A Killing Tide (Holland)

A Killing Tide (Holland)

Scribes: This is the penultimate submission for my novel. I’ve made some significant changes to the MS since the last submission, including the narrative voice (now 3rd person intimate) and the novel’s title (now called A Killing Tide, which sounds more thriller-ish), along with filling in backstories for several characters and some additional scenes, so there may be some references which feel new to you. Sorry about the length, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me since my last several submissions have been on the shorter side. As always, I value your comments and suggestions. Thanks for reading. - MKH

Chapter 28

The massive pumps behind the public aquarium were humming loudly. Near the back docks, Meg could hear the whine of a chop saw from the new house that was going up across the grass flats. Duncan wasn’t home. She stood on the deck outside his darkened kitchen and pulled out her cell to call him. It went straight to voicemail.

“Where are you? Call me. It’s important.”

She ended the call and scanned the back dock. A double-crested cormorant stood atop one of the pilings with its wings outspread. The buzz of cicadas mingled with the sounds of machinery coming from the boat shed on the far side of the parking lot. Duncan’s truck was parked in its usual spot. Where the hell was he?

Meg opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Luckily, Duncan never locked anything. The interior of houseboat was cool and dark. No sign of breakfast dishes, or even dinner for that matter. The place felt abandoned in way that was hard to pinpoint. A stab of fear knifed through her. What if she was too late? She riffled through the stack of mail on the counter. There was a fat envelope from the Gulf Shores Title Company. She opened it and scanned the contents. The settlement closing for Duncan’s ranch. It listed the buyer as JASH Holdings, LLC. There was a Bradenton address. Meg used her phone to scan copies of the relevant documents, then emailed them to her ex-husband, Matthew. Investigative journalists had ways of finding out information that eluded others. Perhaps he could get a line on who was behind JASH Holdings.

Meg quickly checked the rest of the houseboat. Nothing seemed out of place. If anything, it was tidier than usual. She stepped through the sliding glass door onto the rear deck and looked at the Sarasota skyline beyond the mangroves. That was when she noticed that the lab’s net boat Starkist was missing from the big dock.

She tried to raise Duncan on the VHF marine radio. Starkist should have been on the usual channel used by the lab’s boats, but Meg got no answer. She switched to the alternate channel. Still nothing. On a whim, Meg began cycling through the channels, listening to the chatter. Typically, non-commercial, recreational, commercial, and fishing vessels each kept to their own channels, with the U.S. Coast Guard monitoring channel 16. Finally, she got a hit on channel 71.

“Starkist, Starkist, Starkist. Do you copy? Over.” Marine protocol was always triplicate.

Duncan’s voice was full of surprise. “This is Starkist. Meg, is that you? Over.”

“What’s your location, Starkist?” Meg tried to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

“Can’t provide that right now. Need to keep this channel open, over.” He sounded oddly formal.

“Duncan, we need to talk. Where are you?”

Nothing but static came in reply. Finally, he spoke again.

“Not on the radio. It’s not safe. I’ll call you on your when I can, over.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good. Gotta dash, though. Over and out.” With that, he was gone.

Meg frowned and put the radio handset back. There was no telling how long it would be before Duncan would call back, but it had felt good to hear his voice. Exhaustion was creeping up her limbs, making them heavy. She desperately needed some coffee. While Duncan’s coffee maker did its thing, Meg peered inside his refrigerator to see if he had any half and half. No luck. The only items on hand were three bottles of beer, some Sriracha sauce, and a shriveled-up lemon. Jesus, Duncan. How did he live like this?

Meg sat at the table and checked in with Jacob Townsend to see how Moby was doing. The dog was sleeping on their couch and his wound looked good. She expressed her gratitude, then told Jacob she’d be in touch. She pulled out her notebook to re-think what she had written down earlier. It was important to clarify while everything was fresh in her mind.

Matthew was coming at it from the Pentagon angle up in D.C., and Meg would focus on Joe Monroe. His connection to all this was the most baffling. It was one thing to set up a secret base, but another thing entirely to add the local sheriff to the mix. She wondered whether he was on the take. She had seen him in the company of the Maldonados, once. Maybe it was as simple as that: a crooked cop in league with some low-life criminals. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Meg pulled Duncan’s laptop out of the storage locker then looked online for whatever she could find on Tony and Rory Maldonado.

Both men had done prison time as juveniles, but their records were sealed. They had joined the merchant marines in their early twenties and sailed the world for a decade. Five years ago, the brothers started a private security firm called MBS. They provided personal protection, consultation services, and tactical skills training. There was no brick and mortar office that Meg could find. The mailing address was a P.O. Box in St. Petersburg. There were many unsubstantiated rumors about drugs, illegal weapons, loan sharking, and money laundering, but nothing had ever materialized into actual charges. These were the men with whom Duncan had become entangled. She shuddered involuntarily.

Meg glanced at her watch. Time to get moving again. She packed up then skirted the edge of the lab’s dusty parking lot and followed the path back to the Sarasota Sailing Squadron, where Isurus was tied up. She climbed aboard and was rinsing the salt water off the foredeck when her phone rang. She smiled as Sam Fletcher’s name appeared on the caller i.d.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Meg looped the hose back on its hook.

“Oh?”

She told Sam everything she had learned, including her nocturnal visit to the camp.

“Where are you now?” he asked. His tone was anxious, the timbre a note higher than usual. “I’m coming to get you. Let me bring you in for a statement. This needs law enforcement help.”

Meg thought about that for a moment. The threats she had received were still fresh in her mind. If you go to the police, you will die.Next time, we’ll kill your dog, kill your family, kill you. It wasn’t just the threats that had her tied up in knots. She hated the feeling of being rescued. Self-reliance was hard-wired into her, and she wanted to solve this thing. On the other hand, this had become way bigger than her ability to grapple with it on her own. Her stubborn pride and hubris had already gotten Moby hurt. Why risk it? Yet, law enforcement was already involved in the form of Sherriff Joe Monroe. It was hard to know how high up the food chain this whole thing went. Meg voiced her doubts.

“I’m not so sure, Sam. No offense or anything, but I’m not convinced law enforcement can help with this. It’s a military thing, I think. And, the Manatee County Sherriff’s department is involved somehow, which makes it even messier.”

Sam was insistent. “It’s okay, you don’t need to go farther than you’re comfortable with. But you can trust me. I won’t let this go to anyone else just yet. I’ll keep it under my hat and keep you safe. That’s what matters most. I can help. That’s my job. You know I’m right.”

His voice conveyed warm concern. Meg smiled, thinking about how her brothers still sounded the same way sometimes. Considering the panoply of questions that needed answers, it made sense to share it all with Sam and let him help figure things out. This was his training, after all. He could assist her getting the proof she needed to help Matthew to write his blockbuster story. Meg felt a sudden flood of gratitude for this good man who had come into her life at just the right moment. Her chest fluttered at the thought of feeling his arms around her again. She missed him. She was so tired.

“All right,” Meg agreed.

Sam was flying back to Tampa from Tallahassee this morning and needed time to check in with his supervisor. He wouldn’t be able to get down to Sarasota before three or four o’clock. He would meet Meg at her house late this afternoon.

“We’ll fix this,” he reassured her.

In the meantime, she decided to head up to Cannon’s Marina, near the north end of Longboat Key, to refuel. It was mid-morning as Isurus idled past all the sailboats moored off of City Island. Sarasota Bay was dotted with crisp white sails and speed boats making their way up and down the Intracoastal Waterway. Rather than heading to the busy ICW, Meg opted instead to take the inside channel that cut through the wide grass flats on the east side of the key.

The humidity was oppressive, and air felt too close. It needed to rain. Inland, towering cumulonimbus clouds were building. The water just inside Quick Point at New Pass was a brilliant turquoise. A mother and father, trailed by three young children, splashed their way among the shallows looking for shells, scooching their feet as they went to avoid stepping on stingrays. Meg’s mother used to call it the Sarasota Shuffle. She smiled at the memory, then pushed the throttle down and Isurus surged forward. The coffee had helped. She was getting her second wind.

Meg was approaching Bishop’s Point when the runabout behind her caught her attention. It was coming up fast on the starboard side and she could see two men standing side by side at the center console. One of them leaned and pointed ahead of them. This was a tricky part of the bay to navigate, and only seasoned boaters risked it. Most people kept to the main channel. The men may have been counting on her to slow down as the water got skinnier. That would be the prudent thing to do. It was not surprising that someone would take a run at her, but Meg was feeling irritable and a little reckless. She looked ahead to where the channel narrowed considerably. On either side lay hard shoals and oyster beds. This route required boats to thread the needle to avoid running aground. Skippers had to pay close attention to particular landmarks to get it right. Okay, assholes. Let’s see how well you know these waters.

Meg looked to the west side of the bay and found the two water towers. She lined them up and used them as a harbor pilot might use range markers to stay in the center of a channel. She held the two towers in alignment and accelerated. She adjusted the trim so that the engines lifted slightly away from the stern, and Isurusbegan to fly. The runabout stayed on her tail for a hundred yards, sitting low and cutting a deep vee through the water. The driver didn’t know how to trim his outboard. That’s when Meg saw her chance. Up ahead, it looked like she was going to run out of room and would need to move into open water soon. Over the years, countless boaters with no local knowledge had panicked in this spot and tried to get to deeper water, only to suddenly find themselves tearing the bottom out of their hulls in six inches of water. Meg knew the channel took a sharp turn to the left, then right, and back again to the left, in a backwards s-curve. She gripped the wheel and made a sudden zag to the right. The other boat responded in kind, going right and gaining speed. He was looking to beat Meg to the narrow passage between Buttonwood Harbor and Whale Key, where he would cut her off.

Just as quickly, Meg steered back to left, keeping to the center of the little channel and following its serpentine contours. Her pursuers stayed on their course, plowing ahead in water that was growing shallower by the second. The driver hunched low over the wheel, while his companion focused on Meg. She hadn’t noticed the gun in his hand until he raised it and fired. Instinct made her flinch and her boat swung wildly. Sweat stung her eyes. Meg’s hands were trembling, and she fought to keep them on the controls. It took extraordinary skill to hit a moving target, let alone do it from a base that was also moving. Luckily for Meg, this guy didn’t have extraordinary skill. She kept her head low and focused on the unspooling channel ahead.

Seconds later, a sickening crunch wrenched the air and both men were thrown violently forward as their boat ran aground on the hard bottom. Meg normally took little pleasure in the misfortune of other boats, but relief flooded through her as she saw this one torn into pieces by the oyster bar. These two wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while yet.

Isurus swung through the turn and Meg used her phone to snap a couple of photos of the crippled vessel and its crew. More evidence for Sam. She hadn’t recognized either of these men, but they had come out of nowhere on her. How had they known where to find her? Perhaps they had gotten lucky and spotted Isurus coming out of the Sailing Squadron. Meg’s heart was hammering hard in her chest. She had gotten lucky just now. She needed to disappear for a while, at least until she could connect with Sam.

Fifteen minutes later, Meg had crossed Buttonwood Harbor and joined the main ICW north before dropping into Millar Bay, then idled along one of the long canals that extended out from Longboat Key. Cannon’s Marina sat in a secluded bayou at the junction of two canals. It was one of the few places with a public fuel dock and the lab boats had been coming here for years. Isurus slid quietly past trees laden with ripe mangos and bright bougainvillea bushes that lined the main canal.

Meg’s phone chirped in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw a text from Duncan. Cortez in sixty. Usual spot. Cryptic and terse and very un-Duncan-like. She hoped he was okay, though she was relieved to hear from him. Meg wondered whether he had encountered anything like the two assholes she had just left stranded on the oyster bed. She sent him back a thumbs-up emoji, then focused on steering Isurus into the fuel dock without being broadsided by a rental pontoon boat that was pulling out of the marina.

Little Jimmy Peterson waved to Meg as she slid into the slip and cut the engine. He grabbed the bowline and tied it fast to the cleat while she climbed out and did the same with the stern.

“Howdy, Meg. Just been talking about you,” Little Jimmy greeted her with an easy, lopsided smile. A small patch of strawberry blond beard was attempting to lay claim to his face.

“Oh?”

Little Jimmy’s dad was an old family friend who once served in the Coast Guard under Meg’s father and had owned Cannon’s for the past fifteen years. His son had been called Little Jimmy since he was a baby, which was a bit silly now that the boy was twenty years old and had at least six inches and fifty pounds on his father.

“Some guys here asking for you a little while ago. Pop told them they were outta luck.” He nodded towards the office. “Fill her for you?”

“Please.” Meg’s nerves were jangly, and she blinked the sweat from her eyes while scanning the parking lot. It was empty. She started breathing again. “They say what they want?”

Little Jimmy shook his head then grabbed the gas hose and spun the lever on the side of the pump. “Nah.”

He peered more closely at Meg then.