She squelched through the mud, dragging him with her, running through the CPR steps in her head as she did so. But as she got closer to the bank, she started to notice how still the man was. His skin looked wrong, slippery and taut, and a thin film of silt coated his entire body.
Jack hauled him up onto the shore. She grabbed his wrist. No pulse. The man’s eyes were bulging out, his dark, dilated pupils swimming in a yellowed, leaking sea. His skin, which looked like it ought to be amber-brown like hers, was mottled greenish-white. The side of his head looked caved in, and there was something gummed up under his hair. The pieces clicked together. And the whole horrible fact of it became clear.
Jack let go of the man’s wrist and twisted her head away. She doubled over in the mud, trying not to retch. Then she splashed her way back to her kayak, filling her eyes with the calming sight of its orange hull, plunging her hands into the freezing water to wipe away the feeling of his slick, clammy skin.
Before she got back in her boat, Jack looked one more time at the dead man lying on the bank. His eyes were wide open, as if he couldn’t believe how far the clouds stretched today.
For the first time ever, Jack wished she was far from the water, anywhere but the slough.
Chapter Six
After a stunned moment in her boat with her head between her knees, Jack snapped into efficiency mode. She had responsibilities. She radioed the coast guard, and then wrangled the father and son to rejoin the group. She did a count. Everyone on her tour was there. And they were going back to dry land now. The dead guy was on the bank, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The father looked nauseous, the son a spinning top of adrenaline and fear. But Jack kept her voice calm and firm, and they followed her directions.
Jack led the group back to the Kayak Shack in a ragged line, her paddle churning through the water like a quiet, determined dishwasher. The tour group passed under the highway and across the chopped-up ocean. The news spread from boat to boat in whispers and heads whipping around to look back, as if to accuse the slough of ruining their day.
The boats approached the shore. Travis was on the boat launch ramp, waving his arms like a girl at a drag race, too smiley by a mile, and Jack realized she hadn’t called Paul or told anyone at the Shack what had happened. As far as everyone at the marina was concerned, this was just another group of tourists to unload. She shot a glare at Travis, who was trying to tease a smile from the older woman along with her paddle. He didn’t get it. Jack hauled her kayak up and stomped over to him.
“Travis. You’re not going to believe this.”
“What’s up?”
“We found a body. A dead person. In the slough. Can you get Paul on the phone and tell him to come down here? I’ll close the group out.”
“Whoa. Are you—”
“Just go. Now. Please.”
Jack’s grandma had told her it was always good to give men simple instructions in complicated situations.
When Travis came back ten minutes later, Jack had the tour group lined up on the picnic tables by the launch, heavy towels draped over their shoulders. Cops were starting to arrive. Sheriffs, it seemed like. And the coast guard. They appeared to be consulting each other, maybe arguing about who was in charge, pausing from time to time to glance at the group of petrified tourists.
Travis came up next to Jack. “I couldn’t get Paul on the phone,” he said. “Left a voicemail.”
Jack felt tired, cold, and not at all surprised.
“But I did bring hot chocolate,” Travis said, pointing to a large metal thermos and a stack of paper cups. “Want some?”
The warmth sounded good, but Jack didn’t trust herself to keep anything in her stomach right now. She gave him a weak smile, and they walked over to the guests at the picnic tables.
“Who’s in charge here?” a coast guard officer asked. It seemed the jurisdictional pissing match had reached some kind of conclusion and the officers were ready to begin.
The tourists looked at Jack. Jack and Travis looked at each other.
“Our boss is away,” Travis said.
“Who’s in charge of this group?”
“I am,” Jack said.
She knew how ridiculous it sounded. A fifteen-year-old girl, barely a hundred pounds, in a red life jacket and booties, leaning on a paddle.
The officer gave her a hard look. “Where’s the body?”
“On the north bank of the slough. About two miles past the bridge. In the mud flats across from Kirby Park.”
“Is there anybody there now?”
“No. I was leading the tour alone. I thought I should bring the group back here safe first.”