A Treacherous Tide Read online

  I ran out the door onto the little deck by the stern to get a better look at our surroundings. The reef was ahead to our left. The shore was to our right. Unless we got incredibly lucky, we were going to smash into one of them. In that moment, the shore seemed likely. Not so bad if it had been one of those nice, soft, sandy beaches like the one by the marina, but this one had tons of large sea-worn rocks jutting out into the surf. And just in case the view didn’t look perilous enough, the mast from an old shipwreck poked out from the surf, giving me a chilling glimpse of our own fate if something didn’t change fast.

  “The current’s carrying us toward those rocks!” I shouted.

  Past them, I could see a few funky-looking mangrove trees growing out of the shallows. The twisted mounds of exposed roots that anchored them to shore looked old and gnarled enough to have survived storms a lot worse than this one.

  As bleak as the situation was, something about those tangled roots made me smile.

  I ran back inside shouting, “We may not have an anchor, but maybe we can borrow one!”

  The mayor looked out the window at the ocean, then back at me. “Borrow one? From whom?” He buried his face in his hands. “He’s cracking up under pressure! I’m cracking up under pressure! We’re all going to die!”

  Frank was more composed. “Hit me, Joe. What’s the plan?”

  “It’s not you I’m going to hit,” I said, reaching up to grab the grappling hook off the wall. “It’s the mangroves.”

  The grappling hook looked like an oversize, rusty four-prong fishing hook with an equally rusty length of chain attached to it. It was easy to imagine a pirate tossing it over a ship’s side to grab on to a merchant vessel before boarding and pillaging it. I wasn’t sure if what I had in mind was going to be any less dangerous, but at least the trees wouldn’t be shooting at us.

  “Grab the end of that rope, bro!” I called, pointing out the door at the long coil on the deck.

  Frank saluted, dashed outside, and returned with the rope.

  “Okay, Mayor McKnotMaster,” I said. “Let’s see what you got. I’m going to tie one end of this rope to the grappling hook, and I need you to fasten the other end to the boat.”

  “Yes, sir!” The mayor must have flashed back to the Eagle Scouts, because he instantly snapped to attention, grabbed the rope, went out to the deck, and started fastening it to one of the houseboat’s cleats.

  “That knot’s not going anywhere, and that’s one campaign promise you can bank on,” he declared proudly a minute later.

  “How ’bout this one?” I asked, handing him the knot I’d tied to the grappling hook’s chain.

  He eyed it for a second before looking up. “I could do better, of course, but not a bad job for an amateur.”

  I took a deep breath as the houseboat swept toward the outcropping of mangroves. If I’d estimated correctly, we’d have barely enough rope. Now I just had to time my throw right.

  “What now?” the mayor asked anxiously.

  “Stand back and hold on,” I said, clutching the rope in one hand and the hook in the other.

  I had one shot at this.

  I took another deep breath as I stepped out into the pouring rain, lined up the target with my eyes, wound up with my arm, and let the hook fly. We watched the hook sail toward the closest mangrove tree, then fall—right in the center of the tangled roots I’d been aiming for!

  “Come on, come on.” The hook rattled around, looking for purchase.

  “I think it’s grappled!” Frank shouted.

  It was hard to make out through the rain, but I’d hit the mark, and it looked like I’d hooked on to the thicker roots like I’d meant to. Now it just had to hold.

  I could feel the hook starting to slip. Then…

  “Yes!” Frank shouted as the boat’s momentum pulled the rope taut, snapping us to a sudden stop that sent all three of us tumbling onto the deck. We couldn’t have been happier about it. The current was doing its best to yank us loose, but the grappling hook held. For now.

  “Well done, my young protégé!” the mayor shouted.

  “Now let’s get off this tub before the current carries us down the drain,” I said. “We’re close enough to shore that the water should start getting shallow. It’ll be a little dicey, but we can climb over one by one and use the rope to guide us to solid ground.”

  Mayor Boothby eyed the swiftly moving water apprehensively.

  “I’ll go first. Frank can take the rear. We’ll spot you in case anything goes wrong,” I reassured him.

  I was just about to take the plunge when the ocean decided on a change of plans.

  The current swept our tethered boat around the mangroves—and right into a surprisingly calm little cove. “Huh,” said Frank. “Looks like abandoning ship will be easier than we expected.”

  “This spot is perfectly nestled in the curve of the peninsula to shelter it from the worst of the storm.” I surveyed the terrain. A narrow channel cut its way downstream at the far end of the cove.

  Boothby studied the mouth of the channel and nodded. “If I have my bearings right, that channel runs right past the lighthouse. Not much besides mangroves and gators between here and there, but there’s another little wharf just down the coast on the other side.”

  I slapped my hand on one of the paddleboards lashed to the side of the houseboat. “Paddleboards may not be the luckiest form of transportation around here lately, but I think they might be our best shot to make it back to civilization quickly. The current here is swift enough to carry us to the wharf without us needing to paddle much, but it’s not so choppy that we can’t navigate it.”

  The mayor’s apprehensive look had returned.

  Frank eyed the lightning in the distance. “I don’t like paddling through a storm like this either, but I don’t know if staying by the boat is any safer. Even if your knots hold, the rope might not. And lightning is a risk whether we’re on the boat or not. I say we head for the wharf and look for shelter along the way.”

  “There are only two boards, so Frank and I can ride together if you want your own,” I offered the mayor, realizing he was still hogging both life vests. “I mean, unless you think you need both of those as well.”

  He sheepishly handed over the second life vest. Mayor Boothby had a ways to go before I would call him generous, but this was progress, at least.

  “There’s one upside to getting cut loose and swept down the coast,” Frank said as we unlashed the paddleboards and climbed off the houseboat into the water. “Whoever did the cutting probably assumes we’re out to sea and no longer a threat. With a little luck, we should be able to make it back and alert the authorities without the crook knowing.”

  We were on our boards, about to set off toward Alligator Lighthouse, when a flash of lightning illuminated the night sky behind the condemned landmark. All three of us froze as the image flickered in the electric light like a scene from a horror movie.

  “So much for that luck, bro. I think the bad guy knows we’re headed straight for his lair.”

  Why did I think it was the blackmailer’s lair? The abandoned lighthouse wasn’t all the lightning had illuminated, and it wasn’t abandoned anymore. There was a silhouette in the tower window. Someone was watching us through a spyglass.

  13 AMBUSH HUNTERS

  FRANK

  YOU THINK THAT’S THE BLACKMAILER up there?” Mayor Boothby’s voice shook as the lightning strike faded and the silhouette watching us from the lighthouse tower vanished back into the darkness.

  “Everyone on Lookout knows it’s condemned, right?” I said. “From what we heard, it’s a death trap and strictly off-limits.”

  He nodded. “When I toured the site with the town council, our engineer said it shouldn’t even still be standing. Some kids snuck in last year and had to be rescued by the fire department when they fell through the floor. No one’s been reckless enough to trespass since.”

  “Until now,” Joe pointed out. “If someone
climbed all the way up there in the middle of a storm to use it as a crow’s nest to watch the coastline, there’s got to be a good reason.”

  “Or a bad one,” I said. “And spying on the houseboat you just cut loose would definitely count.”

  “If it is the perp, they could be using it as more than just a lookout.” Joe squinted through the rain toward the lighthouse. “The whole search-and-rescue operation for Trip was focused on the water and the shoreline because everyone believed she’d been attacked by a shark or marooned in the storm. No one thought to look inside anywhere because no one suspected she could have been taken somewhere against her will.”

  “Until we started putting the pieces together.… If you kidnapped someone and needed a place to hide them where no one would look, the least safe place you could find might be the safest place not to be found,” I concluded.

  “I think we know where we’re headed next, dude.” Joe tightened his grip on the paddle.

  “You want to go in there after them?” the mayor asked incredulously.

  “We don’t know what really happened to Trip, but if there’s a chance she’s in there and needs help, we have to take the risk. If we’re right and we saw the perp, they may realize we spotted them in that lightning strike.” I shuddered as I thought about what that could mean. “They might try to get rid of the evidence before we can expose them.”

  We were silent for a moment. We all knew the biggest piece of evidence might be Trip herself.

  Joe thrust his paddle into the water, ready to propel us forward. “Let’s do this.”

  Boothby cleared his throat conspicuously before we could push off. “Just to clarify, you want us to go into a death trap where the criminals who just tried to kill me are hiding out?” he asked doubtfully. Joe and I nodded. “Good plan! Take the fight right to them! I commend you boys on your intrepidness. I wish I could join you in your endeavor, but I mean too much to the people of Lookout to put myself at risk. It would be downright irresponsible of me. Clearly, the more heroic thing for me to do is to stay here and man the ship.”

  “Clearly,” Joe said, unconvinced.

  Boothby did at least brief us on the lay of the land by the lighthouse before we left, so I guess he wasn’t entirely useless. The good news was, the banks of the channel were overgrown with enough vegetation that our approach should be concealed. There were two entrances—one at ground level and one two stories up, accessible by ladder in case the ground level was submerged in a storm surge.

  The current in the channel was swift, but a whole lot less choppy than the ocean had been, and it wasn’t long before we reached our final, terrifying destination. We stashed our paddleboards in the overgrowth, using the ankle leashes to secure them to a palm tree so they wouldn’t take off without us. The storm was howling, and Joe and I were both soaked to the bone, but our adrenaline was pumping so high, we barely noticed.

  “I don’t see anyone up there,” Joe whispered, peering up at the lighthouse tower from an overgrown hiding spot just a few yards away.

  Thunder was booming quicker and louder, which meant more lightning setting the night sky aglow. The better for us to see by—or be seen.

  Alligator Lighthouse was a six-story stone cylinder tilting precariously to the right. It had once been painted in fat red-and-white stripes like a nautical candy cane, but the paint was so faded, you could barely tell anymore. The weathered stone was cracked and battered; it looked like it had lived through a naval assault. Entire chunks were missing from the top few levels, exposing the interior to the elements. A long-ago-shattered glass roost sat at the very top. The silhouette of the huge beacon light was still visible inside. Right then, that was the only silhouette visible. Whoever had been there earlier was gone.

  The entire structure was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The lighthouse was set back a ways from the breaking waves, but not so far that foam from the surging tide didn’t reach past the fence. If that tide kept rising… It was easy to imagine why the lighthouse needed more than just a first-floor entrance.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to mistake this place for a playground, that’s for sure,” Joe whispered, taking in the numerous bright orange signs along the fence warning trespassers of both the danger and illegality of trying to get inside.

  “That hasn’t stopped someone from cutting a slice through the fence with wire cutters.” I wouldn’t have spotted the damaged chain link if it weren’t for one thing.

  “The ground leading up to the gap in the fence is the only place where the seagrass is tramped down. Someone’s been in and out this way recently,” Joe said.

  The last lightning flash brightened the surroundings long enough for us to fully take in the two entrances the mayor had described—and the fact that he’d omitted a pretty important detail.

  “Looks like the decision between the main entrance and the ladder has been made for us.” Joe sighed. “We’d need a crowbar and half an hour to get in through the boards covering the front door.”

  “Which means whoever’s in there knows exactly which entrance to defend. So much for the element of surprise.” I grimaced at our remaining option, two very precarious stories off the ground.

  “We’ve been in more dangerous predicaments than this,” Joe reminded me. After a moment, he added, “Okay, maybe not more dangerous than this, but maybe equally dangerous?”

  I groaned. “Let’s just get this over with before I have third thoughts. We might still have the advantage. We don’t know for sure that they realize we spotted them. It could just be some random vagrant or thrill seeker anyway.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Joe pushed his way through the slit in the fence and dashed toward the ladder in a crouching run.

  There was no turning back now. I was right behind him.

  Joe hesitated at the top of the rusty iron ladder, right below an open window. I could tell it used to be secured too, but there was only one board left. The rest looked like they’d been pried off long ago. Anyone intrepid enough (great vocab word, Mayor!) could have entered. I just hoped whoever had gone in last wasn’t intrepid and diabolical.

  Holding on to the ladder with one hand, Joe carefully pulled out his cell phone and opened the camera. I might have thought it was odd if I didn’t already know the surveillance trick he had in mind. As soon as he heard the next thunderclap, he raised just the lens over the window ledge and waited for the lightning to arrive. When it did, an image of the lighthouse’s interior filled the screen. It lasted only a second, and we couldn’t see much beyond flickering shadows, but the flash provided enough light for us to tell there was no one lurking right in front of the window, ready to ambush us.

  Joe pocketed his phone and poked his head through the opening. I held my breath. And then sighed in relief as he pulled himself all the way inside.

  I had just reached the window ledge when another lightning bolt illuminated the inside of the lighthouse. We’d gotten only a sliver of it through the lens of Joe’s camera. This time, we saw the entire story below us.

  The space was one large, open cylinder, allowing me to take in most of it from the window. A rusty iron spiral staircase with an equally rusty guardrail wound its way along the wall from the wet floor, past our window, through a rotting ceiling a couple of stories above, and presumably up to the unseen pinnacle beyond that. It looked like there might have been another floor between us and the ceiling at one point, but if it had ever existed, it had collapsed years before. The ground level below us was a damp mess of crumbling stone, rotted wood, and long-forgotten nautical junk.

  Not all of it was junk, though. There were a pair of nearly matching bright blue-and-green paddleboards.

  The only difference: one had a large bite taken out of it. Any doubts we’d had about this being the blackmailer’s lair were gone.

  I didn’t have a chance to look very far above me, but what I did see definitely left an impression. I wasn’t an expert on lightho
use architecture, but this one had a feature I’m pretty sure didn’t come with the original design. So those metal cages shark divers use to protect themselves from great whites while filming Shark Week documentaries? One of them was suspended from the ceiling by a rusty metal chain. That wasn’t even the most unusual part.

  That would be the person trapped inside.

  “Dr. Edwards!” Joe cried.

  The first thing I noticed about the acclaimed shark researcher was that she had conclusively not been eaten by one of her subjects. While she didn’t look like she was in great shape, she was very much alive. She was wearing the same board shorts and Shark Lab tee she’d had on when she disappeared into the fog two days before, only they were a lot more tattered.

  I took a mental snapshot of the scene before the light faded. The cage was constructed with narrowly spaced vertical steel bars separated by a large enough horizontal opening at eye level that a diver could swim out if they had to, but a large shark couldn’t swim in. Unfortunately, swimming out wasn’t a thing you could do suspended in the air three stories off the ground. Had EEE wanted to, she could have climbed out, but there was nowhere for her to go. Up wasn’t an option either. The chain descending from the ceiling was wrapped in barbed wire to make sure she didn’t get any ideas about scrambling to freedom.

  It looked like the whole setup was rigged on some kind of pulley system to raise and lower the cage, but I couldn’t see where it originated. A bucket hung above the cage, attached to a thin strand of fishing line. The kidnapper must have used it to lower food and water down to Dr. Edwards.

  Just before the light went out, Trip saw us, and her eyes went wide. She was pointing above us and yelling, but between the rain, thunder, and crashing waves, I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  We were thrown back into darkness, but another bolt illuminated the crumbling lighthouse’s interior—along with the wild-eyed, tattooed shark hunter charging down the stairs at Joe with a harpoon!