap around her wrists looped through another the bike chain at her waist, so she couldn’t get her wrists up to her mouth to bite through the plastic restraints.

  Nothing happened for a long time other than the new girl’s crying, which came and went. Emma knew exactly how the girl felt. But Emma wished she’d just freaking stop. The more the girl cried, the sadder Emma got too.

  Emma heard the metal noises again and then the sound of feet on the metal ladder. Same as before—her eye mask came off and in the wobbly lantern light she saw their damned kidnapper in his ridiculous Shrek mask. Why did the man care if they saw his face? Maybe it meant he would let them go, eventually?

  The man took off Emma’s gag and then bent next to the other girl. He took off that girl’s eye mask and gag too. The girl was awake—her face streaked with tears and her eyes were super wide.

  “Emma, meet Emma,” said Shrek.

  They both had the same name? She didn’t know if she’d misunderstood the man’s mumbling through his lame mask.

  “We’ll have to figure out some way to keep down the confusion,” Shrek said, pointing at Emma Bailey. “Maybe I’ll call you Mad Emma. And I’ll call you Sad Emma,” he said, pointing at New Emma. “It would have been easier to use your last names, but those don’t matter anymore, as you’ll find out.”

  Emma didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

  “Since we’re all getting friendly, what’s your name?” she asked him. Her instinct was to gather information about her kidnapper. Who knows what it might lead to. Some other way out of this hellhole, like if she talked him into letting them go.

  The man laughed behind his mask. “My name’ll have to wait.”

  Emma was getting pissed off again. “I call him Shrek, obviously,” she said to New Emma. “I’m sure he’s even uglier without the mask. So hopefully he’ll keep it on.”

  The new Emma didn’t answer.

  “Mad Emma, you just put yourself at the back of the potty line,” said Shrek. He went through the ritual of switching New Emma to a long bike chain and pushed her away from the light toward the portable toilet chair. Emma watched the girl in the shadows tentatively take care of her business, holding her chain out of the way.

  Shrek told New Emma that a roll of toilet paper was on the floor next to the chair, saying it casual as if it was something he’d thought of himself, the dumbass.

  When New Emma finished, the man secured her again in her spot, and then he repeated the whole process with Emma.

  She took her time going to the bathroom, trying to think of any way to escape. Could she rush at Shrek and wrap her bike chain around his neck? Choke him like in a movie?

  But he was twice her size. She didn’t think there was any way she could beat him physically. And she didn’t know yet if he planned to kill them, or rape them, or whatever the hell his plan was.

  So she did nothing too risky. She just finished up and unraveled two handfuls of toilet paper from the roll. She wiped herself with one wad, dropping it into the hole in the seat, and then palmed the other wad as she shuffled back to her spot.

  “Did either of you have a boyfriend?” the man asked out of the blue.

  Did? The word gave Emma chills.

  “You bet. I’m like, super in love with him,” Emma lied. “He’s in the Army and he has a knife bigger than your you-know-what.”

  Shrek just laughed. “How about you?” he asked New Emma.

  “No,” the girl answered quietly, her voice shaking.

  “I’m doing you girls a favor. Something’s been missing in your life. Whether or not you know it.”

  “Whatever,” said Emma. “If you want to do us a favor, can you tell us if we’re still on the Cape?”

  A pause. “Yes, we are,” he said. “That make you happy?”

  Okay, progress. “You bet,” she answered. “While you’re so chatty, mind telling us what you want, kidnapping us? Like, what’s this about?”

  A longer pause this time. “A new life,” Shrek finally said. “We’ll talk about it more at the right time. But for now, you need to learn how to help each other. You’re family now.”

  God, she hated his tone. Smug and matter of fact. All powerful, or so he probably thought. What a loser!

  “Sounds amazing,” she said. “And you need to learn something too—how to go fuck yourself. But with a micro dick like yours, that must be wicked hard?”

  Emma heard New Emma gasp.

  Shrek forced a new plastic binding around Emma’s wrists and zipped it hard and tight. Way tighter than last time.

  Emma had been planning to slip her stolen wad of toilet paper down to her wrist, to possibly pad the wrist cuffs and give her some extra room to slip them off when he left. But it happened too fast, and she failed. She kept her fist closed around the toilet paper. Maybe it’d be useful later.

  “Act like a little bitch, you get nothing but pain,” he said.

  Damn. She’d let her temper get the better of her, as usual, and was now worse off.

  “You give creeps a bad name,” she lamely yelled, as the ball gag came back up around her mouth and he forced it in.

  She had to sit and watch him give New Emma food and something to drink. Probably drugged. The creep.

  And she watched helplessly as Shrek gathered up his things. He made no move to feed her next. She’d obviously pissed him off and wouldn’t get any food or water this visit.

  Maybe that was a win? Without drugs to fog up her head, could she come up with a better idea to get them out of here?

  Without further words, Shrek picked up the lantern and moved away to the ladder, leaving Emma hungry and thirsty. But a little less hopeless.

  Emma scootched as low as she could and stretched out. At full extension, her sneaker could just touch New Emma’s sneaker. She pressed her foot against the other girl’s foot. A moment later, she felt New Emma tentatively press back.

  Emma cried as silently as she could, hoping the other girl couldn’t hear her.

  She had to set a good example.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pepper had only run a block toward home before he heard the honk of a car horn. It was Gus Bullard again, his old high school hockey coach. Same old butterscotch-colored Jaguar Xj8. Same cigarette smoke coming out the window.

  Crap. Absolutely the last person he wanted to deal with right then.

  But a ride’s a ride.

  Pepper climbed into the car, smiling warily. Coach Bullard was somewhere in his early fifties. A big man who’d been an athlete in his youth but had added sixty pounds in middle age.

  “Same old Pylon!” the man laughed. “You jog as slow as you skate!”

  Pylon. Coach Bullard had always thought Pepper was way too slow a skater, which he’d never missed a chance to mention. Coach knew how to push everyone’s buttons, especially Pepper’s.

  Two years before Pepper joined the varsity team, Bullard had coached Jake. His older brother had been the complete package—a quick-as-lightning center, great hockey sense, heavy shot. Bullard had been disappointed when Jake pursued baseball in college instead of hockey. Maybe he’d decided to take out his disappointment on Pepper, the less talented Ryan?

  Bullard blew smoke in Pepper’s direction. “You never said why you missed my big party on Thursday! Got there too late?” The big man cracked up.

  Pepper grinned weakly and didn’t answer.

  Jake had gone to the stupid retirement party, of course. Jake told him that the Emma Bailey amber alert had hit Jake’s phone right in the middle of Coach Bullard’s thank-you speech. Probably when the coach was blathering on and on about his own state championship as a student at New Albion High. And three more state titles as a coach. One with Jake…zero with Pepper.

  “Run out of excuses?
Or you think you’re too good for us now, Mr. Hah-Vard?” Bullard laughed. “How you’ll keep up with all those speedsters in Division One… It’s a horse race, nothing like my days at Minnesota. When I heard you got a free ticket to Harvard, I figured you’d be driving the Zamboni!” More laughter.

  But Pepper didn’t take the bait. What would he do—call the old man an idiot? Or say that possibly he wasn’t going to bother with college, anyway? Right…

  Coach Bullard had gone pretty far as a player himself, back in the day. College out in the Midwest, then the semi-pro East Coast League. He’d been a heck of a brawler and an all-around big dog—just ask him. He’d always said he could have made it to the NHL if he hadn’t gotten so many damned concussions.

  Coach was blathering on. “But good for you, son. The fucking Ivy League. You just won life’s lottery.” Coach laughed and lit another cigarette from the car’s automatic lighter. Like all those years of lung cancer medical studies had never happened.

  Pepper rolled down his window and glumly thought about the tragic interruption to his date with Delaney. He hadn’t had the right moment to tell her about Harvard. He hadn’t told Brad St. John either, when he’d joined Brad and the Pitts. Which Pepper justified wasn’t a big deal back then. People jumped in and out of bands all the time, right?

  But what Delaney had said about going on the road to give music a shot together—that was an invitation which carried over way past summer. And once again he’d chickened out from coming clean with her.

  Coach Bullard turned left on Shore Drive and cruised past oversized Cape-style homes with the lazy shine of the Atlantic Ocean peeking between them. They passed Rogers Lighthouse, and the houses were larger now. Mansions.

  Bullard didn’t seem to notice Pepper wasn’t replying. Coach just kept running his mouth.

  “No, I’m glad I’m retiring. High school hockey’s not what it used to be. Neither’s the Cape, with all the druggies and crime. No sir, I’m retiring to Florida, where the only ice’ll be in my Jack and Coke. Buy a share in a nice bar by the beach, spend the rest of my day in damned paradise.”

  Pepper grunted. Keeping his mouth shut against the smoke.

  “But I’ll check the internet,” said Bullard. “See if you get on the score sheet. Other than penalties.”

  Asshole.

  The Jaguar stopped at the end of the Ryans’ driveway. “Tell your dad, I hope when he corners the Greenhead psycho, he puts a bullet in the guy’s head. Shoot first and think second. You should try that too up in Division One hockey! If you choke this time, you won’t have anyone else to blame…”

  With a final laugh and a cloud of smoke, Bullard drove away.

  Gerald Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table, more than a little annoyed, when Pepper finally walked in. Late and oblivious, as usual.

  “Hey, Pep!” said Jake, over by the stove. “Food’s on in one minute! Wash up!”

  Gerald almost ripped into Pepper for being late, but let it slide. He couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had sat down for a home-cooked dinner together. In June? When would it happen again—the night before Pepper left for Harvard or Jake headed back to Boston College, whoever left first?

  As they ate the chicken, rice and salad, both sons tried to get Gerald to fill them in on the latest development in the Greenhead Snatcher case. He resisted, but they wore him down.

  So Gerald gave them a basic update. Casper Yelle was still a suspect, but there wasn’t any hard evidence he was their guy. They had a big handful of other suspects, including the assistant manager at Sandy’s, where the second victim worked. But the case against him was thin too.

  “Scooter McCord?” asked Pepper.

  “Ha, no names!” said Gerald. He wasn’t a gossip by nature and believed in the old “loose lips sink ships” philosophy. “But there was one big development today—the Addisons got a ransom note from the Snatcher.”

  Both of his sons’ forks stopped in midair, as he knew they would.

  “What!” exclaimed Pepper.

  “Yep. Two million dollars.”

  “Whoa!” said Jake. “Did the Baileys get a note too?”

  “Not yet. But the Addisons’ letter mentioned both Emmas.” Gerald explained the note received by the Addisons was otherwise very brief, stating the dollar amount and for them to have it ready on Monday. “Hopefully, it’ll never come to that,” he added. “Hopefully, we’ll arrest the dirtbag first.”

  “Do you think the ransom note’s from the Snatcher, or could someone else be trying to cash in on the situation?” asked Pepper.

  Smart question, thought Gerald with pride. The FBI had pointed out the same possibility. “Possibly. We’re treating it as the real deal, for now.”

  They finished eating, each lost in their own thoughts. Until Jake cleared his throat.

  “Not to brag, but either of you hear about my game today?”

  They hadn’t.

  “I pitched a shutout. A one-hitter. That’s why I cooked—to celebrate. Just the three of us. But also because I had some other big news.” Jake took a long drink of milk. Wiped his mouth again.

  Gerald was suddenly uneasy, sensing that Jake was nervous.

  “I was in the zone today,” said Jake. “Great heat, painting corners. One step ahead, every inning. But my head was extra clear because I made a big decision right before the game. I hope you’ll both understand.”

  Gerald froze. “Whoa, whoa…don’t tell me you’re dropping out of B.C. to join the Mariners’ system?” he asked. Instantly realizing his tone made clear how he felt about that idea.

  “Nope,” said Jake. “The opposite. I’m going back to B.C. Then I’ll graduate and I’m done with baseball. I’ll be going straight into the police academy.”

  “Seriously?” exclaimed Pepper. “You’ve been running your mouth about going pro since T-ball!”

  Jake smiled. “I did, yeah. But this last week with the kidnappings—I’ve felt like a complete idiot, out there playing a kid’s game while a damn predator’s on the loose. I want to make a difference, like you do, Dad. I want to do something important with my life.”

  Gerald stared at Jake, completely surprised. “Have you really thought this through?”

  “Absolutely.” Jake sat up straight, looking calm and comfortable. Like a man who had chosen his path and was sure of it.

  Gerald got up, walked over to Jake and gave him a long hug. Then looked Jake right in the eye. “I’ve never been so proud of you, son.”

  When Jake looked up at him, Gerald saw a hint of a tear in Jake’s eye.

  “You’re both crazy,” said Pepper.

  And Pepper left them, storming out the door to the deck. Leaving them to clean everything up—classic Pepper. But Gerald somehow bit his tongue and let him go.

  Pepper walked across the lawn to the higher seagrass which separated their little back lawn from the beach. He stood looking out at the sand and the ocean that stretched away into infinity.

  Jake had a ticket to live pretty much every boy’s dream—to be a professional athlete. A one-in-a-million shot for most players, but the Seattle Mariners had actually drafted him. He had a solid chance of making the big leagues. Was Jake just scared he couldn’t hack it? That he’d flame out in the minors? Or was he deluded to believe he could make the world a safer place, him being a cop?

  End up like Dad? What was Jake thinking?

  Pepper knew he wasn’t a good enough hockey player to do anything past college. He was low-end Division 1 material. Too slow for today’s pro game. A throwback to a more physical era. Harvard was probably already regretting having recruited him.

  But to become a cop? Cops are a dime a dozen. And if you rise through the ranks and become a chief of police, that was almost a curse. For his dad, every crime in or near New Albion seemed to affect him personally. And the crimes which went unsolved were even worse—Pepper knew those cases ate up his father. Pepper always felt like his dad was thinking about work when he was wit
h him. Like being a father would always be his second priority.

  And now Jake was going down the same hole? It seemed like the Greenhead Snatcher had snatched away Jake’s bright future too. Pepper filled with hot anger at the kidnapper he’d never even met. The monster who was ruining lives all around Pepper.

  Coach Bullard was an ass, but he’d said one smart thing earlier—the Greenhead Snatcher deserved the quick justice of a bullet to the head, before his chaos caused any more damage.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pepper had a strange encounter on Monday morning when he arrived at the police station to start his workday.

  A middle-aged woman was slowly walking down the steps of the front entrance as Pepper walked up. She looked up like she was thinking hard about something or was confused. She paused, then started walking down the steps again.

  She was carrying a large manila envelope. As Pepper passed her, she tugged his sleeve, and he stopped.

  “Can you help me?” she asked.

  The woman was middle-aged—in her fifties? Thin. She had reading glasses perched on the top of a hairless head. Maybe a fashion choice, but not likely. Cancer, he decided. Or some other medical condition.

  Pepper was wearing his itchy police cadet uniform, which to a civilian looked much like a police officer’s uniform.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  She introduced herself as Maureen Cleary. She lived over on Thurston Road. She told Pepper that last Thursday, the evening of the first Greenhead Snatcher kidnapping, she’d found a white van in her driveway. It was driven by a white male claiming to be from a roofing company, giving free quotes.

  “But he gave off all kinds of red flags,” she said. “The way he acted… He was bullshitting me, but not really trying to sell me on getting my roof replaced, you know?”