SUBMERGED
Lark
“Don’t hold your breath,” I yell to the man in the sinking car as he pounds on the window and begs for my mercy. “Get it?”
I don’t think he heard me. But that’s okay. I just smile as I wave with one hand, my gun trained on him with the other in case the window budges and he manages to slither his way out.
Fortunately, the pressure of the climbing water makes it nearly impossible for him to escape, and in mere moments, the vehicle is submerged. Bubbles burst in the black water as the car slides beneath the gentle waves of Scituate Reservoir. The headlights point to the stars, flickering as the electrical connections succumb to the flood.
“Well, shit.”
This isn’t good.
Actually, it’s kind of amazing. But it’s also a giant pain in the ass.
I chew my lip and watch until the lights blink out and the surface goes still. When I’m sure everything will stay silent, I pull out my phone and open the contacts. My thumb hovers over Ethel’s number. She’s always been the one I’ve called when things have gone tits up. Admittedly, a car casket at the bottom of a lake might be a little beyond the usual definition of tits up, even if the timing wasn’t already making it impossible to ask for Ethel’s help.
With a sigh, I select the number just above hers instead.
Two rings and he picks up.
“Meadowlark,” my stepdad chimes on the other end. I roll my eyes and smile at his use of my childhood nickname.
My wary tone is his first indication that something might be amiss when I say, “Hi, Daddy.”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Is everything okay?”
“Sure …”
“Did someone puke on the carpet?” he asks. It’s safe to assume he’s had a few drinks at his own Halloween party if he hasn’t already clocked that there’s no thumping bass or raucous voices in the background from my end of the line. “I’ll have Margaret arrange some cleaners for you first thing. Don’t worry about it, honey.”
A final, damning bubble erupts from the lake like an exclamation point. “Umm, those aren’t really the cleaners that I need …”
The line goes silent.
I swallow. “Dad …? You still there?”
A door closes in the background on his end of the line, muffling the laughter and voices and music. My stepdad’s unsteady exhalation is the next thing I hear. I can almost picture the way he’s probably rubbing his fingers across his forehead in a futile attempt to channel some chill energy. “Lark, what the fuck? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m totally fine,” I say, as though this is just a minor inconvenience despite the balled-up, bloody T-shirt I press against my hairline where a deep gash throbs. My smile must be bordering on deranged. The Harley Quinn costume and twenty layers of makeup I’m wearing probably don’t help either, so I guess there’s more than one reason to be grateful that no one is around. “I can sort it out if you just give me the number.”
“Where are you? Did Sloane do something?”
“No, not at all,” I say, my voice firm, my smile instantly gone. Though I hate that he would jump to the conclusion that my best friend is at fault, I swallow my irritation rather than unleash it. “Sloane is probably holed up in her house with a smutty book and her demonic cat. I went away for the weekend. I’m not in Raleigh.”
“Then where are you?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Goddammit.”
I know what he’s thinking, that I’m too close to home for a fuck-up of this nature. “I’m sorry, truly. The car just …” I reach for the right words to explain, but only one surfaces. “… sank.”
“Your car?”
“No. Mine is …” I glance over my shoulder toward my Escalade, the smashed headlights glaring back at me. “Mine has seen brighter days.”
“Lark—”
“Dad, I can sort it out. I really just need the number for a cleaner. Ideally one with a tow truck. And maybe some scuba gear.”
His laugh is hollow. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“About what part?”
“All of it, hopefully.”
“Well,” I say as I lean over the rocky drop to peer down at the water, “we might be able to get away with someone who can snorkel. I don’t think it’s that deep.”
“Jesus Christ, Lark.” A long-suffering sigh permeates the line. I loathe the feeling of disappointment. It’s as though he’s standing right next to me with that look I’ve seen so many times before, the one that says he wishes I could do better but he just can’t bear to break my heart by saying it out loud. “Fine,” he finally says. “I’ll give you the number for a company called Leviathan. You’ll need to give them an account code. But do not give them your name. Not over the phone, not when they arrive. They might be professionals but they’re dangerous people, honey. I want you to send me a text every thirty minutes to let me know you’re okay until you get home, understand?”
“Of course.”
“And no names.”
“Got it. Thank you, Dad.”
A long silence stretches between us before he finally speaks again. Maybe he wants to say more, to call me out, ask some uncomfortable questions. But he doesn’t. “I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”
“Love you too. And I will.”
As soon as we hang up, I receive a text from my stepdad with a phone number and a six-digit code. When I call, a polite, efficient woman answers and takes down my details. Her queries are direct and my answers are minimal. Are you injured? Not really. How many dead? One. Any special requests to facilitate cleanup? Scuba gear.
When she’s relayed all the terms and conditions and payment details, I hang up, then turn back to my Escalade where the cooling engine ticks beneath the crumpled hood. I could wait inside the vehicle, where it’s warm, but I don’t. This crash is going to take a toll on my already fucked-up sleep schedule, so it’s not like I need to sit in the wreckage and conjure more nightmares. Even still, it was worth the consequences to watch that piece-of-shit predator sink to the bottom of the reservoir.
Another locust exterminated.