Shiver on the Sky

by David Haywood Young

  * * *

  Owen woke to knocking on his door. Oh come on, he thought as he rolled out of bed. Again? What now?

  He glanced at the clock. Seven fifty-three. He picked up the .45 and went to the door.

  This time there was plenty of light coming through the window, so he didn’t look through the peephole. Maybe Shawna had a point about that. “Who’s there?” he called.

  “Gordon.”

  “Just a sec.” He looked at the gun. Oh hell, Gordon had seen guns before. He reversed his grip on the Colt, holding it by the barrel, and opened the door.

  Gordon stood outside with a small, neatly dressed black man. Owen stood back, waving for them to come in, and offered the gun to Gordon hilt-first. “Careful. You want to shoot me, better use your own. This one needs cleaning.”

  Gordon took it, nonplussed. “Nervous?” he asked

  “I’ve got reason to be.” Owen pointed to the table. “Have a seat, gentlemen. If you want coffee, I can make some.”

  The black man smiled. “I’m Jon Faulkner, Mr. Tremaine. Detective Gordon and I are partners. And yes, I would like some coffee.” He sat down, quirking an eyebrow at Gordon. “Phil?”

  Gordon shrugged. “Sure, coffee would be good.”

  Owen started making it, using supplies the hotel had left in his room. He had no idea how much they’d charge him for the coffee—but he wasn’t really awake, and he’d drunk too much Scotch last night. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Maybe,” Gordon said. “Let’s wait till we’re all sitting down for that. How’ve things been going?”

  Owen laughed briefly. “I don’t know. I’m confused by it all. I’ve got a better handle on the stuff going on at CyberLook than I did the last time we spoke, if you guys both know what I’m talking about. It’s where Junior and I used to work?” He looked over his shoulder.

  Gordon nodded. “Faulkner knows what I know.”

  “Okay. I talked to Viktor Bentley, and he hired me to try to find out what bothered Junior so much he’d tried to hire me. I haven’t figured that out at all, but here’s what I did find out.” He summarized what Johnny Opiela had told him and Martina. “So I don’t know what’s going on there, but it’s bigger than I thought.”

  He brought the coffee to the table. “Only two real mugs, guys, so you take ‘em and I’ll drink out of this.” He picked up one of the plastic cups he and Shawna had used and washed it out in the sink, returning to the table with coffee in hand.

  Gordon looked at the empty cup remaining on the table, then glanced briefly at Faulkner.

  Owen’s head hurt. Christ on a crutch. Why hadn’t he picked those up before he opened the door? How many other ways would he screw up, this morning?

  “Let me see if I got this straight,” Gordon said. “You think Bentley’s company is doing some work for the government, but you’re not sure.”

  “Right. It has to be something like that. Could even be a foreign government, I guess. Maybe that’s why that guy Stanley was with you?”

  Gordon made a face. Faulkner looked interested. “I thought you and your friend had a theory about eco-terrorists?”

  “Not my theory,” Owen said. “Carl’s theory. But I don’t know enough to rule anything out. As I said, right now I’m confused.”

  Faulkner nodded. “There’s a lot of that going around.” He looked at Gordon. “Phil?”

  “Oh hell,” Gordon said. “Mr. Tremaine, I have to ask you a question.” He pointed a finger at Owen. “I know you have a tendency to think for yourself, and you can get a lawyer if you want and refuse to answer anything we ask. But I think I’ve been fair with you so far, and I’d like you to answer this honestly and completely. It’s important. Okay?”

  Owen looked at him. Gordon was unsmiling, the sparks of humor Owen had come to expect nonexistent now. “Sure.” Gordon was right. He had been fair. Shawna’s fears about the police in general might or might not be well-founded, but Gordon consistently demanded the truth. “If I can answer, I will.”

  Faulkner spoke up. “Phil? It’s not our case. We can just leave. Right now.”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, I think we need to see this through. Or at least I do.” He looked back to Owen. “Okay. Mr. Tremaine, when was the last time you saw Shawna McPhee?”

  Not their case? What did that mean? If they weren’t even going to work on it anymore, why talk to them? But Gordon didn’t look like he would let it go. And they had come to him. Owen decided to cooperate, for the moment at least. Besides, Shawna was gone and had been for hours. And they’d seen the second plastic cup. “She came by last night, about two o’clock.”

  “Why did she come?” Faulkner asked.

  “To tell me she was okay.” There was no way he could explain about Andrea and Aaron. Fair or not, good cop or not, even Gordon wouldn’t believe that one.

  But he suddenly realized he had an opportunity to do something for Shawna. “And to tell me what happened on Saturday night,” he said after a brief pause. He passed on Shawna’s version of the events at Junior’s house. “So she’s hiding somewhere,” he finished.

  “Any idea where? Or why she didn’t come to us?” Gordon asked.

  “No. She wouldn’t tell me where she was staying.” Which was true. No need to mention Andrea. “And she just doesn’t trust the police right now. She thinks there’s some kind of complicated frame-up going on.”

  Gordon nodded. “What time did she leave?”

  “About four-thirty. She didn’t want to be seen here.”

  Faulkner broke in. “Mr. Tremaine, what happened while she was here?”

  Owen looked at him. “Mr. Faulkner, we talked. And anything else is frankly none of your business.”

  “It’s an important question,” Gordon said.

  “Any rough stuff, Mr. Tremaine?” Faulkner asked.

  “What? Rough stuff? Are you guys crazy? No.”

  “You did have sex with her, though, didn’t you?” Faulkner asked. He indicated the empty plastic cup and the bottle of Scotch sitting on the counter. “You were drinking?”

  This was crazy. “Hey.” Owen looked quizzically at Faulkner. “She’s my girlfriend. We do that sometimes. What’s going on? Why are you asking that?” Suddenly he wondered if something had happened to Shawna. Did they think he had done something to her? But…why?

  He met Gordon’s eyes. “I’ve been honest with you. Now tell me what’s going on, or I guess I will have to call that lawyer.”

  Gordon closed his eyes for a moment. Owen felt gut-shot, absolutely certain he didn’t want to hear what Gordon would say next.

  “Mr. Tremaine,” Faulkner said in his precise, polite voice, “we are policemen. Sometimes, in the course of our duties, we are compelled to withhold information from people who have every right to know what we know. We have done this today, and I apologize.”

  “Go ahead,” Owen said dully. They wouldn’t have gone through all this buildup, unless…“Just tell me.”

  Gordon spoke. “Miss McPhee was found dead about five-thirty this morning, in a trash bin outside this hotel. She hadn’t been there long.” He watched Owen carefully.

  Owen was numb. “It couldn’t have been too long,” he said. “She’d just left here an hour before that.”

  Gordon nodded. “And I assume nobody but you saw her leave?”

  “I don’t know. But that was sort of the point.”

  “Right. And, forgive the question, but there was no violence here?”

  “No!” Owen almost shouted. “There never was,” he said more quietly.

  “Miss McPhee had what appeared to be skin under her fingernails,” Faulkner said. “Any ideas about that?”

  “Oh.” Owen stood up, turned away from them and lifted his shirt. Sometimes she scratched when…when we . . .” He sank back into his chair and put his face in his hands. “I guess I need that lawyer after all.”

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Tremaine,” Faulkner said. “Any idea how she mig
ht have come to be bruised severely?”

  “No. God, no. What happened to her?”

  “We’re not quite sure,” Gordon said. “She was beaten, and her…ah, injuries indicated rape was a strong possibility. Skin under the fingernails is generally interpreted as a sign the victim fought back. Did you use a condom last night, Mr. Tremaine?”

  “No.” Privacy was no longer a concern. “We didn’t have any, and we were pretty emotional, so…anyway, no, I didn’t.” He’d been hoping—he thought they’d both been hoping—they wouldn’t have to worry about condoms anymore. They’d both wanted kids. Someday. Maybe now. It had been a thrilling kind of gamble.

  Gordon nodded. “So at least some of the semen is probably yours, and so is the skin under her fingernails, and she was found outside your hotel. And it already looked bad, with Junior Bentley found dead and Miss McPhee involved in that, and you with no alibi for any of it. Or for what happened to Leon Purvis on your boat either.” He looked at Faulkner. “Sounds like enough to convict right there.”

  Faulkner nodded. “I’m sure it is. Especially if anyone involved at, say, the federal level, has an interest in shutting the investigation down.”

  “What are you saying?” Owen asked. “Am I under arrest?”

  Gordon and Faulkner looked at each other in silence. Faulkner shrugged slightly. “No,” Gordon said after a moment. “I guess you’re not. At least not by us, not right now.” He met Owen’s eyes. “Look, Tremaine, there’s a lot about this I don’t understand. But…this is all just too damned convenient for somebody. All the loose ends fray to nothing, and we’re left with a love triangle and an enraged boyfriend?” He shook his head.

  “Implausible,” Faulkner agreed. “And let’s not forget the missing girl.”

  Missing girl? Who was she? What were they talking about?

  “Right,” Gordon said. “There’s this eco-terrorist possibility, which I don’t know if it’s significant, but that kidnapping is tied in somehow. And now we find out the Feds are probably involved in your company, Mr. Tremaine.”

  Owen looked back and forth, unsure of what to say.

  Faulkner sighed. “Mr. Tremaine, I have been a detective for fifteen years. I have never seen such an embarrassment of evidence of guilt, delivered so conveniently. The one thing I know for certain is that this morning’s events obscure all traces of what a skeptical mind might suspect to be federal involvement. Something else is going on, at another level, and I’d like to know what it is.”

  Gordon stood. “Besides, it’s not our case. The Feds claimed jurisdiction. You can turn yourself in, if you want to, and if you do we’ll help you set it up to avoid any,” he shrugged, ”…incidents.” He looked at Owen. “That what you want?”

  Owen shrugged fatalistically. “Not really, no. But what else is there?”

  “I never told anybody where you were staying,” Gordon said, “and nobody who matters for this knows we’re here. That won’t last for more than another couple of hours at most, but you could probably just walk out of here, right now.”

  There was a knock on the door. Owen sagged.

  Gordon’s jaw tightened. “Or maybe not.”

  Faulkner went to answer it.

  Owen rested his head on the table, listening to Faulkner calmly try to get rid of whoever it was. He began to relax.

  Whoever stood out there didn’t seem willing to leave, though. A few moments later Owen heard a familiar voice, sounding worried but determined. “Hey dude, I know this is his room. I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got to talk to him.”

  Owen raised his head. Aaron? “It’s okay,” he called. “He’s a friend.” Sort of.

  Gordon calmly wiped off the mugs he and Faulkner had used. “Stay in touch, Owen.” He stood and went out with Faulkner, who had held the door open for Owen’s guest. Owen blinked. Gordon had called him by his first name.

  Aaron stood just inside the room, his hands fitfully twisting a baseball cap. Had he realized he was talking to the police? If Andrea didn’t have her papers, had Aaron had any ID to show if they’d asked for it?

  Owen waited for the door to close. “Okay,” he said quietly. “What now?”

  Aaron’s fingers crumpled the cap. “My car’s outside,” he said, speaking quickly. “Shawna borrowed it last night. Is she still here?”

  “No.” Owen was reluctant to say the words, as if saying them would make the nightmare real. But even if the words did contain a vile magic, it was too late. They had been said earlier, by Gordon, and his matter-of-fact tones had created a repellent new reality, banishing all contrary hopes and fantasies.

  “She’s dead.”