Rising Waters (Crime Daily Podcast #2)

Prologue

With each slap of his shoes along the gravel, the chaos of Craig Gilbert’s world disappears.

The concerns of yesterday, last night, or the day ahead lessen as he pushes himself farther down the winding road that leads him between fields and forests.

Taking a deep breath of damp spring air, Craig savors the sense of freedom that accompanies his early morning run.

His steps come quicker as he concentrates on the beat of the song, a thumping bass ringing in his ears.

He woke earlier than normal and his path has him farther away from home. A quick look at the dawn sky reveals the growing bank of gray clouds rolling overhead. Beyond the music blasting through his earbuds, a rumble of thunder reverberates, causing the air and ground to tremble.

As the wind picks up, Craig starts to calculate the time and distance to his home, the place his wife and son are still, no doubt, sleeping.

It’s not that he’s unable to cover the mileage, but running in wet shoes will be hell on his feet.

At thirty-two, Craig is over a decade older than his students.

Yes, he’d make the football team run in the rain. That doesn’t mean he wants to do that.

The damn forecast said to expect nothing but sprinkles until noon.

Wiping the moisture from his eyes, Craig peers over the recently planted fields as a white mist materializes near the ground.

It’s as if the springtime clouds are too heavy; they’re no longer content to remain above the trees.

Visibility lessens as the clouds’ weight plunges him deeper into the gathering fog.

The familiar roadway disappears as the rain continues its deluge, the conditions worsening. It’s the illumination of headlights upon the suspended water droplets that first alerts him to the approaching vehicle. Slowing his steps, he contemplates waving his hands.

Within the small towns in Southern Michigan, Craig has achieved almost celebrity status. After all, he’s the coach that took the unsung town of Blue Gil, Michigan, to winners of the football state championship.

It isn’t as if Craig’s wife, Serena, appreciates the status.

That was only one item among her list of grievances in last night’s argument.

He couldn’t help if people admired him, women found him attractive, and high school boys desired to be him.

That was all part of the job. That was what he said before Serena stormed off to the bedroom.

Craig supposed he owed his wife some slack. She told him many times about the postpartum depression. He read the brochures from her doctor and even did his own research online. That information was why when he went to bed last night, he kissed her cheek and told her he loved her.

He does.

He also loves their son, Joey.

Craig always imagined having more than one child, but if Serena is still as easily rattled after Joey’s third birthday, Craig couldn’t fathom what a second pregnancy would do to her stability.

He pushes away the recurring memory of last Thanksgiving.

The three of them were visiting his family in the Upper Peninsula when Serena completely lost it.

She stormed out of his parents’, and he couldn’t find her for hours.

No, Craig wasn’t onboard for more hormonal ups and downs.

Lost in his thoughts, a dark-colored sedan passes before Craig could flag it down.

“It’s less than seven miles to home,” he tells himself.

Even with his shoes and feet soaked, Craig will be home in less than an hour, faster if he pushes a little harder.

The schedule for his day plays through his mind.

He’ll shower and leave his wet running clothes in the washing machine to not draw his wife’s ire.

First-period he has study hall. While first-period is his time to gather his thoughts for the day, the view of Marty Thompson comes to mind.

He replays images of her in his mind.

Low-cut tops and short skirts. The way she spreads her knees, offering the view of her panties, when she wears them.

The images warm his circulation as the cold rain soaks his clothes.

His shoes slip, bringing Craig’s concentration to the uneven terrain and growing torrent of mud. As the blare of the music fills his ears, his downcast eyes search for hazards. He doesn’t hear the vehicle or see the headlights piercing the fog.

It’s the screeching tires that cause him to look up.

Did he see the vehicle or only feel the impact as his body sailed through the air and crumpled?

Craig lands with a sickening ensemble of cracking noises—each one delivered with piercing pain—the earbuds lost, their music gone.

An incessant ringing replaces the playlist as shearing agony explodes, racing through his nervous system, synapse after synapse of excruciating torture. The world darkens as his stomach lurches.

In his state of anguish and confusion, he hears a voice—one he recognizes.

“Help me.” Craig isn’t confident his words are audible.

Though he tries to move, his body is unable or unwilling to follow simple mental commands. No longer under his control, his body shifts, rolls, and falls. Maybe in those last, lingering moments, Craig wished this was a dream or a nightmare.

It is neither.

A new, even more terrorizing, threat becomes evident.

Waters.

Rising.

Unable to lift his head, Craig inhales the muddy liquid, coughing to no avail.

Is it the choking, the bone-numbing chill, or the aches throughout his body that dominate the last of Craig’s thoughts?

The answer will forever remain a mystery.