River Run

by J. S. James

  “I’ll look into it.” She gave him an email address. “Send me what you have.”

  “Great. Check around twelve to fourteen years back.” That tingling sensation spread into her scalp. “Oh, and by the way, a naval officer made the same inquiry two days ago. He’s stationed in Little Creek, Virginia.”

  “Let me guess. A Commander John Bannock?” Annie had left a phone message saying Bannock had shown up looking for Grice.

  “Close. This John Bannock’s a lieutenant, JG. And … Detective Chavez, is it?”

  “Yes.” For now.

  “Coordinate with us on this one. Whatever his real name is, Bastida wrecked a special-ops boat unit down in Colombia.”

  “Anyone killed?”

  “No, but rumor has it he made off with millions in drug cartel money.”

  * * *

  Delia keyed in the cold case unit’s missing-persons file but got distracted by a hissing sound at the cubicle’s opening.

  “Chavez, what in God’s name are you doing here?” Annie whispered, mixing in furtive glances. “Are you okay?”

  “Saving my butt, and my ear hurts like a bitch. You’ve heard?”

  “Hell yes,” Annie answered, tapping a dispatch card against her thigh. “Grice wants me doing home checks on you every half hour.”

  “You know he’s way off base.” Delia got an immediate nod back. “For what it’s worth, I shot someone who almost drowned me, and it wasn’t Nastry.”

  “You must have a guardian angel,” Annie said, handing Delia the card. “Call this number with your recorder on. I’ll be upstairs with Harvey in the DA’s office.”

  “So Barsch is willing to listen?”

  “Maybe. Bring everything you have.” Annie was off, heels clicking down the hall. Delia set up her call recorder app and dialed, barely able to sit still.

  “Linn County Marine Patrol. Darren here.”

  “This is Delia Chavez.”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. I was there. How’s your ear?”

  “Pierced and painful. Darren, I’m recording our conversation to be able to play it back to our county DA, okay?”

  “Fire away.”

  “First, did a second body turn up at or below Black Dog?” She was on the edge of her seat.

  “No, but we dragged the slough and towed that guide’s boat up to Bowman Park. Everything we found backs up your version of events.” She closed her eyes and swallowed.

  “Like?”

  “A boat compartment full of scuba gear, a ten-gauge shotgun with the same double-ought loads that hit Nastry. Prints on the handle were too smudged to lift, though.” Pent-up tension drained from her like sauce through a sieve. “Oh, and broken bottle glass at the stern that tested positive for a homemade napalm concoction.”

  She flashed on a Heineken bottle, still aflame and floating by in the slough. “Like maybe a Molotov misfire?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it.”

  The image of Nastry’s body, facedown in the patrol boat, rippled back—the neoprene sleeve melted to his forearm. “The guy must’ve lit three and tossed one at the boat, had one shatter in his hand, then, so he could put out the fire on his wrist, dropped the one I saw float by later.”

  “I’d buy that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One item we grappled up, along with two rubber tires, an ancient fishing rod, and assorted junk, was a pistol-grip crossbow. One-fifty pound test. That what he shot you with?” His tongue clicked. “Man, if that’d hit you center mass …”

  No reminder needed; she’d been there. Delia thanked him, rung off, and booked it for the DA’s office.

  * * *

  Around seven that night, Delia skated and slipped over ice and snow toward Enrique’s repaired Camaro, buoyed by renewed hope and purpose. One foot scooted out from under, nearly dumping her on her ass. She slowed, even as her mind raced over what had transpired in Barsh’s office.

  Harvey and Annie had primed the DA on Grice’s “other than honorable” discharge from the Navy and the evidence of his getting blackmailed by a naval officer as well as accepting bribes. But sheriffs were nearly impossible to fire. The topper had been the events Delia outlined on Grice’s misdirection of a murder investigation and the new information she’d received from Linn County regarding the shooting incident at Black Dog. Barsch set the wheels in motion for impeachment with the county circuit court judge, leaving his most electrifying move for last.

  At Harvey’s urging, the DA would explore a temporary appointment for her as district attorney investigator—a first for the county. She’d been left to rectify the troubling fly in the ointment—in Barsch legalese—the missing corpus delicti. Zack had said the river gave up its bodies. Could he help her find what was left of Tweety Bates?

  Four inches of snow had turned slick, coating every streetlight, tree limb, and wet surface in sight. Even the shoveled sidewalk ahead shone with a polish of black ice. She baby-stepped down the walkway and around the corner to her recouped ride.

  Enrique’s Camaro sat in a pool of darkness, its windows crusted over. She unlocked and pulled at the handle, surprised she hadn’t needed a hard yank to break an ice seal. Thank God for small things, too. She plopped herself in and cranked the engine, cueing up the Bob Marley disc Juan had left in her deck. With a shudder, she dialed on the heat. Her reward was a blast of icy cold, offset by sun-drenched rhythms. She switched from floor to defrost and waited for the engine to warm while Bob told her not to worry, not to hurry, and to take it easy.

  When the windshield wipers finally opened a patch, Delia put the convertible in gear. The rear superwides spun on ice, then took hold. She maneuvered the overpowered vehicle to the center of the street, then out of town, rehearsing what she’d say on a phone call to Zack.

  Not far past Dallas High School, a car approached from the opposite direction. The instant before it passed, she sensed movement behind her and darted a glance into the rearview mirror. Headlight glare lit the inside of her car as the hair on the back of her neck stood out.

  In that fleeting glimpse, a pair of eyes stared back.

  36

  “What the …?” Swallowing a pang of fear, Delia snapped a disbelieving glance over her shoulder, then straightened the car out before it jumped the curb. She’d glimpsed head and shoulders in silhouette. A big man, wearing a flat-brimmed hat. Bastida?

  “How’d you get in my—”

  “Keep driving.” If he was the fugitive, his voice wasn’t what she’d expected. Low and resonant. Familiar, yet not.

  Don’t panic, she coached, chancing a squint at her gym bag. Wishing to God she’d left it unzipped. The bag and the featherweight .380 inside disappeared over the back of the passenger seat. He’d read her mind.

  Now panic. No, stall him. Slow down, aim for the ditch, and bail.

  “Mister, you picked the wrong car to jack. I’m a law officer, a sheriff’s detective.” Nothing stirred behind. She eased off a little more on the gas and laid a hand on the door handle. “We’re talking major crime here. A throw-the-key-away felony.” Now wasn’t the time to worry about exaggeration.

  Lights flashed by, cars coming from the opposite direction. She heard the creak of coat leather. The door-lock button, clunking down next to her shoulder.

  Those mirrored eyes tilted at an angle, then back toward horizontal. A shrug? “One prison or another. Get back up to speed and veer off onto the Dallas-Monmouth road. Like you’re heading home.”

  Her heart boomeranged. He knew where she lived.

  She pressed the gas pedal with a shaky foot. Had she been wrong about offing the real killer? Was it him? She swallowed against the dryness creeping down her throat and followed instructions.

  “You’re Bastida, right?” She decided to stay with the alias.

  No answer.

  Watching the speedometer needle climb past fifty, Delia slipped a hand between the seat and the driver’s side door panel, and found what she needed. Grateful for Enrique’
s street-racing addiction, she drew the custom seat belt across her waist and timed its fastening with the skank chop of Marley’s reggae guitar.

  The Chevy glided over the snow-glaze on a sweeping curve and headed southward, into a three-mile straightaway. She was traveling down a dark country road bordered by flat fields with no deep ditches. Locked in with a potential killer who’d taken her weapon. That left one option.

  Kill the hijacking son of a bitch.

  In tiny increments, she increased pressure on the gas pedal, careful not to telegraph her speed by fishtailing. The Camaro ate up road. Until it was gobbling, she’d need to divert. “So, what’s your deal?”

  For a while the only male voice in the car was Marley’s, wondering if there was a place for the hopeless sinner. Then—

  “I almost said something to you on the river.” His answer snuffed any remaining doubt over a prior encounter.

  “About what?”

  The needle crept toward seventy. Killing speed. She felt him shift position and lean forward between the bucket seats.

  “Back off on the speed,” he growled.

  She complied, letting up on the accelerator. A tad seemed to satisfy.

  “Now, keeping one hand on the wheel, I want you to reach up and take off the cross and hand it to me.”

  Delia glanced into the mirror. She had not a clue where this was going—murder, sex, or jewelry heist—but sensed opportunity. She removed the long silver chain, pulling it over the top of her head. Careful not to snag the tight links on her French braid, she flung the crucifix back and downward, extra hard. The car drifted into the left lane and she corrected with no letup on the accelerator. “It’s just a family heirloom, not worth anything.”

  Leather scrunched as he sat back and felt for the crucifix. His hat disappeared below the mirror’s line of sight.

  Peering ahead, she sighted in on a set of railroad tracks flanked by crossing bars. Each bar was mounted on concrete supports. Ease up your speed, Delia. Just enough punch. Marley assured her “ev’ryting’s gonna be all right.” She cinched the belt tighter.

  The railroad crossing on the near-side shoulder loomed in her headlights, its striped guard arm standing at vertical, the metal anchor base sticking up out of the snowy whiteness. She braced her forearms against the steering wheel. The lightweight car gouged into shoulder snow, fishtailing as she goosed the pedal. She adjusted and the big-block Chevy hurtled toward the obstruction.

  Bastida flashed into view beside her, diving for the ignition, breaking her grip on the wheel. The engine died like a spent bullet, cutting Bob off at “don’t worry.” Momentum crushed her against the driver’s side door as the rapidly decelerating car shuddered into a sideways skid. The Camaro crossed the road and hit the far signal with a sickening crunch.

  Delia’s first thought was of how pissed her brother was going to be after Big Juan refused another fix. Her second thought was to get the hell away from Bastida before he could peel his face off the dashboard. She pummeled his back and shoulder with her elbow, at the same time clawing for the belt release.

  But he was strong, incredibly strong.

  Like a shot he was behind her once more, wrapping an arm around her chest, pulling her into the seat back. Now the safety belt was a liability. She felt compacted, as if struggling inside a body-size Chinese finger cuff. She clawed at anything that resisted but dug into nothing substantial. He held on. She tried a backward head butt and missed, continued struggling until breathless, then gave up in frustration. Still he held on. She gasped for air, glaring at the newly crumpled hood. One headlight beam aimed skyward, the other explored the nearest ditch.

  Long after she was quiet, Bastida kept her pinned against the seat back with that titanium arm lock. Seconds more passed. Then his fist appeared, inches in front of her face.

  Entwined around his knuckles was a long, thin chain—hers—beside a darker cord. His?

  Slowly, Bastida uncurled his fingers. In his palm rested a pair of crucifixes. From the glow of panel lights, each shone with the dull warm luster of Mexican silver. They looked identical. Same size, same unique design.

  Delia shook her head. His restraining arm relaxed but stayed put across her breastbone. She snatched at his other arm and caught hold of his wrist. He let her rotate it one way, then the other. Dim light played over the religious pieces cupped in his hand.

  Instead of Christ on a cross, Christ was the cross. His body melded into the wood, or in these likenesses, into the silver. The horizontal bars of each crucifix ended in elongated hands. Same for the feet at the bottom of the vertical shafts, the thorn-crowned heads as well.

  She knew their contours by heart, having run small fingers over hers as a child, putting herself to sleep dreaming of how her family might have been. Her father’s intricate design was not as original as it was striking in the warmth and love it expressed.

  She flipped one of the crosses onto its backside. The panel lights revealed crude punch engravings, the imprints of her earliest memories. Okay, that one was hers. She steadied a trembling hand, turned over the other one and inhaled sharply.

  “Puta madre.”

  Both crosses had the same embedded initials. The breath of the man in her back seat whispered past her ear as he spoke.

  “It seems we have something in common.”

  * * *

  The red vacancy sign shorted on and off at the Setting Sun Motel, signaling its numbered days. Every few seconds, the ancient motor court was bathed in a cooked-lobster haze—a silent holler at Gus to drive away fast. A black Lincoln Navigator with Virginia plates was backed into a stall at the unit farthest down, the only one that looked occupied.

  He stopped by the office and checked the register. That room was rented to a J. Smyth from Richmond, VA. It had to be Bannock. There were no other entries for that day.

  No team? he wondered, wheeling his Interceptor toward the end unit.

  Gus backed in beside the Navigator and got out. Flicked on his phone light and squinted into the SUV’s tinted windows. Nothing but reflected light.

  He’d just as soon have been somewhere else. Anywhere else. Like seeing his dentist for a root canal. He reset his belt and knocked.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  Gus turned the knob, gave the door a push, and peered in.

  “Commander John Bannock?”

  “Lieutenant, JG, now.”

  Gus couldn’t help but stare. The man seated in a straight-backed chair beside an unmade vibrator bed seemed—at best—a factory reject of the hard-charging hooyah he’d steeled himself to confront. Bannock sat like he had to prop himself up, one foot planted on the floor, the other crooked around a chair leg. His face looked pinched in, as if he was in constant pain. A pair of hardwood canes hung off the chairback. Had the man been a friend, even an acquaintance, Gus would be asking what in the holy hell happened.

  Annie was right about one thing. That Hawaiian shirt was almost beyond description. Birds of paradise detonating over a red tide came close.

  “If you’re Grice, don’t stand there gaping.”

  Gus stepped inside a cavelike room with fake-paneled walls and a hanging lamp in one corner. A raised toilet seat yawned at him from the open bathroom. He stuck out his hand, aiming to set a friendly tone. “Good to finally meet you—uh—John.”

  Nothing doing. Bannock stared at the empty glass balanced on his right thigh.

  Gus resisted feeling for the doorknob and tried a second time. “Sure was surprised when you—”

  “Where’s the Bastard?” Bannock’s empty hand curled into a fist that he thumped against his thigh.

  Gus eyed the toes of his boots. With no phone line buffer, that nickname for the fugitive seemed even more profane. At least he hadn’t asked Gus for his money back.

  “Trying to drown my people, when he’s not killing hunters. The son of a bitch is a phantom. Always moving.”

  Bannock cocked him a sideways stare.

  Sweat trickled dow
n Gus’s ribs. He flapped his hands in a lame gesture. “Got a full-time search crew on the Willamette as we speak. We’ll find him. I guarantee.”

  Bannock huffed, held the water glass by its rim, and waggled it toward the far wall. “Pour me one. Neat. Find yourself a glass and park it.”

  Gus eyed the dresser top, where a decimated case of cheap Scotch vied for room with an ice bucket and an unzipped deployment bag. Still unsettled by the man’s appearance, he poured Bannock a jolt and handed it over.

  Gus’s thirst overcame his confusion. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wishing rum into that bottle. Brandy, even. “Got any coffee?”

  No answer. Bannock’s head was bowed low. Inspecting for dust bunnies? Silverfish?

  Gus counted four empties on his way into the bathroom. A prescription bottle of Percocet sat on a sink fringed with mildew. He dumped a toothbrush out of the one available glass and rinsed it with hot water. Back at the dresser, he loaded in ice and eased Scotch around the cubes. Stalling, he glanced into the bag. The unmistakable retracted stock of a Heckler & Koch machine pistol peeked out from under a layer of clothing.

  “Judas Priest, John.” Feeling his hand tremble, he set the bottle down and turned around. “John, I don’t know …”

  Bannock’s glass was bone-dry, as if he’d licked the bottom. His off-kilter gaze drifted up from the floor and targeted Gus. “You think I’m a sorry sack of shit, don’t you?” That last came out sounding closer to shorry shack a shit.

  Gus took a swig. The whiskey blend went down on an air bubble, hurting his throat. It left a taste in his mouth like a peat bog. He wished he could think of a quick way out and away from this loser—this still-dangerous loser.

  Bannock went on. “You’re thinking there’s no team coming to help us extract the Bastard.”

  Gus sank onto the end of the bed, away from Bannock. Holding his glass between thumb and forefinger, he appraised the man—the black hair shot with white, the obvious damage to his nervous system, the canes, the Perc. Everything.