Jack Beale 00 - Dangerous Shoals

wasn’t much, but it was something. He only hoped it didn’t belong to Jack or Max. The second smear, which was the closest to the bedroom, reminded him of an image on his refrigerator door. Yes, it was just like the finger painting that his daughter had brought home from school. It was time to get the camera.
    As Tom went downstairs, he decided to do a perimeter check of the building before returning upstairs. He already had an idea of what had happened up there, and since he was alone, it would keep. Any clues outside would be less permanent. First, he went to the cruiser for a flashlight and the camera. Even though it was a calm summer night, things would change quickly, and he wanted to see as much as possible while everything was the freshest. There were no obvious signs that the door had been tampered with, so he guessed that Jack had left the door unlocked, making entry easy. That would be easy enough to check.
    He walked around to the back of the building, taking care to stay away from the outside walls. He surmised that someone who would be sneaking around would stay close to the building, and he didn’t want to disturb whatever might be there. He played his flashlight back and forth across the ground as he walked, alternating the angle of its beam from above to a lower sweep over the ground. The different shadows created by this alternating perspective oftentimes would illuminate depressions and marks more effectively. As he slowly moved along, he paused occasionally to take a photo.
    Behind the building, he looked up at the window with the slashed screen. He imagined the intruder, in a panic, cutting the screen and jumping. Unconsciously, Tom began to narrate out loud the story that his eyes and his imagination saw. “Jack and Max had just arrived home. As they got out of the truck, they heard a scream. Jack rushed in and up the stairs, while Max called the police. He must have jumped as Jack ran up … but why did he scream? He screamed before he jumped.” His scrutiny intensified, as did the number of photos taken. He could see where the intruder had hit the ground, but since he had landed on a down slope that was covered with grass and other vegetation, there were no useable details. A large sack of potatoes would have left the same impression.
    It didn’t take long for him to follow the trail to a spot on the edge of the water. Some of the tall reeds on the edge of the marsh were broken and he could see where some kind of craft had been pulled up on the shore. Tom searched for footprints, but found none that would be of any use. Whoever did this was careful where he stepped. Before leaving, he took a moment to stand and look out over the dark marsh. The tide was falling so he couldn’t see any water, only the darker slashes in the grass that marked where the channels were. “Who are you? And what were you looking for?” he said to no one there. That’s when an image flashed in his head―Kurt.
    Suddenly he wheeled around and sprinted to his car and was chased by the sounds of spitting gravel as he accelerated down the drive. “He left by some kind of boat …”
    “Damn.” Tom cursed, under his breath, as he stood on the bridge looking out at the marsh. It had been too much to hope for to find the intruder in a boat, stuck in the mud by the bridge. Tom walked back to the cruiser, retrieved his flashlight, climbed over the guardrail, and worked his way down the bank on the off chance that he would still find some sign that his quarry had been there.
    In the marsh, the creek bed was mostly mud. As it neared the bridge it became all stones, so the likelihood of finding a footprint or some other clue was pretty slim, and besides, the tide was just beginning to turn. In a very short time, everything would be underwater and any clues would be washed away.
    Tom searched as much of the area under and around the bridge as he could. He found nothing, as he expected. Back up on the road, he surveyed the area. First, up and down the road, then out into the darkness of the marsh, and finally toward the harbor. There was a fishing boat tied up to the commercial pier with its lights on and the engine running. “Maybe they saw something,” Tom said to himself as he walked to his car.

CHAPTER 73
    “HERE, PUT HER down and let’s take a look,” said the vet as he motioned toward the stainless steel table. Emergency calls at odd hours were nothing new, and when the answering service had called, he had