The bitter salty brine of the ocean poured into Carlton Lassiter's mouth with every breath. Rain was now beating down on his his eyelids, hammering his face like hydraulic drills as he arched his throbbing head and neck back, gasping for air, sputtering and gagging as he imagined flecks of kelp swishing across his tongue and down the back of his throat.
They weren't far from land—maybe twenty feet, in a relatively shallow area close to a steeper drop-off point. He could hear Spencer next to him shouting gurgled frantic cries across the roar of the wind-tossed surf that was crashing mercilessly into their ears. The two were separated by maybe four feet of dark churning water, both bodies either chained or roped and shackled to heavy weights that Carlton assumed had long-since disappeared below the sand. He'd been hurled back into consciousness as the two of them were tossed out of a little orange dinghy by two old cackling nut jobs.
With every swell, Carlton's feet were sucked deeper into the yielding ocean floor, his dress shoes now submerged to the ankles, chin sinking deeper into the rising solution of silt, bits of decaying sea creatures, and the creepy brushes of seaweed as it slithered around his achingly cold torso, teasing his mysteriously bare chest, daring and taunting him to pull his face underwater to see what hidden atrocities may be swimming around his body. With each gulp for air, he'd begun to have visions of fish lurking—no, leering with dull eyes—nibbling at his flesh in toothless, slimy whispers.
Another relentless wave crashed in through his desperately flaring nostrils, burning the back of his nose and eyes. His head was killing him. Tears poured down his face, mixing into the rivulets of rain as they slammed into then trickled down his forehead and smeared down his cheeks, only to be received once more by the heaving ocean current. The hairs on his chest prickled, erect with goosebumps from the cold and hurking shudders of discomfort stemming from some goddamn irrational fear of things he couldn't see swimming around him like ghosts in the night. Carlton was confident only in that he'd yet to be covered in a film of algae, and hoped this would preclude him from being mistaken for fish fodder.
He was caught off-guard by a momentary recession of face-pickling, and yanked his head to his right, yelling through choked-back tears and water to Spencer, who'd become uncharacteristically silent, surprised to see the young man's eyes closed, the lower half of his face submerged in the icy water.
"Spencer!" In a panic, Carlton reached his arm out and pulled harder at the sediment becoming one with his ankles. The action only buried his feet deeper into the heavily weighted sands. "Spence—" Another wave slammed into his open mouth, and he coughed its bitter contents along with a spray of expletives into the torrential rain that was slamming into the water around his neck. He turned his face skyward once more to the ominous black clouds and deluge of crochet-needle raindrops as they shot down at his eyes like little black bullets he had no hope of dodging. God, his head hurt.
A temporary flood of relief came over him as he heard a rasping cough escape next to him. Through squinted eyes, rain and seawater dripping from his brow, the detective caught another glance at the man struggling next time him. Spencer's exhaustion was evident as he sucked in air, then relaxed his face into the water again and again.
"Come on, stay with me!" Carlton felt huge wall of water swell from behind him, rendering him nearly weightless for a moment, and he drew in a full breath before the wave engulfed his head, then let go of the traction it held on his body and slipped away toward the shoreline. The deepening twilight shrouded by heavy clouds and biting rain had brought with it a sense of futility, harshly contrasting the iridescent reflections the sunset had flashed across the beach, and the warmth that had spread across his face as it slipped down the horizon only an hour or so before. He'd chided Spencer for blocking that radiant glow as he sat, trying to eat his meal in routine, undisturbed solitude...
"You're in my light."
"You need light to chew?" A face blocked out the last bright nectarine and magenta rays of sunlight than had been spilling across Carlton's breeze-flushed cheeks as he chewed his sandwich. His eyes, no longer set in their satisfied squint, locked in a slack-open glare on the dark blob.
"You're obstructing my lunch, Spencer. Move." The darkness fell away sharply, and the detective flung both his hands—sandwich in one, plate in the other—into the air to block the sudden blinding glare. "Damn it!" A spray of crumbs and shredded lettuce flew up, then pelted him in the face as a salty ocean gust chose that moment to accost him. It was a conspiracy.
"That's okay, man. I was heading back anyway." Lassiter could feel rather than see the insidious smarm collecting itself next to him. He hadn't really noticed until now that the ocean had begun to roar with gathering strength in front of them. He'd been busy chewing to Bob Goulet. What of it? And now he had crumbs on his suit—crumbs which should, by all rights, be in his mouth. He was eating his lunch at sunset, for god's sake. And interrupted by Spencer, who'd rudely invaded his territory and daily eating ritual, however late it had been crammed it into the evening.
In a flagrant attempt to ignore he-who-was not-"heading back anyway" to his right, Carlton chomped into a mouthful of gritty sand. Reflexively, with a flash and a quick draw, he was standing and not only aiming the remnants of his sandwich at the startled young intruder in a gesture for him to leave, but squeezing it like a trigger until the cheese and lettuce plopped to the ground.
"Dude, calm down! I'm holding a knife! I almost cut myself!" Spencer choked, a piece of apple in his cheek. Still seated, he was holding up a kitchen knife in one hand, the hacked-at fruit in the other, its juice now running down his wrist into the long-sleeved cuff of a purple thermal shirt.
"I think I need a vacation." The detective sighed, dropping the bits of crusts still in his possession onto the paper plate, and headed for the trash can. He was sure he'd racked up enough vacation days to earn at least a short voyage to the moon by now. Perhaps a week-long stay at a ranch with a shooting range near a river crammed full of fish just waiting for his wrath-with-a-pole. Or a gun. Shooting fish in a barrel sounded like a fucking brilliant pastime, he thought with a sneer and a chuckle.
As he dumped the waste, he heard a cacophonous eruption of angry shouting, shrill bird cries, and yelps behind him. Still on edge, Carlton whipped around to see what the commotion was and how the hell Spencer had started one that quickly. The sight that met him filled his heart disbelief and a new level of pity for the retardation that was his "psychic detective" cling-monster. A scourge of crying seagulls had clamored and swooped, shrieking as Spencer flailed his arms at them (knife still clutched in one, Carlton noted) in an attempt to ward off the seemingly coordinated attack. They landed one by one at his feet, collecting around the bits of food that had been so gracefully discarded during Carlton's sandwich flinging.
Just as he began to revel in the sweet karmic recompense, the yelping and gull cries were met with a much louder squawking barreling down the gritty footpath from behind him. As he spun to see what the hell would be making that horrendous noise, a squat elderly woman tore past him, slamming into his elbow with unimaginable force. In her hands was a large black umbrella, which she wrenched open and closed, open and closed, as she raced toward the flock of birds, still squawking maniacally.
What. The. Hell...? Carlton rapidly searched the scene around him for sets or film crews or anything that would explain this reenactment of that scene from Indiana Jones. Or Batman. That was it. This lady was The fucking Penguin. She was his replicant. As sure as he'd envisioned his own facsimile being portrayed by Rutger Hauer, he knew she was a goddamn copy of The Penguin. And she was causing a public disturbance. A closer study of the beach revealed that it had been entirely vacated save for himself, a flock of seagulls, The Penguin, and Spencer, who was now standing on top of the bench, knife still in hand, although Carlton doubted he even realized it was still in his grasp.
"Ma'am! Please slow down! And drop the weapo—" Force of habit... "Drop the umbrella! This is a public beach! You are disturbing the peace and I do not want to be the one who has to deal with the scene when you fall and break your hip!" He watched her from the back as she continued, unswayed by his warning, now cackling. Maybe she was deaf as well as insane.
Carlton jogged toward the impending collision of senility, seagull, and Spencer. He watched in horror as the gulls flew off in a snit, revealing the old lady as she, in one swift movement, swung the umbrella at Spencer with such force that it knocked him off of the bench, and grabbed the knife as it clattered to the ground. Carlton watched as the surprised man landed sickeningly hard on the sandy asphalt with a grunt, then rolled onto his side, breath obviously knocked out of him.
"Freeze! Drop the weapon!" Carlton reached for his gun to be on the safe side, since barking orders at the old woman hadn't any effect earlier. As his hand felt for his Glock, it was met with a startling yank of fingers as someone from behind pulled his hands back, grabbed his gun, then slammed a knee into the small of his back. He dropped instantly to the ground, body smashing into the pavement, and, before he could react, his face and mouth were shoved into the sand just off the path. He tasted blood and tried to spit it out along with a good deal of sand, only to have his open mouth driven once more into the course grains, which, this time, came in as an entire mouthful. He thought he heard another old-lady-cackle from behind him as something heavy, presumably his gun, cracked into the back of his skull, and he felt the rest of his face, features slackening, collapse into the sand as well, as pain flared and melted into nothingness.
Shawn knew his waterlogged screams for help were inaudible under the pounding rain and crashing of the icy waves as they breached the shore in the increasing coastal wind. He and Lassiter were but two head-buoys bobbing in the stormy gray sea. Lassie had a good few inches on him, so Shawn hoped at least he was managing to inhale more than just the concentrated, stinging water that burned in his own lungs with each gasped chokeful. Shawn had stopped shivering. His neck was weak from straining to keep his mouth above the surface, so he let it hang, closing his eyes and holding his breath as water slammed hard against his mouth and nose, spraying into the air and back down into his hair with each slap.
She said she would be back, the old hag. If they hadn't drowned in the meantime.
He heard Lassiter call out his name, and he pulled his head achingly out of the water, coughing.
"Yo," he said as another torrent sloshed over both their faces, and he let his head drop in once more.
"...ay with me!" Just then, an enormous wave bowled him over. During this same moment, as he decided with utmost certainty that he was going to "drown in the meantime," he felt a strong hand grasp his forearm, pushing him in an upright position toward the surface.
"Lassie—" he sputtered.
"Got one foot out of my shoe," Lassiter gasped, as he tried to help Shawn regain his balance. "Can— can barely reach you. Still weighted down—" The detective gagged as he swallowed a mouthful of seawater. "Hold on to me, damn it, Spencer." Shawn grasped the outstretched arm, and the two men steadied one another, both coughing furiously under wave after wave of the ocean's crescendo, and were still coughing when they saw a familiar water craft. The same dinghy that had dropped them there was plunging slowly toward their helpless bodies. Yeah, two old ladies, an umbrella, two confiscated weapons, and a dinghy. That's all it took to drag their sorry souls just far enough out to sea where no one could hear them scream.
As the little boat approached Shawn could see one gray-haired head (looked like the umbrella lady) emerge into his fish's-eye view from the water, then wash away each time a new wave hurdled over his face. The apprehension he felt at the sight of the little craft turned quickly to hope as he heard the tug and grind of a motorboat roar to life nearby. In a matter of a minute or so, the boat was upon them, and his hope sunk into dread. The wake from the boat's motor shoved him hard into a relentless current, and he sank below the surface, as he and Lassiter were tugged apart and lost hold of one another. As the boat moved away then turned around for another pass, both men managed to right themselves. Shawn stretched his head around, face, again, half underwater, and saw that the motorboat was heading straight for them.
"She's going to mow us down!" Lassiter shouted wetly across the short expanse.
The scratched pewter-colored boat came to an abrupt, sputtering stop, then pulled nearly the rest of the way to Shawn's head, which he pulled sharply to the other side, then turned up as the tarnished vehicle drifted away just far enough for him to gain a proper visual of the dire situation. A loud pattering revealed a shower curtain covering the back of the boat, just over the seat by the steering mechanism and engine. Shawn could imagine this second old lady using it for rain protection as she rumbled through the ocean spray. The placement was right, though she'd moved to the front of the boat now. Insanity level was on keel. Exhaust from the engine mixed with rain and sea brine, assailing his overly-stimulative senses. Splattering drops of rain ran down the old lady's clear raincoat sleeve into tiny rivers that polished the glinting knife blade into a mirror, then poured from the tip, its hilt clutched by two arthritically gnarled, veiny hands.
Time seemed to pause for one surreal moment as Shawn was overcome by the duality in the juxtaposition of the crisp, bright knife against its rough, brooding backdrop; the sharp, man-made blade shone like crystal before thrashing gray waves and clouds that pressed down heavily, laden with more of the hard falling rain. His realization turned in his stomach from observation to reflex as the knife began jabbing downward at the two of them with a frantic ferocity. Through another gurgled choke of seawater, he shouted at the detective shackled to the sandy ocean floor next to him, then dived below the surface once again, this time quite on purpose and relieved to see Lassiter follow suit.
What Shawn did not expect to follow Lassiter was a crimson cloud that seemed to blossom and billow around him in the darkening water, brighter as it swirled red near the surface.
"Lass—" The younger man yelled underwater, his voice a hollow outlet of bubbles, his mouth an inlet of panic and more seawater.
Holding what breath burned in his lungs, he squinted through bubbles fizzing to the surface, the opaque haze of the detective's blood, and little flecks of kelp and seaweed. He squinted until hot tears mixed into the murky cold ocean, blinking, squinting, blinking through the blood. Through the blood to the knife. The hilt jutted from Lassie's upper back, maybe shoulder, blade fully embedded. His body hung limp in the water, and began to float up. Shawn found his face through the swash, and his eyes were open, staring downward. He was still conscious, but in shock; mouth parted slightly, brow furrowed. The detective's features slackened as Shawn lunged for him.