Линкольн Чайлд: Crooked River

Then he saw it again, half-submerged, about six feet out from the shore. And this time he realized it was not a shell at all, but a sneaker. A brand-new, light-green sneaker. Not quite like any he’d seen before.

Even if he couldn’t afford them, he knew from high school that certain sneakers were super collectible. Balenciaga Triple S or Yeezys often sold for three or four hundred dollars, when you could find them in stock. And if you were really lucky, and scored a rare pair like the Air Jordan 11 Blackouts, you could sell them used on eBay for four figures, easy.

For all Amanda’s shelling, the best specimen she found all week might get ten bucks, tops.

One sneaker, just one, and a uniform green. What the hell brand was this? It was rolling in to shore again and he’d know in a moment.

The surf swarmed around his ankles with a muted hiss. Deftly, he snagged the shoe from the water. Shit, it was heavy — no doubt waterlogged. Still, it was in great shape. Automatically he turned it over to check the sole, but there was no logo or brand on the rubberized surface.

He sensed more than saw Amanda and the fat guy in the visor approaching him again. He ignored them as he stared at the sole. Maybe it was a prototype. They probably tested them out down here on the beach. People would pay even more for a prototype. Instinctively, his eye traveled back to the line of surf. If the mate was floating nearby, this single discovery just might turn a so-so vacation into something special, even...

Suddenly, his sister screamed. Ward looked at her, frowning. She screamed again, even louder. For some reason, she was staring at the shoe in his hand. Curiously, he glanced down, twisting his wrist to get a better look.

He could now see inside the sneaker. It was filled with something, a pulpy red-pink with a shard of pure white projecting up from the middle. Ward froze, his mind not quite able to process what he was staring at.

His father was on his feet and running toward them. From what seemed very far away, Ward could hear the man in the visor cursing, and his sister squealing and backing up, then vomiting into the sand. Abruptly released from his paralysis, Ward dropped the shoe with a convulsive jerk and staggered backward, losing his balance and falling to his knees. But even as he did so, his gaze turned instinctively out to sea, where he could now make out — rolling among the creamy swells — more sneakers, dozens and dozens of them, bobbing lazily, inexorably, toward shore.

P. B. Perelman pulled his Ford Explorer into the public parking area of Turner Beach. It had taken him only five minutes from the first PSAP squawk to get there — his house on Coconut Drive was less than a mile away — but he was relieved to see two of his beach patrol officers, Robinson and Laroux, already on the scene. Robinson appeared to be clearing the beach, getting people back into their cars prior to roping off the lot with crime scene tape. Laroux was perhaps a quarter mile down the sand, talking to a small knot of people. As Perelman watched, the officer looked back toward the water, then turned and ran down into the surf, plucked something out, and set it carefully on the sand, out of reach of the waves.

What — as Dorothy Parker used to say — fresh hell was this? All dispatch had told him was “beach disturbance.” But he knew from personal experience that, even in a place as sleepy as Sanibel and Captiva, those two words could include anything from drunken weekenders beaching their speedboats in the dark to equinoctial ceremonies held by the blue-rinse North Naples Nudist Colony.

Perelman walked from the Explorer across the thin line of dune grass and sea oats and onto the beach. As he did so, he passed Robinson, briskly escorting two stricken-looking families — blankets, beach chairs, coolers, boogie boards, and all — toward the parking area.

“Better call in the cavalry, Chief,” Robinson murmured as they passed each other.

“Everyone?”

In response, Robinson just nodded toward Officer Laroux.

Perelman proceeded down the beach, walking faster now. Laroux, who had returned to the small group of people, broke off again and ran back down to pluck something else out of the surf. As Perelman drew closer, he could see that it was a shoe or slipper of some kind, made of light-green material.

Laroux, catching sight of him, stopped. When Perelman approached, he saw that the shoe had a foot in it. A severed foot, by all appearances.

Laroux showed it to him in silence and then gently placed the shoe in the sand. “Hello, Chief.”

Perelman didn’t answer for a moment, staring downward. Then he turned to his deputy. “Henry,” he said. “Mind getting me up to speed on the situation?”

The officer looked back at him, a strangely blank look on his face. “Reece and I were in the DPV, headed for Silver Key. Just before we reached Blind Pass I saw some kind of commotion here on the public beach. I called it in and we pulled over to—”

“I mean that situation.” And Perelman pointed to the shoe.

Laroux followed his gaze. Then, with a kind of helpless shrug, he gestured over his shoulder.

The chief followed the gesture. And he now saw many shoes, lined up above the high tide mark. They all appeared to have feet in them. And as he turned his gaze seaward, he spied several others, rolling and tumbling around loose in the surf. Seagulls were beginning to circle above them, crying loudly.

Perelman grasped why his officers had been too busy, too overwhelmed with surprise, to do more than make a flat call when they pulled over in their DPV five minutes ago. He felt it, too: an unexpected nightmare so bizarre and outlandish it was hard not to struggle with disbelief. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, then another. Then he pointed at the small group up by the dunes. “Is that the party that found the, ah, first foot?”

Laroux nodded.

The chief looked around again. Laroux’s instincts were good — until they had more resources, the best he could do was pluck the feet from the gulf and place them on higher ground, roughly in line with where they had come ashore.

“Get much out of them?”

“They didn’t have much to say, beyond what we’re seeing ourselves.”

Perelman nodded. “Okay. Good job.” He glanced toward the surf. “Keep at it, save every single one, and remember: we’re dealing with human remains.”

As Laroux headed back toward the water, the chief pulled out his radio. “Dispatch, this is Perelman.”

“Dispatch. Go ahead, P.B.”

So it was Priscilla doing desk duty that morning. He thought he’d recognized her squawk. Nobody else would have the temerity to call him “P.B.” Not only did she call him by his initials, but since he never told anybody what they stood for, she enjoyed guessing whenever he was in earshot. Perhaps she believed his being the unlikeliest of police chiefs gave her license to be a smartass. Anyway, she’d run a few dozen by him — including Parole Breaker, Peanut Butter, and Penis Breath — without getting close to the truth.

He cleared his throat. “Priscilla, I’m calling a condition red. I want you to bring in everyone with a gun or a badge.”

“Sir.” Priscilla’s voice tightened considerably.

“I want both lieutenants on duty, and all sergeants on full alert status, in case we have to impose a curfew on short notice. They know the drill. Tell them to handle it quietly; we don’t want to panic the tourists. We’re closing down the entire Captiva beach and western shoreline now. Have them make preparations for the possible evacuation of Captiva Island. And alert the mayor, if she doesn’t know already.”

“Sir.”

Perelman was speaking fast now. It seemed his words were accelerating with each passing second. Meanwhile, Laroux had fished out another four or five shoes. At a rough estimate, that made about twenty-five, with more washing in. Now the officer was chasing away seagulls that were trying to make off with some of them. Robinson had escorted the last shellers and sunbathers from the beach and was taping off the access points.