by J. S. James
“I can make it there in twenty. Seeya.”
Nearly an hour later, Delia stood at the top of the Riverview launch area, watching two boats in a line crawl upriver toward the park. The smaller one, getting the tow, was Zack’s. The boat doing the towing? Jackie. She wanted to climb back into the Camaro with the re-crunched fenders and wonky headlights and rumble out of there. But Harvey was on his way with a search warrant and a new badge.
Barsch had temporarily appointed her the county’s first DA detective. It amazed her how an outflow of tension, paired with an influx of relief, had lifted her spirits into the ozone. The last thing she wanted was to have Jerzy Matusik bring her crashing down again.
Twenty feet from shore, Zack loosed the towrope and steered his coasting Jon boat into the bank mud, while Jackie glided up against the dock.
Delia turned and hustled away, but Zack caught up and stopped her by the Camaro.
“Sorry, Detective.” He motioned down toward his boat. “My Johnson’s kaput.” She felt not even the slightest urge to smile. “Matusik, down there, came along, and we found out we had a lot in common. I have to trailer my boat, but he’s ready to help you out.”
“I’ll just bet.”
Zack looked at her funny, then clomped off toward his parked truck and trailer. She heard footsteps coming from behind. Matusik.
“Delia, are you all right? Annie told me about what happened at Black Dog. I called and stopped by but couldn’t reach you. Sounds like you had a super-scary time upriver.”
There was nothing to be said. She kept her back to him and focused on Zack, backing his truck and trailer down into the water. Her cell phone rang. It was Annie. Matusik’s footsteps faded as he wandered off and started rummaging in his Hummer.
Annie wasted no time. “Got a status update: Grice filled out a personal-leave form and Castner took his annual day. Neither one can be reached.”
“So who’s in charge?”
“Up in the air for the moment. Waiting on the judge’s warrant, Harvey handled the patrol schedules and sent a deputy to Grice’s condo. The place was dark.”
“All right. Keep us posted.” Delia rung off just as Zack’s Apache rolled up beside her with his boat loaded on its trailer. He leaned out the open window.
“Sorry I couldn’t find the body for you, Detective. Been at it for hours. Even welded up my own grapple. In case I might need to snag that sumbitch’s worthless hide and drag it back to shore.”
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Zack”—now wasn’t the time for a lesson in body-handling procedure or evidence preservation—“but I’m hoping we can clear up what happened at Black Dog when I locate Tweety Bates’s houseboat, or wherever he lived.”
“I still want to help … be in on whatever you come up with.”
“Hey, Delia, I found your other glove.” Matusik was back. The anger heat rose inside, but she stayed focused.
“We’ll see when the time comes, Zack.” She slapped the cab frame once, harder than just a send-off tap, and strode off toward—of all directions—the dock, where Beezer sat patiently on guard in the captain’s chair of Matusik’s tethered boat.
Sounds of some sort of food ordering and money exchange reached her ears. She barely heard Matusik murmur, “Take lotsa time, okay?” Driving off, the Apache’s dual glasspacks soaked the air with throaty harmonics.
* * *
A high-pitched whistle brought Beezer leaping out of Jackie. Instead of bounding up toward his master, the dog made a beeline for Delia. She crouched down, lavished hugs on the traitor, then continued to the far end of the launch dock. The river was threatening as ever, but she had a statement to make. Even if unspoken, and unlike others, she stuck with her commitments.
Beezer had followed, lugging a stick along that he dropped at her feet. The retriever sat beside her and panted, looking up expectantly. She ignored his offering. Just stood on that concrete pontoon with her back to dry land, gazing out over the expanse of liquid coldness.
By choice.
Not a small thing—commitments. Big. Like giving yourself to someone who moves on as if it never happened. What she couldn’t get past was the betrayal of her intuition—a deep-down feeling Jerzy Matusik was better than that.
She sensed him behind her. To keep from turning and lashing out, she bent and stroked Beezer’s ear.
Matusik cleared his throat.
“Your ear doing better?”
No, Chavez. Don’t do it.
“I heard yesterday was one hell of a day for you.”
She jammed her hands into her coat pockets and said nothing.
“It’s great to see you here. Anywhere. Out and about, I mean.” She turned slightly and shot him a look superheroes used to melt stone.
He gestured toward her midsection. “I see you’re carrying. Does that mean you’re reinstated?”
She turned away. “Temporary reprieve.” She said that in a voice meant to hang icicles off every syllable.
Beezer whined in the silence, nudging her knee with his big wet nose.
“Hey, Delia. I’m damned sorry for leaving you in the lurch. I should’ve—”
That’s it. She wheeled on him, twisting her lips into a snarl. “Been dancing lately?”
His mouth shut, his Adam’s apple rode up and down. “What?”
She pulled her fists out of her pockets, one gloved, one not. “Or did you and Chelsea just skip to knocking boots in your Hummer?”
That jerked his head back. “Foushée? How do you know Chelsea?”
“Mainly by the sight of her pink-thonged butt cheeks poking up between your knees.”
Jerzy frowned, his hand running through his hair. “Oh hell. You saw me walk her out of the Two-Step?”
That glimpsed sight again radiated pain behind her eyes, a searing ache in her throat. “We had a … a start,” she said. “For you, a one-nighter. For me, a really big deal.” She glanced away, then back. Glared at him, stabbing two fingers into his breastbone. “I took you to my home”—she jabbed harder—“into my bed. And you blew that start. I—” She made a punching fist, pulled back, then let it drop. “God, what a fucking piece of work you are.” She made to step around him, but he caught her elbow.
“Wait a minute. Listen.”
She jerked her arm back but stood facing him, the tension mounting inside.
“Look, Delia. What you don’t know is that I’m an alcoholic.”
She made a Judge Judy eye-roll. “Oh, please. Now you’ll tell me booze makes you act so shitty?”
“No, I’m in a recovery program.” He dug into his khakis and pressed a metal disk into her hand. “Chelsea is too. On and off.”
At first she thought he’d handed her a Canadian loonie or maybe a sex-shop token, then noticed the words 3-year recovery stamped inside a triangle. “You mean she’s a sexaholic? Now that, I would believe.”
He waved off her attempt to hand it back. “No, no. Pills and alcohol. Chelsea dropped off the wagon and her sponsor was out of town. I was just filling in.”
Delia grabbed up his wrist, slapped the chip into his palm, and pushed his hand away. “I got an eyeful of your filling in.”
“Look,” he said. “She was bombed and some guys in the Two-Step were plying her with more drinks. I could see what was going to happen. It was on me to get her out of there and drive her home.” He tilted his head forward, keeping his eyes steady on hers. “To Chelsea’s home, not mine.”
She had a hard time dialing down her glower under a glimmer of hope. She chewed at her lower lip. “I’m listening.”
Now he looked hopeful. She waited for the liar’s pause, but he continued right away. “After what you saw, I pushed her off me, boogied on up to Portland, and left her in the care of her roommate. Chelsea’s sponsor is back now and she’s his headache. End of story.”
She paused a moment, then wandered over to a far corner of the dock, her arms hugging herself as she gazed out at the water. He’d shown none of the s
igns—didn’t freeze in place, no head jerks, no repeated words, no neck or crotch covering, no frozen stare. He’d kept his distance and silence, showing the sense to let her make up her mind. No info-dumping, either.
She turned and approached him, much of her anger, the hurt, downgraded to wait-and-see status. She studied him, ignoring how much she’d missed looking into those eyes, their cobalt specks reflecting in the winter sun. “So, I’m supposed to swallow all this because …?”
He looked at her for several beats, rubbing the side of his neck. Then his hand disappeared into a coat pocket and came out with a glove. Her missing glove. “Because we’re a good fit.” He held the open end to her. “Left and right.”
She hesitated, then sank her naked hand into the leather. Instead of letting go, his fingers closed around hers, and he pulled her in close. Their breath mingled in the winter air. “It was a start for me, too.”
She searched his eyes, not without doubt, but let his arms enfold her.
“Delia, you might’ve told yourself you don’t need me, but you’ve got me. You had me way before we climbed into that funky hot tub. Before—”
She arched her head back, feeling the moisture in her eyes, yet giving him a mock frown. “Funky?”
He smiled. “Even before our adrenaline rushes on the river. Can’t beat those waterlogged minutes we shared in abject terror. I swear my heart jumped out my throat and flew away.”
She chuckled to herself, unzipping the top of his coat and laying her good ear against his chest. “Well, it must’ve flown back. I can hear it in there.”
“No, it has to be hung up in a tree somewhere. Maybe in your backyard shrubs, next to my skivvies.”
The chortle she stifled was meant to be tough but came out sounding not so tough. “Sailors still call them that? No, remember? They fell off. Almost drowned my cat.”
His arms tightened around her. She didn’t resist. At the rumble of trucks—a white F-350 crew cab, trailed by Zack’s ’55—she pushed away.
“Give me some time. Need to think things through.”
“Sure. You must’ve worked up a pretty big mad over the last couple of days.”
“You can’t imagine.” Already steps ahead, she turned and motioned with a nod toward the parking lot. “C’mon, let’s get to work. We’ll retrieve your skivvies later.”
* * *
Feeling the shakes come on, Gus gave up trying to fold the parcel map he’d pilfered from the chart credenza in the county assessor’s office. He needed big-picture specifics, more than those puny smartphone maps gave out. But this big picture was too large for his overstuffed briefcase and Miss Busybody would be back in five. It took study time, without a nosy office clerk breathing down his neck. Alerting the wrong people.
His real find happened to be sitting, barefaced, on Harvey Schenkel’s desk. That closed-case file for the Willard and Rose Gatlin homicides gave him the confirmation he needed to zero in on Robert Bastida, aka Robert Gatlin. Gus didn’t know who’d pulled the file, or why. Didn’t care. He had the general location of the Gatlin house—out in the goddamn boonies.
He was glad he’d had the forethought to pocket the jeweler’s loupe he’d confiscated from a collar on an old smash-and-grab case. Rolling up the chart, he thanked his stars for its detail. Right down to a break in the woods that might offer a clear field of fire.
With the map tucked under one arm and his leather carryall weighing down the other, Gus hurried across the courthouse lobby. Going straight out the front, he avoided prying eyes. Any deputies who happened to be in the sheriff’s office were in the annex behind.
Gus was down the steps when it hit him: he would miss the old pile of sandstone. Well, miss watching Annie sashay her assets out of his office. Miss her tease-talk, lighting a pilot light of hope. Not much else. He picked up his pace and kept his eyes forward. To Annie and the rest, he was on a week’s leave. Make that permanent if everything worked out.
He scuttled across the courthouse lawn and got the passenger door of his Interceptor open with no one stopping for chitchat. He tossed the map into the back, wincing at the clinks and clanks when he set the briefcase down too hard. He peeked inside. No broken bottles or rum-soaked firing mechanism. No soggy passport or smeared Costa Rica brochures.
His going-away kit was intact.
The confiscated nine-mil machine pistol was easily concealed, once strapped in under his parka. An Agram 2000 couldn’t hold a candle to Bannock’s MP5, but it’d make for a nasty surprise.
Just in case his nephew got cold feet.
He stepped around to the driver’s side and got in. Noticed his hands were still shaking. Reminded himself Bannock had been consistent on their money deal. Gus wasn’t worried about a fair split. He was worried there might not be anything left to split. Bannock was unpredictable. The man had ordnance. Wasn’t afraid to blow up his world and everybody in it.
Leaning over, Gus reached inside the briefcase and felt the cocking handle, the cold steel of confidence. He wished now that he’d fired more than a few practice bursts through the jumpy Agram.
Gus started the car’s engine and backed out, hoping he’d covered all bases.
It didn’t pay to underestimate a man with a cannon and a hard-on for revenge.
40
Well, almost a cannon. Gus figured Bannock’s experimental grenade machine gun was just as destructive. Its overkill potential weighed on him as he drove out of Dallas, Oregon.
He curved south onto Kings Valley Highway with big questions riding shotgun. Would Bannock stick to their capture-first, kill-later agreement? Would he load that laser-guided weapon with BZs—the banned knockout gas shells he’d shown Gus—or slip in HEs, high-explosive smart ammo? Bannock was adamant he could send rounds through a window at five hundred meters and airburst the shells directly behind their target’s ear. BZs would put Gatlin on his butt but still let him answer questions, especially if they couldn’t locate the money. HEs would redecorate the walls in brain.
Bannock was too much about revenge. Somehow, Gus had to get to the carrot before the stick.
Eight miles on, he turned east on the Monmouth Highway then left onto Treehouse Road. A short climb up the narrow back lane, he spotted the ancient tree his nephew had described. The massive white oak crowned a hill, its fan of limbs pockmarked with mistletoe.
But no nephew. Gus parked and waited.
Twenty minutes later, a badly oxidized brown Dodge pickup scrambled up the same road he’d come from and wheeled in beside him.
Craig waved and got out of the pickup. Gus rolled down the window. “Kept me waiting, son.”
Decked out in a shag ghillie suit and face paint, his nephew looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for Turkey Caller’s Gazette. He nodded back toward the truck bed, loaded with six or seven alfalfa bales and a couple of freight pallets. “Had to, uh, pick up the stuff you ordered me to get. Ready to rock and roll, now.”
Stepping from his cruiser, Gus overlooked Craig’s failure to acknowledge him as sheriff and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”
Gus had told Craig little to nothing about Bannock, his potential target, but knew he’d jump at the chance to play sniper. Especially after Gus repeated his promise of a promotion, adding that he’d buy him a brand-new truck. Hell, a camper, too. If Gus had to lay down a smoke screen, he figured he might as well blow it out thick.
“Now, go on around and snag us that county map off the car seat. We’ve got logistics to work out.”
Midday sunlight spackled the satellite image he spread over the hood of Craig’s truck.
“Where’d you get this?” Craig asked.
“Never you mind.” Gus handed over his jeweler’s loupe and motioned to the part of the map where the Willamette River formed the county’s southeastern border. “First off, show me exactly how you got to the house where that double homicide occurred. Way back last June.”
Craig looked at him, turning the magnifying lens over in his ha
nd. “The Gatlins? I thought we were going after Bastida.”
“We are. Turns out he’s a Gatlin.”
Craig didn’t seem all that surprised. “Yeah, makes sense—how he can melt off the river at night.” His index finger circled a blue bulge on the map where three rivers joined. “See how the Luckiamute and that bend in the Willamette make a peninsula straight across from the Santiam? Kinda like a hammered thumb? I’ve bowhunted there.”
Gus took the lens from him and leaned in. “What’s in that clearing up by the hangnail?”
“That’s where the house sits, what’s left of it. Look close. There’s a double-track lane forks off the highway. That dirt access road runs east through the woods, follows a dike along the river, and swings back into the clearing. The state’s been turning it into a natural area, a Portlander’s wet dream.”
Gus’s interest in the river bottom stretched over the next few hours only. After, they could turn it into Six Flags Over Oregon, for all he cared. As for Craig? Well, like any insurance policy, his nephew might not be needed. Anyhow, Gus was the one risking his hide.
“After we switch vehicles, can you wheel in there with my Interceptor without getting stuck? Hide it away and set up ahead of time?”
“You mean find a tree that’ll give me a clear shot?”
“Right. From here”—using the rubber edge of the eyepiece, Gus traced a line through a treeless corridor he’d noticed earlier—“to this access road I’ll be driving your pickup along. Your target’s the hombre riding shotgun with me.” He folded and pocketed the lens. “Can I count on you?”
Craig thumbed the corner of the map. His eyes stayed fixed on it as he gave a curt nod. “You park my truck anywhere along the dike, and I’ll have my crosshairs on the bridge a that hombre’s nose.”
“Good enough.” Gus snicked the brim of his Stetson. “But remember, only if I lift my hat. Now, let’s hear that back.”
“If your hat comes off, I shoot.”
* * *
“Nobody’s home, if you can call it that.” Delia holstered her weapon after clearing the boathouse and its floating contents of potential threat. “Harvey, you gotta see this. Jerzy, you and Zack help him up out of Jackie and I’ll get him inside.”
