River Run

by J. S. James

  She slipped off the rubber band and unfurled two pages, one a federal marshal’s fugitive circular and the other a diagram for a military-style boat. The cut of it seemed familiar. She skimmed the circular on Gunner’s Mate Robert Bastida, noting a litany of warrant charges: desertion while on deployment, larceny of U.S. government property, reckless endangerment of a military operation, attempted homicide. The last and most relevant gave her pause. She tried to imagine how a naval specialist trained to kill silently, quickly, and efficiently had earned a botched homicide charge. A photo at the bottom stuck with her. The head shot was marred from a dirty fax machine, but the faintly distracting image had her struggling to process what Grice was telling her.

  “Don’t pay that old circular much attention. Bastida’s an alias. Nobody in his home state knew anything useful. But he’s our guy.”

  Grice leaned toward her, the springs of the bench seat creaking. “Keep this on the q.t. I’m not allowed to go into details, but a certain naval unit in Virginia has requested assistance in locating this fugitive’s base of operations.” He shrugged. “As for his arrest, well … when the time comes, I’m prepared to bring in, let’s say, specialized resources.”

  “Yeah, but—if he’s our killer—”

  “Look, the Navy wants him back in the worst way. In my book, the Navy takes precedence.”

  “Over a murder investigation?”

  “In this instance, yes. Bastida’s a genuine badass and a major head case, but that’s the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Simple. Whatever he’s got, they’re desperate to locate and recover themselves.”

  “What? Did he steal something top secret?” She threw in the next, half in jest. “Some kind of advanced weaponry?”

  In the span of a second or two, Grice’s eyes widened then narrowed, then took on a glint, as if her notion had merit. “Come to think on it, you might’ve just hit the nail. They were cagey about what the thing was, but special-ops groups routinely test experimental stuff.”

  She tongued the inside of her mouth, rolling the idea around. “So, that’s the larceny. Maybe. But where did he earn the reckless endangerment, assault, and attempted-homicide charges?”

  The sheriff made a guttural throat noise. “Uh, down in Colombia, I assume. Where he wrecked a counterdrug operation and bailed on his unit.”

  “Jesus, was that before or after he stole the ray gun or light saber, or whatever?”

  Grice thumped the wheel so hard it startled her. “Don’t joke, goddammit. I already told you, no particulars.” He picked up and reset his hat on his head, took a breath. “I didn’t bargain for complications. But we have a good shot at wrapping up this wrinkle and our investigation. The sooner you and Matusik get your asses in gear and get on that river, the better our chances.”

  The sheriff switched off the dome light. His foot pressed on the brake pedal and he dropped the gearshift into drive. “You’re a detective and I’m late. You know everything I can tell you about the suspect, so go detect.” Delia stepped out, the curling pages still in her hand.

  She barely had the door shut when gravel spun from the Interceptor’s wheels.

  Go detect, he’d said. Fucking A, she would. Especially this “add-on.”

  19

  Delia couldn’t have missed Matusik’s buttercup-yellow Hummer if she’d tried. Backed down the launch ramp at West Salem’s Wallace Marine Park, it stood out like a beached sunfish.

  By the time she’d swung off the Salem-Dallas Highway, found the right surface street, and driven into Wallace’s parking area, he’d launched, locked up, and roared off in that topless silver-and-blue jet boat. She barely had time to focus her long-range 25 × 70s, first on the back end, emblazoned with the name Jackie, next on the bow ornament with the flapping ears—Beezer. His dog, whom she’d met and instantly liked. Jackie had her puzzled. Current girlfriend? Old flame?

  That twenty-something-foot Duckworth could paddle right along. If Delia wanted to keep him under observation, she’d have to scramble. Dropping the SkyMaster binocs, she cut a tight circle, exited the park, and accelerated back onto Highway 22 toward Dallas. Fortunately, the road paralleled the Willamette for several miles upriver.

  Yes, she and Grice’s hired boat driver had reached an understanding at the Flapjack Corral. Good in itself, but to Delia, understandings backed by observed compliance were golden. The troubling piece remained Grice’s fixation on place—locating a military fugitive’s top-secret-laden hideout, when her investigation should be about person—finding out who was doing in hunters. Besides, the detective’s itch inside needed scratching. Was Matusik following her instructions? Or was he on the river only to search for that elusive place? So after the law enforcement funeral procession, she’d made her apologies to Charlie’s family, taken early leave from the reception and mercy meal, and set about tailing Matusik.

  Eola Inn was in sight when the jet boat slowed on the river, curled in toward the west bank, and disappeared behind the gentle rise the inn was built on. Delia recalled that Rickreall Creek entered somewhere beyond the restaurant’s picture-window view of the Willamette River. She hooked left off the highway and onto Willamette Street, passed by chainsaw sculptures of bears and eagles, and pulled over next to a clearing in the tree line that afforded her views of the creek mouth and beyond. A minute later, Matusik’s boat cruised past the Salem Yacht & Boat Club—mainly a sand peninsula now under winter river water. She trained the SkyMaster on the jet boat as it coasted into one of four small slough openings. Ducks circled above, then sailed off.

  It wasn’t until Matusik neared the end of the slough that she saw movement beyond and zoomed in on a parked watercraft looking for all the world like a floating brush clump against the backdrop of flooded trees. A half-dozen ducks bobbed on the water’s surface. Not dead, but not going anywhere. What else but decoys? Zack had given her a rudimentary rundown on migratory bird hunting, not so much on why it appealed to anyone. Duck tamales? ¡Puaj!

  The cloud cover had let the sun burn through, then closed in, settling a thin, dirty mist over the river. She couldn’t see the face of the person moving behind the brush, just his flappy-eared hat and mud-brown hunting clothes. Matusik’s boat slowed to a stop with the decoys between him and the brush boat. From her perspective, he seemed to be jawing with the man inside it. An encouraging sign.

  At first light, she’d sent him off with warnings for anyone on the river who’d listen. She’d also given him a question list intended to provoke leads on the three Willamette River killings. When he looked at her funny, she’d explained she had a funeral to attend.

  And now? To her surprise, Matusik maneuvered his boat back into the flooded trees and out of sight, then emerged wading toward the brush boat with Beezer dog-paddling beside him. She adjusted the SkyMaster and zoomed in closer as they scrambled into the brush boat. Was he goofing off or planning on interrogating this hunter?

  Flappy Hat seemed to know Matusik, clapping him on the back after both reacted to a water baptism by the dog as he shook his fur between them. She wished she could’ve tapped into the cell phone she’d loaned Matusik, but in Oregon, recording face-to-face communications required the consent of both parties.

  Several minutes passed where Flappy Hat lit and smoked down a cigar and they talked. The conversation was interrupted by a flight of ducks with green heads. When she again trained the binocs on the brush boat, the hunter and Matusik had disappeared behind the brush. The only movement was the vertical twin barrels of a shotgun that seemed to trade places.

  When the four ducks cupped their wings and settled over the decoys, she was surprised to see Matusik rise up and fire, the large-bore boom of the shotgun reaching her ears shortly after feathers floated down. All four ducks were now in full flight. Matusik shot again. More feathers filled the air in front of the boat, but the green-headed birds made their escape. Flappy Hat was up and slapping a hand onto what looked to be a storage
lid in the front of the boat, his shoulders shaking as if he were having a hearty laugh.

  So, she thought, lowering the glasses. Matusik was a big goof-off.

  After several minutes, he and Beezer took their leave and returned to the jet boat. Delia lowered the SkyMaster, picked up her iPhone, and touch-tapped the only new entry in her contact list. Matusik’s boat had entered the Willamette when he picked up.

  “Having a good time?” she asked.

  “What? Yeah, uh, just finished talking with my fourteenth on the river today. They’re a pretty closed-mouth bunch, and nobody seems ready to give up hunting. The only leads they gave me were on damaged blinds and slashed boat trailer tires. Done by ‘animal rights jackoffs,’ according to one group of hunters.”

  “Tell me about the fourteenth.”

  “Tweety Bates? Okay, yeah. He used to guide back in the heyday of river hunting. Took my dad and I out on slow days. He’s sort of a river hermit, and I figured if anybody saw or knew something, he would. Tweety’s always been colorful, but he’s not the same these days. He quit guiding after he lost his dog, Trudy. Some kind of accident, I gathered.”

  “So you were banging away down there for old times’ sake?”

  Long pause at the other end. Then, “How’d you … You have me under surveillance?”

  She could almost feel him look over his shoulders. “The funeral was over, and I wanted to see how you work.”

  “Through what, binoculars? If you’re wondering, I’m sticking to our arrangement. Why not just come out on the river with me?” His voice didn’t sound accusative—more like disappointed. “You’d certainly loosen more tongues than I ever could.” She wasn’t sure which way to take that. Decided to let it slide, along with the boat ride offer.

  “Back to this … Tweety, is it? As in Tweety Pie and Sylvester cartoons?”

  “Likely from the widgeon whistle he favors over mallard calls.”

  “And what did you learn from your ‘hunters’ bonding moment?’” His boat coasted out of sight. She made no move to start the car.

  “Not a whole lot. He’s still colorful, and a prankster, foisting that shotgun on me with feather loads instead of steel pellets. Yelling, ‘Take ’em,’ then laughing his ass off when I filled the sky with duck down.”

  “Has he seen anything? An empty Starcraft? That Zodiac?”

  “No, but he’s sure got his opinions.”

  “About?”

  “Protesters, Portlanders who think they’re decent hunters, you name it. In fact, he had names for them all: Bird Worshipers, Concentrics, Hunturds.”

  “What’s a Concentric?”

  “Perfect asshole. Tweety talked about one that scoots up and down the river in a sea-green kayak. Scares off ducks looking to land in somebody’s decoy setup.”

  “And a Hunturd?”

  “Not sure. Said they were coming out of the woodwork. Told me to keep out of their way. I left him one of your cards in case he runs across anything we can actually use.”

  “Hang on.” Delia had an incoming call. She tapped hold call and answered, noted down the information, and returned to Matusik.

  “There’s been a development. Meet me at Buena Vista Marine Park.”

  “Is this development upriver from my position? I’m low on fuel.”

  “Looks that way. Oh, and you might need … like a grapple.”

  “I’ve got a telescoping boathook in my Hummer. I have to pull out, gas up, and relaunch anyway.”

  “Independence in forty.” She had her finger on the red off icon, recalled his little shooting exhibition, and couldn’t resist.

  “Oh, Matusik?”

  “Yeah?’

  “If I get in a shots-fired situation, remind me not to use you for my backup.”

  “Very funny.”

  20

  “Are you certain there was a body inside those waders?”

  Still in full funeral uniform, standing astride a water rivulet on the downslope of Buena Vista’s launch ramp, Delia bent low and peered inside the rear left door of Castner’s patrol unit. She ignored the light rain and kept her eyes trained on Elmer Grundy, the twitching man-wreck Craig had poured into his back seat barely an hour ago. Better outside and slightly damp, she thought, than inside and overwhelmed by Grundy’s breath rot.

  Going by his amber teeth and jerky limbs, his eyes in constant motion and the borderline paranoia of his ramblings, Grundy was a meth-head. Still, his account of a dead hunter on the lower Santiam River seemed credible, considering the strip of ripped chest wader she’d found impaled on an anchor fluke of Grundy’s beached fishing boat. His other story, about a knife-wielding underwater swimmer running him off the Willamette weeks earlier, could easily have been a tweaker’s hallucination. Said he’d sworn off hunting, unless they caught the guy.

  “Good God, do I wish it weren’t true,” Grundy answered, digging at an armpit as if something with six legs had burrowed there. “Wish to hell I hadn’t fucked up and drifted below my takeout spot.” Scratch, scratch. “Wish I hadn’t pried that boot leg out of the water and felt the squish of dead meat inside.” His chest quivered, then seemed to sink into his backbone.

  Up front, Castner paid them no attention, tapping away at his dashboard computer. She uncoiled and scanned the screen on her Toughbook. Her typed directions held enough detail that Matusik could run his boat up the Santiam. Locate the downed log where Grundy’s pontoon boat had supposedly gotten hung up by somebody else’s snagged boots. At least confirm whether this tweaker was round the bend or right on. Tweakers weren’t to be believed sight unseen.

  “Depending on what we find, we may need you at the sheriff’s office.” She showed Grundy the screen page where she’d inputted his ID particulars. “You’ll be here this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. Riding herd on my girlfriend’s rug rats. But first I need to get to my rig so I can drive back here and load my CatcherCraft.”

  “Deputy Castner should be able to drop you off, right, Deputy?”

  “That’s me,” he grumbled, “a chauffeur in uniform.” Since her promotion, Castner had shifted from blatant antagonist to passive-aggressive. She took both with a grain of salt.

  Edging ahead, she motioned for him to roll down. The window opened a crack. Not caring whether Grundy heard or not, she hissed through her teeth, “Follow this guy back to his girlfriend’s and check on those kids. Make sure they look clean and fed.”

  “Wipe their butts, too?”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  Shutting the rear door, she stepped back. Castner hit reverse and spun the tires, jammed the gear stick into drive, and roared off. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes to get to the Octane Stop.

  * * *

  Already late for a meet-up with Matusik, Delia skidded the Camaro onto Route 51 and accelerated into pounding rain. She boosted wiper speed and slowed. Within seconds, the Camaro’s soft-top had developed a leak. To avoid a waterfall, she scrunched to her right. Steering one-handed, she traded wet uniform for dry leather jacket. Last, she shucked the soggy brown tie, convinced she must have some kind of water magnet implanted in her chest.

  The rain let up six miles on, and she cracked her window. Coming into Independence, Oregon, she spotted Jerzy Matusik’s yellow Hummer and trailered jet boat at the low-roofed Octane Stop. Matusik was inside the boat, crouching near its back end. He straightened briefly and waved.

  She cut a U-ey and rolled in behind the boat. Getting out, she remembered it had been christened Jackie. Again she wondered, old flame or current one?

  A sharp bark greeted her approach. Beezer alternated between turning backseat circles and wedging his blocky head out the Hummer’s window.

  Jackie’s rear-deck cowling was propped open beside the man, giving Delia a view of the power plant. Corvette. Fuel-injected. Twin-turbo kit. Impressive.

  As Matusik knelt in Jackie’s cockpit and checked the connections, his khakis were stretched tighter than tree bark. Also impressive.
>
  He peeked at her from under one arm and smiled. She glanced away as a station attendant finished pumping high-test. He handed up a receipt and left. Matusik casually stuffed it into a shirt pocket as he reached for something below her line of sight.

  “So, what’s up, Detective?”

  “Shitty gas you’re running through that rat motor.” She estimated the big-block Chevy had to corral over six hundred ponies under those stainless-steel head covers.

  “You could be right.” He sank an oil stick back into the engine, stood, and reached out a hand. “How about coming aboard for a closer look?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Not the boaty type. You about ready? A fisherman named Grundy says there’s a body on the Santiam. I want you to run up there and check it out.”

  Matusik closed the engine housing, his gaze trailing back toward her vacant Camaro. “The guy’s not going with us?”

  “With you? No. He was pretty wigged out. Said no way he’d go anywhere near what he’d seen.”

  Matusik climbed down from the boat and stood facing her. “So it’s on us to locate this body?”

  She jammed her fists into her coat pockets, one hand curling around the ever-present grip-strengthening ball. “No again. It’s on you to do the locating.”

  He leaned in, those narrowed, pepper-flecked blue eyes searching hers. “That how it’s done in your shop?”

  Somewhere in the back of her head, she heard tsk-tsking. Knew Harvey would’ve ripped on up that river without a second thought. The fingernails of her left hand dug into hard rubber as she walked away. Stopped at the drip line of the roof, turned and came back, squeezing the life out of the ball in her pocket.

  “Look, Matusik, the guy’s a—”

  “Jerzy. Please.”

  “Okay. Jerzy. This, uh, Grundy is several flakes shy of a snowball. It’s likely you won’t even find a body.”

  Matusik nodded. “Say I do find one. Then what?”

  Instead of answering, she stepped over to the Hummer, where Beezer’s head poked out a window. She scratched under his ear. He licked the inside of her wrist. There was no way around this fucking boat ride. That damn thing had better have a self-inflating life raft, or water wings, or something.