by J. S. James
“Have to admit, a lot of yelling and desk-pounding went on behind the sheriff’s door, clear up to the point Harvey walked out and slammed it. But he flicked me a wink as he passed by.”
“Meaning?” Delia held her breath for a long second.
“Meaning either the sheriff’s over a staffing barrel, or Harvey’s caving to my charms. I’d pick the second if I didn’t know the county board approved a freeze order on outside hires.”
A coast breeze blew across Delia’s face, cool and sweet.
“Not even one little woo-hoo, Chavez?”
Delia laughed. “Okay, here goes. Woo-hoo!”
“Ouch. I said little. Now, it’s a done deal only if Charlie takes the offer, the sheriff stays desperate, and Harvey keeps winking.”
Small thrills hat-danced a circle inside Delia’s chest. “Think he will?”
“Keep on winking? Well, if I show Harvey a little more cleavage—”
“No, you randy wench. Will Grice wear down?”
“Don’t see he has an option, what with the freeze on. Your time’s coming, Chavez. Just hang in a little longer on doghouse shift, and make some collars.”
As if on cue, Delia’s spoiler alert kicked in along with a sudden urge to pace. Could her brother Enrique still gum up the works from his cell at Los Lunas? The short receiver cord kept her to a single step and turn. Annie’s switch to a new subject had barely registered, but it was perfect for staving off a case of disaster diarrhea.
“Hey girl, been dying to fill you in on the latest. Met this ca-yute frat guy, last night at the Hind Quarter? Well, we—”
“The Hind Quarter? That steak-on-the-hoof sit-down in Salem? Annie, we know you’re a manivore, but a carnivore, too?”
“Funny. Get off your veggie high horse or I’m not giving up one juicy tidbit.”
“Fat chance you won’t.”
7
ONE WEEK BEFORE WATERFOWL SEASON
Dawn hadn’t broken over the far tree line when Delia parked and switched off her county SUV at the crest of a floodlit boat ramp. Independence, Oregon, slept behind her. Down below and never asleep, the river glided past in black silence.
Two aged and starkly contrasting vehicles were backed to the water’s edge. The rust-paneled Jeep Cherokee had a small flatbed trailer attached behind. The second was the pickup she’d been told to look for—a glimmering-red, fully restored Chevy Apache, pulling a small boat piled with brush.
Charlie and Zack Lukovsky sat in the Apache and seemed enthralled with the spectacle to their right. Shirttails flapping, the guy from the Jeep manhandled his drift boat onto the flatbed and clapped on the winch hook, shouting curses that reverberated through her closed windows. She had known both of the Lukovskys for years, but needed to question Charlie about Grice. Say a proper good-bye, too.
Delia was content to wait and watch until they were done at the water and away from the river.
She couldn’t be sure, but when the guy with the Jeep ran around and jumped into the driver’s side, the crotch area of his cargos looked soaked through.
The Jeep lurched up the lane, slowed when the driver saw her SUV, then rolled on by and out of the marine park. The driver’s face was white as a sheet.
Back down the ramp, Charlie got out the driver’s side and mouthed something to Zack, then plodded uphill.
Delia unlocked, swung her mobile data terminal to the center of the SUV’s dash, and made room as Charlie slumped into the passenger seat.
“Hey, Detective Charles Lukovsky.”
“Hey back, Deputy Delia Chavez. Long shift?” Though full-on coworkers, they’d stuck with that minor formality clear back from Delia’s interning with him. She liked Charlie for that.
“Getting longer by the minute. Any idea why that Jeep bombed out of here?”
“The pants-pisser? Either he took sick or something out on that river scared the bejesus out of him.”
“And not a full moon in sight.” She shook her head. “Hey, is what I hear for real? Your gone in a couple weeks?”
His shoulders moved. “Couldn’t pass it up. You know Grice. His ship taking on water and all.”
“Yeah, besides wanting you to know how much I’ll miss you, that’s why I swung by. What’s with him, letting the department slide downhill?”
“Beats me. It’s beyond incompetence.”
They watched Zack in silence for a while, unhooking boat tie-downs, unplugging lights, backing down until the trailer hubs sloshed.
“Has Zack done any writing since high school?” She hadn’t seen him since after-school tutoring. She’d coached him through his senior paper while she finished college. Back then, it had been a toss-up between her first and second passions: teach English language arts at thirty-six a year or catch bad guys for sixty. Sixty won.
“Not a lick. Stickum notes on the fridge. Filling out salmon tags. He still talks about how you kept him from bagging high school, settling for a GED.” Charlie shifted toward her. “He’s pretty bent out of shape about his hunting and fishing partner and all-around sage leaving for Minnesota.” He seemed to hesitate. “Mind checking in on him now and then?”
She gave Charlie a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah, maybe. If I run into him. We haven’t even seen each—”
“Don’t worry about it. Just if you happen to cross paths.”
Zack’s empty boat hauler made water trails up the ramp on its way to parking. The sun cleared the far bank, cutting a golden trail across the river.
Delia filled in their pause with the question that had hung around for days. “Speaking of Grice and ‘beyond competence,’ have you noticed anything unusual?”
“Like?”
The radio croaked. She squelched it. “Like, has he passed a U.S. marshal’s warrant on to Investigations?” Harvey was at a law enforcement conference in Seattle, or they would’ve had a sit-down.
“Nope. Why?” By the halfhearted note in Charlie’s voice, she could tell his head was already in Minnesota.
“He ever mention a naval officer who keeps calling?”
“Look, soon as I let Grice know I was moving on, he lame-ducked me.” Charlie nodded toward Zack, then motioned downhill at the boat full of cut brush. “So, I figured I might as well be out with the ducks and my kid brother.”
Charlie’s kid brother, who had to be twenty-four or -five, strolled up to the SUV. Delia let him into the back seat and scrunched around so she could see both.
“Hi, Zack. Long time.”
He slumped against the seat back. “’Lo, Deputy. Charlie try out his fake Norwegian accent on you? Tell you he’s takin’ a job in Minnesota? That I’m losin’ halfsies on a bigger boat?”
The cage blocked Charlie’s hand—from patting his brother’s knee, maybe? “She knows, Zack.”
“She know why we’re building a duck blind just to hunt for nine or ten days?”
Delia said nothing. Watched Charlie inspect the back of his hands in the tense silence between them.
“Hey Zack,” he said. “Remember a while ago you talked about applying for deputy sheriff?”
She glanced up. Charlie’s idea of checking on expanded like a helium balloon.
His attention was directed at her. His coy smile, too. “You know, Deputy-soon-to-be-Acting-Detective Chavez here went through the Deputy Sheriff’s Academy.” She narrowed her eyes. Thanks a bunch, Charlie. His former intern owed him, and he wasn’t shy about collecting on her debt.
Zack lurched forward, his fingers curling through cage openings. “How’d you do? Was it tough?”
“Pretty tough. Especially written requirements.” She had to be careful not to pop that balloon. Float it off in another direction. “Done much writing since high school?”
“Some.” To her surprise, Zack didn’t sit back. “Funny duck-hunting stories, mostly. Like that Gordon MacQuarrie in Dad’s old Outdoor Life mags.” Charlie’s eyes had gone wide, staring back at his kid brother.
“Nothing I didn’t trash, so far.” Z
ack opened his door and paused. “But hey, you might get a kick out of running upriver with us, seeing the drive-in duck blind we’re building. You could fill me in on the academy.”
Delia’s hand flew to the ignition like a startled bird. “Sorry Zack, not my idea of fun. I gotta get a move on. We’ll talk sometime.” Her ears burned with the white lie.
Charlie levered the door handle, ready to make his escape. “Vell, Zachary, vee got to be goin’ so vee can get after those mollards, you bet you.”
“Don’t start in with that Scandahoovian crap,” Zack said, getting out. “just cause you’re goin’ back there. See you around, Deputy.”
“Sure thing, Zack.” She started the SUV.
Charlie got out and tipped his head back in. “Take care of yourself, A. D. Chavez. And thanks.”
“You, too, Detective Lukovsky. And thanks a lot.”
He eased the passenger door shut, a big grin across his face.
* * *
Gus Grice collapsed into his desk chair with a heavy thump. Head bowed and hunched forward, he stared at the age spots blooming on the backs of his hands. He was getting too old for this garbage.
Suspecting Charlie Lukovsky—his number-two investigator—had taken leave to hunt for greener pastures, Gus had run a what-if flag up the new-hire pole. Not one of the county commishes had saluted. Just the opposite. They’d directed him to fill all future openings from within. Then the SOBs informed him they’d ordered a line-item audit of the departmental budget, including asset forfeitures and slush pots. Pots he’d tapped far more than once.
Damn that Charlie Lukovsky. And damn that Perry Barsch for being right about those bastards coming after him.
Now Gus needed to cover his skim trail. He sat up, yanked out desk drawers, slammed them shut, opened more, and found the old refills. Twenty-sixteen on up to twenty-twenty. They had Day-Timer apps, but Gus preferred paper planners he could pencil in and backdate. Most important, erase as necessary. Pure gold when bean counters came looking for documentation. Load in snitch payoffs here, miles traveled there, and nobody would know the difference.
He hoped.
Gus was partway through his backfilling when the intercom buzzed. He mashed down the lighted button. “Not now, Annie.” He’d instructed her to head off his calls and take numbers.
“Okay, Sheriff. But that naval officer you were asking about the other day is on hold.”
“Kee-rist,” Gus shouted, winging his 2018 filler across the room, where it hit the wall with a thwack.
When it rains, it shits daggers.
“Sheriff?”
He smoothed back wisps of hair, surprised at how clammy his scalp felt. “Put him through.”
Familiar sounds issued from Gus’s receiver—the bustle and chatter of people grouped into small quarters, the repetitious paper sounds coming from banks of copiers. Office noise, not training or operations.
“Commander Bannock? Okay if I call you John?”
No answer. Gus filled the void. “Say, uh, John. We kinda got off on the wrong foot the other day and … well, the past is long past, and—”
“Then you received my packet.” The off-sounding voice again. The boozy slur.
“Well, yeah, John. Speaking of that, what do you plan to do with those old Navy files? You’re not sending them anywhere else, are you?”
A throaty chuckle rattled back over the line. “Relax, Grice. Those were attention-getters. Mainly.”
“Then how about the other two, uh, items?”
“All yours, and more. If we reach an understanding.”
“About?”
“Bastida. The Bastard. About finding him and laying down some military justice. Call it a special operation.”
“Special? How?”
“Taken care of by my unit. Except for people under your command, no other cops involved. That’s where you come in.”
“Me? And what army? John, I lead a small county law enforcement org. Hell, we’re running so shorthanded, I’ve had to promote from within. No way are we equipped to go after some badass superwarrior who—”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Listen to my offer.”
Gus winced, holding the receiver out from his head. The wattage of Bannock’s hissed earful was so powerful, he might as well have shouted. Blood heat rushed up the back of Gus’s neck, sending prickles into his scalp. Nobody had talked to him like that since the goddamn Navy. If it hadn’t been for those files and the two items, and that word offer, he’d have told Bannock to eat a big grubby one and slammed the phone into its cradle.
Gus listened.
“You find the Bastard. We do the going-after. My operators slip in, execute a snatch-and-grab, and slip out. Ghosts in the night.”
Gus rubbed the itchy spot next to his nose. “My people just do the locating?”
Nothing from the other end. Not a man to repeat himself.
“Okay then, John. What makes you think this fugitive is here? Or would stick around, for that matter?”
“First, we learned that he’s originally from Oregon. Second, we’ve traced him into Portland International by way of the Bahamas. And third, my guys tell me the Bastard had a permanent hard-on over some screwed-up family thing that happened way back when. Got so his nonstop muttering about some backwoods poacher drove them nuts.”
A distant shout carried over the line, then scraping sounds, as if Bannock had pulled himself to his feet. Gus knew a barked order when he heard one.
The last of Bannock’s words tumbled out in a low-pitched voice. “Gotta snap to. I’ll leave you this bone to chew on …”
Again Gus listened, thinking it was a fine bone for sure. With extra marrow.
The line went dead.
Gus finished doctoring his old appointment calendars. To the dollar signs, he added flourishes.
8
OPENING DAY OF WATERFOWL SEASON
No damn peace. Delia cursed her luck on the morning before she was slated to become acting detective. Lights and siren running, she floored her cruiser toward Buena Vista Marine Park while Castner screamed at her over the radio.
“Shots fired. Chavez, where the diddly-fuck are you?” Loud booms, followed by the background racket of revving car and boat motors, garbled his next words. “Holy … spent bird shot … comin’ down like fucking hailstones. Get here, quick.”
An ancient van of many colors coughed and sputtered past her, belching blue-black smoke. Moments later, cars stampeded from the fog-bound park as she entered and screeched to a halt near the bottom of the boat ramp—so close to the river of her nightmares that she froze in her seat. Castner’s blue streak faded into ear mush.
There he stood, ankle deep in water and the aftermath of chaos. The stink of bird poop—chicken, maybe—tainted the air that wafted through her open windows. Yellow plastic buckets rolled in the backwash of camouflage-painted hunting boats hightailing downriver. Discarded antihunting signs littered the ramp and emptied parking lot. And the strangest of all: behind those hunters, a large watercraft slinked after them.
Rounded hulls with sides painted in a serpentine pattern, it reminded her of the tropics, its driver of something … fleeting, then gone. The boat seemed to gather mist, a cloaking veil that made Delia doubt what she was seeing.
The dark-toned man standing behind the steering console cut a Captain Ahab–like figure—overused but accurate, she thought—in his long black coat. The resemblance to that fictional character in the bow of a whaleboat was striking: the forward lean, the jutting chin. His fixation on the fog ahead. She half expected a white whale to breach the surface.
“Chavez, you hearing me?” Castner splashed toward her, his voice veering upward, close to soprano.
She shook off the image and got out. Jungle greens and river grayness came together as the boat disappeared into the water-hugging vapor.
“Can’t miss hearing or smelling you,” she answered. “Anyone hit? Injured?”
“Don’t know. Don’t think so. Both
groups split so fast I … I—”
“Secure your weapon and calm yourself.” Opening her cruiser’s rear door, she patted the seat and backed off from his barnyard odor, thinking she might as well get into AD mode.
“Take a minute, then give me a full rundown.”
9
DAY TWO OF WATERFOWL SEASON
Zack Lukovsky stood knee deep at the lower end of Needle Island, listening to the hornet’s drone of his outboard motor fade into the o’dark-thirty gloom. His ants-in-the-pants brother, Charlie, just had to make the mile-long run to the island’s upstream point, sure he’d find better shooting.
Zack knew different. He yanked off a glove with his teeth and untangled the anchor cords from a drake decoy that had drifted against a hen. Unless they were scared, real ducks didn’t clump together. Fakes shouldn’t either. He left the hen in place, unwound more anchor line, and gave the drake a heave into deeper water. The decoy held in the current.
Fringe ice crackled as he waded onto the gravel bar. His pick to hunt, not Charlie’s. Forget they’d set out a humongous decoy spread. Never mind they still needed to throw together some kind of makeshift cover to hunt behind. No, his older brother had to wander, even after Zack told him Needle’s upper end was a jumble of snags and shifting currents.
Charlie’d see it was unhuntable and motor back.
Zack snatched up a machete and bent low beside a willow thicket, hacking at young shoots, making them take the blame for the ruined duck blind he and his brother had spent damn near two weeks building.
Whack. Whack.
Best damned floating blind on the river. Pontoons shaped in a drive-in U. Styrofoam floats supporting a shoulder-high chicken-wire frame. Moss-green Scotch broom and dirty-yellow canary grass wove in thick all the way around. So natural looking under the trees and behind the flooded corn stubble that the ducks needed X-ray vision to spot him or Charlie. Once they ran the boat inside and closed the brush gate.
But not that morning. Not on Zack’s last hunt with his brother for what could be a long while. The sight of that burnt-out blind had made Zack feel like somebody’d crapped in his hip boot. Probably one of those fool demonstrators from opening day with a bottle of jellied gas and a stiffy for spoiling a natural sport.
