Fractured Tide Read online

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  Fractured Tide

  Copyright © 2020 by Leslie Karen Lutz

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  Hardcover ISBN 978-0-310-77010-7

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-310-77012-1

  Epub Edition March 2020 9780310770121

  Any internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of the book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Art direction: Cindy Davis

  Interior design: Denise Froehlich

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  2021222324/LSC/10987654321

  For the DFW Writers Workshop and DFWCon, and for Russell Lutz, my favorite writer of all time

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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 184

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgments

  ENTRY 1

  HI DAD,

  I’m going to write you until this pencil wears out. Until all of me wears out. I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not anymore, but these words, they feel real. Solid. And there’s a chance my letter to you will wash up on the right shore.

  The wreck, the one that started all this, lies a hundred feet under the Atlantic, close to Key Largo. Ten miles offshore, you’ll find a place where the water turns blue-black and the salt spray tastes different, coppery. And you’ll feel it as soon as your boat passes over the spot. Something wrong beneath your skin, as if the blood moving through your heart has gone sour, like old milk.

  If you feel all that, you keep going. Get to shore. Promise me. The whole point of writing any of this down is to save you.

  The last day we saw each other, I lied and said the charter was cancelled because of high seas. Mom never cancelled it. She needed the money, the new captain said it was okay, and we had ten divers with full pockets who wanted to see pretty fish, and, well, you know how it is.

  The weather didn’t look bad while we were still docked, especially with the wall of hotels and condos that circle the marina like a giant, overpriced windbreak. But once Captain Phil got us out past the Haystacks, the gusts picked up, and we knew we were in trouble. The ocean started up that trick that makes you think your boat’s made of balsa wood and Elmer’s glue, not tough fiberglass and metal. But you know me, I never get sick; I didn’t even when I was little and you took me fishing on black flag days. The tourists spent most of the ride hurling, watching the sea, not the horizon like I told them.

  The week before, Phil went out by himself and found the wreck and marked the place with a buoy. When I spotted it, small and white and bobbing about a hundred yards off the bow, the shiver hit me for the first time—that feeling you get when someone walks over the spot your tombstone will go one day. I thought about the water, and how there was just too much of it—too deep, too dark, too cold below the first thermocline. Not a good day to dive.

  Phil got up and ambled over to me, which is the only way to describe the way Mom’s new captain walked. Like his pilot’s chair was his horse, and he was just heading into the saloon. He scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble and ran a sweaty hand over his shirt, a lavender stone-washed wife beater that made him look like a total dirtbag.

  “Your mama tells me your job is babysitting the green ones,” he said.

  “Someone’s gotta make sure none of the divers fall over and get a concussion.”

  Phil eyed me in a way you’d hate. I zipped up my wet suit the rest of the way, wishing I’d chosen the one-piece that morning instead of the bikini.

  Phil tipped his head toward the starboard side of the Last Chance. A diver, his wet suit new and top-of-the-line, had his head over the side like he was slowly melting into the Atlantic. A five-hundred-dollar mask, also new, sat in a pool of seawater at his feet.

  Phil’s face broke into a smile. “Good luck with that one, girlie.”

  “Like you’ve never been seasick. Happens to everyone eventually.”

  Mom passed by and nudged me with an elbow. “Seriously, Tasia. Get the customer in the water.”

  “Should I hook a bucket to his waist, or just strap it to his head to puke into?”

  “Divers who don’t dive are bad for business.”

  I knew what she really meant. No more bad online reviews about a “terrible” experience at Blue Dolphin Scuba Charters. The one time I posted a reply telling the whiner we have no control over the wind and waves and a hair-trigger gag reflex, business tanked for a week. And I got grounded.

  Mom pointed at the seasick diver, who was now stumbling toward the head, and then pointed at the water before putting on her mask. She sat on the edge and rolled off backward into the waves, disappearing under the surface like a stone. I waited for her to resurface and give the signal—a fist on the top of her head—to tell us she was okay. There’s always a little girl in me who thinks when Mom is gone, even for a split second, she’s not coming back.

  Too cold, too dark, too deep. Get out and go home.

  Our craft bobbed and rolled in the waves like a toy in a bathtub. I stumbled over to the diver, who hadn’t made it halfway to the head before throwing his upper body over the side again.

  “The horizon, Mr. Marshall.” I squeezed his shoulder. “Keep your eyes there. Above the waterline.”

  He tipped his chin up to stare into the distance, his expression the dictionary definition of miserable. The waves crested white froth that the wind pulled off in ribbons. Then the churning blue-gray waters exhaled and flattened, bit by bit, before the whole show started up again. Beautiful. To me, to you. Not to Mr. Marshall. More crests, swell, and foam sliding over the surface. It was chaos from there to the coast, and he was again watching the sea.

  The moon was still out, hovering a handbreadth above the place where blue sky and gray sea met. I pointed at it.

  “Fix your eyes on the moon, Mr. Marshall. She’ll stay still.”

  He shook his head, fisting his mouth. “Sia, I don’t think I can do it. Go on without me,” he said through his knuckles. “Don’t want to hold anyone up.”

  Behind me, another diver splashed into the water. That shiver was still with me, and
I fought the urge to tell him he was right to stay up here on the Last Chance, that I would join him for a topside vomit party. We would watch the moon disappear into the day together.

  Instead I hooked an arm around his neck and walked him over to the bench and his expensive fins. “Once you get in, you’re golden. Boat’s no good in these waves. Nausea will disappear once you’re off the roller coaster.”

  A touch of hope shone through the green pallor and his embarrassment. “Really?”

  “Like flipping a switch.”

  I hooked the tank to his BC, which he kept calling a “buoyancy control device,” like he was a walking textbook of proper diving terms. I didn’t bother correcting him. Like the rest of his equipment, the BC was uber expensive, the kind that’s made of ballistic nylon and has pockets for everything. I pulsed a healthy shot of air inside—the last thing we needed was this guy to get into the water and sink like a stone—and held it open for him, like a valet with a smoking jacket. “Come on. If I’m wrong, you can get out and lie on the floor for the next hour.”

  The poor guy listened to me.

  And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.

  He fit the regulator into his mouth, took a deep breath, and gave me a weak thumbs-up. The other divers were in the drink, only their heads and the bloated tops of their inflated BCs visible as they bobbed in the waves, all watching to see what he would do. The neon-pink mask girl waved him in, and the diver with the navy stripe on his arms gave him an encouraging okay sign. They’d only met him that morning, a guy arriving solo on the docks with a big, shiny bag of gear and a seven a.m. smile, but he was already one of us.

  And I remembered something you said to me once: The sea brings us closer. All of us, tiny and vulnerable and out of place in a big, wet world, poised at the top of the ocean, ready to drop, and we suddenly realize how much we need each other.

  One giant stride and he was in. I gave Phil a mock salute and followed Mr. Marshall. The warning in my gut was nothing but a murmur, one I could barely hear over the wind. I finned my way over to the buoy that marked the drop line and grabbed it. It felt solid, comforting.

  As I purged the air out of my BC and began to drop, I thought about you, Dad, behind bars, what you were doing at that moment. And I felt you there, bobbing beside me in the waves, giving me advice, like you did the first day you dove with me and I was afraid.

  We’re all in this together, you told me. We don’t leave anyone behind.

  I had done this kind of dive hundreds of times on dozens of wrecks. But the descent felt strange this time, alien. And I was the alien, slowly floating through the atmosphere of a new planet, pulled by gravity to a place I didn’t belong.

  Brave new world, baby, I told myself, brave new world. You may not belong, but you’re going there anyway.

  It took ten minutes to drop eighty feet and reach the wreck. Halfway down we hit a swift current. I spent a solid minute pulled sideways, like a flag on a pole, moving hand over hand down the line. Marshall followed like a pro, the yellow stripe along his leg making him easy to distinguish from the other divers closer to the surface.

  Once the current eased up and we’d dropped another forty feet, the ship appeared within the mist beneath me, two hundred feet long and almost turtled, its hull swelling up from the sand. I pegged it as a Navy destroyer of some kind. A spar in the bow jutted out at a forty-five-degree angle, extending so far it disappeared in the haze, as if the sea was slowly dissolving it.

  As I drifted down through the chill of a thermocline, the massive wreck grew. The ship looked different than I remembered. Like it had rolled over in its sleep and was inching its way to the coast.

  As the memory floated away with the current, a shiver—that had nothing to do with the cold—ran down my spine. Because I’d never been to this wreck before. I couldn’t have a memory of it.

  No one had been here but Phil, and he’d found the wreck only last week. It wasn’t on any of the maps. An old World War II vessel newly scuttled to make a reef, he’d told us. No blog posts or announcements, and somehow I didn’t think about how strange that was.

  When my depth gauge read 95 feet, I landed a few feet from the ship. Marshall followed, letting himself fall to his knees, like a man praying on the moon. A warning pulsed louder in me. I had an urge to grab Marshall’s arm and shoot to the surface, claw my way back to the boat with this stranger who, for the next forty-five minutes, belonged to me.

  I ignored the instinct. I know you think I’ve forgotten all about your famous daddy-daughter listen to your gut lectures. Well, you weren’t there, and every year your voice gets softer in my head. And that’s not my fault.

  Marshall gave me an okay sign, more confident than the last time, and a little head bob as his bubbles mingled with mine.

  Mom was already on the other side of the wreck with her group, the neon-green stripe running the length of her wet suit bright and cheery against the gray hull. Easy to spot when you’re following the leader. A diver with blue fins rounded the top and joined us. Colette. Probably Mom’s idea of keeping me safe with the new guy, sending someone who’d logged over three hundred dives—at least a hundred of them in caves and ships—to bring up the rear.

  I attached my orange line to a sturdy bolt and flipped on my dive light. The three of us slid through a wide gash in the hull, a cloud of bubbles dribbling behind.

  I unreeled the line, letting it hit the deck so softly the silt barely rose. Pulsed a shot of air into my BC to keep me off the floor. Colette stayed within an arm’s reach, her light a smooth circle traveling along the ceiling. Marshall followed, shooting his beam over the walls like an excited firefly. Scared, maybe. No one gets through a shipwreck scuba course without having the risks tattooed on the inside of their skulls.

  The first compartment was small, the size of a bedroom—one wall torn open to the sunlit world, the space locked in twilight. We skirted a metal table lying on its side. Marshall’s buoyancy was good, his fins a foot off the floor, his movements controlled and small, his hands working their way up the bright orange line I reeled out.

  The door to the next compartment hung open, the beginnings of a reddish scale clinging to its hinges. I stopped and pointed. I’m not sure Colette and Marshall understood why. I was watching the beginning of the reef, and if I could speak, tour guide-style, I would’ve told them nature has a way of taking back everything, even an object like this meant to defend and attack and destroy. Mother Nature, she takes it all into herself and makes it beautiful again.

  I unwound more orange line and led them into the silky darkness beyond the door and into the galley. Since the ship was tilted, you know the tables and crates and cooking gear had all shifted to one side. I pointed out objects in the room to Marshall: a single fork on the floor, a glass jar, a can of peaches. At the time, I didn’t think how strange it was that the reef program would scuttle a ship with furniture and food still in it, blow a hole in the hull without taking out all the bits first. New life, new reefs, like to grow on bones, not guts. Instead of putting two and two together, I focused on the small black bream darting out of my path, leaving a little gray cloud behind it, and led them deeper.

  The darkness thickened, until I imagined it was like hovering in space, in some corner of the universe where the stars have all gone out. I skimmed the light behind me to check on Marshall, and he sent a cloud of bubbles into the beam, his eyes wide and curious behind his faceplate. As I turned back, my dive light caught the brass glimmer of a plaque. The USS Andrews. I made a mental note to write the name in the dive log, add it to the post-dive fish and history talk when the three of us got topside.

  Two more pitch-black compartments and I found a small octopus. It was time to get my brand-new wreck diver back to the charter, just to make sure we had plenty of time for mistakes, but I hadn’t seen one of these little guys in years, so I was ridiculously excited.

  Curled up into the size of a basketball, he’d stuffed himself in the
corner behind a wooden crate. The creature stilled under my light. Then the tentacles unspooled in slow motion. My breath thundered, fading and swelling. No matter how calm I am, the sound’s so loud in my head I always think fish for a hundred miles can hear me breathe.

  I reached toward the tip of one tentacle. It shied away, trembling. I pushed off from the wall to give it room to escape. When I turned to watch it float toward the doorway, I realized Marshall was gone.

  Oh God. I’d lost him.

  ENTRY 2

  I THREW MY BEAM ALL OVER THE ROOM. No Marshall. Not at the opening, not anywhere.

  A small cloud of silt hovered at the doorway. I swam to the entrance and pulled myself halfway into the hallway beyond. My light picked up nothing. As if the ship had swallowed him whole.

  Another beam crossed mine. Colette and I locked eyes, and even behind the mask I could see the shock.

  A new diver was off the line. Dad, you don’t know that kind of panic. The denial. I was in charge. Me.

  And I’d lost him.

  Colette grabbed the gauge at my shoulder and fumbled it over. The glass face read 1200 PSI. Her hand stilled, which meant she was calculating, just like I was. In panic mode, Mr. Marshall was probably sucking it down, which meant he was already at 1000 PSI. At that depth, 1000 PSI would buy him maybe twelve minutes of life.

  If he was lucky.

  I pulled out my slate and golf pencil and argued with Colette for a precious minute. She wanted to go after Marshall. No way was I letting this labyrinth swallow her too. Finally she nodded, her hair floating around her mask. She would find Mom and get an extra tank from the surface. I would stay and look for Marshall. She squeezed my shoulder with her gloved hand, turned, and disappeared through the doorway.

  A faint silt trail led me down a long, narrow hallway. I unspooled the line and tried not to rush. Slow, keep it steady, stay off the bottom. My breath thundered in my ears. Bubbles edged to the corner of the ceiling. Everything inside the ship was tilted, the world off-kilter, like swimming through a child’s painting of a really bad dream.