Jericho's Razor

by Casey Doran

  I turned back toward town and ended up at the marina. My boat is a fifty-foot sailboat bought at auction after the sale of my third book. It’s rough. Dents and scrapes in the paint make me wonder if the previous owner used it for a water-based version of demolition derby. But it’s perfect for sails up and down the Illinois River. I would often take it north, all the way to Lake Michigan, drop anchor, and spend the night in the cabin, writing, playing guitar, and disappearing from the world for a few days at a time.

  I named it Infamy.

  Anchored off Paradise Cove, I sat on the deck and looked out at the Peoria skyline, framed by an apricot sky. Beside me was a cooler packed with bottles of Newcastle. Beside the cooler was my gun. I drank with a cautious eye. A fifteen-foot bass boat spent the early afternoon tracing the shoreline. Other than that I was alone, save for the police helicopter that occasionally passed overhead like a vulture.

  The inactivity was torture. Any writer worth his Times New Roman font knows that the protagonist has to consistently impact the plot. The main character must drive the story. Watching the sun disappear from the deck of my boat, drinking beer, I wasn’t driving jack. Eli was at the helm while I rocked on the tides, waiting for his next move. I was thinking about digging out the fishing gear and tossing a line out when lights penetrated the darkness, followed by the sound of twin outboard motors. I reached to my left and grabbed two beers, ignoring the gun. Eli wouldn’t arrive making such a racket. And he still had two more days.

  Jagger stood on the bow of a police boat clutching the rail with both hands. She was clearly not a water person, but she knew to ask permission to come aboard. I nodded and she hopped over, refusing my offered hand. Strong and stubborn, just like another woman I could not get out of my head. I wondered why I spent so much time comparing them.

  She waved goodbye to her ride and I handed her a beer. The police boat disappeared toward the Murray Baker Bridge until it made nothing more than a distant hum. Jagger sat opposite me and opened her Newcastle.

  “It’s nice out here. Quiet.”

  “It was.”

  “The helicopter can’t see you in the dark. They could throw the spotlight on you, but they were worried you would shoot it.”

  “I have my running lights on. The boat is visible.”

  “I didn’t say they couldn’t see the boat. I said they couldn’t see you.”

  “What am I going to do, give you the slip by swimming to shore?”

  Jagger just stared at me. After my ruse to ditch the cops shadowing me and chase after Pastor Grimes, that’s most likely exactly what they were thinking.

  “So, you get to come over and babysit me?”

  “It could have been Eddie.”

  Jagger pulled off her shoes and set them beside her bag, keeping both within arm’s reach.

  “How is the head?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “When I saw you laying there, you were as still as a rock. There was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Jesus. Do you always have to be such a jerk? Or only when someone is trying to show that they care about you?”

  “Just most of the time to the former. But always to the latter.”

  Jagger took a drink from her beer and pointed the bottle my way. “Man, Katrina Masters really fucked you up, didn’t she?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I was fucked-up way before I met Kat.”

  That earned a smile. Jagger took in the view of downtown as though seeing it for the first time. The city looks different out on the water. The harsh edges of the buildings and bridges tend to blur, making the skyline look like a watercolor.

  “How long have you lived here?” She asked.

  “Almost eleven years now. I bounced around for a while before settling here.”

  “Do you ever miss Montana?” she asked.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t mean the associations you have with it. Just the state. I’ve been through it before, and it’s beautiful up there. It must have been magic for a boy growing up. Wilderness. Adventure. I only ask because you don’t seem to be totally acclimated here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You live in an abandoned building. Your best friend is a stray dog. You buy most of what you need online. The only place you really frequent is Tanner’s bar, and the only person you have had a serious relationship with is Katrina Masters.

  Jagger once again looked toward her purse. Besides her gun, I wondered what was in there. Maybe Dramamine.

  “You’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, haven’t you?” she asked. “That’s why you’ve never truly settled in anywhere. You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I didn’t expect it to come from Eli.”

  “What was he like when he was a kid?”

  I took a pull from my beer and considered it.

  “Funny”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you wouldn’t think it was true now, with what he turned into. But he used to be the class clown. I remember how Peter would be giving his sermons at our ranch, and Eli would be mimicking him perfectly. From a safe distance, of course. But he was our comic relief. Sometimes I think the only reason I didn’t go nuts growing up was because Eli was there to pull some stupid gag on me like leaving a dead snake in my dresser or filling my boots with shaving cream.”

  “You want to know why he’s doing it, don’t you? You want to know what happened to make him act like this?”

  I nodded.

  “There isn’t always an answer, Sands. Sometimes people just do what they do because the idea hits them and they can’t think of a reason not to.”

  “That’s pretty bleak.”

  “It is what it is,” Jagger said. “Anyway, I’ve been a cop too long to waste time looking for a grand scheme behind everything.” She finished her beer and grabbed another from the cooler. “You come out here much?”

  “Sometimes. When I need to get away and clear my head.”

  “What are your thoughts right now?”

  I took a breath, stretched out, and watched streams of lights pass over the bridge.

  “‘I was just thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, I drank what?’”

  Jagger smiled. “Real Genius.”

  I tipped my beer her way. “Wow. I’m impressed. Not many people know that movie.”

  “I don’t have much of a life. Movies have always been my thing. And I used to have a huge crush on Val Kilmer. I’ve even seen Willow.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jagger smiled and turned to face me. “Go ahead, writer boy. Quiz me.”

  “Okay ... ‘The lice hate the sugar.’”

  “Seriously, dude? You’re asking a cop if she knows Super Troopers? I thought you were going to make this interesting.”

  “‘You gotta play this game with fear and arrogance.’”

  “Bull Durham.”

  “‘I don’t believe in God …’”

  “‘… but I’m afraid of him.’ The Usual Suspects. One of my favorites.”

  “Mine too. ‘What’s a Nubian?’” I said.

  “Chasing Amy.”

  “‘So it’s sorta social. Demented and sad, but social.’”

  “The Breakfast Club. Don’t even think you’re going to stump me with a John Hughes movie.”

  I smiled. “I concede. You know your movies.”

  We sat back and finished our beers. Every so often a barge would pass close to the boat and rustle the water. My boat would sway hard from port to starboard, seesawing in the wake. Every time we shifted hard on the current, Jagger grabbed the stern line.

  “You really don’t like boats, do you?” I asked.

  “Not so much.”

  Jagger set down her beer and leaned over. Our faces were inches apart. “Why did you ask me if there was anything betwe
en Eddie and me at the bookstore?”

  I shrugged. “I’m a writer. I’m nosy.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not why you asked.”

  She was right. Tanner made a point to keep telling me that I had to forget about Kat and find someone else. I hadn’t even considered it. Until, much to my nature, I picked the worst possible time take his advice.

  “So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Were you going to stay out here all night?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s getting cold. Going to be even colder in a few hours.”

  “I have a heater in the cabin.”

  Jagger nodded like she was deciding something. I had no idea what, but realized I was feeling the familiar anticipation of being with an attractive woman, alone, in the dark. We sat in silence, hearing each other breathe, feeling the weight of all that was unsaid.

  “The helicopter could have kept tabs on me just fine,” I said.

  “Yeah. They have an infrared camera on board. People look like glowing blobs. It lets them see if somebody is hiding in bushes or under a car. It’s pretty cool.”

  “And even if they couldn’t, my bike is parked in the marina. You could have put a car on it.”

  “There actually is a car watching it.”

  “So whoever got stuck with that crappy job would have spotted me if I tried to swim to shore.”

  “Right again. Especially after your switcheroo act last night. I know the cops out there. They’re good.”

  “So … why are you really here, Alyssa?”

  She smiled and set down her beer. “Exactly how well does that heater work?”

  For the first time in years, I woke up to a woman next to me who wasn’t Katrina. The first time with Alyssa had been slow and awkward, both of us nervous and a little buzzed, not quite sure if what we were doing was such a good idea. The second round was much easier. The third was spectacular.

  Alyssa was already awake, propped up on an elbow and staring at me.

  “Do you realize you talk in your sleep?”

  “I’ve been told. It’s gotten me in trouble a few times.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Did I say anything interesting?”

  “Nothing coherent.” She was smiling, and I wasn’t totally sure I believed her. My tendency to say things that get me into trouble is not exclusive to being awake.

  “Let me guess. It’s been a while since anyone besides Katrina?”

  “Are you that good a detective, or am I just that obvious?”

  “Maybe a little of both. So, how do I compare?”

  “You really like to throw things out there, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you realize that I see this question for the trap that it is?”

  Alyssa said nothing. She just waited.

  “It’s different. Not any better or worse. Just different.”

  “That’s a very safe answer.”

  “It’s also the best one you’re going to get.”

  Alyssa traced the scar on my abdomen, courtesy of Peter’s knife. Six inches long, jagged, and runs like an angry fault line up and down my side.

  The boat suddenly rocked from something moving in the channel. Probably another barge. Or maybe her ride, wondering what happened to her. I’m sure the helicopter with its infrared camera got a hell of a show. By now, the entire police force had to be buzzing.

  “I hear you thinking, Jericho. You’re wondering if I would stick my neck out like this for a one-night stand. Am I right?”

  I smiled, noticing that she was now calling me by my first name. “Pretty close, yeah.”

  “I don’t know what this is. I’m certain that right now is the worst possible time to be starting anything. For both of us. But life is too short. What has been happening should remind us of that. And I know that whatever this is, I don’t want to ignore it.”

  “Me neither.”

  I pulled anchor and motored into the dock. There was a police car in the lot. Two officers sat inside eating breakfast wraps and drinking coffee. They pretended not to stare as I walked Alyssa to her car.

  “Busted,” I said.

  “Yeah. I feel like a teenager trying to sneak inside the house after an all-nighter.”

  “Your partner is going to be pissed.”

  “I can handle Eddie. I have to get downtown and check in with him before going home. It’ll be a good time to set things straight.”

  “Good luck with that. Just do me a favor and give me a heads-up if he decides to come shoot me.”

  We kissed with the cops watching us, a long, drawn-out affair that accelerated my heart rate like a shot of adrenaline. It was not a “thanks for a good time” kiss, but a promise of things to come. Assuming I was not dead in two more days. Alyssa drove away, and I walked to my bike. I fired it up and the cop on the driver side leaned out the window.

  “So, buddy. How does she ride?”

  I flipped him the bird.

  “What the fuck? I was talking about the Triumph.”

  “Sure you were.”

  I rode up the river. The wind hit me with icy-sharp needles, but I pushed into it, letting the bike run, losing myself in the purr of the engine. Ninety-five miles per hour on the interstate, weaving through cars and semis like a black-and-chrome rocket, passing so quickly that no one could be sure I was ever really there.

  After an hour, I doubled back toward town. The roads felt like the set of a postapocalyptic movie, deserted and quiet. Early morning sunlight bathed downtown.

  It was the morning of day two, and I needed a plan to flush Eli from hiding. I was through waiting. Through being bait.

  I turned onto Main Street with determination, ready to impact the plot.

  Until I spotted the beat-up Camaro parked behind my building.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The car was just as the man under the viaduct had described. Faded yellow paint. Patches of Bondo on the front fender. The car I had spent all night searching for was now parked on my street. I climbed off my bike and walked toward the Camaro, halfway expecting it to vanish like a mirage the moment I tried to touch it. But it remained. I scanned the street. Eli had walked into our net at the bookstore. I was sure that he was somewhere close by right now, watching, curious to see how I would react to so bold a move. A description of this car was all over the news and riding with every squad car in the state, yet Eli had driven it through the heart of downtown and parked it. Illegally.

  I tried the driver-side door, and it swung open with a groaning creak of tired metal and rust. There were discarded cans of Mountain Dew and fast-food wrappers on the floor of the passenger side. A map of Illinois was hastily folded and stuffed in the visor. I reached in and grabbed a baseball hat that I immediately recognized. It was a Los Angeles Dodgers cap. Eli had been a fan of the team growing up, and he wore the hat proudly around the compound, despite Peter’s condemnations. The old man cursed professional sports as the devil’s playground. He viewed all professional athletes as wicked individuals who made fortunes by fornicating and using drugs and beating their wives and girlfriends. The hat had earned Eli more than one slap across the face from our father, but he hardly ever took it off.

  I tucked the hat in my back pocket, shut the car door, and entered my building. Leaving the lights off, I walked to my truck, keeping my head on a swivel. The murder of Sean Booker hung like smoke. It left an aura that no cleanup crew could ever eliminate. Every time I came down here I would see the headless body tied to the overturned chair. I would smell the rotten stew of blood and tissue hanging from the rafters like confetti.

  I decided to search from the top down. I took the stairs slowly, using the acoustics of the building and keeping a sharp ear for any sounds of movement overhead. The old building made stealth impossible. Bad for me. But also bad for anyone else. At the door to my loft, I quickly tuned the key and pushed open the door. Doomsday looked up from the couch, looking bored and confused as to why I standing in the doorw
ay without coming in. It told me that searching my loft was pointless. There was nobody there.

  “Doomsday! Come!”

  He sat up, shook his fur, and trotted over. I held the baseball hat under his nose, letting him get a good sniff. He found the scent and hurried down the stairs. We searched level by level. Doomsday seemed at ease. If Eli were close by, I knew from experience that Doomsday would be on guard.

  My phone vibrated in my back pocket, startling me. I pulled it out and saw that I had a text message from Jagger.

  ‘Just pulled into my driveway. Had a great time.’

  I had to decide what to tell her.

  The phone buzzed again. I could tell by the repeated pulse that it was a call rather than a text. I checked the screen, expecting to see Jagger’s number.

  I was wrong.

  “Hi, big brother.” He spoke softly, whispering like we used to when we would stay up after bedtime. I went to the window on the far side of the floor. It was covered in dust and grime, but still offered a decent view of the street. The Camaro was still there, sitting like a stain on the side of the road. Doomsday calmly paced the room. Maybe picking up a scent, maybe just curious about being in unfamiliar territory.

  “You really do like the messed-up ones, don’t you?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “The police aren’t the only ones keeping tabs on you. I was watching your boat from shore through a high-powered scope mounted to my rifle. I could have taken out you, Jagger, and those dumbass cops parked by your bike.”

  “Enough of this shit, Eli. Come out and talk.”

  “That may be a problem. I’m not exactly in the vicinity right now.”

  Several things occurred to me, all too late. Eli was speaking in a low voice because he didn’t want to be overheard. I assumed that was because he was close by. But it wasn’t me he was hiding from. I hung up and dialed Jagger.

  “Hey.” I could hear her smile, the jingle of keys as they hit something solid, probably a bowl kept on an end table by the door. A place where she put them every time. She probably put her purse there as well. And maybe her gun.

  “Eli is in your apartment …” I was broken off by the sound of crashing. Loud rumblings traveled over the phone and I heard Jagger yell.