Turning on the Tide Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Jenna Rae

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First Bella Books Edition 2013

  Bella Books eBook released 2013

  Editor: Medora MacDougall

  Cover Designed by: Sandy Knowles

  ISBN: 978-1-59493-392-9

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Other Books by Jenna Rae

  The Writing on the Wall

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you seems like a small phrase for the love, support, and encouragement I have been offered by my family and friends. I especially want to thank Ben, Josh, Lee, Morgan, Dan, Gracie, and Pumpkin.

  I have been the fortunate recipient of help, guidance, and insight offered by the brilliant Kathalina Chandler, Morgan Curtis, Karin Kallmaker, and Katherine V. Forrest. Many thanks, also, to the dedicated staff at Bella Books for all that you do.

  Chapter One

  She’s young and maybe that’s what has clouded my thinking. The rest have been at least a decade older, a thing I had not considered until just this moment. I stand over her for several long minutes, shaken by my failure to anticipate how her youth would affect me.

  I try to shake it off. I was right to bring her here. I gave her all three tests and she failed each one. I take a deep breath and collect myself, the way my friend showed me. I scrub sweat from my face and neck.

  The lost girl sees my hesitation and hope flickers in her eyes. It’s cruel to let her think she might survive. Time to get it over with. Changing procedure is dangerous for both of us, and I don’t like the recklessness of improvising. I developed the ritual carefully, and it works. I would be happier doing things the usual way, but it’s her needs that matter, not my own. Besides, my therapist has been encouraging me to get more comfortable with spontaneity.

  The lost girl stares at me, puppylike, and I turn away. Breaking eye contact is a breach of protocol but a necessary one. I fight the impulse to end it all quickly and abruptly, without even the skeleton of the ritual. It wouldn’t be so bad for her—a second, maybe two, of pain and fear. But it would leave her confused and she would fail to achieve the joy of rest followed by the sweetness of oblivion. It is important that she knows her deliverance is a gift born of love.

  “You’re very special to me,” I assure her when she whimpers in panic. Her eyes widen and I shake my head. “No, no, please don’t be scared. I am going to help you.”

  Her eyes are black with fear.

  “I love you,” I whisper, smiling gently. She thinks then that I’m going to use her sexually and she retreats inside herself. This is good. Step one in the final stage, it saves her the sharpest edge of fear. She relaxes against the bulkhead and stops fussing with the restraints. The usual procedure would now take about twenty, twenty-five minutes, but the change—the result of my unexpected weakness—means we have only moments.

  “I want you to understand that you are a good person, sweetheart.”

  Her glassy eyes reflect exactly nothing back. This too is good. It means she is inside herself, only vaguely aware of me.

  “You deserve to be happy and safe, to know that you are loved. Do you know you are loved?”

  No response.

  “You are a bright and shining light, an innocent babe of the universe. I offer you the gift of peace.”

  I give her the first injection and watch her eyes ease closed. I shift her down to lie more comfortably on the bunk and check my watch. I count the minutes, eying a small drop of blood, bright in the crook of her inner arm. I blot the golden-pink skin with a tissue and fold it, tucking it into her jacket pocket. She looks like a true angel, her face soft, her hair a shining cloud. After the second injection, I watch the color fade from her cheeks and the softness turn to laxness. It’s both subtle and distinct, the way life drains from the body. I mouth the words to the old prayer and let myself grieve for the child she once was and woman she should have been.

  I complete the task, cradling her gently and carrying her up the narrow galley stairs. I have timed this precisely so that the moon is a faltering crescent in the somber sky and the current will pull her into the womb of the central Pacific. The splash is, as always, louder than I expect, and I watch the last inches of her drop into the ink with a pang of disappointment. Cutting out so much of the ritual made it empty and I feel the pull of defeat. I could give myself the shots, I think, and I would have peace too. I could be saved and never have to feel a moment’s pain or grief or anger. My suffering could end, the way it has for so many others. I rub the pocket of my jeans, feeling the bulge of the used syringes before easing them out and tossing them in behind tonight’s precious cargo.

  “Her name was Paula. She is washed clean and will never suffer again.”

  As I hear my own words, I know I cannot follow Paula into the drink. How can I? There are others out there, thousands of them, and no one else is going to save them.

  “I’m so tired!” I pull anchor and start up the motor. The sound drowns out my self-pity and I grin. The worst thing in the world is to be worthless, and I have spent much of my life a useless blob of cells, a soulless animal. Only for the last year or so have I known of my true calling. My friend has given me many gifts, but this is the one that has shaped me. I lean into the biting wind, feeling the current’s tug for a moment. I drifted before my friend pointed me in the right direction. I let myself be taken along the current like a useless thing. But I have purpose now. I have a mission and will never falter until it is fulfilled. I take the wheel again and steer toward Marin County and the charade I must enact to fulfill my life’s work. It is wearying, this playacting, and I used to chafe at the dishonesty of it. But my greater purpose subsumes any other considerations, as my friend so carefully explained. She was right, as she usually is.

  I watch myself as if from afar and feel a rush of pleasure. My eyes are not mere orbs of seeing but cameras that show the reality behind the lies. My mouth is not simply an eating, talking mechanism but an instrument of the truth. My hands are not mere bundles of nerves, bones and flesh but perfectly formed tools of mercy. My body, my soul, my mind and my whole self exist for a single noble purpose, and I know I am one with all that is good and right in this world. I laugh as the defeat that has been sucking at my feet falls away. Alight with purpose, I fly across the bay toward the dark, fertile shore.

  Chapter Two

  “How come you never listen to the radio?” Del had asked a few days back, and Lola had shrugged away the question, dismissed it with some blithe response about how she’d never actually owned a radio. Del had two stereos and a radio in nearly every room, and she even wanted to get some special thing on her new motorcycle to listen to music on that. Del wasn’t even aware of it, but she sang along with the radio all the time. She had a surprisingly sweet, clear voice, a little low, a little husky sometimes. It was incredibly sexy, the way her voice danced along a melody and her body bounced with the rhythm. Lola had more than once stared rapt at Del’s shaking head and curved lips, letting the sound of Del’s melodious voice hypnotize her into sudden sensual pleasure and anticipation. Del was an attentive, sensuous, confident lover, a reality that seemed to
correlate with her easy entry in melody and tempo. Lola was a terrible lover, she knew, and maybe letting herself ride some music would help her get in touch with her body and its rhythms. Now, glaring at the white screen of her computer, trying to ignore the silent metronome of the cursor, Lola thought about this.

  “Maybe I live too far inside my own head,” she murmured, sitting back. “Maybe I—”

  The doorbell startled Lola, and she hurried to peer through the peephole.

  “Janet?” Lola had seen Del’s ex-girlfriend only once, in a crumpled half of a torn photograph. The woman before her was a shadow of the glamorous beauty from the picture. She looked gray, shrunken. Her long, somber hair hung in lank strips. Dark hollows ringed her beautiful almond-shaped eyes, and her full, wide mouth was drawn tight and colorless. Lola yanked open the door.

  “Help me, please!” Janet clawed at Lola’s arms, her chest.

  “Ow! You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Please, they’re going to kill me. Please, please, please.” Janet’s eyes were fixed somewhere off planet, and Lola relented, pulling Janet in and leading the way to the living room. Janet huddled against her, shaking, though the day was warm and bright. Lola fought for calm.

  “Come on, settle down. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Janet whispered.

  “Should I call nine-one-one? Is there someone coming here now?”

  Janet shook her head and stood gazing around the room. “You changed everything.”

  Lola frowned. “I’m calling Del.”

  Janet nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes. Please do.”

  “She may be pretty angry.”

  Janet made a face. “I know.”

  Lola watched Janet stride on suddenly surer feet toward Del’s kitchen. She knew the way, certainly. She’d lived here with Del for, what, five or six months? Longer than Lola had, so far.

  “Mind if I help myself?” Janet called the question over her shoulder, snagging a mug from the cupboard over the sink and pouring coffee. “I’m freezing.”

  Lola shook her head and watched Janet settle into a chair. “Someone’s after you? You seemed pretty freaked a minute ago.”

  Janet met Lola’s gaze, offering a half smile. “You think I was shamming?” Her eyes dropped, and her mouth settled into a grim line. “Trust me, I’m dead serious.”

  “So, you’re in some mysterious, unspecified danger, and you expect Del to drop everything and help you.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Janet’s response was a shrug. The message was clear. No matter how hurt and angry Del might be, Janet’s confidence was absolute—Del would help her. Was that confidence real, or was this all a show?

  “Are you even in trouble, or is this all a big game to you?”

  Janet laughed hard enough to spill some coffee on the table. “Don’t you know? Everything is a game.”

  “Get out.”

  “Last time I checked, this wasn’t your house. If Del wants me out, she can kick me out herself.”

  “She’s going to, Janet. I guarantee it. Why put her through this?”

  “Because I have to.” Janet rubbed her eyes.

  Maybe that was true. If she and Del ever broke up, would Lola be able to walk away? Or would she find herself desperate enough to play games like this? Of course, there was another possibility, wasn’t there? Maybe Janet really was in danger. Maybe Janet really was afraid and desperate and in need of help. Lola tapped out her text to Del while watching Janet warm her hands on her mug. She felt a chill of her own and wished she’d decided to take Marco up on his offer of an outing. If she’d been at the movies with her friend, she wouldn’t have answered the door. Janet would not be sitting here, looking like she belonged in Del’s life more than Lola did.

  “Janet, please think about this. You hurt her a lot. Now you’re expecting her to help you, or to go along with whatever you want. What’s going to happen?”

  Janet blinked slowly. “All I can do is wait for Del and see what she does.”

  “But you think she’ll help you?”

  Janet shrugged. “How did you two meet?”

  It was Lola’s turn to blink. “She saved me from a creep.”

  “Ah.”

  Chapter Three

  “Wish they were all this easy,” San Francisco Police Inspector Tom Phan commented, as he and his partner, Del Mason, walked out of the station together.

  “Watch out,” Del warned, only half joking. “You’ll jinx us. The next one’ll be impossible.”

  “Okay, ignorant peasant, what else should we do? Throw salt over our shoulders? Sacrifice a chicken?”

  Del crossed her fingers. “Got it. Now we’re covered.”

  Phan rolled his eyes and sketched a wave, and she watched him trudge over to his battered Toyota pickup. Their work on the latest homicide was finished, but the victim was still dead. Yeah, she’d been cheating on her husband, but he could have divorced her instead of murdering her. What, Del wondered for the hundredth time, was wrong with people?

  Del shook off the question as she gunned the bike’s engine, glad again she’d traded in her old Honda for the larger Suzuki.

  Her neighbor, Phil had warned her, back when she’d bought the Rebel a few years before, “It’s a gateway bike.”

  Del grinned, weaving through the snarled evening traffic. Phil looked like an egghead, but he knew his bikes. He was the one who’d recommended the newer Boulevard, and he’d been right. It sat higher and was more powerful, and it was definitely more comfortable, especially with a passenger.

  There was a vibration in her back pocket, and Del used the break of a stoplight to read a text message from Lola: Janet is here, says someone is after her. Come home, plz?

  Del shook her head, too nonplussed to respond to the text.

  “I should answer that.” But she wasn’t sure what to say. She put away the phone. Lola would understand. She always understood, unlike Janet.

  A few months into their relationship, Del stood Janet up. They’d planned to meet at Fisherman’s Wharf and “do the whole tourist thing,” as Janet put it. But Del got stuck waiting for an interview with an important witness. She should have called or texted, she knew, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to Janet’s complaints. It wasn’t the first time she’d stood up a girlfriend, and it didn’t seem like a big deal.

  At first it looked like Janet would be like Del’s previous lovers. She said they could just go again the next night but warned that she didn’t enjoy being stood up. But Del was delayed at work again, and she again forgot to call or text.

  “It happens,” Janet said with a funny little smile. Del knew what that smile meant, she’d gotten it from a dozen other girlfriends. It meant she was trying not to cry. Del had decided long before that this little smile was designed to elicit guilt and affection. Women were trained to manipulate people from the cradle on, and many weren’t even aware they were doing it. Janet would, Del told herself, learn to get over her little hurt feelings and figure out soon enough that being with a cop meant being stood up, waiting for late dinners and not getting away with mind games.

  Instead of a second rain check, Janet suggested Del call her when she got home from work the next night. Janet would come over and bring takeout, and they would relax in front of a fire. This sounded great to Del, who hadn’t been all that thrilled to go to Fisherman’s Wharf anyway.

  The next night at six she called Janet, who said she’d be there in less than an hour. Del opened a good bottle of wine, took a shower, straightened up, and checked the clock. Janet wasn’t there by seven, and Del was a little peeved. She’d worked late every night for a week, and all she wanted to do was eat and talk and relax. She tried to read, but the ticking of the clock seemed to get louder and louder. Del again called Janet and got no answer. She texted, no answer. Now she was getting worried.

  Del called in to see if there had been any traffic incidents reported in the area between their homes. Janet
rented a tiny flat in the Western Addition, which she for some reason persisted in calling the NoPa, as in North of the Panhandle—just the kind of gentrification-oriented bullshit she would swallow. Del was waiting for Janet to ask if she could move in and was getting tired of waiting for it. It was a hell of a lot more convenient to have the girlfriend live in than to have to deal with the back and forth of two places. Every woman before Janet had started making noises about moving in by the end of the first month.

  “This is stupid.” By the time Del had hopped on the bike and cruised up and down the dozens of routes between the Western Addition and the Castro, Janet was three hours late. Del called again, again got no answer, and went to Janet’s apartment.

  When no one answered her knock, Del picked the pathetic excuse for a lock. The apartment not only was deserted, it barely looked like anyone lived there. Del would wonder later why she wasn’t more curious about that, but that night she just cleared both sparsely decorated rooms and zipped back home.

  She paced by the front window, willing Janet to show up. She’d only been home a few minutes when Janet did just that. Del froze in place when the familiar little Fiat pulled up. Was she okay? Janet snagged a paper bag—food from their favorite Vietnamese place, locked her car and sauntered up the stairs while Del watched her from the front window. She didn’t seem to be injured or in shock or disoriented. She didn’t seem drunk or drugged, either. She certainly wasn’t rushing to get to Del, who yanked the door open.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Janet just stood there, her mouth drawn in. There were tears in her eyes.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  Then Del understood. Finally. This was punishment for standing her up the two previous nights. Del slammed her palm against the doorframe and let her hand slide down. She went from fired up to deflated. She turned around without a word and walked into the kitchen.