Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

  At exactly 2.8 miles, he swung the big boat east, listening now, peering into a fog that came in patches like snow squalls. After a mile he heard waves on the port side, put the light on again. Irina came up from below, looked at him, then peered out into the blackness. Not another boat in sight. She heard the waves, not crashing but falling steadily like someone was playing cymbals in a slow cadence. Lucky had his eye on the compass, adjusted course to the southeast for the wind. He hit the spotlight again, waited, and thought he saw something, a red buoy waggling from the darkness like a scolding finger.

  The Sturdivant Ledges.

  “Jesus, are those rocks?” Irina said.

  “No problem,” Lucky said, as the buoy swept past to starboard. “As good as home.”

  He spun the wheel, the boat veered to the northeast. Lucky motored between the markers, saw the last pair pass, then the point of Sturdivant Island, white foam from breaking waves. He slowed nearly to idle, looked to the shore, began counting the lights.

  The big houses were lit up, floodlights on docks, porches, illuminating the long, sloping lawns. And then there was a stretch of darkness, pure blackness, like the entrance to a cave. It was here that Lucky turned the boat ashore.

  He watched the depthfinder, saw the bottom start to come up: 33 feet, 24, 10, 8. Lucky slipped the boat out of gear, scurried up the deck, and released the anchor. It fell with a muffled sploosh, dragged, and set. The boat swung around, bow pointing south.

  Back in the cockpit, Lucky killed the lights. He turned and unhooked the painter for the inflatable, drifting to stern. He pulled it close, unfastened the oars, left the little Honda motor up and out of the water.

  He hadn’t slept more than eight hours in three days. But his eyes were bright and unblinking under his baseball cap as he looked at Irina, smiled, and said, “Ready.”

  Without a word, she turned and went below.

  CHAPTER 35

  Nessa was asleep in big wing chair in the living room, snoring softly. Mia was in the kitchen on the phone to her mother in Minneapolis, calling while Brandon was checking the boat, making sure it was set for the night. It was ten-fifteen. He’d been gone ten minutes. He’d said he’d be back in a half hour.

  “Your father’s been working a lot,” Mia’s mother said.

  “Something new and different,” Mia said.

  “A trial in Seattle.”

  “If it wasn’t that, he’d have some other reason to stay away,” Mia said.

  “Mia that’s—”

  “True is what it is. Dad’s allergic to home. I used to think he was allergic to me.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Just because—”

  “I have some good news,” Mia’s mother said. “You know that client your dad had? The one with the brother in the big advertising agency?”

  Mia didn’t answer.

  “He told your father to tell you to call him. About a writing job. In New York.”

  “Mom, I don’t know anything about advertising.”

  “It’s writing. And you’d get paid very well. How many writers get paid?” “It’s not writing. I mean, it is, but it’s not what I want to do. You know that.”

  “Why not just try it? Maybe you’d love it, being in Manhattan, all the excitement, going to shows and—”

  “But I like it here. And I met this guy. He’s really—”

  Mia let the phone fall away. Listened.

  “What guy?” Mia?”

  Mom. I gotta go for a sec. I’ll call you right back.”

  She turned and looked toward the back stairs. “Mrs. Blake,” she called. “Are you up?”

  Mia stood slowly, silently. Crossed the kitchen, moved down the hallway. Peeked into the living room. Saw Nessa in the chair, feet tucked underneath her, her mouth open.

  Asleep.

  Mia walked slowly back to the kitchen, stood by the table. She looked toward the stairs, then up at the ceiling. Heard a footstep. Or maybe she’d felt it. Listened. Heard the rattle of a window.

  The wind.

  Above the kitchen was a bedroom. Nikki’s room. Mia had started to peek, but Nessa had called for her. She’d gotten just a glimpse of high school stuff still in place. Mia had closed the door behind her.

  Or had she?

  She went to the closet by the back door, opened it, and took out Bran-don’s rifle. He’d showed her how the thumbscrew tightened the trigger mechanism, locked it in place. Showed her how to loosen it, then pull the bolt back to drop a shell into the chamber. Mia held it against her thigh, the barrel pointed at the floor. She levered the shell in.

  The back stairs were narrow and steep. She took them one step at a time, pausing and listening, the gun on her hip. At the landing she listened longer, thought she heard something downstairs, somewhere behind her. A knock? A creak?

  She listened again, took another step up, her head level with the second floor. She eased her way, step by step, fingered the trigger, felt the stock against her hip.

  Listened.

  Nothing.

  Took another step and another.

  The door to Nikki’s room was ajar.

  It was dark inside. She eased her way to the stop of the stairs, listened. Looked both ways, like a kid at the curb. Two, three steps to the door.

  Paused, motionless. Pushed the door open with the barrel of the gun.

  It swung and creaked. Cold air blew out.

  Mia reached across and over the gun, felt for the light switch. Found it and flicked it on.

  There was high school stuff. Pictures of friends in heart-shaped frames, haircuts off “Three’s Company.” A shriveled rose pinned to a corkboard, a skeleton of a flower. Some misshapen vases and pots.

  Pottery class.

  Mia pushed the door open wider.

  There were French doors to the right, leading to something. The roof of a porch? Mia crossed the room, felt the breeze, the doors ajar. She turned quickly, swept the room with the gun. Nearly squeezed off a shot, but held back.

  She moved on fear-stiffened legs to the doors. Called out, “Nessa?”

  She spilled down the stairs, the gun in front of her. Glanced at the back door on the way by, saw that it was now ajar, too. Slipped down the hallway, hesitated at the corner of the wall, stepped around.

  Nessa was in the chair, still. There was a piece of folded white paper on her chest. Mia moved toward her, saw her chest rising and falling. Reached out and took the paper with her finger and thumb.

  Holding the piece of paper up in front of her, she let it fall open.

  Scrawled in black marker was a message:

  bill for pain and suffering is going up. 20 thousand. Cash. Sorry we missed you. I know. Its hard to be everywhere

  It was signed with a streak of what appeared to be blood.

  There was a noise in the kitchen and Mia whirled around, let the paper fall. As it floated to the ground, she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. She raised the gun to her shoulder, pointed it at the edge of the wall.

  “Brandon?” she said.

  CHAPTER 36

  Dawn, the sun bleeding over the horizon. Griffin was up, in uniform, standing by the bedroom window. He watched the red ball creep upward, thought it would be a good day for baseball. He walked to the bed and stood over Denise, asleep with her back to him, the blankets pulled around her so she only showed as a ridgeline: hips, waist, shoulder, a mop of mussed dark hair.

  He let his hand hover over her hip. Then he turned and went to the door. He closed it behind him and padded down the hall.

  It was superstition, he knew, but cops have lots of them. Griffin never left for the job without saying goodbye to his wife, looking in on the boys. The first door on the left was Jeremy’s. Griffin eased it open.

  Jeremy had kicked off the covers, was asleep in his favorite Celtics shorts and a Kevin Youkilis T-shirt. On the shelf beside the bed were baseball cards in plastic cases, trophies with figures poised, a dirty Red Sox hat.

 
; Jeremy’s mouth was open. His eyes were closed, but from a certain angle Griffin could see through the space between the closed lids to the whites of his son’s eyeballs. It was like a glimpse of death and it jolted Griffin. He pulled back so he could again see his son peacefully sleeping.

  He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  Michael’s door was ajar because he wouldn’t have it shut. The younger boy was curled up in a ball at the center of the bed, like a cat would sleep.

  Griffin touched the younger boy on the shoulder, knowing he wouldn’t wake up, that he slept through thunderstorms, sirens outside his bedroom window. Michael didn’t flinch, the rhythm of his breathing unchanged. Griffin smiled, left the room.

  He was due to report at six; it was four-fifteen. He’d thought of calling Brandon, but when he’d come up with the plan the night before it had been too late. Now it was too early.

  Griffin took the Interstate north, only a few trucks out at this hour. He flipped a wave to a southbound state trooper, continued on, got off the highway, and made his way to Crystal’s road. He knew she and the baby would be asleep. He hoped the dog would be, too.

  The houses were dark as Griffin drove, slowed as he approached the house. There was no sign of life, the white Mitsubishi parked out front. Griffin looked the place over as he coasted by, continued on around a long curve. Slowed at the place where he’d seen the path cut into the brush.

  He pulled in, off the road, saw tracks where another car had pushed through the tall grass. Ahead of him in the green brush he saw red tail-lights, chrome, the back of an old Chevy Caprice.

  Griffin smiled.

  “Jackpot,” he said.

  He parked behind the Chevy, got out, and walked up to it. There were Budweiser cans on the floor in the back, Burger King bags on the front seat. Griffin straightened and looked beyond the car to where the opening in the brush narrowed.

  There were two tracks, like someone had ridden a four-wheeler here but not this spring. Griffin started down the path and small birds flushed in front of him, yellow and black ones, rosy red ones, too. Denise would know what they were, from the book she kept on the windowsill by the backyard birdfeeder. He made a note of the birds’ colors so he could ask her.

  Griffin walked, thinking how pleasant it was in the woods at this hour. The leaves and grass were wet with dew, and spiders’ webs were strung with droplet like tiny pearls.

  The path wound around denser brush, blackberries, and, in the low spots, thickly bunched alders. He saw some old rusting drums in the woods to his right, beyond them the skeleton of an ancient car. This probably had been farmland fifty years before, now was overgrown, the farm and farmer forgotten.

  He walked for a quarter mile and then saw the path branch. The grass was flattened on the right-hand fork so he took that one, moving into and out of a grove of pines. He had a sense he was flanking the house now, that it was somewhere to his right. If Kelvin had walked to the camper in his boxers, it had to be somewhere—

  Ahead.

  It was painted camo, standing on poles, shoved under a bank of pines. The path led to the camper, and then veered right and widened as it led in the direction of the house.

  Griffin stopped. Listened and heard birds, one he knew was a blue jay, another a chickadee. He walked slowly toward the camper, watched the curtained windows. It looked like it had one room, probably a bed on each side. The door was at the back and there were windows at the middle.

  He started walking again, felt something under his left boot, but couldn’t stop. It was a beer can and it crushed, the crumpling noise loud and sharp.

  Griffin froze. There was no sign of movement from the camper, no sound. He figured they’d been drinking and were passed out.

  He counted to ten, listened. Kept walking, keeping to the path. And then he was under the trees and the grass gave way to pine needles that crunched softly under his boots.

  Griffin went to the door. Unhooked the strap on his Glock. Tried the knob and it turned. He thought about it again and knocked. The door rattled.

  He waited. Rattled the door again.

  “Joel,” Griffin said. “Portland P.D. Need to talk.”

  He listened, heard a thump from inside the camper, like the sound of someone rolling out of bed onto the floor. He put his hand on his gun butt. Knocked one more time.

  “I’m coming already, I’m coming,” came the muffled voice, high-pitched and agreeable. “Let me get my pants on.”

  Footsteps and then the door rattled. Griffin stepped back and it opened, and Fuller was standing in the opening. His hair was tousled and his eyes were a bleary red.

  “Hey, officer,” Fuller said. “Guess I slept late. All this fresh air. Ain’t used to being out in the country.”

  He grinned, teeth stained by chew. Behind him, the camper was dark and the air that streamed from it smelled of sleep and dirty clothes.

  “You alone in there, Joel?” Griffin said.

  “Just my buddy Kelvin. He owns this here celebrity crib.”

  He turned and peered back into the dimness.

  “Kelvin. Dude. We got company. An officer of the law.”

  Fuller turned back to Griffin and grinned. “Kelvin got into the coffee brandy last night. He’s moving a little slow.”

  “Have Kelvin step out here, too,” Griffin said, and Fuller turned away, moved deeper into the camper.

  “Kelvin, man, get your ass up or I’m gonna drag you out here. Kelvin, wake up.”

  Griffin stepped up and the camper swayed. He waited for his eyes to adjust. He saw a big lump under blankets at the far end of the camper, up high in the part that would be over the truck’s cab, had there been a truck. An arm reached out of the lump and pulled the blankets up.

  “Kelvin!” Fuller shouted.

  Griffin scanned the place. More Burger King trash on the floor. An empty Budweiser carton, an 18-pack. A gallon of coffee brandy on a table that came out of the wall, the plastic jug two thirds gone.

  He turned to his left. Stopped.

  The butt of a pistol, half covered by a dirty beige towel. Griffin took a step over, picked the towel up. It was the Ruger. Griffin picked it up, snapped the clip out. Loaded.

  He turned.

  “Joel,” Griffin said. “You’re a convicted felon. You know you can’t have this firearm.”

  Fuller had come back, was standing beside him.

  “I ain’t having nothing. That’s Kelvin’s. It’s his camper. His gun. Right, Kel?”

  Kelvin didn’t stir.

  “Kelvin, you stupid fuck. Tell the officer this ain’t my gun.”

  “Watch the language,” Griffin said.

  “Kelvin, wake up.”

  The mound of blankets stirred, a rumbling coming from it like something was about to erupt. Then it was still.

  “Step outside with me, Joel,” Griffin said.

  “Hey, it ain’t mine. You can’t bust me for that. What you want anyway? Where’s your warrant? I’m out of jail now, dude, you can’t just bust in here, start searching the place.”

  “You gave me permission to enter,” Griffin said.

  “The hell I did.”

  “Heard it plain as day. Now step outside.”

  Griffin reached out, took Fuller by the shoulder. He guided him through the door, started to step down behind him when Fuller wheeled backwards and swung.

  It was an elbow and it caught Griffin in the neck, knocked him sideways. He stumbled, started to bring the Ruger around. Fuller leapt at him, got an arm around Griffin’s neck. Griffin shouted, “Stop, stop,” hit Fuller in the side of the head with the pistol. Felt a hand at his own gun, Fuller pulling the Glock out of its holster.

  “Drop it,” Griffin screamed, felt the muzzle scraping up his chest. He aimed the Ruger at Fuller’s head, pulled the trigger, but it didn’t move, didn’t fire. Griffin dropped it, reached for Fuller’s arm, the one with the gun. They were spinning, Griffin trying to throw him off, when he felt the muzzle j
ump the top of his vest, press against his throat.

  “Drop—” Griffin said, and there was a blast, sound and heat and white fire and he was falling onto his back, feeling warm wetness running down the side of his neck.

  He tried to talk, but couldn’t. He looked up, saw Fuller standing with the gun in his hand, his mouth gaping, eyes wide. And then, as the image faded, Fuller seemed to relax.

  Griffin thought he should ask why, why the guy had shot him, but then it was like he was in a room and it was filling with smoke. He choked, tried to cough and then—.

  “What the hell?” Kelvin said. “What did you do? You shot a cop?”

  “He was gonna arrest me,” Fuller said, still staring at the big cop, the soles of his boots, the Ruger on the ground.

  Kelvin stepped down from the camper in his boxers, circled Griffin gingerly.

  “Is he dead? Maybe we should, like, call an ambulance.”

  “He’s dead. I saw him go.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? You know what they do if you shoot a cop? They hunt you down and nail your ass. Shoot you in the back. You’ll be lucky you ever get to jail. ‘He was gonna arrest me.’ Are you fucking crazy?”

  Kelvin eyes were fixed on Griffin’s, staring up at the trees.

  “I ain’t gonna do no five years,” Fuller said, his voice low, a dog’s growl. “No way.”

  “Five years? Five years is nothin’. Five years is shit compared to what you’re gonna get. You’re gonna get seventy-five. A hundred. Life in prison, dude. Look at this. A goddamn cop. Must have a car here someplace. People looking for him. Shoot him with his own gun, oh my fucking word. On my property. Look at that blood, running into the ground. That’s evidence. What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?”