Every hidden thing, p.31
Every Hidden Thing, page 31
“Mr. Steadman, I—”
“So I became my own Ghost Army. Deception is a powerful thing, boys. And you ate every bit of bad intel I fed you. I used BIG to drive the price way down. And then I got it down even more.”
Harley looked confused. “Scorza’s dad . . . was he in on it, too?”
“I usually work alone . . . but he did his part . . . and got a nice little gift from me for calling in the loan.”
“All this . . . just to get a piece of property?”
Steadman shook his head. “I didn’t just buy a piece of property. I bought a money tree. I get two rental homes in one bargain buy. I’ll more than double my income—which means I’m sitting pretty. I’m set for life. Just sit back and let the money come to me. Bayview. Bayport. I’m thinking of sticking with that theme. Baybreeze for the big house. Bayside for the smaller. What do you think?”
Steadman was out of his mind. Now he was asking their opinion about house names?
The air flowing from the tanks lost force and escaped with more of a whisper now. Like most of its fight had drained. Parker knew the feeling.
“Okay. Close the valves. Regulators back on. Disconnect the BCD hose. Air on.”
Both boys did as they were told.
Steadman checked the pressure gauges. Both tanks deep in the red danger zone. “Tanks on your backs. Hurry.”
Parker shrugged on his pack. Clipped in. Harley did the same.
Careful to keep the gun on the boys, Steadman unzipped a side panel on his gear bag and pulled out a handful of oversized nylon ties. “Now I want to see you tie yourself in so that vest can’t come off—even if you release the clips. Right here.” He motioned to the padded straps on the BCD vest.
Parker looped it through and snugged it. Steadman reached over and cinched it tighter. There was no way Parker could take the tank off if he wanted.
Steadman did the same to Harley. “You’re going to the bottom again. But you’ll run out of air within a minute or two. Everyone will think it was another tragic accident.”
He grabbed a nylon mesh bag from his duffle and stuffed two entire weight belts inside. “Zip-tie this to Harley’s valve stem.”
Parker obeyed. Harley struggled to keep his balance with the awkward placement of the weights.
Steadman grabbed a hunk of granite the size of a brick and dropped it in a second nylon bag. He motioned to Harley. “Zip-tie this to Parker’s valve stem.”
Harley obeyed.
“Now nylon strap yourselves together.” He pointed at the BCD vest shoulder straps. “Make it tight.”
Hardly any air. Too much weight to do anything but go straight to the bottom. And now tied together so they couldn’t even maneuver? “Mr. Steadman—please.”
“Life is a survival of the fittest, boys. And that would be me.”
Parker couldn’t believe this was really happening. “So you’re going to survive . . . by killing us?”
Steadman smiled apologetically. “I never wanted this to happen. You two just wouldn’t leave it alone.” He waved the Glock at Harley. “I gave you a chance. A solid warning. I normally only do that once. But I warned you both right here at the quarry again.”
“And you.” He locked eyes with Parker. “You’re a do-gooder, Swabbie. Mr. Do-Right. Always trying to help others out and not paying attention to the danger you put yourself in. Like a soldier who throws himself on a live grenade to save someone else. You brought this on yourself. Quick news flash? The moment you brought my tank to the surface the grenade detonated. You’re already dead . . . you just don’t know it yet. It’s too late to put the pieces back together.”
“I trusted you.”
“A tactical error. War is about deception . . . and you didn’t even consider I could be involved?” He shook his head. “You’re way too trusting for your own good.”
Maybe he was, when it came to people. But he hadn’t trusted God enough in all this, had he? At first he didn’t trust God to bring justice . . . and had tried to make things happen somehow on his own. He’d had things upside down. But he’d prayed . . . and definitely felt like he was supposed to go into the quarry today. And he’d obeyed, even though he’d felt afraid. God . . . please . . .
“When we don’t come up—they’ll look for us,” Harley said. “You were our spotter. How will you explain the nylon ties? No one will believe this was an accident.”
“I won’t have to. When you two don’t come up on time, I’ll call the police myself, and the water rescue team. I’ve got my gear here. I’ll be ready, and as soon as they come, I’ll go down to make the heroic rescue. It’ll be ten minutes before the team gets ready. I’ll have the nylon ties cut long before they get to the bottom. And the nylon bags will disappear in a crevice. It will look like two inexperienced boys ran out of air and panicked.”
It was brilliant, in a sick-minded way. If he’d tied their hands and feet, there’d be bruising that would show—even with the nylon ties gone. But with the vests tied together? There’d be no telltale marks at all.
“Give me your knife, Swabbie.” Steadman waved the gun. “With its sheath.”
Parker’s heart spiked. Did Steadman know he had two knives on him—or one? God, please don’t let him check my vest pocket.
Staying on his feet was incredibly hard with all the extra weight and them tied together like they were. There was no way he’d be able to keep his head above water. He reached down to his calf and unclipped the straps to his dive knife. Held it out.
“Toss it. Nice and easy.”
Steadman caught it with one hand. “I’ll give you a few minutes and then toss it down after you. No need for the police to see that.”
Parker had to stall for time. Think of something. “God, help us!” He said it right out loud. “I know you can do it. Don’t let him get away with this!”
“Calling in the big guns?” Steadman held out his hand. “Gee, I’m shaking, Parker. But are you sure God sees—or hears—any of this? The fog is pretty thick.”
“Mocking God? You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Steadman shook his head. “Actually, I was mocking you.”
“Devin Catsakis,” Harley said. “That drowning was no accident, was it?”
“Ah, Mr. Catsakis. You’ve heard the saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ right? That’s what got Catsakis. His dumb curiosity. Like I say, some people don’t know when to stop. That stupid kid should have left when he had the chance. I waited underwater a good ten minutes. I was sure the kid had left and wouldn’t stop running until his head was under his covers. But he came back. Saw me surface—and take off my hood. I really had no choice.”
Parker shook his head. “There’s always a choice. And you’ve got one right now.”
“Prison? Not much of a choice, Parker.”
“You could run,” Harley said. “Just disappear somewhere. No prison that way, right?”
“Or I could stay.” Steadman shrugged. “I’ve got a really sweet setup here. The money from the rentals is too good to walk away from. Look around. There are no witnesses. Don’t tell me I can’t get away with murder. I already have.”
“Don’t you fear God—even a little bit?” Parker’s mind went to the letter from his grandpa. “He’s a God of justice. A revealer of mysteries. The exposer of every hidden thing.”
“Thanks for the Sunday school lesson, Parker. And if your god is as powerful as you seem to think he is, he can rescue you, right? So I’ll have a clear conscience on this. If he doesn’t save you, it’s on him. Not me.”
Parker didn’t know how to respond. Would God save them?
“Now, fins on. Masks in place. Better have your mouthpiece in hand.” Steadman acted like he was going down a checklist. “I’d deploy those flashlights, too.”
Parker and Harley used each other to steady themselves as they donned their gear. Parker toggled on his light. God, help us. God, help us.
“Looks like you boys are set.” Steadman checked the road behind him. The fog had set in thick and heavy. But no signs of headlights. “Now, I’ve decided to give you a fighting chance. Take a step back—right to the very edge.”
The boys obeyed, trying not to get tangled up with the other’s fins.
Steadman holstered his Glock.
If they weren’t wearing fins—and strapped together—they could have rushed him. But right now it was all they could do to keep from tripping over each other and falling into the quarry. Harley gulped. “This is a fighting chance?”
“Mr. Lotitto . . . you’re the star football player.” He held up Parker’s dive knife. He wrapped the nylon straps around the sheath and snapped them to form a tight bundle. “I’m going to toss you this knife in the sheath. You catch it, and you’ll easily cut free from the weights once you hit bottom.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” Steadman backed away. Ten feet. Fifteen. Glanced over his shoulder down the empty road again. “This will be the biggest catch of your life. But if you miss it? Look on the bright side. It’ll be the last miss of your life.”
“You can do it, Harley,” Parker said.
Harley shifted his weight from foot to foot. But they were tethered too close for him to move freely. “If I jump, you jump with me, got it?”
Steadman grabbed the knife like he’d just been snapped the ball. He rolled back a bit, cocked his arm. “Hey, Lotitto . . . go deep!” He threw the knife—but high.
Harley lunged up and slightly backward—Parker tried to move with him. Harley’s fingers must have grazed the sheath because suddenly the thing deflected end over end and behind them.
They were terribly off balance. “Har—ley!”
Too late he realized his mistake. Back they went, hitting the surface of the quarry with a mighty splash even as Parker slapped his mouthpiece in place.
Steadman was visible through the sheet of water for a split second, waving goodbye.
Instantly the water closed over them, and the weights dragged them toward the rock bottom of the quarry.
CHAPTER 74
Saturday, June 18, 5:31 p.m.
THE WEIGHT PULLED PARKER headfirst and backward at a crazy fast speed. He tried to right himself, to stop the plunge, but it was impossible with the way Harley was hog-tied to him. Harley slammed into him in a tangle of arms and legs and lights. Like two skydivers hopelessly tangled in their chutes, tumbling toward earth—and certain death.
Parker held his mask from being ripped off—constantly grabbing his nose and equalizing the pressure that hammered his ears and forehead like a battering ram. No sooner would he force air into his sinuses for an instant of relief than the pressure would threaten to crush his head again. If either eardrum ruptured, he’d lose all equilibrium—all sense of what was up and what was down.
He clenched the mouthpiece in his teeth, desperately fearing he’d lose it. He needed more air—and sucked hard—but it felt like it was coming through a straw instead of a hose.
Deeper.
Darker.
He passed the thermocline.
Colder. So awful cold.
They slammed into the bottom of Parker’s Pit tanks-first. Instantly storm clouds of silt enveloped them—massive, menacing thunderheads that swallowed their light. Parker couldn’t see Harley—but he was there. And he was absolutely sure Harley was still alive . . . because he was still screaming.
CHAPTER 75
THE GHOST STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE QUARRY, watching the surface of the water morph from panicked to absolutely serene. His own breathing evened out, too.
He had to congratulate himself. He’d handled this like the soldier he was. Met each attack with a countermeasure. His rolling anticipation had served him well yet again. The moment the boys surfaced at that wall, he had been ready. And when Mr. Football Hero handed up the tank from the hidden quarry stash, the Ghost knew he’d simply execute his backup plan.
Adapt and execute. It was his way, and he was good at it. It was all about knowing when to make a course correction . . . finding a way . . . and finishing the mission. Always. Aborting wasn’t an option.
All of life was war. Steadman’s MO was to gain trust with everyone and make allies whenever possible. Then if one of those allies got in the way of a mission, that ally’s first reaction would be to trust him—which, of course, was a fatal miscalculation. That simply gave Steadman the easy edge to do what he needed to do. Deception was an effective weapon.
And the boys had made it too easy. They should have kicked off their gear and run—and taken their chances that he wouldn’t shoot or that he’d miss. Stupid on their part.
“Rule number one, fellas, if a guy has a gun on you, don’t get fooled into thinking he intends to let you live if you just do what he says. That kind of against-all-logic trust is a great way to get yourself killed.” He looked down into the dark quarry. Case in point.
And he’d employed the element of shock flawlessly. Shock had a way of handcuffing someone as effectively as a set of real steel bracelets. The surprise on the boys’ faces as they plunged backward was priceless. Too bad he couldn’t tell anyone about this little black ops he had going. He’d adapted to the change of plan and executed his mission perfectly, but couldn’t tell a soul. Mr. Big-shot Banker Scorza would figure it out, but wasn’t man enough to give him trouble. And if Steadman even got a whisper of pushback from him, maybe he’d arrange for him to take a ride in the Valiant.
Oh well.
Now to focus on what needed to happen next. He suspected the boys had already panic-sucked their tanks dry. Likely it was over. But another five minutes should do the trick.
The Ghost unclipped his concealed carry holster and locked it in the safe under his driver’s seat. He wouldn’t be needing that now, and he didn’t need any extra steps to slow him down once the rescue team arrived.
He slipped out of his pants. He’d worn his swimsuit underneath, and this just got him one step closer to ready. There was a balance to this. To get in the water ahead of the dive team, he’d need to get ready in little ways that wouldn’t be noticed. He didn’t want to appear overanxious—or that he’d had any indication of the boys having trouble. The main thing was to simply have his gear ready—which would make him look all the more like the perfect spotter.
Steadman took his fins, mask, dive knife, and the rest of his gear from his dive bag. Set them on the lip of the quarry. He brought the silver tank next. Checked to be sure the air was on and the regulator was working. He unrolled his wet suit. All he’d have to do is slip in, zip up, and add his hood. He’d be set to be the hero who’d find the boys. He took the light sticks they’d brought to the surface and threw them far out into the quarry. They’d never be found. And even if they were, what would they prove?
So far, so good. He was ready for the next stage, but he’d really like an audience. Parker’s dad, to be specific. Mr. Park Ranger would be a witness to the heroic efforts he’d make . . . starting with jumping into the quarry alone to save the boys. That would build more trust, and complete the deception. Vaughn Buckman would never guess Steadman was really going down to hide all evidence of what he’d done. Maybe Steadman would call Rankin, too. He’d make a great witness to all this if Parker’s dad didn’t get here soon. He pulled out his phone and hit Rankin’s number.
And by now dear Mrs. Houston would be dashing to the bank with the earnest check to pay off her loan before closing.
He was certain the fat lady wouldn’t be singing on her drive to the bank, but by now she’d definitely signed. He pictured Beulah and the cozy little rental house. Baybreeze and Bayside. They were his now. Spoils of war.
CHAPTER 76
Saturday, June 18, 5:36 p.m.
HARLEY DIDN’T WANT TO DIE. Wasn’t ready to die. Was Gatorade already gone? He swung his flashlight around. The silt clouded everything. Zero visibility. Gatorade squirmed to free a hand trapped underneath Harley.
Okay, so Harley wasn’t the sole survivor. He shifted his weight until he felt Gatorade’s hand pull free from its pinned position. Still, they were tethered together so close their masks had to be almost touching. With the silt it was impossible to tell.
Harley reached over his head. Found the line to the bag of weights. Pulled on it with all his strength.
Gatorade groped frantically for something at his ribs. His BCD vest pocket? Harley heard the Velcro release.
The knife. Gatorade had a knife in his pocket! He’d seen him stuff it in his vest, right?
A moment later Gatorade was tugging at his vest—sawing the nylon tie holding them together—and the tie keeping him from ditching his gear.
Go faster, Gatorade. Faster. Harley swallowed down the panic. Fought the urge to claw past Gatorade and out of the black cloud. Gatorade and his knife were their only hope now, and Harley knew it. Harley was sucking on fumes here. His tank was dying. And if Gatorade didn’t cut them free quick enough, they’d be dying too.
CHAPTER 77
Saturday, June 18, 5:37 p.m.
ANGELICA HAD SEEN FOG A MILLION TIMES, but never this thick. It looked more like a fine mist in Uncle Vaughn’s headlights. He hunkered over the wheel, as if being that much closer to the windshield might help him see better—or avoid missing a turn.
Ella rode alongside her in the second seat of the extended cab, clutching her backpack on her lap.
She’s lost. Why those words popped into Angelica’s head, she had no idea. But Parker’s friend definitely didn’t look like an Ella-gator. Not at all. She wasn’t a threat. And Angelica realized she never had been. Actually, Ella looked how Angelica felt month after month while she waited for her dad’s transfer to come in. Like she’d lost her footing. Had no place to call home. Like her whole future was in a fog.
Angelica stretched to look out the windshield. How Uncle Vaughn could drive this fast with all the sea smoke was beyond her. He braked hard and made a sharp turn off Beach Street. Almost there. God . . . protect Parker and Harley. They’re in trouble. I feel it.
