The deep end, p.1
The Deep End, page 1
The Deep End
© 2023 Tim Shoemaker. All rights reserved.
A Focus on the Family book published by Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188
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ISBN 978-1-64607-110-4
Build: 2023-05-23 15:59:37 EPUB 3.0
I believe a story is stronger when I picture my target audience as I write. And when I write for those I love, the story grows even more powerful.
So . . .
Lily, Caleb, Norah, Claire, James, Miles, Daniel, Grace, Sierra, Ethan, and Gabriel . . .
This one is for you.
“You’ll never go off the deep end if you’re clinging to the One who keeps you from falling.”
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Epilogue
Special Thanks To . . .
Map of Rockport Harbor
Every person has a push point. Something that—if given enough pressure—has the power to send them someplace dark. Deadly. Someplace they never want to go.
Off the deep end.
—
CHAPTER 1
Friday, August 5, 5:30 p.m.
IT STARTS TODAY. YOUR WORLD WILL CHANGE.
The words were painted on a cardboard circle the size of a medium pizza. All caps. The letters were thick—in a dark red that had wept and run before it dried. Paint, or something else?
Creepy. Parker Buckman felt his stomach slowly twist. He turned the corrugated cardboard over. The other side was blank. “So, this was it? No other explanation?” he asked.
“Not a thing.” Harley Lotitto nodded toward the entrance of the Rockport Dive Company. “I found it taped to the glass door when I opened this morning.”
It could be nothing. But to Parker, way too many nothings had turned into really big somethings in the past. He read the sign again. “It starts. As in a motor? What about your motorcycle?”
Kemosabe. Harley’s 1999 Harley-Davidson XL Sportster. The bike Harley had rebuilt as a father/son project just months before his dad’s death. The bike he wasn’t even old enough to legally ride yet. But he was getting close. Parker eyed his friend. “Is Kemosabe in the repair shop?”
Harley snickered. “You think a mechanic might be leaving me a progress update? No, the bike is locked up tight in the Hangar where it belongs.”
The Hangar was Harley’s name for the shed behind the dive shop where he stored Kemosabe—and everything else he wanted to keep away from his Uncle Ray.
“And the bike is running just fine.”
No surprise there. Harley started it up nearly every day just to be sure. Kemosabe was the one thing that tied him to his dad’s memory more than anything else. “So, what are you going to do about this?” Parker tapped the cardboard sign.
“Nothing. This stupid sign doesn’t change a thing,” Harley said. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight all week.”
Parker scanned the inside of the Rockport Dive Company for the owner, but it looked like Harley was manning the shop alone again. “What did your uncle say when you showed the sign to him?”
“‘Be sure you get every bit of tape off that glass.’”
Parker laughed. That sounded about right. “Seriously, he wasn’t concerned at all?”
“All he cares about,” Harley said, “is getting the boat so we can take dive charters.”
“Tell me he’s not still trying to get you to sell Kemosabe.”
Harley cut him a look. “He’s obsessed with the idea. Like I’m his personal GoFundMe page. ‘Sell the bike. Invest in the boat. I’ll cut you in on the profits.’ Like that will ever happen.”
“Selling Kemosabe—or your uncle sharing the profits?”
“Both.”
Parker didn’t doubt that. He focused on the sign again. The letters looked like something from an old horror movie poster. “Any other weird things happen today at the shop?”
Harley shook his head. “We actually had a great day for a change. Some geezer came in here with his lady friend and bought a complete rig for both of them. Wet suits. BCD vests. Tanks. Regulators. Everything. Paid in cash. I got $3,500 sitting in the register right now.”
“Bet that made your uncle happy.”
“He was all grins. Went out to get a drink to celebrate.”
“So maybe he’ll stop riding you so hard.”
“I wish.” Harley boosted himself up on the counter. “He’s getting worse. It’s like I can’t do a single thing right.” He glanced at the front door, as if he wanted to make sure his uncle wasn’t right outside. “Sometimes, when he’s grousing at me, I want to hit him. So. Hard.” He held up one hand with his thumb nearly touching his forefinger. “Like, I’m this close.”
It was something Parker hadn’t heard Harley say before. And he’d never seen his friend look so on edge, either. “You hit your uncle, and your world will definitely change,” Parker said. “Next time you get the urge to smack him—call me. We’ll take the Boy’s Bomb out in the harbor or something.”
“My dad and uncle never got along,” Harley said. “Fought all the time, the way my dad told it. Sounds like my dad beat the tar out of him whenever they did.” Harley’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was picturing it. “Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get out of here before he comes back. I’m locking the door the minute it hits six o’clock.”
“I’ll give you a hand cleaning up,” Parker said. He had helped Harley close up the dive shop plenty of times before. He knew the routine.
Harley nodded. “I just want to get away from him.”
The front door opened—but Parker’s back was to it. Harley didn’t look at all happy to see whoever it was. Parker instantly felt the need to be busy so it wouldn’t look l ike he was keeping Harley from his work. He straightened a Rockport Dive Company T-shirt on the rack.
“Gatorade . . . so not nice to see you.” There was only one person who still called Parker that: Bryce Scorza. Rockport High’s star quarterback. Harley’s ex-best friend. Arrogant, pompous—
“This guy bothering you, Lotitto?” Scorza wore his football jersey with the big number eight on it, like the shirt was the master key to everything. He also had a stupid habit of carrying around a regulation football almost everywhere he went. “I’ll just throw him out if you want.”
Parker held his ground even as Scorza stepped into his personal space. Scorza gave Parker a quick jab in the gut with the tip of the football. “Just messing with you, Gatorade. Don’t pee your pants.”
“Whew,” Parker said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand in an exaggerated way. “Glad you cleared that one up for me. That was close.”
Scorza’s eyes narrowed, like he wasn’t expecting Parker to push back even a little. And Parker had surprised himself a bit too. Mocking Scorza wasn’t exactly the Christian thing to do, but . . .
“What do you want, barf bag?” Harley asked. He still hadn’t left his perch on the counter.
For the second time in the last minute a hint of surprise registered on Scorza’s face. “Barf bag. That’s new.”
It was the first time Parker had heard Harley use that expression when referring to Scorza too.
“What are you doing in the shop?” Harley asked. There was nothing friendly in Harley’s tone. Parker had never heard him talk to a customer like that. “You don’t dive.”
“But maybe I like your uncle’s catchy designs.” Scorza held up one of Rockport Dive Company’s Don’t Drink and Dive T-shirts that Uncle Ray designed—and Harley hated. “I was thinking I’d buy one.”
“Well, it’s nice to hear you’re thinking for a change.” Harley still hadn’t left the counter. “I’m closing soon, so pick one out fast. Fourteen ninety-five—plus tax.”
Scorza grabbed a shirt. Balled it up and stuffed it in the pocket of his cargo shorts. Pulled out a twenty—along with a key ring with a Jeep logo fob. He dropped the keys on the counter with the cash. “Keep the change. Oh, and did you hear my dad got me a Wrangler?”
Everybody had heard—even Parker. It was gorgeous. Harley didn’t say a word.
“I’ll have my license in seven months. Dad wanted me to practice with the car I’d actually be driving later.”
Harley faked a yawn—and his acting was horrible. “Congratulations.”
“My dad is going to work on it with me,” Scorza said. “We’ll fix it up even better than it is now. Bigger tires. Add some chrome.”
Parker was pretty sure Scorza wasn’t stupid enough to get physical with Harley. But that didn’t stop him from giving Harley a verbal gut-jab. “Just spending time with my dad . . . kind of looking forward to that,” Scorza said. “Maybe you’ll want to drop by sometime. You know . . . since you don’t have a dad around anymore.”
Harley boosted himself off the counter. He looked like he wanted to rip Scorza’s head off. Parker hustled to get between the two, sure he was going to have to break up a fight. And he might have had to if the bell on the shop door hadn’t jangled at that moment.
Angelica “Jelly” Malnatti and Ella Houston tumbled in—Jelly wearing a Rockport T-shirt and jeans, Ella wearing one of her loose gypsy dresses. The dress hung just below Ella’s knees, almost down to the tops of her cowgirl boots. The girls stopped dead when they saw Mr. Football Jersey.
And suddenly Scorza seemed to forget all about Harley. He tucked the football under one arm and hustled to the door to meet them. “Black Beauty and Everglades Girl. It always amazes me how my fans show up wherever I go.”
“You’re delusional,” Ella said. “You got no fans in this store.”
Jelly walked right up to him. “Everglades Girl. Yeah . . . I’m strong like a gator.” She jabbed the football loose. “And I strike like a snake.”
Scorza chased down the football and scooped it up, laughing as if in disbelief.
Jelly held the door open for him. “Looks like you have some real fans waiting for you outside.”
Sure enough, a handful of other guys in Rockport High football jerseys stood out front, peering through the display window. Scorza trotted out the door, grinning like he’d just made some brilliant play. He held out the ball to Jelly as he passed, then tucked it in tight before she could react. “I’ll be ready for you next time, Everglades!”
“Doubt it.” Jelly closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Much better,” she said.
“So,” Parker said, doing his best to hold a straight face, “were you two really following him?”
“Watch it,” Jelly said. “Or this Everglades Girl will teach you a lesson too.” She nodded toward Ella. “We both will.”
Harley grinned like he’d already forgotten about Scorza’s comments.
“We want to see that note you found on your door,” Jelly said.
Parker held the cardboard circle out to them.
Jelly gave Parker an incredulous look. “Wait. You’ve been touching the thing . . . without gloves? How can the police check it for prints now? This was evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Harley asked.
Parker thought that was a fair question.
Harley slipped back behind the counter where the register sat and swept his hand in an arc that covered half the narrow store. Racks of neoprene wet suits. A row of scuba tanks. Regulator kits displayed on the wall above. A case of dive knives. A pretty impressive inventory of masks. Fins and snorkels and all other sorts of dive gear. Racks of Rockport Dive Company’s Don’t Drink and Dive T-shirts in every size and color. “Does anything look out of place?” Everything was neat and in order. Harley was good about that.
“Out of place?” Ella smiled. “Well, actually, the guy working the shop seems kind of strange. But nothing new there.”
“So, you’re saying my Uncle Ray is weird?”
El gave the shop a quick scan—obviously fearing the guy was within earshot. “I was talking about you, and you know it, Harley Davidson Lotitto.”
Harley grinned. Ella Houston could trash-talk him all day, but Harley never seemed to mind the teasing. Parker was pretty sure he was just happy to have her attention.
Jelly stepped closer to inspect the sign—still in Parker’s hand. “This could be written in blood.”
Exactly what Parker had thought.
“I can’t believe you waited all day to text us about this.” She ducked to look at the blank underside of the sign. “And nothing else out of the ordinary has happened today?”
Harley shook his head. “Just another Friday.”
Ella glanced out the window as if she thought whoever left the sign might be watching the place. “Make any new enemies?”
“You mean,” Harley said, “since Steadman disappeared?”
Nobody had seen or heard from the man after he’d tried to kill them in the quarry back in June. Parker silently thanked God for that.
“What about Scorza?” Ella nodded, like she was answering her own question.
“You said new enemies,” Harley smiled.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Lotitto,” Ella said. “I should have been clearer. You were friends until early this summer. But now you’re at each other’s throats. So, could the sign be from him?”
Harley thought for a moment. “He gave me some trouble at football camp. But I gave worse back. He knows what will happen if he messes with me.” He picked up the twenty-dollar bill Scorza had dropped on the counter—and stopped. Underneath sat Scorza’s keys. Harley held them up, a wicked grin on his face. “Well, lookee what Mr. My-Dad-and-I-are-gonna-work-on-my-Jeep-together left behind.”
Parker caught the girls up to speed on the conversation they’d missed.
Ella turned to the door. “Want me to see if he’s still out there?”
“No,” Harley said. “Definitely not.” He tossed the keys into a box under the counter. “He probably won’t even remember he left them here. I’ll find something special to do with these.”
Jelly still looked absorbed with the cardboard sign. “I don’t like this. No strange customers today? Besides Scorza?”
Harley hesitated. To Parker, it didn’t look like he was trying to remember the day so much as he wasn’t sure how much to say.
“So, there was someone.” El gave Jelly a nod.
“Actually, there were two.”
El stepped up to the counter. Jelly joined her. “Two?”
