The Voice inside My Head (21 page)

“Zach!” I lunge toward him, unintentionally stepping into the path of a cyclist, who swerves just in time.

He immediately drops the clothes to his side.

“Haven’t you got any more sense than a he-dog?” demands Reesie. “You don’t sniff a lady’s garments. It’s not proper.”

“They’re not hers,” he says quietly.

“What?” I ask.

“These aren’t her clothes.”

“I’m sorry, buddy, but you’re wrong.” He’s obviously in some weird grief-induced denial. “Those are definitely her clothes.”

“No.” Zach vigorously shakes his head.

I look at Reesie for support, but she just sighs.

“That boy’s sailing with his ship half-rigged. He’s always been like this.”

“Smell,” says Zach earnestly, proffering the clothes.

“Dude,” I step back. “I’m not sniffing my sister’s clothes.”

To my surprise, Reesie takes them and puts them up to her nose. She sniffs, looks at Zach, who nods encouragement, and sniffs again.

“The boy is right,” she says in awe. “These may be Tricia’s clothes but she definitely was not wearing them the night she went missing. The only thing they smell of is soap, and there’s no way a girl could walk that distance to McCrae’s dock on a still night and not have B.O. on her clothes.”

“She smelled of lemon and strawberries,” says Zach indignantly.

“Point remains,” says Reesie.

“Any chance the police washed her clothes?” I ask her.

“They wouldn’t do that. It would be tampering with evidence.”

We start walking again, pondering the question on all of our minds. If Pat wasn’t wearing those clothes, then someone put them on that dock. But who would do that, and why?

“If someone hurt Tricia, they might put the clothes on the dock to make it look like a drowning,” I say slowly.

“The distress call,” says Zach, picking up on my train of thought.

“What’re you boys talking about?” asks Reesie.

We fill her in on the little we know as we head for the
Spiny Starfish to see if Mini Mike can add anything to what he told Zach last night.

The Spiny Starfish is hopping with lunchtime customers, and the only available tables are at the far end of the pier in the direct sunlight. The sun hasn’t lessened its power since we started up the hill to the police station, so we decide to stand in the shade by the bar. Ten minutes later we’re still waiting, as Mini Mike rushes past us with pizzas and beers. My stomach rumbles so we give in and take a seat on the deck. It turns out there’s a strong breeze off the water, so we get to enjoy the illusion of coolness while soaking up cancer rays. Mini Mike appears with menus almost immediately, which makes me wonder why he couldn’t have taken a minute to speak to us earlier.

“Hey, Zach.” Mini Mike claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t see you here much in the daytime. Can I get you a beer?”

“No.” Reesie butts in before Zach can answer. “We’re here for information.”

“I want pizza,” says Zach, eyeing Reesie to see if she’s going to object to that as well.

She looks at me for support, but I shrug.

“Fine,” she says. “I suppose we don’t have anything more important to do than sit around filling our gullets.”

“Share a pepperoni?” I ask Zach. He nods gratefully and I turn to Mini Mike. “We were wondering if there was anything else you could tell us about the distress call the night Tricia disappeared,” I say, as I hand back the menu.

“It came in around midnight from the Shark Center. Whoever was on the radio didn’t identify himself, but it was
a guy who said there’d been an accident. He was putting the call out to anyone who could locate Dr. Dan. Of course, that time of night, everyone knows he’d be at one bar or another. Mind you, even three sheets to the wind, he’s one hell of an emergency surgeon. Point is, it took awhile to track him down, and by the time he got to the Shark Center, there was no one around. No one gave it another thought. Kids get up to mischief on the radio all the time.”

“Did anyone tell the police?” Reesie asks sharply.

“Don’t think so,” says Mini Mike, frowning. “I didn’t even make the connection until I got to talking to Dr. Dan about Tricia’s brother coming around with questions. We really thought it was a prank. The kids often do that,” he says with a worried frown.

“Did Dr. Dan even look around to see if someone was hurt?” I try not to sound accusatory. I know all too well how easy it is to see what you should have done after it’s too late.

Mini Mike shifts in front of me, momentarily blocking the harsh glare of the sun.

“He didn’t find your sister, Luke. He looked everywhere at the time. There was no one there.”

I exhale and turn away to stare at the endless miles of ocean. Feeling a hand on my arm, I turn to meet Reesie’s warm gaze.

“There is one more thing,” says Mini Mike. “I don’t know if it’s important, but I talked to my girls who were working that night. They said all the shark kids were sitting together early in the evening but one of the girls, not your sister, left in a bit of a huff after some kind of argument. Your sister followed soon after, and the boy was with her.”

“Pete?” I demand, feeling like my head is going to explode.

“Pete left with my sister?”

“That’s right,” says Mini Mike. “Does that help?”

I stand up. “I have to go.”

“But what about pizza?” groans Zach. “I’m starving.”

“You’ll live,” snaps Reesie. “Now get your backside out of that chair.”

“You should have at least let me order a beer,” Zach grumbles, trailing us off the deck. “It’s made from wheat, you know.”

“Really? That’s very interesting,” Reesie retorts, rushing to keep up with me as I stride through the restaurant. “I’ll keep it in mind next time you’re vomiting it all over your bedroom floor.”

I don’t listen to the rest of their arguing as I hit the street and break into a run. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion trying to dodge ambling tourists and whizzing motorbikes. I bump into several people, dimly aware of outraged exclamations. I don’t even notice the truck lumbering straight for me. Only Zach’s firm hand on my arm, yanking me out of the way at the last minute, saves me from getting flattened. Reesie races forward to cover my other flank. People leap out of our way as we barrel on.

We’re at the Shark Center in minutes. I rush into the office, accusations ready to pour out of me, until I see there’s no one there. I walk straight past the counter and through the door to the back office, but it’s also empty.

“The dock,” says Zach, but I’m already out the back door and heading for the boat.

F
ully loaded, with at least a dozen divers, the boat is just pulling away from the dock when I emerge from the Shark Center. I sprint, with Reesie and Zach right behind me, and in the heat of the moment one of them shouts something like, “Halt, in the name of the law!”

One guess which one that is.

Pete looks at us, climbs onto the gunwale of the boat, grabs the last rope securing them and, for a nanosecond, I think he’s going to hold the boat till we get there. But in a fluid maneuver that he’s no doubt done a million times, he slips the knot and pushes the boat out, giving me a three-finger salute, the cool-guy’s kiss-off.

“Freeze!” screams Zach.

“Get back here this instant!” adds Reesie.

I hit the dock at warp speed and leap into the growing space between solid wood and receding fiberglass. In midair it occurs to me where I’m going to land if I miss. I hear a splash at the same moment I thump onto the deck. I’m the only one not craning over the side of the boat, so it doesn’t take long to find Zach bobbing in the water, looking surprisingly calm.

“Dude, throw me a rope.” He waves both arms and begins swimming after us with a speed I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.

Reesie, who’s still safely on the dock, throws him a life buoy, which he ignores. I make eye contact with Reesie, and she shrugs helplessly as the boat chugs away. I hurl the rope used to tie the boat up. Zach grabs it and hangs on while we continue to motor out to sea. Someone, not Pete or Tracy, shouts up to the captain to stop the boat. Pete and Tracy are leaning over the side like everyone else but they’re glaring at Zach. He smiles and waves.

“Hang on, buddy,” I shout, trying to keep the panic out of my voice as the coral disappears from under him and the water turns a darker, sinister blue.

“No hurry,” he calls back lazily, wrapping the rope around one fist and lying out full length with one arm extended as we drag him along like bait.

“What’s going on here?” Dr. Jake appears from the motor room. I wonder who’s driving this tub, but I seem to be the only one worrying. Half the divers and Tracy cheerfully fill him in.

I start pulling on our end of the rope, but Zach must have taken on water because I barely gain a foot of rope before I think my hands are going to drop off.

I shout for help, but it seems a detailed explanation of how Zach got on the end of the rope is necessary before anyone can think of rescuing him. After an eternity, or about the time it would take three great whites and a hammerhead to sniff out snack food, Dr. Jake gives the order. A couple of brawny guys in wetsuits leap forward to give me a hand.

Pete still doesn’t help. He may be hoping I’ll get dragged over the side myself. Tracy, on the other hand, launches into spirited cheerleader mode, shouting encouragement to me and my muscled assistants, because it really is all about teamwork. Only when Zach’s head appears over the side of the boat does Pete step forward to grab Zach under his arms and heave him over the side. The force sends him airborne, past the bench, and headfirst onto the deck. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a last-ditch effort to finish him off. Zach lies still for several moments, gasping like a beached fish.

“You okay, buddy?” I crouch down to help him up onto a bench.

“Cosmic,” Zach wheezes, giving me a thumbs-up before putting his head between his knees.

“So you decided to swim with the sharks after all,” says Pete, looming above where I’m crouched at Zach’s side.

“You could say that.” I straighten up and turn to face him. We’re almost touching in the narrow space between the fully loaded benches.

“You’re not scared anymore?” asks Tracy, who’s taken a seat across from Zach.

“Nope,” I say, not shifting my gaze from Pete.

“You’re the one who should be scared,” says Zach.

“Whatever,” says Pete, looking from Zach to me and turning away like he’s already bored.

He hops up on the bench that runs along the middle of the boat and holds up his hand like he’s marshaling a huge unruly crowd instead of a small group of divers seated quietly along the sides.

“How many of you have cameras?” He looks around at the group. Several hold up their hands.

“Well, today we’re going to learn to identify sharks.”

“Thanks,” I say loudly. “I’ve already got that covered.”

“I want you to photograph every whale shark you see today, particularly behind the gills. Then we’ll use our computer program to identify individual sharks by their spot patterns.” He pauses for the requisite oohs and aahs from the shark lovers. “We also want pictures of scars. As much as spots, scars make every animal wonderfully unique.”

“Glad to hear you like scars,” I say.

Tracy looks at me quizzically, but Pete continues as if he hasn’t heard.

“Whale sharks are highly migratory. The same shark can turn up in locations thousands of miles apart, but no matter where it goes, it can always be identified because its spots never change.”

“It’s not the only one.”

“You have nothing to fear from the sharks.”

“Ha!”

Finally, he stops talking and gives me his signature cool-jock stare. I stare right back.

He blinks. “Have you got something to say to me, Luke?” His eyes shift nervously from me to Tracy and back again.

“I think you’re the one with something to tell me, Pete.”

I glance at Tracy just in time to see a look pass between them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you were with my sister the night she disappeared.”

The divers listen politely, wondering how this fits into their presentation.

“You can’t prove a thing.”

“I know you reported an emergency the night she disappeared. What did you do to her?”

“Shark!” someone shrieks

“You got that right,” I agree.

“GO, GO, GO,” shouts Pete, scuttling along the center bench and scooping a mask and snorkel from a bucket at the back. He doesn’t bother to put them on before doing a perfect swan dive into an ocean frothing with fish.

I race to the back, knocking over divers right and left, who are suddenly all out of their seats. I snatch a mask and snorkel from the bucket.

“SHARK, SHARK, SHARK,” rings out the chorus behind.

“YES, YES!” I shout back, not pausing to think as I vault the back railing, hitting what must be the diving ledge. Teetering there, still clutching a mask and snorkel, I suddenly remember where I am and sink down onto the small platform, watching Pete splash out of reach. I feel a moment of relief when the other divers swarm past me to chase him.