by J. S. James
The group of six wrapped up, agreeing the county should keep the lead on the case while the Staties processed evidence. No one had asked where Tweety Bates’s body was, or what a certain military fugitive was up to—neither of which she could answer.
A call from Annie came in on her cell. Asking Annie to hold, Delia turned to Zack. “Are you okay with helping get the crime lab crew set up for a boat trip? Transfer their gear into Jackie?”
“Done and done, Detective.”
“Go ahead, Annie.” Listening, Delia started up the ramp toward Jerzy, who was loading Beezer into his Hummer, apparently following a doggy outing.
“You know the curiosity thing we’ve been tracking between Grice and that naval officer?”
“The judge got Cam to let us look into Grice’s bank accounts?”
“Yeah, and they’ve been drained. But curiouser than that, I got a call from the CO of NAVSPECWAR in Little Creek, Virginia.”
“Bannock’s CO?”
“Right. I explained the sheriff was unavailable. The CO wouldn’t give me much at first, except Bannock had been reassigned, anchored to a PR desk. Before that, he was Bastida’s unit leader in an antidrug operation that went south.” Annie chuckled. “That poor, gruff darling commanding officer tried to clam up, but … well, you know me.” Delia did. Annie could talk the devil out of his pitchfork. “The reason he was so worried was that Bannock took extended leave just when an experimental grenade machine gun went missing from their munitions depot.”
“Yipes.” Slumping back against the fender of Jerzy’s Hummer, Delia pictured multiple explosions going off right over the top of a Zodiac. She rang off and turned to Jerzy, feeling the promise of rain in the quickened breeze. “It might be getting warmer, but my gut says things are about to snowball on us.”
He feigned an uphill glance. “Do we try and hold it back or run like hell?”
“I won’t be running, if ever,” Harvey interjected, stumping up to them. Delia relayed Annie’s update to them, adding that she was starting to get the picture, when Jerzy broke in.
“Glad you are. Me? I’m way behind the curve. I know I’m just the boat jockey, but you might clue me in. Like, what’s this Bannock character got to do with Tweety Bates?”
Delia flushed. They had treated him like a boat jockey. Her especially. “With Bates? Nothing.” She glanced at Harvey, then back to Jerzy. “I should’ve filled you in sooner. Harvey, Annie, the county DA, and myself have a covert investigation underway. Grice is the focus. Looks like Bannock’s been feeding him cashier’s checks for several weeks. Payment for slow-walking our investigation.” She eyed Harvey. “My take? Bannock bought sole hunting rights on his former team member.”
Jerzy’s stance shifted. “Let me guess. Bastida, the guy who played water games with us on the river.”
Harvey jabbed a finger into his palm. “Right, and now Bannock’s here with Grice as his hunting guide.” He stared off toward the dock where Zack and the trio from OSP stood waiting. “We’re missing major pieces—motive, for one. For another, where they’re planning to hunt this fugitive.”
Delia tensed, tugging at the sleeves of her coat. This wasn’t going to be fun. “Bastida’s not the fugitive’s real—”
Woo-whoop. They turned toward the sound.
Saved by the whoop. A brown-and-white cut across rows of empty parking stalls and stopped beside them. She recognized Densco, a reserve deputy called up after Grice had “elevated” his nephew.
He gave her a quick nod, Jerzy a passing glance, and focused on Harvey. “You Schenkel?”
“Detective Schenkel. And you are?”
“Just what this department needs. Mike Densco.” Nobody responded. He didn’t offer his hand. “The dispatcher said I should update you on what I came across at the Buena Vista Cemetery. Somebody dug up two graves, emptied the caskets, and spread both cadavers across the mounded dirt.”
Delia edged closer. “Whose bodies?”
Densco checked his Toughbook. “A Willard Gatlin and a Jess Gatlin. His son, according to death records.”
“Jesus Martha,” Harvey said, kneading the sides of his head as though in pain.
“What about Rose Gatlin?” she asked.
“That grave was left undisturbed. Somebody had laid fresh holly sprigs over the turf.” Delia felt her world spin a tick faster.
Densco leaned out. “And hey,” he said, glancing left, right, then lowering his voice. “What in the P. Diddy’s up with this sheriff?”
“Good question,” Harvey answered. “We’re working on it.”
Delia took Harvey aside. “Densco should stick around. In case we need to follow up on Grice.”
Harvey frowned, then nodded. “I’ll talk to him.”
She pulled out her phone and dialed Annie. “Any word on where Grice or Bannock might be?”
“Funny thing,” Annie answered. “Grice has been here and gone. I found the cover sheet on the Gatlin file in our copier and more on his desk. Later, I spotted Bannock in the parking lot beside the jail. You’ll never guess who he was huddled with.”
Delia had guessed wrong. She rung off with another keep-me-posted and found Harvey. When she told him what she’d learned, his eyes bulged. “Man,” he said, giving his head another rub. “And now we’ve got Castner tied in with Grice and Bannock?”
“That’s likely, and they have to be stopped. Can we use your truck?”
“It’s almost out of gas. Besides, things are happening way too fast,” he said, still massaging his temples. “I missed my venti caffeine dose, and my head’s coming apart.” He muttered that limping toward his pickup. “Let’s get somewhere I can wash down aspirin with coffee and think this through.”
“Me for that,” Jerzy said as he caught up with them. “Stomach’s got my spine pinned to the mat.”
“Wait.” Delia hooked them both by the arms. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”
Harvey and Jerzy gazed back down the boat ramp, then at her.
She was ready with solutions. “I’ll put Hotshot Densco on the Quonset with the crime lab crew. He’ll love doing crime scene oversight.”
“Yeah, okay,” Harvey said, kneading at his eye sockets.
She turned to Jerzy. “In case we’re gone longer, do you trust Zack to ferry Densco and the OSP lab group to that boathouse—using your boat?”
“Shit.” His eyes narrowed. “Longer meaning … the Gatlin place?”
Nodding, she reached out and fingered the zipper on his jacket.
He sighed in submission. “I guess. I’ll need to call Salem Hospital, though. Get my dad to swing by after rounds and pick up Beezer.”
Delia made arrangements and the three of them piled into Harvey’s F-350, her at the wheel.
* * *
The Octane Stop had only two orange plastic booths. Harvey sat at the inside of a bench seat. Delia dropped in next to him after gassing up his truck. Harvey’s boot cast rested on part of the other bench, leaving the rest for Jerzy. She took one of the three coffees he’d bought but nothing from the Hostess fun box.
“Twinkies?” Harvey gibed.
Since Jerzy’s mouth was stuffed, she answered back. “The guy goes for them like a Sicilian mobster after cannoli. Now can we get to it?”
“Gimme one of those.” Harvey grabbed two Twinkies, but before taking a bite, he glanced over at Delia. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?” She checked her watch, itching to be where she knew it would all come together. But she had some convincing to do.
“About Bastida?” Harvey had been listening.
She took another sip and started in. “Robert Bastida, the military fugitive we’ve been searching for, was raised a Gatlin. I have reason to suspect Robb might be family.”
“Robb?” Jerzy asked.
Harvey swallowed the bulk of his second Twinkie and sat back, looking bemused.
She nutshelled the story of her lost baby brother and the man on the river who’d kidnapped
him in front of her—leaving out mention of the lifelong trauma and guilt and fear it had caused. Delia moved rapidly ahead, explaining that when she and Jerzy had gotten wrecked on the Willamette, then rescued by that same fugitive, she hadn’t realized it was a turning point …
“ … until one night ago, when he abducted me.”
Both men had stunned expressions as she fessed up, admitting she had dropped her guard in the cold and ice.
“He didn’t want my car or my life. He wanted to know who he was.” She went over the matching crucifixes, his account of being taken as a child, the resemblance. “Everything he showed and told me jibes with what I know and keep in here.” She thumped her breastbone above her heart.
Delia took a quick sip of the now tepid brew and leaned in to make her point. “Robb let me go, promising to turn himself in.” Did save me a cell count as a promise? “He volunteered a motive behind why he’s on the run. Why, I think, Grice and Bannock are after him. It’s about a ton of money. Revenge, too, if Annie’s right about Bannock’s injuries.”
Harvey shut his mouth. “God, what a story.”
“Second that emotion,” said Jerzy. “You should write that up. Send it in to a magazine.”
Maybe she should. Just go off somewhere and write schlock. Good schlock. But she couldn’t. Not yet. “My main worry is that he’s very sick. Up here,” she said, tapping her forehead. “He did that … that graveyard thing, to make sure his childhood tormenters were really dead. Now he wants to shut the lid on hell—in his tortured mind, the Gatlin house. That’s where everything’s coming to a head. Where we need to be, and pronto.”
Harvey’s head inclined to the left. “We. Just the three of us.” Her hand went for the Crush Ball. And here came that devil’s-advocate shit. “We don’t know that’s all true, for sure. He could be playing you.” Jerzy flicked her a nervous glance but stayed silent.
Down inside, her anger burner kicked on, the heat rising. “You haven’t been listening, Harv. Sixteen million? Grenade machine gun? Close off hell? My brother?” The flush invaded her cheeks, heading toward eruption. “Robb is going to do something to that Gatlin house. That’s where Grice was going. We have to stop what’s already in motion.”
“Delia, listen to yourself. Even when—no, especially when—it’s true, we can’t go in there on our own. Not up against that kind of firepower.” Harvey yanked out his phone and speed-dialed a number. “We go in behind an OSP SWAT team.”
Delia crushed the cup in her hand, feeling warm liquid run down her fingers, a white-hot rage ready to touch off. Harvey started talking on the phone. Mr. Careful again.
Jerzy dabbed at the spilled coffee. “He makes sense, Delia.”
Her phone dinged again and again and a third time. “What?” she snapped. It was Annie, but they were texts. The first read:
No sign of Grice. Items missing from confisc. drawer, including submachine pistol
The second message read:
Castner spotted S. of Buena Vista in Grice’s Interceptor-suited up in bow hunter camo.
The third message was shorter:
Bring Harvey back in 1 piece
She showed him the first two messages.
“Harvey, we can’t wait.”
“SWAT’s on their way. We wait.” Mr. Careful again.
She leapt up out of the booth, turned, and leaned over the table, spitting out words. “You two can sit on your asses and wait. Not me.” She bent toward Harvey, her glare aimed at the bridge of his nose. “Now, I’m going to use your truck to get to my big brother’s hot rod, and I’m going try and save my little brother’s ass. If you don’t want to be stranded here, you’d better get up out of that booth and ride along.”
Harvey opened his mouth. Delia silenced him with a raised pointing finger. “Harv, I love you like another brother, but if you tell me to spritz my Latin fire … well, you can just go fuck yourself.”
She stormed out of the Octane Stop, raced to Harvey’s truck, got in, and slammed the door. Too shaky to fish keys out of her cargos, she gave up and pounded on her thighs. She couldn’t believe she’d said that to Harvey.
Yes, she could. And she had. Crap!
Breathe, Chavez. Slow and deep. Get ahold of yourself, then go.
Jerzy rapped on the window. She cranked it down, warning herself not to unload on him, too.
“Hold on, Delia. We’re both coming along.”
With a curt nod, she retrieved the keys and started the Ford. “I’ll take you and Harvey as far as my Camaro, then leave you the truck.”
“No. Harvey and I are coming with you—to the Gatlin house.” She peered at him, searching his eyes past the nonchalant shrug, the shopworn excuse that came next. “Can’t have all the fun.”
* * *
Gus pounded heels back to Castner’s Dodge truck in a whole lot better a mood than when he’d first trudged down that backwoods lane. Gully-washed in spots and barely passable where the diked farm tracks ran along the river before cutting toward the old Gatlin place, the dirt road had a lot more yonder than he’d expected.
He hadn’t liked it one bit when Bannock made him park the pickup and recon on foot. But after what he’d seen getting carted into that wrecked house way down at the end? Shee-it. Might as well paint dollar signs on the walls.
Bannock had his butt parked on a wheel well inside the bed of Castner’s pickup. Still tapping on that tactical keyboard and cussing under his breath. Still fiddle-farting with his fancy-dancy grenade chucker.
In Gus’s absence, Bannock had centered the wood pallets to serve as a gun mount platform and banked the hay bales against the left wall of the truck bed. The launcher’s barrel jutted out from a two-foot-wide firing port. A closed ammunition can—the one with the gas shells, Gus assumed—was parked beside the launcher. But the two canisters containing lethal rounds sat within easy reach of the gunner.
Gus cupped his hands and blew warmth into them, trying to remember which long-lows he had and had not off-loaded from the Navigator. After the hike down that road, Bannock’s war prep seemed like total overkill.
“Whoo-ee, John. A cannon-and-mosquito-type deal, if I ever saw one.”
Bannock stopped punching keys and jerked around toward Gus, wincing at the effort. His canes lay on the floor of the truck bed. “You saw him? The Bastard’s there?”
Gus smiled. “And the Zodiac he rode in on.” He sank his hands back into the warmth of his coat. “What’s more, I believe we lucked out.”
“Why? How was he armed?” All military intensity, Bannock could’ve shot sparks from his eyes.
Gus sauntered toward the back of the pickup. “Looked mighty light in that department, John.” He rested his backside on the tailgate. “Tell me somethin’. What kinda money totes did those cartel mules favor?”
“How the fuck would I know? The Bastard hijacked my whole goddamned plan before I could execute it.”
“Think back a sec. Canvas? Maybe molded plastic?”
Bannock shook his head, his mouth a line of irritation. “I dunno.” He stared off into the woods, more than Scotch fogging his eyes. “Maybe. My team found nylon hard cases next to that plane, all shot up and emptied.”
“Color? Shape? Size?”
Bannock refocused on Gus, blinking. “Fuck that. You’re off track.”
“Yeah, but John, I just saw our boy humping specialty cases of some kind into that house. Only had glimpses through the cover brush, but they looked full.”
Bannock cocked his head, swinging aside the contraption he called a laser guidance system. “Weapons cases?”
“Not that heavy, but something bulky inside. Money bundles are my guess. Gatlin musta had them stashed somewhere else and—”
A cane flashed into Bannock’s hand, walloping the lowered tailgate. “Forget the fucking suitcases. Was the Bastard packing weapons?”
“Easy, John. Easy.” Gus realized he had inched backward, out of cane range. “It’s getting low-light time, but I’m sure he
just had a short-barreled shotgun with a pistol grip slung over his shoulder. Nothing spec—”
“How close can you get me?” Bannock had levered himself upright.
Gus started around toward the cab. “I can put us within six hundred yards of the house. Hafta four-wheel around a hellacious dike washout, but the spot I picked will give you clear line-of-sight, and keep us out of sight.”
Except maybe from a certain shooter in the woods to the west of that spot. He climbed behind the wheel and whispered a snap prayer that his nephew had set up right and that he’d make the shot.
If Gus was forced to doff his hat.
42
“Dee-Dee, stop,” Harvey barked. “Back up.”
Delia mashed down the brake. The Ford crew cab skewed to the left. She hit reverse and backed through the woods, fishtailing in and out of the same farm tractor divots they had just bounced over. She estimated it was three miles to the Gatlin place.
Jerzy rode the passenger seat with a two-handed grip on the omigod handle. His face was so taut he might as well have been strapped into the Mad Mouse at the state fair. Harvey braced his recuperating leg across the back seat, less concerned about her driving than them getting sandbagged.
He was right. Grice and Bannock could be anywhere. Ahead, where the lane curved and became a flood dike. At the old river house. Or they could slip up on them from behind.
On the way, she, Harvey, and Jerzy had hatched a makeshift plan—one notch above playing it by ear—and with a limited idea of what waited for them down this river-bottom driveway.
She just wanted to get past the icy lump in her gut and the images frozen in her head. Of a mortally injured, might-be brother down on his face in front of that rotting house, his blood soaking the weed patches. His life leaking away to join the riverside dead of past weeks.
“There,” said Harvey. She braked again. “Down that overgrown path forking off to the left. See those flattened vines?”
“Yeah, like they’ve been driven over.”
