The deep end, p.8
The Deep End, page 8
CHAPTER 13
Sunday, August 7, 12:30 a.m.
RAY WATCHED THE KID BALL UP HIS BLANKET around his pillow and march down the stairs. He fell in line right behind him. “I told you to stay away from Scorza. And what did you do? The opposite.”
The kid did the hard-of-hearing act.
“You get dumber by the day,” Ray said. “You know that?”
Harley still didn’t answer. He maneuvered around the dive shop displays, past the Blast Chamber, and unlocked the back door.
“I give you a chance to invest in the future—you turn it down. If that wasn’t stupid enough, you get yourself hauled in by the police and put your entire future at risk.”
The kid didn’t even give him enough respect to look him in the eye. “My future is in that shed.”
The problem was, it was Ray’s future too. “Your ship finally came in, and you won’t get on board.”
“Oh well.” The kid made a screwball face. “Guess I missed the boat.”
“You mocking me, boy?” It was all he could do to keep from smacking the goofy expression off the punk’s face. All in good time. “You trying to make me look like an idiot?”
Harley shook his head and pulled open the door. “You do that just fine without any help from me.” He was out the door, then ducked his head back inside. “But . . . thanks for bringing me home from the police station. G’night.” He slammed the door, and that was that.
Ray threw the dead bolt in place. Fine. The kid could stay out there for all he cared. He took a deep breath. The kid had blocked Ray’s way to a better future every chance he got, hadn’t he? But no more. No stinkin’ more.
So, the smoke bombs hadn’t been enough to get the job done. Lesson learned. He wouldn’t have that problem with the next phase of his plan. And everything was in place. He’d pulled in the favors and put together a crew. Jack Kelsey was more than capable. And Vinny Torino? He was just the kind of guy you wanted in your corner in a clutch situation.
Everything was falling into place. Even the incident with Harley and the Scorza punk. Ray couldn’t have asked for a better launch ramp for his meeting with the lawyer Monday morning. He’d show how his nephew was off the rails. A liability. There had to be some kind of loophole in that trust fund to pull out money for a legal fee fund. Hello, Plan C. In less than forty-eight hours he’d have the motorcycle—and his hand in the trust fund. He’d sell the bike fast. And maybe—no, absolutely—he’d get the money for the loan and pay it off early.
When was the last time Lochran had somebody pay back a loan before the deadline? Ray would probably be the first. The loan shark would pick up some healthy respect for Ray, that was for sure. There’d be no standing on the dock over him anymore. He’d look Ray eye-to-eye after that. Ray’s Rules number fifteen: Don’t let anyone disrespect you. And Lochran was getting dangerously close to doing exactly that.
Ray stepped to the paned window and looked out over Rockport Harbor, then zeroed in on the shed. He had Plans B and C rolling simultaneously. He’d get the money he needed, and then some. “Sleep tight, kid. Keep that bike safe now.” Ray chuckled at the thought. “If you can.”
CHAPTER 14
Sunday, August 7, 12:45 a.m.
BRYCE SHOULD HAVE BEEN in bed an hour ago, but he still felt too juiced up to sleep. The look on Harley’s face when the cops hauled him away kept popping into his head. Was Harley in the police station right now? Was he spending the night? The way Bryce saw it, Harley Lotitto deserved everything he got. He’d walked right into it. Came angry and ready to do a little damage. But the joke of it all was that Harley was the only one who got hurt. He’d done it to himself.
Bryce peeled off his jersey and hung it on the hook behind his bedroom door. “Who’s the barf bag now, Lottie?” He flopped onto his bed. Stared at the blackness of the ceiling. Just a few months ago Harley was his wingman. Bryce would tell him how far to run, and where to make a cut, and he’d do it.
Summer football camp had been a disaster. Sure, Bryce gave Harley a hard time. Threw the passes low, high, or way too close to a defender. He sure didn’t make things easy on Harley. The problem was, Harley still made most of the catches. When he got slammed down on his hip pads he got right back up. It was like he was making the catches, not to make Bryce look good, but to spite him somehow. Every time Bryce gave him a sloppy handoff, the guy carried the ball like they were in a championship game instead of football camp.
A quarterback needed complete loyalty from his team. And clearly Lotitto found ways to undermine Bryce. When he called a play, Lotitto would roll his eyes. Grunt. And he never clapped as the huddle broke. It didn’t take long for others to follow his lead.
But just hours ago he’d taught Lotitto that his attempted mutiny came with a price. Harley had looked like an out-of-control hothead to Gatorade and his dad . . . and definitely to the cop. Bryce wasn’t done with Harley, either. He’d push him—and Bryce knew exactly where his ex-best friend’s weak spots were. For some unexplainable reason, Black Beauty was one of them. Kemosabe was the other. And the motorcycle was where he’d focus. He’d send a message that Harley would know was from him—but could never prove.
If Harley reacted by breaking the restraining order, he’d get himself in a world of trouble. He might even be barred from team tryouts. He’d be doing community service instead. That would stop Harley from eroding team loyalty when football started.
But if Bryce did this right, Harley would realize soon enough that he couldn’t win. He’d wave the white flag. Yeah, Harley would bury the hatchet and call for a truce. Then they could get back to where they were before. Bryce calling the plays—and Harley running them.
Harley was trapped. He could fight back or surrender—it really didn’t matter. Either way, Bryce would get the MVP status he deserved.
Bryce had an idea of something he could do to Lotitto—in less than twenty-four hours. It was simple. It was reckless. And definitely a little crazy. But it would send a clear message. Bryce would land on his feet with this one . . . and he’d have Harley on his knees.
CHAPTER 15
Sunday, August 7, 2:50 p.m.
PARKER STOOD ON THE DOCK, searching the T-wharf for a sign of his friends. While he watched, he prayed.
He’d sat with his mom and dad in church earlier that morning. But he just couldn’t track with the sermon. His mind was on the way things had unraveled with Harley at Scorza’s place. The way Harley had looked at him—like his friend had sold him out.
Anybody in the congregation who’d glanced his way probably had thought Parker was taking notes on the sermon like crazy. Not this time. He’d needed to talk to God—about a lot of things. And he did that best on paper.
He hadn’t known Harley as his friend for all that long. But still, Parker had never seen him like this—and things weren’t getting any better. Harley hadn’t answered one text since the cop escorted him to the police car.
Harley was in some kind of invisible vise. Pressure from his uncle. From Scorza. And now the police. Personally, Parker had long ago come to believe Harley was naturally self-destructive. Without God in his own life, Parker would likely mess things up royally. And Harley didn’t have God to lean on, look to, or learn from. Right now, he was pretty much on his own . . . and with the anger brewing inside, he was his own worst enemy. Parker had to patch things up with Harley. How else would he be able to truly help his friend?
God, throw me a lifeline here. Harley needs your help—and he doesn’t even know it. Show me what to do, because I’m fresh out of ideas.
He was still writing when the sermon ended. He’d slipped his prayer into his Bible and scanned the congregation one more time for Jelly and Ella. Maybe they’d slept in. Again.
Mom had put her arm around him. “Why don’t you see if the girls want to go out in the Boy’s Bomb after lunch? Maybe Harley will go with you.”
Had she been reading his mind—or his prayers? She smiled but didn’t offer any explanation. And it didn’t matter. Her idea sounded pretty good.
He sent out a group text:
I’m running out to Dry Salvages in the Boy’s Bomb. Anyone else want to go? Jelly, you’ve been wanting pictures of the seals, right? I’ll bring donuts from BayView Brew. Meet at the T-wharf. 3:00 p.m.
The girls had responded immediately. No surprise there. Jelly had been bugging him about going out to the Dry Salvages ever since she’d come to town. But it was, what, a good three miles outside the safety of Rockport Harbor? He’d need really, really calm seas to handle that trip with the little, 40-horsepower Mercury engine on the back of the Boy’s Bomb.
Honestly? Leaving the safety of the harbor—and going that far from shore in the Bomb—was always dicey. But the seas seemed flat. The weather report looked steady. And the risk was worth the reward if Harley showed up.
Parker checked his phone again. Harley still hadn’t responded in the almost three hours since he’d sent the text. Not even an emoji. God, please. Please.
He saw Jelly first. Walking the granite block edge overlooking the South Basin of the harbor. Cargo shorts. Oversize orange tour-guide-type fishing shirt. His, actually . . . the one he’d worn that day on Gator Hook Trail when he lived down in the Everglades. Sleeves rolled up and buttoned in place. She had a pack—likely filled with camera gear.
Ella walked beside her. Gypsy dress. Cowgirl boots. Laughing at something Jelly had said.
Parker smiled at the girls. God, now bring Harley.
Ella kicked off her boots the moment she got in the boat.
“Is he coming?” Jelly kept her voice down. “Have you heard anything?”
Parker checked his phone again. “Let’s give him five more minutes.” Or ten.
Ella slipped her boots back on. “I don’t think he’ll come without a little in-person push. Jelly? Let’s go get him.”
He liked that idea. “I’ll wait here a few minutes before driving over—just in case he shows.”
Jelly and Ella trotted up the ramp and disappeared.
Parker made sure the spare gas tank was full and all four life jackets were exactly where he’d kept them stowed. Double-checked the anchor and line. He checked under the seat. Flare gun. Mask. Snorkel. Fins. Dive knife. First aid kit. Extra transom plugs. Spare ignition key.
He fired up the motor. Untied the lines and coiled, looped, and hung them inside the boat from the cleats. He cruised slowly past the other slips, the yacht club, and swung wide around Eric and Maggie. The harbormasters were docking their newest boat, Alert 1. It was black with red and white accents.
The 25-foot Safe Boat was clearly built to handle rough weather. Self-draining decks. A 150-gallon gas tank. Twin 250 motors on the transom. The collar around the boat made it look unsinkable. Gunwale rails so strong that he doubted King Kong could rip them free. There were even decent cutouts in the gunwales for quick boarding—and to make it easier to pull aboard survivors from the water.
The thing had an aluminum center console built like Fort Knox—complete with a safety glass windshield and side windows. The console roof bristled with UHF and VHF radio antennas, a radar pod, search light, emergency lights, and a tow spool with who knew how many feet of cable. There were probably a couple of surface-to-air missiles tucked in there somewhere too. The best thing on the roof was the infrared camera—giving them the ability to see right through the fog.
“Eric . . . Maggie,” Parker called. “That thing is gorgeous.”
Maggie smiled and pointed ahead. “Eyes on the road, captain.”
Parker made a quick course correction to keep from hitting a buoy. “I want a ride sometime.”
“Too calm today,” Eric said. “Pick a day when we can really have some fun.”
Parker saluted. He’d definitely like that.
Maggie waved back. “Be safe out there, Parker.”
Exactly what he planned to do. He tooled around the front of the T-wharf and the floating dock.
He spotted the girls right away, talking with Harley outside his shed. Ella’s hands were moving as quickly as she talked, although Parker couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She was definitely giving her best sales pitch. Harley’s head was down. Hands jammed in his back pockets. It didn’t look like he was planning to go anywhere.
Parker hit the horn and motioned for him to join them. It was worth a shot, right? Suddenly Ella grabbed one of Harley’s arms—and Jelly the other. They tugged and pulled. He took a step, then another. Seconds later he was all in, jogging with them toward the nearest ladder leading down to a floating dock. Parker had the Boy’s Bomb pulled up by the time they got there.
Within minutes they passed through the narrow channel between the breakwater off Bearskin Neck and the base of the Headlands.
The girls kept the conversation going—but there was probably more screaming and laughing from the spray than anything. Harley glanced his way more than once with a look Parker couldn’t quite read. But he was on board—and that was something.
Even the flattest-looking ocean has waves. A deep pulse. Parker felt the slight rise and fall of the bow. The farther from the harbor they drove, the smaller the boat seemed to get. And lower to the water, too.
The word islands made the Salvages seem bigger than they were. They were more like two massive heaps of huge rocks—but out in the Atlantic, miles from shore. Little Salvages came first. It wasn’t just smaller than the other, but it was shorter, too. In low tide the cluster of black rocks hunkered low in the water—a haven for gulls and seals. In high tide, Little Salvages ducked underwater completely—but not by much. It held its breath, waiting to rip the hull wide open on an unsuspecting fishing boat or yacht. An old minesweeper had met its doom there. It was a wreck that Parker intended to explore—hopefully soon . . . and with Harley.
Dry Salvages kept its head above water even in high tide—which was probably how it got its name. And the island was bigger all around—but still there wasn’t a tree or plant on either one of them. No beach to make an easy landing, either. How the seals got up there was a wonder.
Parker steered into the waters that separated the two islands and dropped anchor. The water was slightly calmer between the two. And Parker had no desire to push his luck by going on the open ocean side of the Dry Salvages.
The seals were out in droves. “We can’t stay long,” Parker said. Too much could change this far from shore. And if the seas got heavy, there’d be no getting back to the harbor quick. Not with the Bomb being at full weight capacity and powered only by the little 40-horse motor.
Harley stood and scanned the surface. Parker had a pretty good idea what he was on the lookout for.
“This is perfect.” Jelly was already pulling her camera from the pack. “I’ll get some great shots. And Harley . . . if you see a great white, let me know. I’d love to get a picture.”
He gave her a half smile. “They’re out here, you know. Some divers say the great whites stay over by Cape Cod because of all the seals there. Thirty or forty miles from here.”
Parker wished that were true. But Eric and Maggie had set him straight on that one.
“But the way the seal population is growing out here at the Salvages,” Harley said, “they’ll be coming here for snacks.”
That’s right, Parker thought. What’s thirty miles to a great white? Eric and Maggie had told him that nearby shark-detecting buoys had reported tagged great whites in the area.
“Wouldn’t that be something if one came here to feed while I had my camera?” Jelly scanned the water like she might see a dorsal fin. “I would get some crazy-good shots.”
“Crazy,” Parker said. “I agree with that much.” An average great white would be longer than the Boy’s Bomb. A terrifying mind-picture. Especially when he thought about how thin the fiberglass hull really was.
Harley didn’t say a word. With the motor off, things felt even more awkward between them. Parker had to patch things up between them . . . but how? With every minute that passed, it would only get harder.
“What would you do,” Parker said, “if we were diving right here, and the shadow of a great white passed overhead?”
Harley looked at him for a long moment. “I’d warn my friend what was coming if I thought he didn’t see it.”
Parker felt like someone had tied a dock line around his stomach and cinched it tight.
“And I’d stick with my friend until we both got in the boat safely.”
Okay, so it was time to talk about it. “I texted,” Parker said. “I told you not to talk to Scorza. Told you I was coming.”
“You didn’t mention your dad would be there—and that you’d be bringing the cops.”
“You think we brought the police?” Parker shook his head. “I was just as surprised as you were.”
Harley nodded like he believed him. “I guess Mr. Scorza didn’t waste any time.”
“I’m really sorry for how it all turned out,” Parker said. And it was the truth. How could he make Harley understand he’d been trying to keep him from hurting himself? Parker was pretty sure he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
Harley shrugged. “Scorza deserves everything he got—and a whole lot more.”
“You still believe he’s the smoke-bomber?”
He gave a slight nod. “Oh, yeah. It was him.”
Harley just wasn’t seeing the whole picture. And this was the wrong time to argue with him. What Parker needed to do was meet Harley where he was at. “So, what’s next?”
“Nothing. I have to stay away from him—the restraining order is for real.” Harley looked over at Dry Salvages—but not like he was really seeing it. “And Mr. Barf Bag better stay away from me.”
The way Parker saw it, Harley was a finisher. He may not start things, but he definitely knew how to finish them. Trouble was, he was liable to finish himself in the process.
“Well,” Ella said, “you get yourself in more trouble with Scorza, and you’re going to have to deal with Jelly and me.” She made a fist. “Believe me, you don’t need that kind of trouble. We’re way scarier than a restraining order.”
