Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  Was the kid fourteen or forty? “I’m working, go away,” he grumbled.

  She peered at him through her big glasses. “Not doing very well, huh? Looks like you’re not winning our big bet.”

  She meant her wager that he couldn’t find Emma Bailey before anyone else. Which had been for what, a dollar? He’d thought she was joking, just busting his chops—he wasn’t going to catch the Greenhead Snatcher before the real cops.

  “Go away,” he said, rubbing his temples.

  She didn’t. “You think the Snatcher’ll strike again? Grab another Emma?” she asked.

  Quick kid. Annoying, but quick.

  “Probably,” he said. And he meant it—another girl would probably be snatched if they didn’t catch the psycho first.

  Zula hugged herself. “You’re probably right. Why would he stop? You know what a kill tide is, right?”

  “What?”

  “A kill tide. It’s a super high tide which happens sometimes on the Cape in August. The currents change and there’s a big flood which kills all the greenhead larvae. It stops greenhead flies from being a nuisance the rest of the summer.”

  Pepper had noticed there were fewer greenheads at the end of some summers, but never knew why. “So?”

  “So I’m saying, I think you’re right. Predators don’t just stop. Little ones or big ones. Something more powerful has to stop them. That’s how nature works.”

  Interesting, but so what? Aloud he said, “You’ll get an A on your ninth-grade science report, Little Ike. Right now I need to concentrate—I have to finish this list and I’m getting all the wrong results so far.”

  She sighed. “Pepper, you’re hopeless. You’re trying to get a list of all teenage girls named Emma who live in the area, right? Why would they be on a white pages website? Go get some fresh air, let me do this the easy way.”

  “What?”

  “Saying ‘what’ over and over doesn’t make you look any smarter, Mr. Harvard. Take a walk, let me do my thing.”

  “Does your dad know where you are?”

  “Shoo.”

  Over the years, Pepper hadn’t yet won a battle of wills with Zula. So he grabbed his gym bag from under the desk and shooed.

  Pepper did a hard workout at the Globe Gym location around the corner.

  An old high school buddy at the front desk was giving him a special discount rate for the summer. As a tit-for-tat, Pepper had promised to help the guy with any speeding tickets he might get. Somehow.

  Pepper had promised himself he’d work out more frequently. He needed to arrive at Harvard in top shape because captain practices for the hockey team would begin not too far into the school year. He knew the other guys would arrive in mid-season fitness, ready to fight for their spots on the team.

  Pepper called to mind his asshole high school coach, Gus Bullard, and every insult he’d ever thrown at Pepper. That he was too slow. That he blamed everyone but himself. That he was a loser. All the psychological bullying bullshit the coach had used to motivate him. What a psycho. Well, Pepper channeled his old abuse now and let it energize him.

  Pepper pushed himself like a wild man for forty-five minutes—he kicked his cardio butt using an elliptical machine, then worked through a heavy rotation of free-weight exercises, taking only short rests. He finished with a one-minute shower.

  Returning to the locker area, he saw his new nemesis Fester Timmins naked. From behind. Bending over.

  A sight Pepper could never unsee.

  Pepper was rubbing his eyes as the man straightened up and saw him.

  “Pepper Ryan! You following me?”

  “Hey, Fester…” Pepper trod barefoot to his locker, his towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

  “I saw you working out, but I didn’t want to talk shop until we were, you know, alone.”

  Okay…? “I’ve got to get back to the station,” said Pepper.

  “Roger that. Well, I just wanted to let you know, I’m officially working the Greenhead Snatcher case.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. I’ve got my first client as a private eye—unofficial until I get all the paperwork done and whatnot.” Then Fester Timmins, 100% naked in all his pink, beefy glory, came over to Pepper and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My client’s been unfairly accused in the kidnappings. My job’s proving his innocence.”

  Pepper fought to maintain strict eye contact. “Who’s your client?”

  “No, no, I’m sworn to confidentiality. But we’re both looking for the truth, right? We find the real Snatcher and I’ll have a very happy client. Imagine the references!”

  A silver-haired man entered the locker room, causing Timmins to jump away from Pepper’s side. The man gave them a long look and headed into the toilet area.

  Pepper dropped his towel, pulled on underwear as fast as he ever had. “You think that’s a smart idea? Taking on clients before you get a private investigator license?”

  “No worries… I took it pro bono, for now! That means—”

  “I know that one, Fester. Well, good luck. If you get any serious leads, call Detective Sweeney.”

  “Sweeney?” scoffed Timmins. “That guy’s got an attitude problem. He won’t even meet with me. But I’m happy to share info with you. You scratch my back—”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Pepper, grabbing his gym bag and hustling to the exit. Not looking back at Timmins, still naked. Trying not to think about scratching his hairy pink back…

  As a reward for his workout and for having escaped Fester Timmins, Pepper stopped by the Fudge Hut, the town’s best place for candy and ice cream. He’d been going there since he was little. He demolished a large ice cream sundae with extra fudge and two cherries. Because he was worth it.

  Pepper headed back to the police station after about an hour and a quarter’s absence, carrying a cup of chocolate ice cream covered with rainbow sprinkles as a thank-you to Zula for her help. He knew that combo was her favorite ice cream and topping, having been to Fudge Hut with her and Jake countless times over the past ten years. He didn’t have confidence the kid could pull much together, but he appreciated her attempt to help.

  When Pepper reached his little hellhole office, Zula blinked at him from his chair, triumphantly. She handed him a piece of paper.

  It was a list of thirty-eight Emmas, with their full names and addresses. All from New Albion or other nearby towns. All were teenagers.

  “Holy crap!” said Pepper. “How’d you put this together so fast?”

  “Social media,” she said, taking a mouthful of ice cream and sprinkles. “I checked my friend lists, and friend of friend lists, covering all the teens on this part of the Cape.”

  “You’re a teenager? I thought you were still a tween.”

  “Jerk!”

  He dodged her attempt to smack him with her ice cream spoon as he slipped away with her list of Emmas.

  Pepper had gotten another bright idea.

  Pepper strolled to his dad’s office with Zula’s list in his hand. And a smile on his face.

  It was the perfect opportunity to redeem himself partially with his dad. And the rest of the department brass.

  The office door was now open and his dad was still there. Detective Sweeney and Sergeant Weisner were with him, huddled in a conversation.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said. As an afterthought, he knocked lightly on the door frame.

  “Pepper,” said his dad. His dad looked exhausted. He looked older than he was. And pale. Damn. Was that what Pepper would look like if he followed in his dad’s footsteps? Hell no…

  Pepper held up his piece of paper. “I know Sweeney has a list of Emmas in the area. I have a list too—I thought maybe you’d want to cross-check it? See if any Emmas on my list aren’t on yours?”

  He handed the list to his dad and the three officers looked at it.

  “You made this?” asked Weisner.

  “It didn’t take long,” answered Pepper, dodging the question. “And I�
��m caught up on my database work.” Why did they already have him feeling guilty?

  “Thirty-eight names,” Weisner said. “Sweeney’s list is a tad longer.”

  “Mine’s just the Lower Cape.”

  “His is too. And it has sixty-three Emmas.” Weisner laughed. “But don’t feel too bad. Thirty-eight out of sixty-three…that’s just above 60%, right? That’s a passing grade!”

  “Damn it, that’s enough,” interrupted his dad. “Pepper, I’ll see you at home. Goodbye.” His dad’s pale face had gone red, probably from embarrassment. Perfect.

  Sweeney smiled, then shrugged his shoulders. “But nice try, kid.”

  Without another word, Pepper turned and left them there. His cheeks burned.

  Fuck ’em. He’d just been trying to help.

  Pepper couldn’t remember being that embarrassed and pissed off at the same time. He walked right past his little hole-in-the-wall office, where out of the corner of his eye he saw Zula still waiting, eating the ice cream he’d brought her. But he didn’t stop.

  His phone rang and Dennis Cole’s name flashed on his screen. He answered it as he walked.

  “Hey, Ryan!” said Cole, his voice crackling. Not a great connection, which was a chronic problem in parts of New Albion. “We need to get together again!”

  Why not? “Cool—I’ve got the Emmas list for you.”

  Cole laughed. “Good job! But I might not need it anymore. I’ve got a great angle on the Snatcher. I’m almost positive.”

  “Hey, amazing!” said Pepper. “You need to call the police right away. Ask for Detective Sweeney. He—”

  “Not yet, dude. They won’t pay one hundred grand for just a guess. I need a little more meat on the bone, you know? I’m so close! Meet me at my house at seven o’clock. We’ll have a beer and I’ll fill you in. I might even be a hundred percent sure by then. You can listen in while I call your detective.”

  Cole gave Pepper the address where he and Brad St. John lived, which was in a less-expensive area of New Albion out near the Big Red Yard, then hung up.

  Pepper tried to decide what to do.

  For a second, he considered telling his dad what Cole had said. But he couldn’t take another dose of ridicule so soon.

  Hell, no. He decided he would head to Dennis and Brad’s place tonight and give Cole his own shorter list of Emmas. Pepper didn’t feel guilty about sharing it anymore, since apparently it was worthless to real investigators. Damn…

  Pepper headed out the side door. He couldn’t stay in that police station another second.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That evening the man in the van was waiting in front of the house next door to the home of a new girl. He’d had a hell of a crappy day so far—eating one big shit burger after another. Nothing was going right. He feared the cops were closing in on him. And he was even more worried about the Emmas.

  He remembered the night he grabbed Emma Bailey. She was his favorite so far, even though she gave him so much crap. Someday, maybe he and Emma would look back on it and laugh.

  Yes, the man was offering the girls a new life—one they hadn’t even considered. A better life. Would they get it? Females were so damn complicated.

  Would the girls work out? Or would they have to…

  No, he told himself. Focus on the final girl. Focus on the fact that if this one goes well, everything changes.

  The man’s leg began bouncing with excitement at the thought.

  He wasn’t too worried about a nosy neighbor phoning in his van. Not anymore. With a little hard work, he was now a step ahead of the cops, a step ahead of everyone. He wasn’t worried about anything. But he wished he’d had time to go smoke a little crank earlier, to get his head in the zone.

  A talk radio station was yammering on and on about whether they should allow felons to vote. It was the stupidest debate he’d ever heard. He wondered whether the silky-voiced woman host or the low, mellow-voiced guest (a professor from somewhere) had ever met a hard-core felon. Let alone a felon who wanted to vote.

  The man in the van wanted to call in and tell them America had gone down the freaking toilet since 9/11. Didn’t anyone else see it? He wanted to call them idiots, but they’d probably bleep him out. Cowards.

  The talking heads were completely missing what was going on—the ever-spreading bureaucracy, the chipping away of liberties. The slow tightening of testicle cuffs, in the name of national security. The man wondered if they’d let him say testicle on talk radio? Or he could say nuts?

  As he listened to the nitwits on the radio, the man in the van wiped his driver’s side window with a Taco Bell napkin. Over and over. The window kept getting cleaner and cleaner, but he thought he could do better. He kept rubbing. He tried small circles, bigger circles. The window looked better and better.

  He turned on the police scanner app on his smartphone. The app broadcast dispatch calls for the Barnstable county sheriff’s department. He wanted to overhear the alert that another girl was grabbed right under their stupid noses. And it might give him an edge—a heads-up when the newest manhunt for him kicked off.

  He checked his cheap watch. Shit, it was almost too late!

  He turned off the talk radio nonsense. It was time to focus.

  His prep runs showed this third girl, a nineteen-year-old named Jessica Little, got off work at 5:30 and pretty much always arrived home in her boring little Kia Forte around 5:50. Give or take five minutes.

  It was 5:48 right now. A completely boring set of numbers. Although in a minute it’d be 5 + 4 = 9…

  The other problem was the damn neighbors on the other side of the girl’s house, two down from where he’d parked his van. A man and a woman were out in their front yard. Possibly around sixty years old. They were futzing around with the lawn, pointing at weeds and sometimes pulling them, sometimes not. It was a high-end lawn, green and thick. They were spraying some things and trimming other things.

  He would have a hard time grabbing Jessica Little while those two gardeners were watching. He figured the woman would instantly call 911. Females always had a cell phone handy, even while gardening. Like his buddy said, it was in their DNA.

  The man fingered his stupid little .22 pistol. It would do the job close up, but how would he get close to them? Pretend he’d lost his dog? Some ruse?

  And while he believed he could pull the trigger, killing the couple was definitely not part of the plan. It would bring a whole new level of shit-storm panic on Cape Cod. No, he needed them to go inside their stupid house, pronto.

  The man got an idea. He took his smartphone and punched in the nosy neighbors’ address, searching to find a matching land line phone number. Success—it popped right up!

  Then he took a different cell phone (a burner flip phone with no way to trace it back to him) and called the nosy neighbors’ number. He watched them desperately.

  The woman raised her head and cocked an ear. She put down her trowel and wiped her hands on her apron.

  The man (her husband?) said something to her and she laughed. Then, damn, damn, damn…she picked up her tool and started digging again.

  The man in the van looked both ways and saw no sign of Jessica Little’s Kia yet. She should arrive any freaking second.

  He dialed the neighbors’ house phone for a second time.

  The woman’s head twitched again, and she said something to her husband. She even stood up. But she only stretched, then got down on her knees to keep working.

  Damn telemarketers. They fucking ruined everything. No one answered their land lines anymore—it was always some robot voice, trying to scam you. Parasitic dumbasses. They were even worse than the goddamn government.

  He saw the small blue Kia come down the street and park in the driveway. Jessica Little climbed out, looking young and happy and cute in a short skirt. She waved to her neighbors, and they said something to her. She laughed and headed toward her front door.

  The man in the van sat frozen. Seething, furious. The
re was absolutely nothing he could do. He wanted to scream.

  The front door opened just before Jessica reached it. A woman appeared in the doorway, her mother. The man had seen her before too. The mother was very pretty—an older version of Jessica. That had even been a factor in picking Jessica.

  A moment later, Jessica and her mother went inside their house and the front door closed shut.

  The man had freaking failed. His stomach clenched liked he’d eaten something spoiled. Rage swamped his whole body.

  This was supposed to be it. Grab Jessica Little, take care of business. Then in a few days he was supposed to drive over the Bourne Bridge off Cape Cod—away and gone. Safe.

  Free to start their new life.

  Instead, now he had to stick around. Find another chance. Tomorrow, same time, same place? Or possibly catch Jessica in the parking lot at her work—a clothing store at the mall. No, that had even more variables and even more damn witnesses and risks.

  No, trust the plan, trust the man…

  He drove away, still shaking. He decided to stop by and visit his best buddy, the one guy who could always calm him down. He’d failed and he almost couldn’t take it. This whole thing had to end as soon as fucking possible. It had to. Before he freaking exploded…

  But first he needed to smoke a pipe. Of course, he’d left his stuff at his place, the way his day was going. So he drove home first. He stopped a block away from his place because he didn’t want anyone to remember a van at his place. Again, sticking to the plan.

  That’s when the man saw his bad luck wasn’t over for the day. As he walked toward home, about a hundred yards away, he saw his front door open and a stranger came out! Freaking out, he scrunched down behind a car. The stranger looked both ways as he sauntered to the street and got on a Harley-Davidson bike.

  Damn! Who the hell was this guy? An undercover cop? Or was it a coincidence—some lowlife biker broke into his place, coincidentally?

  The man’s mind raced, spiraling. Had he left his journal out? He’d been taking notes about everything he’d done and what he would do next. Which was strictly against the plan. But it was the only way to keep his head straight and keep himself on plan, a step ahead of the freaking cops. Had he left the damn journal on his bed?