Undercurrent

By Elisabeth Wright

In Undercurrent, a crime fiction novel, Jack Franco, a combat decorated veteran drowns under somewhat suspicious circumstances. Undercurrent is set in a sleepy harbor town in northwest Washington. It all begins when Paul Bannon, former Army buddy of Jack is fired unexpectedly and decides he needs a break from the fast paced life of Los Angeles. He heads up to Little Bay Harbor to check on Jack who has gone radio silent for the past year. As he spends time with Jack he begins to understand the self-inflicted and tragic world that Jack has created for himself. Paul is determined to help Jack but becomes conflicted when he finds himself falling in love with Jack's wife, Swan. To Paul, Swan's world seems tragic as well. There is a subtle but constant tension among the Franco family and their close friends.

Paul is a soldier. And he is a problem solver. He has killed before and wonders if he can do it again albeit under very different circumstances. He carefully plans a boating adventure with Jack and Swan. A series of fast paced events result in Jack's drowning. The drowning is initially ruled accidental but when more evidence begins to surface, Paul is indicted for second degree murder. In a turn of events it seems that Paul's indictment may have been premature.

Central to the plot is Jack's wife Swan. She runs the family owned bakery with Jack's aging mother Millicent. Swan is manipulative. She is trapped in a cycle of endless boredom and a loveless marriage. She dreams of a life filled with freedom and excitement. She sees no possibility of escaping her situation until Paul appears and stays longer than he planned. Their affair marks the beginning of a treacherous path of deceit and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350925784

Book preview

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Undercurrent

©2023, Elisabeth Wright

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35092-577-7

ISBN eBook: 979-8-35092-578-4

We are who we pretend to be.

So we must be careful who we pretend to be.

Kurt Vonnegut

Contents

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2

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PART I

1

South Sound Chronicle, April 16: (Little Bay Harbor, WA)

Body of Local War Hero

Jack Franco Found

The body of John Franco, a combat decorated veteran who served tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan, was found yesterday washed ashore on the north side of Clamshell Island. Earlier this week, the small craft he was in with his wife Swan and longtime friend Paul Bannon hit rough waters in South Sound. Both were rescued and released later that day from South Sound Hospital, where they were treated for hypothermia. The search and rescue efforts for Mr. Franco had been called off two days before because the undercurrents were so strong that pinpointing a range of search and rescue became impossible. The coroner ruled his death an accidental drowning.

2

4 months later

There was no good day to drive into downtown Los Angeles. That day was no exception. The Santa Monica Freeway was jammed up. Two hours into what should have been a twenty-minute drive with no traffic, Paul found police headquarters, a sleek modern building that was built for security, not aesthetics. The building looked out of place but served as a reminder to its neighbors that their time was coming. He circled the block and found a metered lot close by. The lot had a series of spaces that were signed as reserved for police business. He figured the personal invitation he got to come down for a chat qualified him for one of those spaces.

Paul parked and hesitated before getting out of the car. He took a deep breath and looked at the building. He was nervous and wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe because this was the big time, not the local police chief in a small town. While he couldn’t rationalize his feelings, he knew he would be able to control them. He didn’t like being interviewed at any police station. Paul headed for the front entrance and took the stairs two at a time, coming face-to-face with a security cop. After carefully examining Paul’s ID and frisking him in places he didn’t need to, he waved Paul in. Two security checks later, a burly escort led him down a long, narrow inside corridor. He pointed to a small waiting room, letting Paul know the detectives were on their way. Paul should sit tight. Right, Paul thought. He looked around the room. Previous guests had carved their initials into the old wood chairs. The building was new, but the furniture wasn’t. Defund the police, he wondered. They could use some money to buy new furniture.

Two detectives entered the waiting room. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Bannon. Fighting that traffic this time of day requires a lot of patience. I’m Detective Swift, and on my left here is Detective Hoffman. We’re new to this case. We’re trying to help out the police chief up in Little Bay Harbor. He’s an old friend of our captain. Sorry to trouble you, but we just need to tie up a few loose ends about that boating incident a couple months back. It shouldn’t take too long.

Paul nodded in acknowledgement. He’d already made up his mind to be as cordial and unhelpful as possible. After all, he’d already said what he had to say. They should know that. Paul followed them to a small room down the hall. A place they could talk in private, one of them said. The sign on the door said Inner Sanctum. The room was small, alright, with just four gray metal chairs and a matching table. A previous guest had keyed PIGS into the top of the table. Detective Swift offered Paul a seat. His partner shuffled through some papers while absentmindedly running his fingers through hair that was frozen in place by some cheap hair gel.

Happy to help LAPD’s finest, Paul said, summoning his best smile. He glanced at his watch. I work, you know, so I don’t have much time.

Detective Hoffman looked up curiously. He lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose. Oh, our apologies. We thought . . . well, we stopped by your office the other day, and they told us you were on some sort of long vacation, courtesy of the firm, and, if I am not mistaken, uncompensated. Not why we’re here, though.

Just a misunderstanding between me and a client, Paul said. He immediately regretted the unnecessary explanation.

A long pause weighed down the air in the tiny, whitewashed room. Paul decided to break the awkward silence. Look, detectives, he said. I know you guys are new, but I already made statements about what happened. I don’t know what else I can tell you. What else do you want to know?

Everything, Detective Hoffman replied.

Paul was more than surprised. There was no more ‘everything,’ and he told them exactly that. He had no intention of wasting this warm, sunny day here in this place with these two detectives. The whole scene was already making him uncomfortable.

Yeah, like I said, Mr. Bannon, we’re really sorry to bother you again, but can you just go over it one more time for us? You’d really be helping us out. You know. Paperwork. Pain in the you know what. I’m in for a promotion and there are far juicier cases to work on than a drowning up the left coast.

Anyway, Detective Hoffman continued, memory is a funny thing. Sometimes we recall things that we had forgotten.

Swift held up a thick folder and dropped it on the table for emphasis.

Lots of paper in there, for sure, Paul said. You guys should take better care of your files.

Paul eyed the folder and tempted silence. Then he pointed to it and its contents. Lots of crumpled-up bits of paper with coffee stains on them. He told them to go digital. Cleaner, cheaper. You know, he added, save a tree.

They thanked him for the advice. We’ll be sure to mention it to the captain, Mr. Bannon. Right now, we care about one thing and one thing only. We want to wrap up our contribution to this investigation and move on to do real police work.

Paul sighed and nodded. Where do you want me to start? he asked.

How about you start at the beginning, Mr. Bannon? Detective Swift said.

The beginning? Paul asked with an incredulous tone in his voice.

Yeah. Again, we’re sorry. We really don’t want to do this again because we overlooked something. The lieutenant will put us on traffic patrol. Hoffman rested his elbows on the table. Okay, I’ll start. How is it that you decided to visit Jack Franco? He opened the file and pulled out a yellow pad of paper. You said in an earlier statement that you hadn’t seen him in about three years.

Paul leaned back in his chair. He was getting uncomfortable, and his fingers twitched to prove it. As casually as he could, he moved them to his lap, mindful of how body language could be misinterpreted. The whole scene reminded him of SERE school, a memory he had blocked long ago. He felt himself getting ready to be a bit cocky. He caught himself. He was overconfident. It was his Achilles heel, but his confidence had gotten them out of many bad situations at the forward operating base in Kandahar.

I used to hear from Jack every now and then, Paul said. There was a group of us who were war buddies. You know, shootouts, wait outs, packing light, and freezing at night. Afghanistan can get cold. People don’t know that. Then, about a year ago, Jack dropped off the grid. No text messages, no Instagram. Nothing. So, I got curious. Jack was one of the good guys.

Swift asked Paul if he tried calling Jack.

Calling him? Paul replied. You’re kidding, right? If he doesn’t answer a text, he sure as hell isn’t going to answer his phone, especially from a 424 area code. So I needed a vacation and thought, ‘Why not go see what’s happened to him?’"

Hoffman coughed. He thought that Paul’s way of describing a vacation was at the very least interesting. He made a mental note of this. Paul was starting to look like a guy who spins the truth.

Swift looked up with a mild curiosity evident on his face. He asked Paul what he meant when he said what happened to him.

Well, Paul replied, I mean, just catch up like old buddies do.

Swift wasn’t letting this go. He was probing the distinction between the words what happened to him and catch up. Paul had said both. Which was it?

Paul shook his head. Jeez, I don’t know. I guess I was just worried about him. We all kept in touch on social media. Just posting weird stuff. Sharing Duffleblog posts and military parodies that show how fucked up the military really is. Jack liked that stuff. We all did. Validated our experiences. I got the idea that Jack’s family maybe, you know, didn’t understand that he might be broken—you know, like some guys are after they’ve seen some nasty war shit. Jack was a sensitive guy. He fought from the neck up."

Hoffman interrupted. Paul, sorry to cut you short here with all the war hero stuff. Before I forget—you know, I’m getting old—did you ever run across a guy in Little Bay Harbor they call Buddha?

Paul wondered where this was going. This was a new thread. No one had asked him about Buddha before. Yeah, I met up with him a few times, Paul said. He’s hard not to miss. He lives in an old netshed on the shoreline up there in a sheltered cove. Wanders around the piers with a Rainier beer in his hand and a seal following him. He’s definitely weird. You guys meet him?

We did indeed, Hoffman replied. Had a nice chat with him one morning. The police chief invited us up to have a look around. Buddha thinks he heard something that day. You know, the day of the incident. He didn’t think much of it in the beginning. But he began talking to folks and you know, one thing led to another, and it got back to the police chief.

Paul shook his head in disbelief. So, some old drunk waterman with a pet seal starts talking some trash, and you guys get interested. Doesn’t make much sense to me.

Well, actually, it does, Swift said. Make sense to us, I mean. Memory is a funny thing.

Yeah, you already said that. You are getting old, Paul replied.

Hoffman opened his mouth to speak.

Please don’t interrupt me, Swift snapped. Where was I? You see, I lost my train of thought. Oh yeah, memory. Buddha claims to have seen the three of you out there. He recognized the boat. He’d lent it to Jack for that specific outing. The water was choppy. No disagreement on that. This whole thing has left quite an impression on him. He was a good friend of Jack’s father back in the day.

Paul, when we pull up a memory, it doesn’t always slide into our consciousness exactly the way it happened. It’s reconstructed, and subtle but important differences may appear. And that’s where we are. As I said, trying to tie up a few loose ends.

Paul’s face remained blank.

Swift decided to take a detour from his line of inquiry. He asked Paul where he was from.

Los Angeles, Paul replied. Why?

Well, you have a New York accent, Swift said.

Yeah, Paul said. I was raised in New York. Paul didn’t like the small talk. He headed into defensive mode. What about you, Detective? You have a New York accent too.

That’s right, Swift said, squaring his shoulders for effect. Queens through and through.

Paul shook his head and smiled. He was losing his patience. Yeah, seems like every cop who fucks up there winds up here.

Swift leaned in. I’m going to ignore that. But seeing as how we come from the same place, I can call you Paulie, right?

Paul shrugged. Sure.

It was Swift’s turn to smile. And you can call me detective.

Swift, knock it off, Hoffman said, shaking his head.

Hey partner, I’m just trying to form a bond here.

God Almighty, Paul said, frustration showing in his tone. I don’t need to bond with you.

Hoffman leaned in, almost standing up behind the table. Paul sat straight, determined not to let Hoffman be the alpha male. God? You want to do God? We can do God, Paulie. Whatever it takes, whatever you need. Confession is good for the soul. That’s what it says in the good book.

Paul stood up. Detectives, I don’t know what you are trying to do here, but I think I should get going. Or make a phone call. It’ll be quick. The phone call, I mean. Maybe a lawyer friend of mine needs to come down here.

Hoffman held his hands up in feint defeat and asked Paul not to go there. It was just a friendly conversation. Nothing for Paul to worry about. They just needed to understand what happened that day.

Paul’s patience was exhausted. Look, you guys—I mean detectives. I’ve got nothing to add to what I’ve already said to the police chief. Nothing. My memory is solid.

Swift stared at Paul for a few seconds. You know what I see in front of me? I see a smart guy. Me? Not so smart, but what I am is incredibly perceptive about people. It makes me good at what I do. But back to you. Paulie, I think you have a remarkable gift. You have the astonishing ability to be sincere and deceptive at the same time. In my book, that is truly a gift. I don’t see it too often, but when I do, I’m impressed.

Swift stood up and put his hands in his pockets. "Let me tell you what I think, Paulie. Just one word—one syllable. Swan.