The deep end, p.3
The Deep End, page 3
Ray stepped to the front of the bike and totally wrecked the view. “Don’t talk out of the side of your head to me, boy.” He looked at him long and hard. “I give you a chance to do something solid for your future, and this is how you treat me?”
Harley revved the bike. It didn’t take much to drown out Uncle Ray’s voice. Uncle Ray was a champion at taking the air out of him. The guy was a nail in his tire. More like a railroad spike. Ella walked to the side of Kemosabe. Like she’d decided she needed to stay. But her smile was definitely long gone.
“You’re living in the past, boy,” Uncle Ray said. “You’re stupid that way—just like your dad.”
Harley cut the motor. Swung a leg over Kemosabe to plant himself right in front of Uncle Ray. He was going to pick his uncle up and toss him right into the harbor.
Suddenly Ella was right there. Between them. “Harley! Look at me.”
He took her by the arms to move her to the side. She clung to him instead.
“You’re boneheaded, boy,” Uncle Ray said. “Brainless imbecile. You don’t know squat about how life works—just like your dad.”
Ella gripped him tighter. “Harley—look at m—”
“My dad knew so much more about life than you!”
“Yet I’m alive,” Uncle Ray put an exaggerated look of bewilderment on his face. “And he’s not. Some expert on life he turned out to be.”
“Ahhhhh!” Some primal cry growled up from deep inside Harley. He wouldn’t just toss his uncle in the bay, he’d tackle him. Drive him off the edge of the granite pier and drag him to the bottom. See how long he’d last.
Ella leaned in hard against Harley, making it impossible to push past her without knocking her down. Her mouth was close to his ear. “Don’t do it, don’t do it. Listen to me, Harley. Please. He’s not worth it. Hear me? He’s the imbecile here. Don’t take the bait. Please, Harley.”
Her voice worked like a straitjacket, holding him in place until the rage slunk away to its hiding place. She loosened her grip. “You got this, Harley.”
He had nothing. He felt the tears burning his eyes. Cheeks. Was he shaking?
“Hey,” Uncle Ray said. “I’m just trying to help.”
More like help himself. He was an expert at that. A world champion. Harley took in a deep breath. Let it out.
“I’ll give you this much, kid,” Uncle Ray said. “You got a gift . . . a real knack for making enemies. Because whatever happened to that shed was no accident. I say someone was out to destroy your precious motorcycle.”
Uncle Ray was a selfish pig. An egocentric idiot. But at this moment he was actually making some rare sense. Not that he’d admit it to him. Bryce Scorza’s shadowy face materialized in his head. Hadn’t he been trying to hurt Harley with all his talk of the Wrangler and his dad? What better way to crush him than to destroy Kemosabe?
“I don’t have any enemies.” None that would dare mess with him, right?
“I’m not buying that,” Uncle Ray said. “And I don’t think you are either. But when you do figure it out, you stay away from him. Got it?”
Says the guy who was all about payback and retaliation.
“You get in a fight and word gets around. That’s bad for business. Hurt somebody bad enough, and we’re going to get sued—or you’ll end up in juvey.”
Harley glared at him. Like you want to help. He wished for the millionth time his dad was still alive. That he’d pull up on his Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide and get him out of Uncle Ray’s reach.
“We’ll talk about this again.” Uncle Ray shrugged and glanced toward the dive shop. “Tell me you locked up before you ran out to play junior firefighter.”
The store. Sheesh. He’d left the front door unlocked. “Going to do that now.”
Uncle Ray swore. “The store’s been empty—and unlocked—all this time? Where’s your head, boy?”
Harley grabbed Kemosabe’s key from the ignition. Ella stepped out of the way as he passed. Parker was already talking to one of the firemen—and a cop. Officer Greenwood? For a moment Parker looked his way.
Parks—I need you to keep an eye on things. Harley pointed at his own eyes, then back at Kemosabe behind him.
Parks’s eyes narrowed for a moment and he flashed Harley a thumbs-up. Immediately Parker led Greenwood and the fireman toward the bike.
Harley nodded. Parks definitely got it. That was one advantage of diving with someone—like he’d been doing with Parks ever since the encounter in the quarry. You learned to communicate pretty stinkin’ good without needing words.
“You got lucky this time, boy.”
Uncle Ray just couldn’t resist the chance to grind his knuckle into Harley.
“Whoever did this just showed he can get at your bike if he wants to. How you going to deal with that?”
Harley didn’t answer, but hustled for the back door of Rockport Dive Company. Scorza’s face was in his head again. Taunting him. Did he have something to do with this?
Of course he did. It made sense. Harley was going to find out for sure.
And then he was going to make him pay.
CHAPTER 4
Friday, August 5, 6:20 p.m.
PARKER ALMOST WISHED THE SHED had really been on fire. Then he could have talked himself into believing it was nothing more than an accident. One of those dumb things that happen when someone gets careless.
But the broken window was no accident. And the smoke bombs? They were nothing like the amateur type that Parker had seen before. The fire chief recognized them right away as commercial grade smoke bombs—the kind you can’t even buy without a pyrotechnic license. Not legally anyways. “They give a full three minutes of dense, black smoke. No wonder you thought it was a real fire.”
Yeah, there was nothing random about what had happened to the shed. And the need for the pyrotechnic license pretty well ruled out that this was some impulsive prank. Whoever did this had a plan.
Parker kept Kemosabe in his line of vision—but stayed close enough to the first responders to overhear anything they might say to shed light on who might have done this. Uncle Ray did a slow walk around the bike. He took out his phone and appeared to be taking pictures. Was he going to try to make some kind of insurance claim out of it? Leave it to him to find a way to profit from someone else’s pain.
Suddenly Jelly was there, standing beside Parker. Ella stood close.
“Steadman,” Jelly said. “I’d bet money on that.”
Parker wasn’t so sure. “Payback?”
Jelly nodded.
“Then why not burn the shed down—and destroy Kemosabe? Why just put a scare into everyone?”
“Think about it,” Jelly said. “Maybe he wants to draw this out. Put us on edge. Get us nice and scared before he settles the score for real.”
It just didn’t fit. “Why target Harley? Why not me?”
“Maybe you’re next,” Jelly said. “Look, Steadman was a Navy SEAL, right? He’d know where to get smoke bombs like this. I think he wants us to know it was him.”
And tip everyone off that he was in town—when there was a warrant for his arrest? “Maybe. But he’d be taking a real risk coming back here, right?”
Jelly gave him the side eye. “That guy lives for risk.”
Whatever Ella was thinking, she kept her thoughts to herself. But she had her hand curled around the Navajo cross hanging from her neck.
The only smoke left clung to the rafters of the shed now. It huddled there like it wanted to see what was going to happen next. A handful of firemen stood around the front of the engine, talking like they were disappointed the whole thing was a false alarm.
Uncle Ray stepped up beside the two girls. Hands on his hips like he was in charge. “Stupid.” The guy looked peeved. “If Harley sold dive gear as easy as he makes enemies, I wouldn’t need to do dive charters.”
There was a part of Parker that wanted to push back on that. Harley wasn’t stupid. And if he made enemies, it was only because he was trying to do the right things. Sometimes that’s all it took.
Uncle Ray spit. “Whoever did this wanted Harley to know he can get at him anytime he has the urge. You want to be a good friend?” He scanned the three of them. “Tell that boy to sell the bike before whoever did this strikes again. Next time they may put a smoke grenade through the front window of the shop.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re concerned about Harley,” Jelly said. Would Uncle Ray pick up the sarcasm in her voice? If he did, he sure wasn’t showing it. “But he wouldn’t listen even if all three of us begged him to sell Kemosabe.”
Not that they would.
“Well, he sure ain’t listening to me.” Uncle Ray ventured inside the shed. He looked around and then walked back out toward the firemen. Kept his hands on his hips the whole time like they were fused to his belt.
“How Harley could be related to that man is a complete mystery.” Ella stepped into the shed and started taking down the framed watercolor scenes of Rockport—now covered in soot. “I’m going to need your help bringing these home. We’ll get them all cleaned up so Harley doesn’t have to worry about it.”
The road signs and license plates Harley had all over the shed would need scrubbing too. But Parker would need a screwdriver to get those down. Ella handed him watercolors, and Parker started a stack outside. He drew a face on the glass with his finger. The soot came off easily. That was something, anyway.
Jelly was busy doing a Google search. “No escapes by one-armed convicts from the Miami Correctional Facility. So we can rule Clayton Kingman out.”
Kingman? The one who came way too close to killing Parker in the Everglades? If he broke out of jail and was crazy enough to track them down, he’d do a lot worse than a few smoke bombs. And why would he target Harley? Parker was the one he’d focus his revenge on. Actually, Jelly too.
“Thankfully nobody got hurt,” Parker said. “No permanent damage done. Now we help him get this cleaned up. It’s over now.” But even as he said the words, Parker wasn’t sure he believed them. God? This is the end, right?
“Over?” Jelly rolled up the sheet Harley had used to cover Kemosabe and swung one end in circles over her head. Wisps of trapped smoke twisted out the doors and rose heavenward like Parker’s silent prayers.
“Somebody went to an awful lot of trouble for this to only be a one-and-done, over-and-out type of thing.” Ella relayed another couple of framed watercolors to Parker. “And the mystery caller . . . the Good Samaritan who saw the smoke. How did they even know to call the dive shop?
“Yeah, why not call 911?” Jelly asked. “And why didn’t they give their name or anything?”
“Maybe they did give their name—but Harley had already dropped the phone, racing to get outside,” Parker said.
“I’ve never seen Harley’s face look the way it looked at that instant,” Ella said. “It was like he’d seen a ghost.”
And he still looked pretty haunted. Harley appeared at the back door of the dive shop—half in, half out. He gave the area a quick scan, then locked eyes with Parker. “My Uncle Ray,” he mouthed the words. “Is he gone?”
Parker shook his head and pointed. Uncle Ray stood on the granite block edge overlooking the North Basin of Rockport Harbor, talking to Officer Greenwood.
That’s when he saw Bryce Scorza. Sitting on the north tip of the T-wharf, just staring at them. “Look who came to watch.”
Parker made no effort to hide the fact that he saw Scorza. Clearly the guy wasn’t trying to hide that he was there. Scorza waved. Not a simple raise of a hand, but an exaggerated, sweeping arm thing, high over his head. As if he was stranded and waving down the Coast Guard. “What is that guy’s problem?”
Harley stepped out the back door of the shop and walked over . . . zombie-like. Maybe the reality of what he’d almost lost was beginning to register.
“I’m in deep weeds.” Harley placed both palms on the side of the shed like some cop had ordered him into a spread-eagle position. He dropped his head. Shook it. “Deep. Weeds.”
The bike and everything in the shed would be fine. They’d need cleaning, but that was about it. What was Parker missing? “Harley . . . it’s going to be okay, man.”
He shook his head. “He’s going to kill me.”
Who was going to kill him? It was way more likely Harley would kill the person who broke the window and planted the smoke bombs.
“Let’s grab Officer Greenwood,” El said. “We have to show him the sign from the window this morning, right?”
The sign. The smoke bombs. Maybe they were related. Maybe not. “Let’s hold off a sec.” Right now it was the spooked look on Harley’s face that had him really concerned. Tendrils of smoke spiraled and teased their way upward from the shed doorway in a slow, almost hypnotic dance. There was something in-your-face about them. Mocking. Like they knew exactly who dropped the smoke bombs—but enjoyed flaunting that little fact too much to reveal a thing.
Harley looked like he was going to puke. “I’m in trouble. I’m dead.”
Parker focused his attention back on Harley. All of them did. “What’s going on?”
Harley looked like he was in shock. “When I went inside—to lock up? The register was open and the cash was gone—and there was a boatload of it before the call about the shed. While we were saving Kemosabe . . . somebody robbed the store.”
“What?” But this changed everything, right?
Jelly snatched the cap off Parker’s head and slapped it on her own head. “The sign. The smoke. The robbery. Still think we should hold off on talking to Officer Greenwood, Sherlock?”
No. He didn’t. Now the only question was if this was a random burglary, or was this personal? Had some enemy just declared war on Harley or Uncle Ray?
He wanted to believe it was random. With all his heart. Because that would mean this was over. But deep down he knew better. If this was personal, it wasn’t finished. This wasn’t the end of it. An image of the mysterious sign flashed in his mind. IT STARTS TODAY.
CHAPTER 5
Friday, August 5, 11:15 p.m.
ELLA SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER BED, elbow propped on the windowsill of her second-story bedroom. Salty night air breezed in for a visit like a close friend. That combined with the scent rising from the Rockport Candle Company jar on the windowsill made for an almost intoxicating combination. If only life were that perfect.
Her Grams’s old necklace had become part of Ella now. She only took it off to shower . . . or think. She looped the rough turquoise and silver bead chain once around her index finger. The oversize cross pendant dangled there, reflecting the candle’s light. Navajo symbols decorated the face of the sterling silver cross, with a turquoise center stone polished smooth from years of rubbing. She had Grams to thank for that smoothness. She tapped one arm of the cross over and over until the chain twisted tight. Then she backed off and let the necklace unwind itself.
The cross spun slowly, glinting in the light. The ornate front spiraled past, then the plain back with Deliver Us From Evil engraved deep in the sterling. She tapped one arm of the cross, accelerating the spin. The words were harder to read now, but she thought there was something about the frantic Deliver Us, Deliver Us, Deliver Us flashing by that matched her soul.
If each turn would send up a prayer, she’d keep the thing twirling until midnight. But she was pretty sure prayer didn’t work that way.
Jelly. Harley. Parker. Even Grams. They’d all come so far in the last two months. As it turned out, Harley was a really decent guy—a fact that was increasingly obvious the longer he’d kept his distance from Bryce Scorza. Was it being away from his jerk of an ex-friend that made the big difference? Or the fact that Harley had spent so much time with Parker lately—and even Parker’s dad? Probably all of the above.
Harley was convinced Scorza was behind the smoke bombs—and the robbery. Ella wasn’t so sure about that. Sure, Scorza’s world had taken some ugly turns since the full scope of his dad’s involvement with Mr. Steadman had come to light. Lucius Scorza had nothing to do with Devin Catsakis’s death—or the attempted murder of Harley and Parker. But he’d not been honest with the police and had helped Steadman mastermind his scheme to practically steal Grams’s home away. That made for some really bad press for the bank.
As a result, Scorza’s dad was no longer employed at the bank in town—or any other bank. Even though he’d lost his job and his reputation, somehow the guy still landed on his feet. He’d managed to quickly sell their home before they lost it, and they were now renting a place in Gloucester—although Scorza claimed they’d be back living in Rockport soon. But Scorza could bike into Rockport easily. Had he been involved in this? The guy was a snake, but would he really rob the store? He was lazy . . . a moocher. Expecting others to do the work for him like it was a huge honor for them or something. He was the “I’m going to get a full ride scholarship someday” kind of guy. Would he do something that could completely mess that up?
When Scorza’s dad got canned, the quarterback blamed Harley and Parker. Which was rich. Scorza didn’t seem to consider his dad’s total lack of integrity might have been a factor in him getting the axe. So, had Scorza just been waiting for a couple months so he wouldn’t be suspected? Harley’s ex-friend knew how much Kemosabe meant to Harley. The smoke bombs were a bold move—especially in the daylight. Scorza was more of a strike-from-the-shadows kind of guy. But what better way to hurt Harley than through his bike? Scorza would absolutely have known that.
The hall door opened and Jelly padded into the bedroom. Her dad had moved to Rockport, but until the fixer-upper he’d recently purchased was fully rehabbed, Jelly was going to be staying with her and Grams. Which suited Ella just fine.
“Hey.” Jelly sat cross-legged on her bed on the other side of the room. “You’ve been quiet. Who do you think did this?”
The question Ella had been trying to avoid talking about. It was about fighting her own superstitions more than anything. She grasped the cross and stopped it from spinning. “I’m thinking the smoke bombs weren’t just a diversionary tactic so someone could rob the dive shop.”
