The Dark Tide. Andrew Gross

the busy lanes of the inner harbor, which bustled with commercial traffic as the day wore on. He’d been bringing home large ships like this since he was twenty-two, a job—more like a rite—handed down from his own father, who had done it himself since he was twenty-two. For close to thirty years, Pappy had done this so many times he could pretty much guide home a ship in his sleep, which in the darkened calm before the dawn this morning—if it were a normal morning and this just another tanker—would be exactly what he was about to do.

      She’s tall there, Pappy noted, focused on the ship’s hull.

      Too tall. The draft line was plainly visible. He stared at the logo on the tanker’s bow.

      He’d seen these ships before.

      Normally the real skill lay in gauging what the large tanker was drawing and navigating it through the sandbars at the outer rim of the harbor. Then simply follow the lanes, which by 10:00 A.M. could be livelier than the loop into downtown, and make the wide, sweeping arc into Pier 12, which was where the Persephone, according to its papers carrying a full load of Venezuelan crude, was slotted to put in.

      But not this morning.

      Pappy’s launch approached the large tanker from the port side. As he neared, he focused on the logo of a leaping dolphin on the Persephone’s hull.

      Dolphin Oil.

      He scratched a weathered hand across his beard and scanned over his entry papers from Maritime Control: 2.3 million barrels of crude aboard. The ship had made the trip up from Trinidad in barely fourteen hours. Fast, Pappy noted, especially for an outdated 1970 ULCC-class piece of junk like this, weighed down with a full load.

      They always made it up here fast.

      Dolphin Oil.

      The first time he’d just been curious. It had come in from Jakarta. He had wondered, how could a ship loaded with slime be riding quite that high? The second time, just a few weeks back, he’d actually snuck below after it docked—inside the belly of the ship, making his way past the distracted crew, and checked out the forward tanks.

      Empty. Came as no surprise. At least not to him.

      Clean as a newborn’s ass.

      He’d brought this up to the harbormaster, not once but twice. But he just patted Pappy on the back like he was some old fool and asked him what his plans were when he retired. This time, though, no glorified paper pusher was going to slip this under a stack of forms. Pappy knew people. People who worked in the right places. People who’d be interested in this kind of thing. This time, when he brought the ship in, he’d prove it.

      2.3 million barrels …

       2.3 million barrels, my ass.

      Pappy sounded the horn and pulled the launch along the ship’s bow. His mate, Al, took over the wheel. A retractable gangway was lowered from the main deck. He prepared to board.

      That’s when his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it off his belt. It was 5:10 in the morning. Anyone not insane was still asleep. The screen read PRIVATE. Text message.

      Some kind of picture coming through.

      Pappy yelled forward to Al to hold it and jumped back from the Persephone’s gangway. In the predawn light, he squinted at the image on the screen.

      He froze.

      It was a body. Twisted and contorted on the street. A dark pool beneath the head that Pappy realized was blood.

      He brought the screen closer and tried to find the light.

      “Oh, Lord God, no …”

      His eyes were seized by the image of the victim’s long red dreadlocks. His chest filled up with pain as if he’d been stabbed. He fell back, an inner vise cracking his ribs.

      “Pappy!” Al called back from the bridge. “You all right there?”

      No. He wasn’t all right.

      “That’s Abel,” he gasped, his airways closing. “That’s my son!”

      Suddenly, he felt the vibration of another message coming through.

      Same: PRIVATE NUMBER.

      This time it was just three words that flashed on the screen.

      Pappy ripped open his collar and tried to breathe. But it was sorrow knifing at him there, not a heart attack. And anger—at his own pride.

      He sank to the deck, the three words flashing in his brain.

       SEEN ENOUGH NOW?

CHAPTER TWELVE

      A month later—a few days after they’d finally held a memorial for Charlie, Karen trying to be upbeat, but it was so, so hard—the UPS man dropped off a package at her door.

      It was during the day. The kids were at school. Karen was getting ready to leave. She had a steering-committee meeting at the kids’ school. She was trying as best she could to get back to some kind of normal routine.

      Rita, their housekeeper, brought it in, knocking on the bedroom door.

      It was a large padded envelope. Karen checked out the sender. The label said it was from a Shipping Plus outlet in Brooklyn. No return name or address. Karen couldn’t think of anyone she knew in Brooklyn.

      She went into the kitchen and took a package blade and opened the envelope. Whatever was inside was protected in bubble wrap, which Karen carefully slit open. Curious, she lifted out the contents.

      It was a frame. Maybe ten by twelve inches. Chrome. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble.

      Inside the frame was what appeared to be a page from some kind of notepad, charred, dirt marks on it, torn on the upper right edge. There were a bunch of random numbers scratched all over it, and a name.

      Karen felt her breath stolen away.

      The page read From the desk of Charles Friedman.

      The writing on it was Charlie’s.

      “Ees a gift?” asked Rita, picking up the wrappings.

      Karen nodded, barely able to even speak. “Yes.”

      She took it into the sunroom and sat with it on the window seat, rain coming down outside.

      It was her husband’s notepad. The stationery Karen had given him herself a few years back. The sheet was torn. The numbers didn’t make sense to her and the name scrawled there was one Karen didn’t recognize. Megan Walsh. A corner of it was charred. It looked as if it had been on the ground for a long time.

      But it was Charlie—his writing. Karen felt a tingling sensation all over.

      There was a note taped to the frame. Karen pulled it off. It read: I found this, three days after what happened, in the main terminal of Grand Central. It must have floated there. I held on to it, because I didn’t know if it would hurt or help. I pray it helps.

      It was unsigned.

      Karen couldn’t believe it. On the news she’d heard there were thousands of papers blown all over the station after the explosion. They had settled everywhere. Like confetti after a parade.

      Karen fixed intently on Charlie’s writing. It was just a bunch of meaningless numbers and a name she didn’t recognize, scribbled at odd angles. Dated 3/22, weeks before his death. A bunch of random messages, no doubt.

      But it was from Charlie. His writing. It was a part of him the day he died.

      They had never given her back the piece of his briefcase they’d recovered. This was all she had. Holding it to her, for a moment it was almost as if she felt him there.

      Her eyes filled up with tears. “Oh, Charlie