Shiver on the Sky

by David Haywood Young

Chapter Eleven

  (Monday, Late Afternoon—Owen)

  The rain had stopped while Owen was in Andrea’s apartment, and the sky was clearing. He chose to think of it as an omen. Sooner or later, things had to start working out a little better. For somebody.

  When he got to the marina, he wondered about the wisdom of walking out to the Fusty Navel, still supposed to be off-limits, in plain sight—but he couldn’t come up with a reasonable alternative. There were a few people about, cleaning and oiling and varnishing, generally doing the chores necessary to slow a boat’s inevitable decay, but none were friends or close acquaintances.

  None, as far as he knew, had any reason to notice him. Though that depended on what rumors had spread after he’d been led down the dock in handcuffs.

  Deciding boldness was his only choice, he left Shadow in the car again (he would have to make all this up to the mutt later, somehow) and strode to the houseboat, trying not to be obvious about glancing around for reactions. But maybe, he thought wryly, he wasn’t the center of the universe after all…given that nobody seemed to pay him any attention.

  The police had left yellow crime-scene tape along the dock beside the boat, and on the two large doors (hatches, he reminded himself) to the main salon. They hadn’t put anything on the forward hatch, though, possibly not recognizing it as an entrance in spite of the padlock. Owen was constantly surprised by how little most residents of a coastal city knew about boats, but in this case it seemed to have worked in his favor. Or maybe they’d just run out of tape.

  Continuing under his apparent cloak of invisibility (however oxymoronic that might be, he suddenly realized), he vaulted lightly onto the forward deck, unlocked the hatch, and entered the boat. He looked around just before closing it behind him, and still nobody seemed to care what he was doing. Shrugging, he latched it and turned toward the salon.

  The boat had been thoroughly searched, and the searchers hadn’t been too careful about putting things back where they’d come from. Owen stood still for a moment, wondering if he’d ever really be back to stay. It didn’t feel like home anymore. It was actually more of a tomb—and not just for Leon. Part of Owen’s life had ended here too. Though he’d gotten a far better deal than Leon had.

  He sniffed the air. There was still a faint odor from the salon, and he switched quickly to breathing through his mouth. He didn’t want to think about the source of the smell, or remember Leon at all, just then. Owen had an idea that if he did, he might try to feel Leon’s presence—here in the place where his friend had drunk so much beer, argued late into so many nights, and died so bloodily.

  It was ridiculous. But he wasn’t sure what might happen in here, given the opportunity. If ghosts existed, which he was fairly sure they didn’t, but if they did, Leon’s would be found here. Not that he was afraid of Leon, exactly, but if he were in some sense still here…a deranged inner voice wondered aloud what death might have made of him.

  Spooked, feeling foolish but with the backs of his arms nevertheless suddenly covered with goosebumps, he moved quickly to the old wooden breadbox he kept in the galley.

  He’d bought the breadbox years ago from the same garage sale at which he’d found the spear. (Which someone had shoved in Leon’s face, and where was it now?) He used the box to store keys, matches, and other small objects that didn’t otherwise have a home. It was old, and decorated with a carving of a man catching a huge fish, with the fishing line snaking through the air. But any self-respecting fish would have an excellent chance of dislodging the hook before the faceless angler could take in all that slack.

  Owen hesitated for a moment, staring at the fish and the hook that was so clearly poking out of the side of its mouth, remembering Leon and the spear again, then put it firmly out of his mind. It was absurd for a grown man to be afraid of a breadbox.

  He opened it. His Jeep keys were gone.

  Gone. The floor disappeared beneath his feet, leaving him hanging over an abyss. If Shawna had needed the Jeep, she would have used her own keys. She wouldn’t have needed these. So if she hadn’t borrowed the Jeep, and it was missing—who had taken the keys?

  Leon, maybe? Owen grasped at the thought. Leon knew where the keys were, and he was here when…when he was killed.

  Grimly, Owen searched the boat, hoping desperately he’d find the keys had been set aside somewhere. Or possibly thrown. But he couldn’t believe Shawna had taken them.

  If Leon had taken the keys, intending to use the Jeep, and been surprised by an intruder…if the keys were still in the boat it meant the intruder probably didn’t take the Jeep. Probably didn’t take it to Junior’s place, probably didn’t take Shawna away in it. Probably hadn’t had close to a full day of additional time to dispose of the Jeep (and Shawna?) because Owen had decided to be clever instead of telling the police the Jeep was missing.

  After nearly an hour of searching, he gave up. It was still possible, he told himself, that the police had found the keys and taken them for some reason. And if they hadn’t, the longer he kept looking for the keys the longer it would be before they knew to look for the Jeep.

  He needed to call Detective Gordon. But when he picked up the phone he found himself dialing the number for Signs & Portraits instead.

  When Martina answered he didn’t know how to begin. After saying “Hello” a couple of times, she hung up. He called her back.

  “Hello?” she demanded.

  “Martina? It’s me, Owen.”

  “Oh.” Her voice suddenly sounded smaller than he remembered, as if she were unsure how to react to him. “Was that you a second ago?”

  “Yeah. It was. Sorry about that.” Whatever she thought of him now, it was about to get worse. “Listen, I have some news—”

  “Owen, the police were here. They just recently figured out Shawna didn’t work at CyberLook anymore, I guess. Anyway, they asked if I knew where you were. I told them I didn’t, but I don’t know if they believed me. One of them kept staring at me as if he expected me to flip out and start stabbing people right and left. And they really wanted to find you, Owen. They made it sound like you were involved, like maybe you had been killing people.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I have been, in a way. I hope not.”

  “But—” she chopped herself off. He waited. “Owen, that’s ridiculous. What’s happened? What is it I don’t know?”

  She sounded businesslike again. Owen shook himself. “I thought I would be able to tell you that Shawna was probably fine,” he said. “Hiding, and I don’t know why she would do that, but probably okay. But now it looks as if I might have been wrong. There was some information I didn’t give the police, and I don’t know how critical it would have been, but I held it back when I shouldn’t have. I need to call them now. I just wanted to talk to you first, let you know what’s happening.”

  She sighed. “Okay, Owen. Calm down. Just tell me what’s happened.”

  He told her about the missing Jeep, and the missing keys. When he finished, she was silent for a few moments. He waited, wondering what she would say to him. He’d been an idiot, and it was Shawna’s life he’d risked. “Look,” she said just before he was compelled to say something to be sure she was still on the line. “I agree you should call the police. But it probably doesn’t matter about the Jeep, you know. Chances are, if the killer had it, he got rid of it a couple of days ago. And he didn’t leave prints or anything at either your place or Junior’s—or the police would have them. They’d be looking for him, not you. So he probably didn’t leave any clues in the Jeep either.”

  “True.” He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I just feel…”

  “Responsible? Because of course you feel responsible, you’re the kind of guy who would. But listen to me, Owen. You did none of this. You are not responsible for the…the things this killer has done, whatever they turn out to be. When you didn’t mention the Jeep, it was for a good reason.” She was silent for a few seconds. “Go ahead and call the police, and come by my
place when it’s over.” She gave him the address. “I’m closing up shop here for the day, but we need to talk and figure out what to do next.”

  Owen agreed. Using her no-nonsense businesslike voice, she told him to cheer up, that Shawna might still be okay. If Owen hadn’t heard her sobbing before, he might not have been able to detect it now. She hung up before he could say anything. Again.

  Probably for the best that she did that, he decided. He felt like an ass for dragging her into it, and knew what she would say to that, and forcibly pulled his thoughts out of a useless spiral of guilt and impotence.

  He took several deep breaths, remembered Shawna in some of the poses she assumed for meditation, and almost managed to laugh. He smiled, to see how it felt. Not bad. Okay, time to face the music.

  Calmer, he dialed Detective Gordon’s cell phone number.

  “Gordon, CCPD, what now?”

  “Detective Gordon? This is Owen Tremaine?”

  “Tremaine? Hold on a sec.” Owen heard him tell someone he was pulling over. After a few moments he came back. “Tremaine. We need to talk.”

  “I know. I heard you were looking for me. And I have information for you. My Jeep—”

  “Why don’t we meet downtown, at Police Headquarters?”

  Oh boy. “Are you planning to arrest me?”

  “Arrest you?” Gordon asked. Owen heard him repeating the question to someone else. “I don’t know,” he said to Owen. “I’d like to, because I’ve had a really lousy day and I don’t think much of you right now, but I guess it depends on you. Do you want to be arrested? Do you want to confess to something?”

  “No, and no. Why don’t we meet somewhere else? Neutral ground, maybe.”

  Gordon snorted. “Neutral ground? Who are you, Sun Tzu? Karl von Clauswitz? You know, on ‘Star Trek’ entering the Neutral Zone never seemed to work out all that well.”

  “Is that a ‘no’?”

  “No, it’s just a bad day. Where?”

  Owen thought about it. He looked at his watch. Nearly five o’clock. “The City Diner? I’m not far from downtown, so I could be there by five-thirty. And I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

  “Huh. Imagine that. Yeah, that’s good. I’ll meet you there in an hour or so. Bringing somebody along with me. If you beat us there, order up some fried mushrooms. You’re buying.” He hung up.

  Owen cradled the phone and made a final pass through the boat, piling up clothes and toiletries he would need—assuming again that he wouldn’t be in jail. He didn’t plan to come back here any time soon.

  He discovered the police (or someone) had taken his 7mm Browning hunting rifle and his Winchester 12-gauge shotgun, but had missed his Colt .45 model 1911 pistol. Sloppy of somebody. He put the Colt, and a box of ammunition, in the pile he was taking with him.

  It occurred to him that he hadn’t checked his messages. He went back to the main salon and found his answering machine smashed on the floor close to where Leon’s body had been.

  He hoped he hadn’t missed anything important.

  Before he left, he picked up the phone and made another call.

  ***