*
They peeled out of the marina in a rush of seagull cries and motor oil. Beth watched the water, muttering curses at every bobbing shape that turned out to be a sea lion instead of her daughter. Lana watched Paul.
The boat cut a rippling line up the center of the slough, pushing them past kayaks and clutches of otters. They zipped by Beth’s house on the right, Beth’s eyes tracing every inch of the narrow beach, praying for a sign of her daughter. The back bedroom window winked at her. But there was no one there.
They kept going, up past Bird Island, past the decrepit shark-hunting blinds and the long spit where harbor seals liked to sleep the day away. There was an old falling-down shack at the end of the spit, and Beth almost asked Paul to stop, to let her out to run toward the slimy, gutted wood and rip the rotted door off its hinges. But it looked too much like a place for a dead girl or a skeleton, a secret long buried. Not a place for Jack with her bright red life jacket over her powerful, thumping heart.
When they passed the mud flats, Lana’s voice rose sharply over the whine of the motor.
“There. Stop.”
Paul let the boat idle, and Lana pointed north, to a break in the bank where a narrow channel intersected the slough. The channel was edged in tufts of horsetail reeds, a feathery mouth of water that ran perpendicular to the slough for fifteen yards before snaking up to the west in a dizzying swirl of switchbacks and brush.
“Last night, Jack and I were looking at some maps,” Lana said. “Those creeks back there, they link the slough to the land trust. Maybe to the ranch as well. Jack and I were wondering . . .” She turned abruptly to Paul. “Can we go in there?”
Paul shook his head. “It’s not deep enough for a motorboat. Most of the time, even a kayak would get stuck back there.”
“Do you know where it lets out?”
Paul shook his head again, too quickly this time. “It’s all private property back in there.”
Lana looked at him for a long moment. She knew his leased land for Fruitful LLC was back there somewhere. There had to be more he wasn’t telling them. But if his boat couldn’t go up the channel, pushing him wasn’t going to help them find Jack. They needed him on their side until they found her.
“Do you want to go up farther?” Paul asked, nodding toward the slough, which continued eastward into the Salinas hills.
“Give us a minute, Paul.” Lana leaned in close to Beth. “I think she’s up that creek somewhere. On the land trust property, maybe. Or the Rhoads ranch.”
“We already drove up there.”
“I know, but . . . I just have a feeling.”
Beth stared at her mother curiously, as if Lana had stolen something from her when her back was turned. Then she nodded.
“I’ll call Martin. You call Lady Di and the land trust. We’ll find someone who can help us.”
While Lana left messages for Diana and Victor, Beth turned and pressed her ear to her phone. “Martin, hi. This is Beth. Sorry to be calling you like this, but, um, my daughter, Jack, is missing, and we think she might be near the ranch somewhere. I’m not sure if you are still down here or not, but if you are, can you take a look around down by the water? We’re going to walk up there soon. Jack’s five feet tall, brown skin, dark brown hair, maybe you met her at the wake, I don’t remember. She has a red life vest and a pink paddleboard. Sorry for the long message. I, uh, hope you’re doing well.”
“What now?” Lana asked.
“I know another way to get in there,” Beth said. “Paul, can you take us back to the marina? We can hike along the bank from there.”
The outboard motor roared to life, and they turned back, heading west. Beth kept her eyes closed, telling herself they’d find Jack. She’d be okay. The words filled Beth’s head like a mantra, a drumbeat, pushing her terror aside. She’d be okay. Then Lana grabbed her hand and yelled for Paul to stop the boat.
“Jack!”
A figure on a paddleboard was navigating the rotted piers of the public fishing dock, heading south into the slough across white peaks of foam.
“It’s her,” Beth breathed.
She gave Lana’s hand a squeeze.
“She looks okay. Does she look okay?”
Lana nodded. She glanced down at their interwoven hands and squeezed back. Beth stood and started waving, almost losing her balance in the motorboat as she swung both arms high above her head. Paul killed the engine.
“JACK!” Beth shouted. “ARE YOU OKAY?”
The girl looked up toward the skiff. Her backpack and her clothes were soaked and caked with mud. Her life jacket was nowhere to be seen. Jack gave her mom a limp thumbs-up, waggled her paddle in the direction of their house, and started heading across.
The motorboat pulled up to the narrow beach below the house and Beth hopped down into the knee-deep water, still waving to her daughter, watching her every stroke as Jack paddled toward them. The water was freezing, but Beth still felt the adrenaline, the afterburn of fear. It took everything she had not to charge deeper into the slough and drag her daughter to shore herself. Paul was helping Lana step down from the skiff when Jack jumped off her board at the edge of the gravel beach. Beth vaulted toward her and wrapped her in a firm hug.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I lost track of time and—”
“Did you flip your board?” Beth brushed the mud from Jack’s sleeves, checking anxiously for blood or broken bones.
“No, I just—I was up in the creeks, following this map I’d made, and I got lost. I screwed up, I know. I tried to call you, but there was this man and—”
“What? Who? Did he . . . hurt you?” Beth pulled back from Jack to study her. Jack looked wet and dirty, but otherwise unharmed. She searched her daughter’s eyes for what she couldn’t see.
“No. I’m okay, Mom. Really.” Jack swallowed, and her voice evened out. She pointed north across the slough. “There was a man back there, an hour ago, digging something up by one of the creeks. He was cursing and grunting, and I couldn’t see his face. But he sounded angry, and I didn’t want him to know I was there. I took off my life jacket and dropped down behind a bunch of reeds so he couldn’t see me.” She frowned. “At least I think he couldn’t see me. I was lying on my paddleboard, low in the water. That’s how I got soaked.”
Behind Jack, Beth saw Lana and Paul staring at Jack with questions in their eyes. Beth swallowed her in another hug that blocked out everyone else.
“Shhh,” Beth said, feeling her daughter’s heart thump through the soaked sweatshirt. “We’ll talk about it later.”
*
Paul lashed his boat to a half-dead oak tree and hoisted Jack’s paddleboard above his head. Lana watched as a small avalanche of silt poured off the board’s edges and into his coat sleeves. Paul ignored it. They picked their way up the hillside, Paul in front, then Jack, Beth a half step below Lana to make sure she didn’t stumble.
When they got to the house, Beth ushered Jack inside, urging her toward a hot shower and warm clothes.
Lana stayed outside with Paul, watching him shake out his jacket. Her nose caught a swirl of wet earth, musk, and motor oil rising off him. Was it the smell of his car? Or whatever he was protecting in that cooler?
“Well, uh, guess I better get back,” Paul said.
“To your kayak?” Lana said. “Looked like you had quite a lot to unpack.”
“It’s just . . . equipment. Kayak Shack stuff.”
Paul started half walking, half sliding down the hillside. Lana waited until he was twenty feet down the scree before she spoke again.
“Paul, you should know,” she said, “I’ve been looking into the murder in the mud flats. And the leaseholders near there.”
Paul kept moving, picking his way down to the bank.
“Anything you want to tell me, Paul? About Fruitful? Or Ricardo Cruz?”