53. Futility
53
Futility
Matt
This can’t be fucking happening.
“Keep fucking looking,” Tony shouts. “There’s still time.”
I sigh heavily, looking out over the many boats and personnel searching the vicinity for any sign of Antoinette and Darius.
It’s been several hours and still, there’s no sign of either of them.
I’ve called in every favor anyone ever owed me, but even with every resource available in on the search, the futility behind it feels imminently inevitable.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. “Matt, how much longer do you want us to look?”
I stare at my Coast Guard contact blankly, unsure how to answer since my most immediate thought is any variation of forever.
He gives me a sympathetic look, his lips pressing together as he contemplates his words. Finally, he nods, then turns without saying anything, barking orders at everyone in his way.
I know he’ll do all he can for however long as he can, but at some point, they’ll have no choice but to abandon the search for more pressing official business, and it will all be over.
Annoyed, I pull out my phone, scrolling to the number I want and hitting connect. It rings a few times, and then a voice answers, “Shields?”
“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”
He’s silent for a moment, likely infinitely confused about why I would be calling, but not so confused that he had deleted my number from his contacts. “What’s up?”
I clear my throat, uncertain what exactly I called him for, and after a moment, he says impatiently, “Spit it out, dickhead.”
“A five-mile-per-hour current isn’t fast, right?”
Again, I’m met with silence, and for a moment, I wonder if he hung up on me. I glance at my phone screen, confirming the call is still ticking on, then put the phone back to my ear just in time for him to reply, “Why are you asking?”
I sigh, not wanting to explain but knowing I have to if I want his professional opinion. “A couple of my people fell into the water. We starting searching for them immediately, but so far, no sign of them.”
“From what height?”
“About six containers.”
“Which body of water?”
“Boston Harbor.”
He snorts, and I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes at me through the phone. “From that height, they could end up submerged fifteen feet or so. Current down there may sound slow, but it would be different when viewed from the surface and certainly feel different if you were down there fighting against it.”
“But a strong swimmer could get to the surface pretty quickly?”
“Matt,” Mark sputters. “People fall off fishing boats in the middle of the day in a busy fishing harbor and are most often found weeks later or never.”
I frown. “What does that have to do with this?”
“Everything. It’s the middle of the fucking night. They fell the equivalent of more than eight stories, so if they weren’t already injured, which, given your track record, I will assume they were, they would most likely have been injured upon impact with the water. Assuming they weren’t knocked senseless, the depth they’d have reached by the time they got their bearings enough to attempt to swim to the surface would be nearly impossible to recover from. And just to complicate matters, it would be pitch-black down there, and they’d be dragged down by their clothing. Assuming they were clothed, of course, which could go either way with you.”
“So, you’re saying what exactly?”
“I’m saying, good fucking luck ever finding them.”
Tony catches my attention, and I wave him over. I point to my phone and mouth, “Mark.”
Tony’s eyes widen, and he makes a face likely because the last thing he wants is scientific information, stats, and facts. Nonetheless, he sighs and asks, “And what does Mark have to say?”
I move the phone from my ear, hitting the speakerphone. “Mark, Tony’s here asking what you have to say.”
Again, I’m met with silence. Tony looks at the phone, then looks at me questioningly. I shrug, motioning to the phone, and after a beat, Tony takes it from me. “Just fucking spit out.”
“Hi, Tony.”
“Mark.”
I hide my smile behind my hand, not wanting to rile Tony by laughing at his awkwardness. Mark clears his throat and sighs. “Look. I know you all want me to fill your heads with all sorts of rose-colored goodness, but I also know you called specifically because you trust I won’t do that.”
Tony looks at me, his expression grim, but still, he shakes his head. “No way. No fucking way.”
Tony’s hand tightens on my phone, and I snatch it back before he can smash it or throw it, as he’s known to do. I shove him back when he tries to snatch it from me, turning my back on him as I say, “Thanks for the info, Mark. I appreciate your candidness, as always.”
“Anytime. And let me know how it turns out.”
“I will. Once we know.”
We don’t bother with an official goodbye. The call ends as quickly as it began. Then I stand there, staring helplessly out at the water.
“We have to find them,” Tony whispers, his voice hoarse.
“I know.”
Tony goes silent, his stillness so finite I glance over to see if he’s still standing next to me.
He is.
He’s staring out at the water, his jaw clenched just like his fists. Then he whirls on me, his hands fisted in my shirt as he leans close and grits out, “Maybe they got out.”
I frown, wishing this to be true more than I could ever explain. But I don’t. I grab his hands, still fisted in my shirt, holding them tightly as I stare back at him. “If only.”
His jaw tightens further, and for a moment, I think he may take a swing at me. I don’t even care, but a second later, he eases his grip, then releases me, pushing my back slightly as he steps back.
Then, without another word, he walks away.
And I watch him go.