Shadow claw, p.1
Shadow Claw, page 1
part #1 of Coastal Adventures Series
Shadow Claw
Coastal Adventure Series Book 1
E. J. Foster
EJFosterBooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by E. J. Foster
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my father.
You always tried to balance the truth in science with the beauty in art.
I hope I got it right.
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The earth, the air, the land, and the water are not an inheritance from our forefathers but on loan from our children. So we have to handover to them at least as it was handed over to us.
Ghandi
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Shadow Code
Books by E. J. Foster
Be Part of My Crew
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Mach one. That’s the speed at which I lived the first half of my life. Now, I’m not moving an inch.
The warmth of the summer sun radiated through the van windshield and begged me to sleep. And I’d be alright with that. I didn’t sleep much last night, or at all lately.
But now, the howl of the wind outside whipped and sang me a lullaby. I could feel my eyelids reaching for each other, and I nestled into this comfortable feeling like an old worn easy chair.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Adrenaline spiked in my blood at the shock of the pounding on my driver’s side window. I’d been robbed once before. In this very van. Through sleepy eyes and fogged windows, I turned to face my attacker. The police.
I felt my blood pressure start to recede again, but my heart was still pounding in my ears from the scare. I drew in a deep breath and held it for a second before exhaling again.
I worked the vintage hand-crank to lower the window of this rusty old van, careful not to break the makeshift repair that held the crank together. I was running out of duct tape.
The brim of the State Trooper’s hat was so low I could barely see the man’s eyes as he addressed me. The message on his hat was clear. Maryland State Police.
“Morning Officer,” I said. My voice came out deeper and gruffer than expected.
“Wind restrictions are lifted. The bridge will be open again in five minutes.” He held up a gloved hand extending all five fingers to illustrate the point. The officer spoke with authority. “Then, you can cross over to the island. Just pay at the toll.” He jerked the brim of his hat in the direction of the toll booth up ahead.
“Thank—” I tried to speak, but the man was already walking away before I could answer. Finally, I thought. I had been stuck here waiting for the wind to die down for hours.
In my side-view mirror, I could see the trooper walking down a sparse line of cars and trucks that were waiting to cross over to Claw Island, knocking on windows and informing them of the bridge reopening.
I switched to the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of myself and was shocked to see the age on my face. Hanging from the mirror was an old NASA badge with a photo of my younger self taunting me, along with my name: Brock Finlander. The name was the same, but the face had changed.
I didn’t feel that old, but the mirror begged to differ. The olive skin of my face had started to wrinkle around my eyes. Pacific Islanders usually pass for younger, but the years were catching up to me. My clean-shaven head was a remnant of the decision I made years ago when my hairline started migrating. A strong jaw and a muscular physique, which I had kept up ever since my time in the military, were the only remaining assets from my youth.
Five minutes, I remembered what the officer said. I had some time to check social media. Mostly, I wanted to get a feel for what I was in for and make sure that I could recognize everybody by sight and knew their names by heart. This is a huge step, and I don’t know how it will go. Not knowing your own family is weird and shameful. I set up residence here years ago. But now, I’m ready to move home.
I clicked on a link and pulled up Katie’s page. God, she’s grown into a beautiful and remarkable woman.
I stared for a long time recognizing the features in Katie’s face, and seeing my ex-wife Jackie there. Her long dark waterfall of hair fell straight down framing her creamy smooth cheeks and round eyes set ablaze like sunlight through amber.
Her first post hit me right in the heart. A picture of my grandson, Finn, on his twelfth birthday, which I had just missed. In fact, I had missed all of the birthdays. Most of Katie’s, too.
I typed a comment under the picture. I LOVE YOU. I held my finger over the send button, but just like all the other times, I couldn’t press it. I back-spaced over the message letter-by-letter, watching it disappear before my eyes until only one letter remained. I.
That’s how I felt. Like I stood alone, not knowing exactly how to finish this sentence or anything else in my life. I backspaced again, and the message was completely gone. Like I had never been there, which was my current reality. I hadn’t been. Katie had to grow up without her dad, and Finn without his granddad. And that was on me.
HONK!
I slammed the laptop shut at the sound of the horn honking behind me.
“Move it.” A muffled voice shouted from outside.
A quick turn of the key in the ignition and the van coughed to life. I moved the shift lever to D and the van clunked into gear. I hit the gas and lurched in the direction of the toll plaza.
Here we go.
2
I eased off the gas and pressed the mushy brake pedal. The van barely reacted to the failing brakes. I slowed down to maneuver through the narrow gates of the toll plaza which held a large permanent sign above that read:
---------------------
--BAY BRIDGE --
ACCESS TO CLAW ISLAND
---------------------
After coming to a stop, I patted myself down in search of my wallet.
A muted voice was saying something to my driver-side window, and I rolled down the window to greet the pleasant face of an old woman. The toll taker had thin gray hair. The wrinkled skin of her face bunched up to form a bright smile. She was at least seventy years old, but you wouldn’t know it by her gregarious manner.
“I said, four dollars, hon,” the woman repeated. Her voice was thick with a southern twang.
I was still searching for my missing wallet and nervously stalled for time.
“Nice bridge ya got here,” I said, and thought, what the hell was that? I cringed at m y awkward comment.
“Oh, yeah. Built in 1951 and steady as the wind. My hubby was one of the first to cross,” the woman bragged. “Of course, the water’s not what it used to be. All mucked up from Conowingo. Happens every time they open up the spillway. Flushes out the whole dang bay.”
“Cono-what?” I asked.
“The dam, up north. Last big storm they had up in Pennsylvania and New York nearly flooded out all our rivers down this way. They had to open up the whole dam to handle the flow. Put the town of Port Deposit underwater and damn near flooded the whole Chesapeake Bay,” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the water. “That’ll be four dollars today.”
“Oh, right,” I said and continued frisking myself. I had grown up on this island and knew these parts well, but I had long forgotten about the dam. The woman must have assumed I was a chicken-necker and seemed to take pity on me. Chicken-neckers were outsiders who drove to Claw Island on day trips for fishing and crabbing. Local islanders had always referred to outsiders as chicken-neckers because of their reputation for hand crabbing off the pier using frozen chicken necks from the local butcher shop as bait.
I continued searching for cash, and the old woman began to stall on my behalf.
“Nice van,” she said. “My Lester and I, God rest his soul, always wanted a van. Just like this,” she looked the van up and down. “We were gonna set out and see the world, that’s what he said, but I was always afraid to leave the young-ins for so long,” she said as her eyes drifted off, lost in a memory. After a moment, she snapped back into the present. “How do you get to see the family in a van like this?” she asked.
I handed her sixteen quarters that I dug out of the center console.
“I try,” I said as the gate lifted. I mashed the gas pedal and sped through the gate, wanting to get as far away from the question as I could.
3
The Bay Bridge was over four miles long and the only way onto, or off of Claw Island, making the structure a traffic choke point for vacationers during the summer season.
Today, however, there was almost no one on the bridge. The throngs had already arrived for the annual Rook Sugar Crab Feast, which always coincided with the annual triathlon across the bay, where swimmers traversed miles of open bay water before continuing to the road race.
I handled the unwieldy vehicle under and through the bridge superstructure as the high winds fought me for control of the van. Staying in my lane was becoming a chore. My grip tightened on the wheel and my arm muscles tensed to battle the strong gusts. Looking down over the edge of the bridge, I could see the drop-off was over a hundred feet down to the water’s surface. The sight shot electricity through my body, sending a quick chill and forming knots in my stomach.
I looked back to the road and immediately drove my foot down as hard as I could, trying to push the brake pedal through the floor of the van, but the vehicle continued sliding in the direction of the ungodly sight before me. The sound of screeching tires replaced the howl of the wind.
My mouth gaped open. I couldn’t believe what I saw right in front of me. A massive blue crab running across the road surface, big enough to occupy both lanes. My knuckles went white against the wheel. The van was hurtling closer to the beast as I tried to command the ineffective brakes. Just then, the crab jumped off the edge of the bridge and disappeared.
The van never stopped moving. I checked my rearview in disbelief. I saw a wavering white canvas banner floating in the wind, falling down to the water.
Eyes now back on the road in front of me, I was shaking under the dose of adrenaline coursing through me. Terrified, I moved to the very center of both lanes driving right atop the lane divider-line. I wasn’t taking any chances nearing the edge of the bridge. What the freak was that? I thought as my chest pounded like a bass drum.
At the next stanchion, I saw an expansive white canvas banner that stretched across both lanes of the bridge. The image of a massive blue crab with the words ANNUAL ROOK SUGAR CRAB FEAST emblazoned the sign.
I was starting to calm down now, piecing the puzzle together.
A quarter-mile down the bridge, there was another banner with the giant crab on it. I exhaled in relief. I wasn’t going insane.
“I gotta get off this bridge,” I said out loud.
4
A mallet smashed down on the crab claw sending shards of razor-sharp shell in every direction. The shattered claw was pulled apart to reveal the thick lump crab meat inside. Katie dipped it in melted butter before sucking the delicious delicacy out of the shell.
“Mmmm, so good,” Katie said, with the meat still swirling in her mouth. She sat at a picnic table directly under a giant banner announcing the crab feast.
Jimmy sat across from Katie smashing a crab claw to bits, pounding it mercilessly with a wooden mallet. Bits of shell particles flew with each impact leaving a speckled artwork on Jimmy’s skinny bare chest. He rarely wore a shirt in summertime, and today was no exception. Jimmy’s goatee and porkchop sideburns worked and throbbed as he masticated the shellfish.
“And b-b-b-big, t-t-too,” Jimmy stuttered, using the back of his hand to brush his long dirt-brown mullet behind his neck.
“Spit the dick out yer mouth, before you speak,” Pump said, his words as sharp as the short spikes of his bleached platinum hair. It was difficult to tell when Pump was joking. You could never see his eyes behind the mirrored wraparound sunglasses that he always wore. Anywhere else, Pump would be considered a top class douchebag. But on this island, it was easy to find a following for his cult of personality.
Pump had been merciless toward Jimmy since high school, but Jimmy worshipped him anyway and seemed to follow Pump blindly into whatever moronic scheme he planned.
“Leave him alone,” Sookie said. Her bright red hair flipped around revealing her pierced nose and butterfly tattoo just under her left eye. “If you want to pick on someone, go get your own brother.”
“M-m-m-m-m-maybe I will,” Pump mocked. The stuttering seemed to annoy Pump more than anything else. Ever since his high school football days when Pump had learned to be intolerant, he was irritated by anybody who didn’t fit in. Didn’t wear the same uniform. Pump still had the thick physique, but most of the muscle had dissolved into flab since then.
“These crabs are big,” Katie said, agreeing with Jimmy and bringing the conversation back to normal. “The biggest males I’ve seen this season,” she added.
Pump immediately began sexually thrusting his hips.
“You ain't seen the biggest yet,” Pump said. Jimmy and Sookie started to giggle. They always encouraged his raucous behavior.
“The t-t-trick is to p-p-put a light in the trap,” Jimmy said. “The l-light draws ‘em crabs right in.” His mullet hairstyle flipped around as he spoke.
“We pullin’ in a shitload of these jumbo males. Nine, ten inches across,” Pump bragged. “Best season yet.”
