"Dive. Duck now," Dad shouts, and my arms try to do what he says, to copy the way I've seen him and a thousand other surfers duck underneath the waves as they paddle out. I press down on the board's nose, but it hardly responds at all, and when the wave hits, it smashes into the gap between the board and where I'm performing an awkward push-up above it. It sweeps me off at once, and I get a second mouthful of water, and suddenly, I'm rolling around. I don't know which way is up. My head grazes the sand, and I can feel my board pulling against my leg. I surface again, and I hear my own voice crying out. But Dad's there again. I feel his strength shoving me back on top of my board. His voice telling me we're going to do this. He's not going to let me fail.

  "Paddle. Come on, Billy. Just move your arms."

  Gasping for breath, I do what he says, straight toward another wave. But this time, when it almost hits, I feel Dad giving me a mighty shove on the back, and the energy he gives me pushes me into and then through the wall of water. I'm not paddling or ducking this time. I'm gripping the sides of the board for all I'm worth.

  "Now. Paddle again, Go left a little. That’s where the rip is."

  My fear of Dad is outdone by the terror of this moving, roaring water, so I do what he tells me. And it's slightly easier now. Around me, the water is bubbling and fizzing in a way I've never seen before, and the next wave hasn't broken yet: it's coming toward me like a low hill. Although I stiffen and ready myself for another tumble when it reaches me, this time it just lifts me up, and then I slide down the back as it rolls underneath. Dad's still beside me and a little bit behind. I feel my speed through the water surge every now and then as he gives a shove from behind. Two more unbroken waves come toward us and pass underneath. I can feel the power of the rip now, pulling us out, as if on a conveyor belt.

  Dad's alongside me now, encouraging me to keep going. My throat is hurting from where I've swallowed the water. My arms hurt from the paddling; it's the rip pulling me out, not my paddling. But even so, I can see we're making progress.

  Dad's pulled ahead, and he stops for a moment, sitting up on his board to look around.

  "Come on, Billy, a little more. We're almost out." My pathetic strokes pull me closer to him, each one an effort now. I'm out of breath and stop when I draw level. I look at his face, and part of me wants to feel reassured I'm here with him, but part of me is terrified. Is he going to push me under again? What does it feel like to drown?

  "Don't stop. Keep going in case another set comes in." He gives me another shove, further out into the ocean, further away from the safety of the beach. This time, I just put my head down and try and do what he says. I try to ignore the way my arms burn. I kick my legs like they taught me in the swimming pool, even though I can feel they're out of the water and doing nothing. Slowly, painfully, we creep further out to sea.

  Finally, Dad stops us.

  "That'll do. Take a rest."

  I stop paddling but stay lying down on my board, my breath coming hard from the effort and the panic.

  "Sit up, try to breathe slower."

  I ignore him. If anything my breathing speeds up.

  "Sit up, Billy. Like this. Sit on your board."

  His voice brings me back, and I try to do what he says, sitting with my legs dangling down into the water. It's hard. After a few lurches to either side, I fall off, and my head goes under again. To right myself, I put my legs down, expecting to feel the sand underneath, but this time, it's not there. I sink right under and still don't feel it, and then, panicking again, I try to reach the surface, coming up spluttering and crying.

  "That's it. Try again. You'll get it," I hear Dad say.

  I grip my board like I'm some drowning sailor whose ship has sunk. Then, when my breath returns, I clamber back on, and try again to sit like Dad. This time, I manage it, although I don't feel secure, like I could fall off again at any moment. But I look around. I try to get my bearings.

  We're about four hundred yards from the rocks, and maybe the same distance away from the beach – it looks miles away though. There’s no other surfers out here with us. No one on the beach would even see me - I've tried to watch Dad from the beach a thousand times. With the waves, you can't see anything. Dad could push me under right now. No one would see. No one could stop him.

  The only thing in my favor is the ocean has gone flat. It's off-set. While we were paddling out, it was like the waves would never stop coming, but now it's like a flat, calm day.

  Dad's just sitting. Looking out to sea. He seems to be ignoring me. Maybe I could paddle away from him? But I know all the strength in my arms is gone.

  Instead I just sit there, wondering. Why did he kill Olivia Curran? What does he get out of it? Maybe he's just one of those people who like it. Maybe he kills people all the time. Maybe our yard is full of dead people that he's buried there.

  Maybe he killed Mom.

  That thought hits me like electricity. A while back I tried to find out more about Mom online. He wouldn't tell me anything, so I went through all the newspaper archives. I thought of all the keywords that would have been used when the accident got reported. Nurse, freeway, jackknifed truck, accident, killed, Laura Wheatley. All I really wanted was to see what she looked like. Dad doesn't keep any photos of her, and I just wanted to see her face.

  But I didn't find anything. Well, that's not quite true. I found plenty of nurses who had crashed on the freeways, over the years. But never one named Laura Wheatley. I couldn't figure it out at the time. But now I know. Mom didn't die on the freeway. Dad killed her. Now he wants to kill me.

  I look at him now. He's still watching the horizon, and now lumps are beginning to define themselves - a new set coming in. And this time, my arms move without my thinking at all. Dad's distracted, and this is my only chance to escape him. I start to paddle as fast as I can. I don’t even think which way. I’m not sure I think at all. I just paddle away from the man who wants me dead. But I haven't gone ten strokes before he sees.

  "Hey. What you doing? Billy!" he shouts after me. Then I can sense him moving back into the paddling position on his board. Almost instantly, he halves the gap I've built up, just from a few strokes.

  "Billy. Where are you going? There's a set coming. Stay with me."

  But I don't. If anything, I paddle harder, and my panic must be flooding my body with adrenaline because now it doesn't hurt, and I feel my hands begin to grip the water better, begin to pull me forward better than before. I don't quite hear what Dad says next, only random words piercing my head.

  "Wrong way... Get washed... Stop..."

  I look up and see I’m heading in, towards the sand. Good enough. If I can make it to the beach, I can run to the rocks. I know the rocks. There are places I can hide, places where Dad might not be able to find me. It's my only chance.

  For a strange half minute, it's just the two of us paddling, me a few yards in front. I can hear Dad behind me, his voice becoming angrier and angrier. If he catches me now, I know he'll do it now. He'll hold me under until I drown.

  "Billy, there's a wave. Turn around."

  But I don't turn around. It's a trap. And then I feel my legs rise up above my head. And then everything seems to happen in slow motion. The wave hits me from behind and from the side, and I get pulled up its face. But it's not a broken wall of white water or an unbroken glassy hill this time: it's actually breaking right here. It picks me up in an instant. It sucks me inside it, turns me upside down, and then it throws me forward and slams me down into the water. The violence of it is numbing. I didn't have any time to take a breath of air, and now it’s too late. It's just a whirlwind of water and sound, and I'm tumbled this way and that way, and this time, I don't hit the bottom at all. I'm just stuck there underwater, rolling over and over, no breath in my lungs.

  My eyes are open. I can see cascades of bubbles all around; I have no idea which way is up. I just keep spinning. Flailing around with the bubbles.

  It goes on forever. It feels like it holds me for minutes, the water roaring around my head. And I can feel it happening. I can actually feel myself drowning. I realize I've got my eyes shut again, and I open them in a desperate attempt to see where the surface might be. But it's black this time, none of the green water I saw earlier. I suck in a half breath of water, desperate for anything, but my body stops me. I feel vomit flood into my mouth and throat. I'm running out of oxygen. I'm going to die. To drown. I can feel it. It's like I'm split: exactly half of me doesn't care, wants to suck in a lungful of ocean and let it happen, but the other half is still fighting, terrified of what comes next. Terrified of the darkness that I'm sinking toward.

  And then something touches me. My board? Dad? I don't know. Whatever it is, I feel it push down on me, sending me deeper. But then it slips off, and I'm alone again. It's too late now. I open my mouth a little; it floods at once, and a reflex makes me close it again. And maybe I can start to feel the power of the cyclone of water reduce just a little, and around me I can see bubbles in the blackness. But instead of rising up around me, they're falling down. Down toward the bottom of the ocean.

  I suddenly get it. I'm upside down. I'm upside down. I've been swimming toward the bottom to try and get to the surface. I fight to twist my body around in the water and change direction. It's my last fight. If this doesn't work, I know I'll give up. I'll give in to the screaming from my lungs, and I'll take a final breath of salty water, and then I'll die. I almost feel it already.

  But I do fight, and I do feel it's easier, swimming upward, and the water isn't black anymore, it's green again, and that gives me a boost, and then it's almost white where it's just foam and bubbles, and suddenly my head breaks clear. I snatch a gasp of air before I sink under again, but it's enough to have me kicking my legs like crazy, and the next time my head bursts clear, it stays there, and I draw in a mix of water and air, coughing and sputtering. I stay like that for a minute, holding onto the side of my board, which is still there beside me, tied to my leg by the leash. Then I see Dad. The wave must have rolled me quite a long way in toward the beach because he's thirty yards away now, further out to sea, and another wave is about to hit him. I watch as he turns to meet it and ducks neatly under. Then he's lost from sight behind the rolling wall of water.

  I know I have to take the opportunity. I climb on the board and start to paddle again, this time heading directly toward the beach. If I can get ashore, I can get to the rocks. I know places I can hide there. I don't know what I'll do after that, but I'm not thinking about that now. I just don't want to drown.

  I feel the wave pick me up from behind, like before, but it's less violent this time. For a half second, I'm riding the foam, but then it tumbles me off again. The panic returns, but I keep my mouth shut this time, and the wave returns me straight to the surface. My board is right there again, waiting for me on the end of its leash, and I can climb on again, and I keep going to the beach. I hear Dad calling out to me, but a long way away. I can make it. I know I can. Then another wave hits. This time I’m ready for it. I grip the front of the board and I hold on. The wave catches the surfboard and picks it up, sending me sliding along in front of it, and suddenly, I'm racing toward the beach, covering the distance fast. I've seen how surfers do this when they want to come ashore. They just lie there, waiting, while the wave carries them in. I do it now, and I hold on for maybe twenty seconds before I'm pitched sideways and off again into the water. But this time, I immediately hit the bottom. I've ridden the final wave back to the shallows. I don't dare turn around to see where Dad is. Instead I struggle to my feet and try to run, but the water is like treacle, and it's flowing back out to sea, so I move like in slow motion. Then I hear Dad again, shouting. He must have ridden a wave in too. I glance behind. He's thirty yards away from me. I have to run. I have to reach the rocks. I have to get there before Dad catches me.

  At last I'm free of the water, on the sand. I make a final effort. I drop my head and try to sprint. But I only get a few steps before something grabs at my leg and I fly forwards. My arms flail through the air, and I fall heavily, gritty sand grates against my face and goes in my mouth. What tripped me? Did he throw something? I try to move, but already I can hear Dad's footsteps closing in on me. I hurt all over. I try to crawl but something tugs at my leg again. I look down and follow the black line of the leash to where it anchors me to the surfboard. That's what tripped me up. I think to unstrap it, but there's no time. Dad's running towards me now. I crawl anyway, towards the rocks, dragging the board along behind me but he closes the distance in seconds. He steps on the leash and grabs my leg, pulling me back towards him. I scream. There's no one to hear me but I do it anyway.

  I'm not going to go quietly.

  48

  "Can you say that again please?" Lieutenant Langley said.

  "It says he’s listed as a missing person. And he’s at risk because his father has tried to kill him on at least one..." Sharon Davenport began.

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm in the records office."

  "Wait there. I'm coming down now."

  Two minutes later Langley was leaning over the younger woman as she sat in front of her terminal. Langley peered at the screen.

  "Do you see here, where I tried to create a new file for William Wheatley, yet his prints are already in the system? They're under the name of Benjamin Austin..." Davenport began again. She rotated her chair to give the lieutenant a better view.

  "Yeah. Uh-huh. Who's the father? I don't see that."

  Sharon Davenport typed quickly into the search box. An hourglass icon appeared, rotated, and a few moments later the screen refreshed.

  "Jamie Stone," Sharon Davenport read. "Wanted by Oregon State police for murder, attempted murder, perverting the course of justice and - oh my - child abduction." She turned now and looked at the lieutenant.

  "Print that off. Right now." Langley said, as he picked up the phone on the woman’s desk.

  * * *

  The first two police cars arrived at the clifftop cottage just after eleven, ninety minutes after Lieutenant Langley finished his call. West was in the second car, her weekend canceled at short notice, not that she'd had any plans. It had picked her up from Silverlea and then driven, sirens-on, until they reached the bridge that led to the spread-out settlement of Littlelea. There they’d switched the noise off so as not to alert the residents of the clifftop cottage of what was about to happen.

  The patrolman at the wheel swung into the long driveway too fast, scraping the side of the patrol car down an embankment lined with blackberry bushes, but no one inside the vehicle mentioned it or even seemed to notice. They already had their pulse rates maxed out. You could taste the thumping adrenaline in the air.

  The first police car drove right up to the house, the driver of West's car stopped a little way down the drive, blocking it off as a potential exit in case Stone tried to escape. West pushed open the door and continued on foot, her firearm heavy in her hand. She reached the little front yard of the cottage just as the occupants of the first car were banging on the door. She scanned the scene, her heart pumping so hard the noise of it was a distraction. She waited, breathing hard, readying herself to give covering fire as she'd been trained to.

  There was no response to Langley's shouts. He thumped on the wooden door one more time. Then, with a signal to an uniformed officer next to him, he retreated out of the way. The uniformed officer was standing ready with a heavy steel battering-ram, painted bright red. She remembered it from training, they called it the BFK, or Big Fucking Key. The door resisted the first blow, but on the second, there was a splintering of wood, and it swung inward. Langley entered first, his gun held in front of him. West’s training came back to her again, entering half-finished properties where plywood villains and schoolchildren would swing out mechanically for her to either blast or ignore. Her mind raced. Would the boy be here? A flesh-and-blood version of the simulations.

  She nodded to Rogers, who was standing beside her by then. Then she went through the door.

  It led straight into the kitchen, smaller than she remembered. A few cups and bowls were left on the countertop. There was a faint smell of coffee. One of the wall cabinets was resting on the floor, a faded patch above it showing clearly where it had hung until recently. There were stairs leading directly from the kitchen, and from there, she heard the shouts of "clear" as the men before her searched the rest of the cottage. Now the stairs creaked as Langley came back down, his shoes thumping on the bare wood.

  "Not here." He shook his head. Then he turned to the patrolman. "Get on the radio and report it." Langley went outside.

  "Well, where the hell is he, then?" Rogers said to no one in particular. "Shit."

  They checked around the house, then Langley made them wait outside while he organized the scene. They stood by the low wall, looking out over the beach. There were dots in the water, swimmers perhaps, surfers more likely.

  "What a fucking disaster," Rogers said, kicking at the wall. "I can't believe we had the son-of-a-bitch. Right there in front of us."

  West frowned. "You reckon it's him? You reckon Stone is responsible for Curran too?"

  "You reckon he isn't? You saw him. He was..." Rogers screwed up his hand, searching for the right word. "He was tight when we talked to him. Like he was holding something in. Didn't you see it?"

  West didn't reply.

  "I reckon he was just waiting for us to spring something on him. I bet he couldn't believe his fucking luck when we let him go."

  West thought back to the interview with Sam and Billy Wheatley - as they'd known them at the time.

 

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