“Hands on the hood,” the deputy told him. “Spread your legs. I’m gonna search you.”
Mason obeyed. Stayed motionless as the deputy frisked him. Waited as the deputy pulled the wallet from his back pocket, the envelope with his cash.
“Guess you got used to this kind of treatment inside,” the deputy said. “Fifteen years of strip searches and group showers, huh?”
Mason smirked. “Are you flirting with me, Sweeney?”
“Am I…” The deputy might have laughed; Mason couldn’t be sure. But then something clocked him, hard, on the side of the head, and suddenly he was down on the grit beside the Explorer, staring up at the deputy and his gun. The deputy wasn’t laughing now.
“You’re a real piece of work, Burke,” he said. “You’d think a guy like you would have learned something the first go-around, but you can’t keep your nose out of trouble, huh?”
Mason said nothing. Assumed he’d been pistol-whipped from the way his ears were ringing. He put his hand to the side of his head, felt blood.
“I should just put you down,” the deputy continued. “Right here and right now. You think anyone would give a shit if some murderer bought it?”
“Have to be pretty gutless to shoot an unarmed man,” Mason said. “Then again, you all are already terrorizing a combat-wounded marine, so maybe this kind of thing is right in your ballpark.”
The deputy flinched a little bit, and he couldn’t meet Mason’s eyes.
“That make you feel big, Sweeney, what you’re doing to that woman? That kind of thing get you off?” Mason gave it a beat, but the deputy kept his mouth shut. “Or maybe you’re just Harwood’s little bag boy. Is that it?”
“Fuck you.” Sweeney glared down at him. “You don’t know what you’re kicking over, coming around here. It don’t concern you any more than your bullshit Michigan life concerns me.”
“I’m just here for the dog, Deputy. You going to shoot me, or what?”
The deputy looked up and down the road again. Then focused back down on Mason. “I could do it,” he said. “I could put you down, easy. Leave your body in the woods for the bears and the cougars to fight over, and wouldn’t nobody care one way or the other.”
“So do it. Put me out of my misery. Make your boss happy.”
“I should.” Sweeney’s gun trembled in his hand. His finger massaged the trigger. Mason stared up at him, rain soaking his face, figured at least if he died, it was warm where he was headed.
But the deputy didn’t shoot him. He relaxed his trigger finger, took a step back. Motioned with the pistol.
“Get up,” he told Mason. “We’re going to take a ride.”
“You want my advice, you need to forget about that dog,” Sweeney said.
They were in the deputy’s SUV now, headed east along the highway. Sweeney had made sure to knock over Mason’s bike as he pulled back out onto the road, ran it over a couple of times for good measure.
“Thing was a piece of shit anyway,” he’d said, smirking at Mason in the rearview mirror.
Mason hadn’t replied. Sat in the back seat and shifted his weight, his hands cuffed behind him, the steel digging into his wrists. Sweeney drove in silence for a few miles, still smiling to himself. Every now and then his radio squawked static. Otherwise, the ride was quiet.
Then Sweeney brought up the dog. “You need to let it go,” he told Mason. “The mutt’s not long for this world anyway. Outlived its usefulness, I guess you could call it. Kirby thinks it might help the widow remember if she sees her little doggie in pieces.”
Mason closed his eyes. “She doesn’t have what you’re after,” he said. “You haven’t figured that out yet?”
“Maybe not, but she was hitched to the guy who did. And that means she knows stuff that the rest of us don’t. Kirby says it’s just a matter of getting her to play along.”
“Kirby’s a tool,” Mason said. “You ever think for yourself?”
Sweeney didn’t reply, sneered at him in the rearview.
“What are you all into, anyway? What exactly did Ty Winslow steal from you?”
“That’s a need-to-know,” Sweeney said. “And you don’t.”
“Sure, but you should probably tell the Winslow woman what she’s looking for.”
“You need to forget about her, too, Burke. Matter of fact, you should just forget about Deception Cove altogether, you know? There’s nothing here for you.”
They’d reached another town, bigger than Deception Cove but not by a whole lot. The sign on the side of the highway said CLALLAM BAY. Sweeney turned off the highway, drove down the main street, pulled off into a gas station lot, and parked alongside the building.
“Won’t take but a minute,” he said, killing the engine and reaching for the door. “Don’t you go anywhere.”
Mason waited, squirming to get comfortable in his cuffs. Watched through the windshield as Sweeney disappeared inside the gas station, came out five minutes later holding a piece of paper in his hands. The deputy slid in behind the wheel, twisted back to show Mason what he had.
“This here’s a bus ticket to Seattle,” he said. “Compliments of the Makah County Sheriff’s Department. You want my advice, you buy another bus ticket soon as you hit the city, go home to Michigan, get a good drunk on, maybe get laid, and when you sober up, you can get yourself a real job to occupy your time.”
“That’s what you suggest, is it?”
Sweeney looked him over. His lip curled. “Kirby wants you gone,” he said. “By rights, I should have shot you back there, Burke. If you’re looking for something to say, maybe try for ‘thank you.’”
It was early afternoon when the bus showed up. Sweeney waited with Mason in the Explorer, the radio tuned to some new country channel, singers Mason had never heard of and was pretty sure he could live just fine without. When the bus pulled into the lot, Sweeney yawned, stretched, climbed from the SUV and opened Mason’s door, gestured Turn around, and undid the cuffs.
“Don’t you get cute now,” he said, steering Mason toward the waiting bus. “This is a one-time gesture of goodwill. I see you again, I won’t be so kindhearted.”
He walked Mason to the door of the bus. Handed him the ticket, and leaned in and spoke to the driver.
“I want this man on the bus all the way to Seattle,” he said. “He tries anything stupid, you call the law and have them call back to Deception Cove. We’ll send someone down to get him.”
The driver was a middle-aged guy, beefy, sleeves rolled up and tattoos. He gave Mason the once-over, nodded.
Sweeney nudged Mason toward the door. “Been a pleasure, Burke,” he said. “Bon voyage.”
The bus ride to Seattle took five hours. Mason sat in the back and stared out the window and thought about Jess Winslow, thought about Lucy. Eventually the bus stopped at a ferry terminal and drove onto a ship for the ride across Puget Sound, and Mason waited and looked out at the water, watched the Seattle skyline come into view on the other side.
The ferry docked, and the bus drove into the city and found the intercity Greyhound station, and Mason filed off with the rest of the passengers, winked at the driver, who glared back in response. He walked inside the bus terminal and straight to the ticket counter, waited in line some more until a clerk called him forward.
And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.
“I need a ticket to Deception Cove,” Mason told the clerk, reaching for his cash. “One way.”
Fifteen
It was just after midnight when the bus dropped Mason off in front of the gas station in Deception Cove. He was the only passenger to disembark; there was nobody waiting at the gas station, no sheriff’s deputies or anyone else. The rain continued, ceaseless. Mason was tired and cold and hungry, his busted lip sore, his hair matted with dried blood.
He walked up the highway to Hank Moss’s motel. The light was off in the lobby, the VACANCY sign burning bright red in the dark of
the night. There were no cars in the parking lot, no other rooms occupied. As Mason dug into his pocket for his room key, he could have been the only person left alive in the world.
He slid his key into the lock, turned it. Before he could push the door open, though, he sensed movement behind him, and he spun, ready to fight, expecting to see Sweeney or Harwood materialize in the empty lot.
Instead it was Jess Winslow who emerged from the shadows.
She wore a black rain jacket, dark jeans, and hiking boots. A baseball cap, her hair in a ponytail. Her movements were cautious, hesitant, though Mason couldn’t be sure if it was Harwood she was afraid of or him.
“Hi,” she said.
“You scared me half to death,” he replied, and it was true; his heart was still pounding, body in fight-or-flight mode. “How long’ve you been waiting here?”
“A while,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d skipped town.”
Mason looked past her, surveyed the parking lot and the highway beyond. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s better if nobody sees us.”
She followed him into the room, waited as he turned on the ceiling light and the lamp by the bed, as he pulled out a chair for her from beside the plywood desk. She demurred when he offered to hang up her jacket, and he shrugged and hung his slicker up all the same. Then he sat down on the end of the bed, looked her over.
“How’d you find me?” he said.
“There’s only one motel in town,” she replied. “And Hank Moss is a friend of mine. He gave you up pretty easy. Though if you weren’t bunking here, I was out of ideas.”
She was scanning the room, her eyes never resting in one place for long, and Mason noticed she’d backed her chair against the wall.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
He laughed a little. Touched his lip. “Turns out my presence isn’t appreciated in this town. So much so that Deputy Sweeney was willing to pay out of pocket for a bus ticket home.”
“Cole ran you out?”
“Yup. Put a gun to my head and swore he’d be fine with just shooting me, but I guess he had a change of heart.”
Jess stared across at him, studied his face, and Mason wondered just how bad he looked. He’d caught glimpses of his reflection in the window on the bus, but he hadn’t seen a mirror yet, wasn’t sure he wanted to.
She pursed her lips, seemed to be considering something. Mason waited. Listened to a car pass on the highway outside, the hush of the tires on the pavement. Finally Jess came to her decision.
“Dale Whitmer’s brother keeps dogs on his property,” she said. “He has a farm a couple miles west of town.”
Mason said nothing.
“You asked if I had any idea where they’re keeping Lucy,” she continued. “I gave it some thought, and I think that’s the likeliest story. I’ve been watching the deputies’ houses, and I don’t think they have her, but Bryce Whitmer has the space, and a kennel to keep her.”
And other dogs, Mason thought. And guns. “You been out there yet?”
She shook her head. “Couldn’t risk it in daylight. Harwood and his boys know my truck. They see me lurking around, they’ll either move that dog or they’ll kill her.”
Mason stood. Went to the closet, pulled on his coat. Gathered his duffel bag, his spare clothes and gear.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“There’s no sense waiting,” he said, bending to retie his boots. “Those boys are getting desperate over there.”
She looked at him.
“Are you coming?” he asked. “Because if not, I’m going to need you to draw me a map.”
But she was already on her feet. “Yeah, I’m coming,” she said. “Let’s get this done.”
She’d parked her truck around back of the motel, tucked into the shadows and well out of sight of the road. Her shotgun lay in a soft case behind the passenger seat, a couple of boxes of shells beside. Mason glanced at it as he climbed into the truck, and Jess caught him looking.
“I don’t leave home without it,” she said, turning the key in the ignition. “Not anymore.”
She pulled out onto the highway, and they drove in silence. The highway was empty, the forest looming in beside and above. As the lights of the gas station dwindled in the rearview, the night outside was suddenly very dark.
“How far did Cole take you, when he ran you out?” Jess asked after a while.
“Next town over,” Mason said. “Bought me a ticket to Seattle, told the driver to call the law if I tried to get off before. So I rode that bus to Seattle and caught the next one back.”
“You think about not coming back?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would’ve been easier.” She kept her eyes on the road, hands at ten and two. Gripped the wheel tight, didn’t look at him. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to get back at the world, cause some mayhem, go down swinging.”
He didn’t say anything, waited until she’d looked his way.
“You aiming to go back to jail, Burke?” she asked. “Or maybe you just have a death wish, revenge fantasy? Want to kill a few cops on your way out of this world?”
“I want to see that dog safe,” Mason said. “That’s all.”
“Yeah, well.” She slowed the truck. “Just try and remember that some of us have to live in this town when it’s all said and done.”
He started to reply. Jess cut him off with a shake of her head. Pulled the truck off the highway, killed the engine, and pointed out through the windshield.
“Farm’s just through those trees,” she said. “Best if we walk from here.”
Sixteen
Bryce Whitmer’s place wasn’t much of a farm anymore. When Jess was growing up, Bryce and Dale’s dad had tried keeping horses on the property, a couple of dairy cows and a handful of chickens, but there was less money in farming in Deception Cove than there was in fishing. Soon as the old man died, the horses disappeared, the cows were sold, and the chickens were cooked and eaten, and Bryce, who was the eldest, set about filling the land he’d inherited with every manner of junked vehicle imaginable.
Now Bryce ran something of an impromptu pick-a-part: for a ten-dollar fee, Bryce would call off his dogs for you, let you wander around the piles of rusted hulks, dig under the hoods, and when you found what you were looking for, Bryce would assess a value, and you could pay it or you could leave.
Most people just paid, having come that far, and anyway, Bryce was a big, broad guy, six feet five, and he kept two foul-tempered mutts roaming loose among the cars, rumor being those dogs had tasted human flesh now and again, and that they’d liked it well enough to want to try some more.
People didn’t mess with Bryce Whitmer. Even his little brother steered mostly clear, and Dale was supposed to be the law. So Jess didn’t exactly feel comfortable sneaking around the side of Bryce’s property like she and Burke were doing, but if she were Kirby Harwood, she’d have stashed Lucy here, so she’d decided she didn’t really have a choice.
She’d hidden the truck off the highway, down a dirt-track road that led up into the hills beyond the Whitmer property line. She’d unpacked the Remington, shoved a handful of spare shells into her jacket pocket, double-checked the shotgun to make sure it was loaded.
“I don’t have a gun for you,” she told Burke. “I’m hoping we can do this thing without needing mine, either.”
Burke just nodded. “That would be just fine with me,” he said. “I never shot a gun in my life anyway.”
“Well, this is hardly the best time to be learning.” She gave him a flashlight instead, closed the Chevy’s door, quiet as she could. Through the trees she could see the lights of the Whitmer place, a run-down old two-story house she’d never seen the inside of, but she’d known girls who had, back in high school, and they hadn’t come back with five-star reviews. Jess could only imagine what the place looked like these days.
A fence ran up the roadside, into the forest, chain link and barbed wire, security lights. Jess gestured up the dirt road.
“I’m thinking we try and find a way in around back,” she said. “Unless you want to knock on the front door.”
Burke was studying the fence. “Rather not. You remember the wire cutters?”
She shook her head. “We’re going to have to improvise.”
Jess could feel her heart rate increasing, feel her senses start to wake up, pay attention, as if she were back on night patrol again, back over there, as if any step she took wrong could blow her legs off, or worse, get one of her guys killed.
She didn’t mind the feeling. Figured this was about the only thing in her life she’d ever been good at, sneaking around doing macho man shit. Figured this adrenaline rush was her body telling her she was doing what she should.
She motioned down the fence line, into the dark. “Let’s do this.”
Burke nodded. Switched on the flashlight, kept it aimed low. Started walking. Jess shouldered the shotgun and fell in behind him.
* * *
Mason and Jess followed the road toward the back of the property. He traced the bottom of the fence with his flashlight, looking for a tear in the chain link, a hole, anything they could use to get into the compound.
That’s what it was, a compound; it wasn’t a farm. Beyond the house, the old fields were filled with the shadowed hulks of old cars, lined up in uneven rows and stacked atop one another, a labyrinth of worn-out American iron. The cars were stacked three or four high; even with their roofs stove in, they still towered above Mason and Jess. Soon the hulks had blocked the view of the house, blocked the view of anything inside the fence line.
They reached the rear of the property, set off through the trees to cover the back fence. Mason walked slow, stepped soft and careful, knew there were supposed to be dogs roaming around. There was a vague path through the forest along the back fence, a deer trail or something, and that helped. He didn’t make much noise tracing the line; behind him, Jess made none, and when he glanced back to make sure she was still with him, there was a dim glint of reflected light on the barrel of the shotgun, the same in her eyes, and that’s all she was.
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