Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  Pepper had seen the footage so many times on TV afterward, it was embedded in his brain more than most childhood memories. "Well, it was a hell of a punch. For an older guy," said Pepper, grinning a bit.

  His dad cracked a little smile back. "Not as creative as a pool cue to the nuts, but it did the job."

  From the next section over, the peanut vendor kid tossed a bag of peanuts over Pepper's head perfectly to a fan who'd waved for them. More accurate than today's Sox starter. The kid reminded Pepper of the teen from Dill Lot so Pepper quietly told his dad about the witness and what the boy had seen. "But something's not right," confided Pepper. "About the cop he saw drive through the lot? Zula talked to all the officers on patrol that night and confirmed they weren't there that night. Someone's lying and it better not be someone with a badge…"

  His dad laughed. "You sound like Jake, with that line. But maybe there's some other explanation. Did she check with the sheriff for county cars? Or an officer could have popped over from Chatham…maybe trying to locate his own teen parked in the dark?"

  None of which Pepper had thought of.

  "I can check with Kelly over at the sheriff's office and Melanie at Chatham," offered his dad. "I can get quick answers--they both have crushes on me."

  The old man was probably only half-kidding. "Thanks, but let me think about it first."

  By the bottom of the fifth, the score was Tampa Bay 5, Boston 4. But Boston had runners on first and second with no one out.

  Pepper's phone rang. Special Agent Alfson.

  Crap. Pepper had left a message for Alfson that he'd be out of town for the day, hadn't said why.

  Pepper didn't answer the call, but he gave his dad a grimace. The Sox's left fielder struck out a moment later, so Pepper took the chance to get up and do the Fenway shuffle past the row of fans to the aisle. He walked down through the tunnel to the concession area under the seats. Then called Alfson back.

  "Partner, where're you at?" asked Alfson.

  A deafening roar from the crowd above him drowned out Pepper's reply. A home run? At least a hit. But Pepper was trying to muffle the noise by covering the bottom of his phone. With a pinkie stuffed in his other ear. Didn't help much.

  "I'm up in Boston."

  "Don't tell me you're up at Fenway?" Alfson's voice was dripping with incredulity. Or maybe disgust? "What're you--part-time?"

  Pepper didn't take the bait. Instead, he filled in Alfson about the teen witness and everything he'd told Pepper. The four men, the shovels, the sedan that might be blue, everything the boy saw. But not his name. "Find Dunne for me and maybe I'll be less paranoid," said Pepper. "I'm not putting that kid's life at risk too."

  Alfson sputtered and blustered, but Pepper wasn't budging.

  Alfson finally gave up, for now. "Well, enjoy your vacation day. By the way, one of my crews just got back the toxicology for Keser. The lab found two drugs: Atricurium and methadone. The unsubs probably shot him up with atricurium…it's a short-term paralytic. Followed later by a big whack of methadone, which basically kept him paralyzed while he steamed to death. Maybe they're not as moronic as you told the press. If you were hoping the unsubs would overreact to your insults, I guess that failed, huh?"

  Pepper had heard of methadone but not the other drug. Were the unsubs pros, or crazy? How did the drugs fit the profile?

  "By the way," said Alfson. "My boys went by yesterday to check on Dunne and thought they saw you?"

  "Yeah, I was doing the same. But he wasn't around—probably decided to sleep on his boat, offshore."

  Pepper promised to call Alfson first thing in the morning, then hung up. He bought four Fenway franks then returned to his seat. The roar had been a three-run homer so the Sox were now up by two.

  Pepper and his dad didn't make much small talk now. They kind of focused on the ballgame's rituals. But the Ryan men were never the chatty types anyway. Pepper relaxed, getting into it. Even the syrupy sing-along to Sweet Caroline before the Sox batted in the eighth didn't annoy him as much as it used to.

  Top of the ninth, Tampa had runners on first and third with two outs. Pepper and his dad were on their feet with the rest of the Fenway faithful when Tampa's catcher struck out to end the game.

  As they joined the afternoon rush on 93 South, Pepper realized that maybe for the first time he was glad to be home again. But he knew he and his dad were both conscious of the empty space in the truck, where his older brother Jake would have been. Hell, Jake would have been driving.

  "I was thinking," said Pepper. "Maybe you could give me a hand a little, with the clambake case? Like those calls to the county sheriff's office, and to Chatham? Quietly, so the feds don't throw a fit."

  His dad paused a little longer than Pepper would have expected. "I wouldn't be interfering?"

  "No way. I still think they might be right that a local connection's the key and who knows the Cape better than us? But two things, Dad. This time, I'm in charge, okay? You let me know what you're up to, before you do it. And anything you find, you tell me, even if you think it's not important. That'll be my call, what matters. Oh, and you'd better ask for the General's blessing--I'm already too high on his shit list."

  "That's four things," said his dad in his old cop voice, but from his peripheral vision Pepper saw a hint of a smile.

  So okay, the beginning of a new beginning…

  And Pepper was trying to keep the big picture in mind. This crisis was just temporary. The case would be solved soon, or at least the President would have safely come and gone. A couple of weeks, tops. It'd be all good before they knew it…

  Within ninety minutes they cruised back over the Sagamore. Hit the New Albion town limits by 6:30 PM. Rolled up Shore Road to their cottage a few minutes later.

  Except the cottage literally wasn't there anymore. Where their house had been that morning when they'd left, there was nothing now but a sloping lawn of grass and a landscaper watering newly-laid sod from a hose attached to a truck with a big water tank in the back. The house was just gone: demolished, trucked away and the foundation had been filled in and sodded over. No sign there'd ever been a home there.

  Pepper and his dad just sat in his truck at the roadside, stunned. Pepper thought he must be asleep, having a nightmare, was this for real? Next to him, his dad had gone pale white, clutched his chest, let out a muffled little sound like he was being crushed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The ambulance raced through traffic to Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis, with Pepper following too quickly behind in his truck. An endless thirty minutes.

  That began a long night. The doctors were still trying to figure it out. His dad had symptoms of a heart attack. They'd found cardiac enzymes in his blood, which meant his heart muscle was damaged. The EKG showed abnormalities. But they couldn't find any blockages in the arteries that supply blood to his heart.

  They said it was maybe something called Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, his left ventricle wasn't working due to a surge of stress hormones after severe emotional trauma. A medical term for your heart just got broken. They had his dad pumped up on a number of medicines but weren't going to operate if they could avoid it.

  The New Albion dispatch desk must have picked up the ambulance transport details because half an hour after Pepper arrived, so did the General and Zula.

  "Two hospital runs in one week, Pepper?" asked Zula. "You making this place your second home?"

  Ouch. Pepper told them about the Ryan house having been demolished. About his dad's reaction.

  Zula's hand covered her throat.

  The General was too mad to sit after he heard Pepper's story. He went to call a patrol car to check whether the landscaper was still there to be questioned. Zula stayed in the ER waiting room with Pepper, working her cell phone. She checked in with every officer who'd been on duty. Hit pay dirt with the younger guy, Jackson Phillips.

  Zula squeezed Pepper's arm and relayed the story. How Phillips had been at the site all day. That he'd gone to th
e address for construction detail he'd been given: 76 Shore Lane. That there'd been no construction there, just a quiet house on a quiet street. How he'd taken a little initiative, drove a few blocks over to 76 Shore Road. That the demolition was in full swing, with a snarl of construction vehicles and other traffic. So he'd figured it was a typo and jumped right in and worked traffic detail there all day. No, he hadn't bothered Dispatch with the typo. No, he didn't know it was the Ryan house. And no, he hadn't checked the demolition company's paperwork, why would he? But he remembered part of the logo stenciled on the six or so dump trucks that carted away the rubble after the bulldozers completed the demolition. Some name with Rhode Island under it.

  Soon after sunrise on Thursday morning, his dad in stable condition, Pepper drove back from the hospital to the Ryan home site and parked streetside. They'd even resodded the driveway path. It was all grass now, the entire fucking lot, like a park. He stood above the slope where his family's house had been. Where his mom had lived, before she'd died giving birth Pepper was four. Where he and Jake had grown up. Pepper could feel his face burning.

  A BMW convertible pulled in behind his truck. It was his buddy Angel Cavada. Pepper hadn't talked to him, but Angel must have heard and known Pepper would be back to survey the disaster. Knew Pepper like a twice-read book.

  "Well, on the bright side," said Angel after he slipped from his convertible, "your lawn never looked this green."

  "Makes a nice pretty place to bury the assholes who did it," snapped Pepper.

  Angel just grunted, held his tongue.

  A wave of anger, embarrassment and frustration was washing over Pepper now he was back on site and could see it all starkly in daylight. This couldn't be fucking real! His dad could have been killed in the demolition. And Pepper. "What the hell am I doing wearing a badge?" he asked. "I can't even protect my own home."

  "Mano, I get it," said Angel. "This is a mortal bitch-slapping. Looks like a real attempt to wipe your family off the map. Literally. But you guys'll get up, fight another day, right?"

  Pepper was still almost too angry to respond. "Dude, I gotta tell you, I never felt like this before. Beyond pissed. Heartbroken. Embarrassed--this was my HOME." And Pepper had to ask. "Angel, you didn't drop off two Sox tickets at the station for me, did you?"

  Angel shook his head no, watching Pepper. Confused.

  "I was so full of myself," Pepper grumbled. "Some anonymous benefactor drops off two tickets, welcome home, native son! And I took the hook like a freakin' tuna!"

  Pepper kicked the fresh sod hard enough to rip it up. "Maybe it was a mistake for me to come home. Maybe I need to quit the force, get the hell away from the Ryan curse. Start fresh, somewhere else, doing something completely new."

  "Couldn't blame you either way bro. Even before this shit."

  But Pepper couldn't fool himself. "Realistically? Screw that. I have to find whoever did this. And they'll be getting off easy if they just end up in handcuffs."

  Pepper and Angel walked all the way to the new lawn's end, where it gave way to a strip of scraggly beach grass, leading to the beach dunes and shore. And it was funny--just getting a little closer to the ocean seemed to calm Pepper down a little bit.

  "How the hell did they get the whole demolition and cleanup done in less than six hours?" questioned Pepper.

  "Well, they did. Always quicker to destroy than build, right?" asked Angel. "All it takes is some extra equipment and manpower. And the whole thing was just a sucker punch, really, when you think about it. What were you supposed to do? Those trucks came out of nowhere."

  True. Pepper couldn't have done anything to prevent it from Boston, not if he was being fair to himself. "But I can do something to find out who did it. Find the trucks. Follow the paperwork."

  "And from the other angle," said Angel, "any idea what wack job would hate you or your Dad enough to do this?"

  Pepper studied the gray, gray water. "I've rattled a few cages since I got home. The other day I embarrassed Dad's old punching bag, Reverend McDevitt. And Dad had two decades as a cop here to make his share of enemies."

  "Any chance it could just be a stupid mistake?" mused Angel. "A paperwork screw-up? Like someone did the right job, wrong location?"

  "Sure. But I doubt it. My guess? Good old-fashioned revenge. Or maybe an attempt to distract me? Other than the Weepers, I've had a few run-ins with activist groups who might be criminals or terrorists, once we figure out what they're really up to. But—"

  Pepper's phone rang and he answered quickly. It was Lieutenant Hurd, hopefully with news about catching the bastards who demolished their house. Where they were sitting, Pepper couldn't get a great signal, but he pressed the phone as hard as he could into his ear. It sounded like Lieutenant Hurd was saying...but he couldn't be saying?!?

  "Lieutenant, did you just order me to stay clear of my home demolition case?"

  At his side, Angel's eyes went wide. Quizzical surprise.

  Hurd's voice was 51% static, 49% attitude. "Wonderboy, I hope you're hearing me," Hurd repeated thinly in Pepper's ear. "You're too close to the case. You're the victim. But we'll have our best people on it. Hell, I'll be on it too. We'll catch the scumbags, I promise. But we need a clean case to get a conviction. No way we can let you help--you're the victim! And Chief Eisenhower agrees."

  At that moment, Pepper almost quit again. He even opened his mouth, cleared his throat, started to form the words. Fuck Hurd, fuck 'em all. No way was he sitting this one out. But as he started to say so, he saw Angel gesturing wildly. The cut-off motion, across Angel's throat.

  And the damn cell phone connection was getting even more unstable and thin.

  So Pepper just hung up. Considered throwing his phone as far into the Atlantic as he could, but stopped himself.

  "Well there's insult to injury," said Pepper, dazed. "The lieutenant ordered me to keep out of this investigation! As if that's even possible!"

  "Unbelievable!"

  "Maybe I should just quit, because I'm not sitting this out. I'll keep working on the clambake case but no way I won't help run down the assholes who did this. And could I get your help?"

  "Always, Mano. I'll chat around town. See what's the buzz."

  "Thanks, I owe ya pal…"

  Angel gave him a too-hard punch on the shoulder. "You get on the stool some Thursday nights, belt out 'Margaritaville' for my sunburned tourists, and we're even."

  Good word, thought Pepper, studying the Atlantic's morning surf and the low bank of early summer clouds choking the shoreline. Sums it right up, buddy. Time to get even.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pepper headed straight to the police station to requisition a new uniform, since his had been in the demolished house. Luckily his Glock had been safely in his truck's lockbox during the Fenway trip. But when Pepper arrived at the station, Trish Dunne was sitting there, waiting for him.

  "And only you, Wonderboy," said Sergeant Forrestal, with an annoyed head shake.

  Trish's daughter Kaylee was kneeling on the floor, using a chair as a desk for her coloring book. Crayons had spilled across the floor. They'd been there a long while. And Trish looked like she hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. Hadn't showered. Pepper thought maybe she was wearing the same clothes as when he'd been at her house yesterday.

  "Officer Ryan shouldn't even be talking to you," said Forrestal. But Pepper took Trish and her daughter back into a small interview room.

  Trish didn't waste time. "Pepper, you've gotta find Marcus. Something terrible must have happened! This isn't like him. Sure, he sleeps out on the water when fishing's hot. But he almost always checks in on the radio. But he's not answering!" She was shaking and started crying, eyes closing slowly.

  "Trish, how'd you guys get that fancy Boston law firm to represent Marcus?"

  "The lawyer? He just showed up. Said he was pro bono because of their work with the fishing industry. Which Marcus said mighta been bullshit. But she got Marcus out, right? You think that lawyer has s
omething to do with Marcus disappearing?"

  "I don't know," said Pepper quietly. Taking Trish's hand, giving a squeeze he hoped was supportive. "Trish, did Marcus tell you what he saw, about the clambake murder?"

  Trish shook her head.

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Just what he said at the bar. Or was it earlier... About the asshole car?"

  "Marcus didn't say anything about a car to me."

  "Or the guy with a ball cap?"

  "Who?"

  "Well that's all he said. He saw a car that morning, broke down right where the news said the jogger was snatched. A big blue car, some American make. Marcus kept calling it the asshole car. And he saw two guys. One had a ball cap, but not a sports logo, you know? An Interstate Batteries hat."

  "What else did he say?"

  "Something I didn't get. Something about cashing in. But he was kinda high, I don't know what he meant. Or if he was joking? But Pepper, I just need him back. I need your help. The rest of the cops, you know, whatta they care? But if I don't get him back..."

  Cashing in? Asshole car?

  Pepper promised Trish he'd do his best. That lots of local law enforcement were on the lookout for Marcus too. All the right things. Trish had stopped crying when she led Kaylee away but her eyes were harder and her face was set. Already accepting the worst. Like that's how it went in their world so why would it go differently this time?

  Pepper felt pretty damn frustrated. He was sidelined from hunting down the people who destroyed his own home and effectively put his dad in the hospital. And he remained on the outer circle of the Secret Service's homicide investigation. How was a Wonderboy supposed to do his job?

  Pepper also suspected that the Secret Service wasn't sharing everything they knew about the long list of activists and their organizations in town for the POTUS's vacation. Pepper's own list had grown to thirteen groups, with known activities ranging from clean, legal protests to acts of domestic terror. But the other Secret Service agents referred Pepper's questions to Alfson. And Alfson seemed to delight in giving Pepper the narrowest answers possible.