Submerged Read online

  SUBMERGED

  Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  SUBMERGED

  Copyright © 2013 by Cheryl Kaye Tardif. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  http://www.cherylktardif.com

  FIRST EDITION eBook

  Imajin Books – www.imajinbooks.com

  February 26, 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-926997-95-7

  Cover designed by Ryan Doan - www.ryandoan.com

  Praise for SUBMERGED

  "Submerged reads like an approaching storm, full of darkness, dread and electricity. Prepare for your skin to crawl." —Andrew Gross, New York Times bestselling author of 15 Seconds

  "From the first page you know you are in the hands of a seasoned and expert storyteller who is going to keep you up at night turning the pages. Tardif knows her stuff. There's a reason she sells like wildfire—her words burn up the pages. A wonderful, scary, heart pumping writer." —M.J. Rose, international bestselling author of Seduction

  "Tardif once again delivers a suspenseful supernatural masterpiece." —Scott Nicholson, international bestselling author of The Home

  "From the first page, Cheryl Kaye Tardif takes you hostage with Submerged—a compelling tale of anguish and redemption." —Rick Mofina, bestselling author of Into the Dark

  "Cheryl Kaye Tardif's latest novel Submerged will leave you as haunted as its characters." —Joshua Corin, bestselling author of Before Cain Strikes

  To my father, who has always supported me.

  Acknowledgements

  A very special thank you to my longtime friend, Mike, without whom this novel wouldn't be possible. Mike, thank you for sharing your own story of addiction, of how it affected your life, your marriage, your career and those around you. Your quiet courage is inspiring. And your life now proves there is a chance for redemption, if one lets go of old ways, grabs onto hope and rises to the surface.

  Thanks to Sharon DeVries of Yellowhead Regional Emergency Communications Center, for all the invaluable information regarding emergency services and practices in the Hinton/Edson area. As with all fiction, sometimes truth has to be bent in order to fit a plot and to rev up the pace, so if there are any mistakes made, these are completely my own, though I do strive to create believable scenes and characters.

  Many thanks to Laurent Colasse, president of ResQMe, and Melissa Christensen, for allowing me to use their product and brand in my story. I am hoping this will bring more awareness to this important safety device. And my sincere appreciation for their donation of a dozen ResQMe key chains, which will be given away during the launch of this book. You can learn more about this device at www.resqme.com

  And to Christopher Bain, senior manager of product planning and development at BioWare ULC, a division of Electronic Arts Inc., for allowing me the use of their company name in this novel. www.bioware.com

  Thanks to John Zur, a valued reader and fan of my novels, for allowing me to turn you into a character―and a good one, at that. I have plans for Detective John Zur, and I believe he'll make another appearance in another novel sometime in the future.

  Thanks to a very special teen fan, Gabbie Gros, who allowed me to immortalize her within these pages. Gabbie, I truly hope you realize you can be whatever you want to be. Your future is in YOUR hands. You are a gift to the world! Never, ever, forget that.

  And thanks to fellow author, Luke Murphy, who won a contest I held a few years ago—one in which the winner supplied me with the first line of a new novel. The first sentence of the prologue is Luke's, and I think you'll agree it provokes gruesome images…and an elusive scent that might linger in your mind.

  Prologue

  Near Cadomin, AB – Saturday, June 15, 2013 – 12:36 AM

  You never grow accustomed to the stench of death. Marcus Taylor knew that smell intimately. He had inhaled burnt flesh, decayed flesh…diseased flesh. It lingered on him long after he was separated from the body.

  The image of his wife and son's gray faces and blue lips assaulted him.

  Jane…Ryan.

  Mercifully, there were no bodies tonight. The only scent he recognized now was wet prairie and the dank residue left over from a rainstorm and the river.

  "So what happened, Marcus?"

  The question came from Detective John Zur, a cop Marcus knew from the old days. Back before he traded in his steady income and respected career for something that had poisoned him physically and mentally.

  "Come on," Zur prodded. "Start talking. And tell me the truth."

  Marcus was an expert at hiding things. Always had been. But there was no way in hell he could hide why he was soaked to the skin and standing at the edge of a river in the middle of nowhere.

  He squinted at the river, trying to discern where the car had sunk. He only saw faint ripples on the surface. "You can see what happened, John."

  "You left your desk. Not a very rational decision to make, considering your past."

  Marcus shook his head, the taste of river water still in his throat. "Just because I do something unexpected doesn't mean I'm back to old habits."

  Zur studied him but said nothing.

  "I had to do something, John. I had to try to save them."

  "That's what EMS is for. You're not a paramedic anymore."

  Marcus let his gaze drift to the river. "I know. But you guys were all over the place and someone had to look for them. They were running out of time."

  Overhead, lightning forked and thunder reverberated.

  "Dammit, Marcus, you went rogue!" Zur said. "You know how dangerous that is. We could've had four bodies."

  Marcus scowled. "Instead of merely three, you mean?"

  "You know how this works. We work in teams for a reason. We all need backup. Even you."

  "All the rescue teams were otherwise engaged. I didn't have a choice."

  Zur sighed. "We go back a long way. I know you did what you thought was right. But it could've cost them all their lives. And it'll probably cost you your job. Why would you risk that for a complete stranger?"

  "She wasn't a stranger."

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Marcus realized how true that statement seemed. He knew more about Rebecca Kingston than he did about any other woman. Besides Jane.

  "You know her?" Zur asked, frowning.

  "She told me things and I told her things. So, yeah, I know her."

  "I still do not get why you didn't stay at the center and let us do our job."

  "She called me." Marcus looked into his friend's eyes. "Me. Not you."

  "I understand, but that's your job. To listen and relay information."

  "You don't understand a thing. Rebecca was terrified. For herself and her children. No one knew where they were for sure, and she was running out of time. If I didn't at least try, what kind of person would I be, John?" He gritted his teeth. "I couldn't live with that. Not again."

  Zur exhaled. "Sometimes we're simply too late. It happens."

  "Well, I didn't want it to happen this time." Marcus thought of the vision he'd seen of Jane standing in the middle of the road. "I had a…hunch I was close. Then when Rebecca mentioned Colton had seen flying pigs, I remembered this place. Jane and I used to buy ribs and chops from the owner, before it closed down about seven years ago."

  "And that led y
ou here to the farm." Zur's voice softened. "Good thing your hunch paid off. This time. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

  "There won't be a next time, John."

  A smirk tugged at the corner of Zur's mouth. "Uh-huh."

  "There won't."

  Zur shrugged and headed for the ambulance.

  Under a chaotic sky, Marcus stood at the edge of the river as tears cascaded from his eyes. The night's events hit him hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. He was submerged in a wave of memories. The first call, Rebecca's frantic voice, Colton crying in the background. He knew that kind of fear. He'd felt it before. But last time, it was a different road, different woman, different child.

  He shook his head. He couldn't think of Jane right now. Or Ryan. He couldn't reflect on all he'd lost. He needed to focus on what he'd found, what he'd discovered in a faceless voice that had comforted him and expressed that it was okay to let go.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. 12:39, to be exact. He couldn't believe how his life had changed in not much more than two days.

  "Marcus!"

  He turned…

  Chapter One

  Edson, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 10:55 AM

  Sitting on the threadbare carpet in front of the living room fireplace, Marcus Taylor stroked a military issue Browning 9mm pistol against his leg, the thirteen-round magazine in his other hand. For an instant, he contemplated loading the gun―and then using it.

  "But then who'd feed you?" he asked his companion.

  Arizona, a five-year-old red Irish setter, gave him an inquisitive look, then curled up and went back to sleep on the couch. She was a rescue hound he'd picked up about a year after Ryan and Jane had died. The house had been too damned quiet. Lifeless.

  "Great to know you have an opinion."

  Setting the gun and magazine down on the floor, Marcus propped a photo album against his legs and took a deep breath. The photo album of death. The album only saw daylight three times a year. The other three hundred and sixty-two days it was hidden in a steel foot locker that doubled as his coffee table.

  Today was Paul's forty-sixth birthday. Or it would have been, except Paul was dead.

  Taking another measured breath, Marcus felt for the chain that marked a page and opened the album. "Hey, Bro."

  In the photo, Corporal Paul Taylor stood on the shoulder of a deserted street on the outskirts of a nondescript town in Afghanistan, a sniper rifle braced across his chest and the Browning in his hand. He'd been killed that same day, his limbs ripped apart by a roadside bomb. The IED had been buried in six inches of dust and dirt when Paul, distracted by a crying kid, had unwittingly stepped on it.

  One stupid mistake could end in death, separating son from parents and brother from brother. Resentment could separate siblings too.

  "I wish I could tell you how sorry I am," Marcus said, blinking back a tear. "We wasted so much time being pissed at each other."

  As a young kid, he'd hidden his older brother's toy soldiers so he could play with them when Paul was at school. In high school, Marcus had hidden how smart he was, always downplaying his intelligence in favor of being the cool, younger brother of senior hockey legend Paul Taylor. Marcus had learned to hide his jealousy too.

  Until his brother was killed.

  He stared at the warped dog tag at the end of the chain. It was all that was left of his brother. There was nothing to be jealous of now.

  He glanced at the gun. Okay, he had that too. He'd inherited the Browning from Paul. One of his brother's war buddies had personally delivered it. "Your brother said you can play with his toys now," the guy had said.

  Paul always had a warped sense of humor.

  "Happy birthday, Paul."

  He knew his parents, who were currently cruising in the Mediterranean, would be raising a toast in Paul's honor, so he did the same. "I miss you, bro."

  Then he dropped the tag and flipped to the next set of photos in the album. A brunette with short, choppy hair and luminous green eyes smiled back at him.

  Jane.

  "Hello, Elf."

  He traced her face, recalling the way her mouth tilted upward on the left and how she'd watch a chick flick tearjerker, while tears steamed unnoticed down her face.

  Marcus turned to the next set of photos and sucked in a breath. A handsome boy beamed a brilliant smile and waved back at him.

  "Hey, little buddy."

  He recalled the day the photo had been taken. His son, Ryan, a rookie goalie on his junior high hockey team, had shut out his opponents, giving his team a three-goal lead. Jane had snapped the picture at the exact second when Ryan had found his father in the crowd.

  "I love you." Marcus's voice cracked. "And I miss you so much."

  He couldn't hide that. Not ever.

  There was one other thing he couldn't hide.

  He had killed Jane. And Ryan.

  For the past six years, whenever Marcus slept, his dead wife and son came to visit, taunting him with their spectral images, teasing him with familiar phrases, twisting his mind and gut into a guilt-infested cesspool. The only way to escape their accusing glares and spiteful smiles was to wake up. Or not go to sleep. Sleep was the enemy. He did his best to avoid it.

  Marcus glanced at the antique clock on the mantle. 11:06.

  Another twenty-four minutes and he'd have to head to the Yellowhead County Emergency Center, where he worked as a 911 dispatcher. He'd been working there for almost six months. He was halfway through five twelve-hour shifts that ran from noon to midnight. He worked them with his best friend, Leo, who would undoubtedly be in a good mood again. Leo liked sleeping in and starting his day at noon, while Marcus preferred the midnight-to-noon shift, the one everyone else hated. It gave him something to do at night, since sleeping didn't come easily.

  He closed the photo album, stood slowly and stretched his cramped muscles. As he placed the album and the gun and magazine back in the foot locker, a small cedar box with a medical insignia embossed on the top caught his eye, though he did his best to ignore it.

  Even Arizona knew that box was trouble. She froze at the sight of it, her hackles raised.

  "I know," Marcus said. "I can resist temptation."

  That box had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. It represented a past he'd give anything to erase. But he couldn't toss it in the trash. It had too firm a grip on him. Even now it called to him.

  "Marcus…"

  "No!"

  He slammed the foot locker lid with his fist. The sound reverberated across the room, clanging like a jail cell door, trapping him in his own private prison.

  Behind him, Arizona whimpered.

  "Sorry, girl."

  One day he'd get rid of the box with the insignia and be done with it once and for all.

  But not yet.

  Shaking off a bout of guilt, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the master bedroom of the two-bedroom rented duplex. It was devoid of all things feminine, stripped down to the barest essentials. A bed, nightstand and tall dresser. Metal blinds, no flowered curtains like the ones in the house in Edmonton that he'd bought with Jane. The bedspread was a mishmash of brown tones, and it had been hauled up over the single pillow. There were none of the decorative pillows that Jane had loved so much. No silk flowers on the dresser. No citrus Febreeze lingering in the air. No sign of Jane.

  He'd hidden her too.

  Stepping into the en suite bathroom, Marcus stared into the mirror. He took in the untrimmed moustache and beard that was threatening to engulf his face. Leaning closer, he examined his eyes, which were more gray than blue. He turned his face to catch the light. "I am not tired."

  The dark circles under his eyes betrayed him.

  Ignoring Arizona's watchful gaze, he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the tube of Preparation H, a trick he'd learned from his wife Jane. Before he'd killed her. A little dab under the eyes, no smiling or frowning, and within seconds the
crevices in his skin softened. Some of Jane's "White Out"—as she used to call the tube of cosmetic concealer—and the shadows would disappear.

  "Camouflage on," he said to his reflection.

  A memory of Jane surfaced.

  It was the night of the BioWare awards banquet, nineteen years ago. Jane, dressed in a pink housecoat, sat at the bathroom vanity curling her hair, while Marcus struggled with his tie.

  He'd let out a curse. "I can never get this right."

  "Here, let me." Pushing the chair behind him, Jane climbed up before he could protest. She caught his gaze in the mirror over the sink and reached around his shoulders, her gaze wandering to the twisted lump he'd made of the full Windsor. "You shouldn't be so impatient."

  "You shouldn't be climbing up on chairs."

  "I'm fine, Marcus."

  "You're pregnant, that's what you are."

  "You calling me fat, buster?"

  Five months pregnant with Ryan, Jane had never looked so beautiful.

  "I'd never do that," he replied.

  She cocked her head and arched one brow. "Never? How about in four months when I can't walk up the stairs to the bedroom?"

  "I'll carry you."

  "What about when I can't see my toes and can't paint my toenails?"

  "I'll paint them for you."

  "What about when―"

  He turned his head and kissed her. That shut her up.

  With a laugh, she pushed him away, gave the tie a smooth tug and slid the knot expertly into place.

  He groaned. "Now why can't I do that?"

  "Because you have me. Now quit distracting me. I still have to put on my dress and makeup."

  Marcus sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Jane always made it worth the wait, and that night she didn't disappoint him. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was a vision of sultry goddess in a designer dress from a shop in West Edmonton Mall. The baby bump in front was barely noticeable.