The Portal

by Russell James

  Milo fingered the rarely used switch for the roof rack of blue lights, the magic button that when pushed, transported him into the world of real-life law enforcement. He flipped them on and the lights strobed the harbor and docks. He noticed a black speedboat at the town dock, so low to the water he’d missed it as he drove into the parking lot. Definitely not a townie boat.

  He dropped the cruiser into drive and hit the gas. Satisfying his curiosity on that would have to wait. He had to call the clinic. He had to secure a crime scene. He had to collect evidence.

  He had to be a cop.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scott smiled, awash in déjà vu. Driving with Allie in the passenger seat of his truck was a major flashback. Different car, different time, but the same sense of wonder as he watched her profile lighten and darken in the passing streetlights.

  A few miles down Canale Road, blue flashing lights parted the night. Scott slowed down. He stopped behind a police cruiser parked along the shoulder, headlights blazing. Beside it, an ambulance’s red lights sparkled a counterpoint to the blue police orbs. The ambulance doors hung open, the interior empty. A waist-high band of bright yellow crime scene tape stretched across the woods’ edge, like some misplaced runner’s finish line. A hundred yards down the dirt road, the headlights of a second police car illuminated a dull gray van through the skeletons of the denuded trees.

  “I thought you said Stone Harbor was still dead dull after summer,” Allie said.

  “It is. Or should be.” Scott slipped the truck into park. His role as town selectman came to the forefront. “I should go check this out.”

  Allie clicked off her seatbelt. “I’m game.”

  “No, you stay here.”

  “Ooh, look at me and my bad listening skills.”

  She opened the door and left the truck. Scott shook his head and remembered how headstrong his girlfriend had been, and how it was one of her better traits. He joined her on the passenger side of the truck just as Milo Mimms walked up from the cruiser by the road.

  Milo stopped between them and the dirt road, his thumbs hitched into his oversized gun belt, shallow chest as puffed up as he could manage. It made Scott smile. Scaravelli was a grade A jackass, but Milo was a good kid, idealistic about law enforcement, committed to the community.

  “You need to stay back, sir,” Milo said, like some TV cop, even though he’d always been on a first-name basis with Scott. “We can’t have anyone contaminating the crime scene.”

  Two paramedics struggled to pilot a gurney down the bumpy dirt road. A white sheet hung loose over a tiny body in the gurney’s center. They rolled it behind Milo. The tears in one of the paramedic’s eyes glistened in the police cruiser’s headlights. Short of the waiting ambulance, a puff of wind caught the sheet and it floated off the body. The corner caught under one wheel and the sheet pulled away like a game show curtain revealing a prize.

  Natalie Olsen lay on the gurney. Her gray, still eyes were nothing like the sparkling green ones Scott knew so well. Her wan skin looked waxy in the strange lighting. One button kept her Brownie uniform blouse closed across her bony chest. Her skirt was gone, leaving her exposed from the waist down, where blood coated the area between her legs. Two bloody handprints on her knees testified to where her legs had been forced apart.

  Scott gasped. Allie let out a stifled scream. Scott whirled to block her view of the dead girl. All the color had drained from Allie’s face. She stared through Scott to where the girl had been, as if the afterimage still burned in her mind.

  “Allie,” he whispered. “You don’t need to see this.”

  Scott reached behind her and opened the passenger door. He guided her back into the truck and softly shut the door, as if a sudden slam might shatter her. He turned back to Milo. The frazzled paramedics had re-draped the now-muddy sheet over Natalie’s corpse. They lifted it into the ambulance.

  “Jesus, Milo,” Scott said. “Was that Natalie Olsen? What the hell is going on here?”

  “The chief said that he’d answer all the questions,” Milo said. “The investigation into the deaths is ongoing.”

  “Deaths?”

  The paramedics trudged back up the road to a second covered gurney and began to trundle it back to the ambulance, this time with far less care than they’d shown with Natalie. Scott checked the second gurney as it passed.

  “Who else is dead?”

  Milo held his hands up, palms facing Scott. “Chief’s gonna answer all the questions.”

  Scott was about to remind Milo that the town selectmen oversaw all police activities. A flash of white across the road caught his eye.

  In the wood line across Canale Road, at the edge of the illumination of his truck’s headlights, stood a tall thin man with a crew cut of gray hair and a wispy, trimmed gray beard. He seemed to blend into the darkness, dressed all in black, except for the small flash of white at his collar.

  “Reverend Snow,” Scott whispered to himself. “What’s he doing here?”

  The reverend made no indication he was going to get involved or even move closer. He just stood motionless in the tree line, like one more maple.

  The paramedics closed up the ambulance and then entered through the front doors. The ambulance made a U-turn on the road and headed back to the clinic. The red lights went dark, and the big van rolled on well within the speed limit.

  No rush now, Scott thought.

  Scaravelli walked down the dirt road in the glare of Milo’s cruiser’s headlights. Milo gestured Scott out of the way. The officer ceremoniously untied the crime scene tape from a tree and walked it back across the road. Scaravelli passed and Milo retied the yellow tape.

  “What are you doing here, Tackett?” Scaravelli said.

  He looked at Allie in the truck with a vague sense of recognition. Scott didn’t want the questioning to veer in her direction.

  “I think the question is,” Scott said, “what are both of you doing here? Who’s in that ambulance?”

  “This is police business, part of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Which selectmen have full access to. You do remember you work for the town through us, right?”

  Blood flushed Scaravelli’s cheeks. If there hadn’t been an audience, Scott knew Scaravelli would have let loose with both barrels about worthless civilian oversight. He’d heard the speech before.

  “About 5 p.m., Carl Krieger, who works at Captain Nate’s Boatyard, kidnapped Natalie Olsen from West Street. It appears that he drove her up here, then raped and killed her sometime tonight.”

  Scott’s stomach sank. How could this be real? Natalie and her parents were wonderful people. He knew of Krieger, in a peripheral kind of way. He was low-rent, but a rapist and murderer….

  “I received a call from Colleen Olsen,” the chief continued, “and tracked Krieger to this location. When confronted, he drew a weapon and fired at me twice. I returned fire and killed him. Then I found Natalie’s body in the back of his van.”

  “How did you know to look for Krieger?” Scott asked.

  “Look, that’s more than you need to know already,” Scaravelli said. “Go home and let us do our job.”

  Scaravelli turned and started back to the other cruiser parked down the dirt road.

  “Officer Mimms,” he called over his shoulder.

  Milo straightened up to an approximate version of a soldier at attention. “Chief?”

  “I want this area kept clear all night. All the woods from the road to the hilltop. Starting now. Starting with getting rid of those two.”

  “You heard the chief,” he told Scott. “Move it along.”

  “Now wait a minute—” Scott started.

  “Scottie,” cut in Allie. The truck’s closed window muffled her voice, but it sounded a thousand miles farther away than that. “C-can we just go?”

  Tears had
washed tracks of eyeliner down her cheeks. Fear filled her reddened eyes. Scott kicked himself for stopping here with her in the truck in the first place.

  “Sure, Allie.”

  Officer Mimms stood grim and dutiful at the yellow tape. As Scott walked around the front of the truck, he noticed that Reverend Snow was gone and the maples again stood alone.

  He and Allie sat in silence as they drove to Allie’s house. Allie looked shattered. Tucked up into her corner of the car, she stared out the window at the darkness. They pulled down the long driveway to her house and Scott rolled the truck to a stop.

  “Allie, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” she said without conviction. “That whole horrible scene back there…. I just need some sleep. It’s been a full day. I’m not usually out this much.”

  They both got out of the car and stood on opposite sides. Allie backed away before he could start for her side of the truck.

  “I’ll check on you in the morning,” Scott said across the truck’s hood.

  “Yeah, okay,” Allie said.

  Her weak smile made him long to comfort her in his arms. She walked to her porch as if dazed. She never looked back. He watched until she closed the front door behind her.

  Scott slammed his hand on the fender. The best night he’d had in years had just become one of the worst.

  On the drive back home, on a route that didn’t include Canale Road, questions about the murder began to bubble up through his devastation at Natalie’s death. How did Scaravelli find Krieger in the woods, or even know to look for him? On an island this small, how could Krieger think he’d get away with child rape and murder? Why such a large crime scene area if the incident was as cut and dry as Scaravelli claimed? What was Reverend Snow doing watching from the woods?

  He decided Harbor Hardware might have to open late tomorrow. This whole thing didn’t sit right at all. But first thing tomorrow, he needed to console Colleen and Stan Olsen.

  * * *

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Allie let her trickle of tears turn to a flood. She slid to the cold wood floor and sobbed in the darkness.

  A murky shadow had spread across her idyllic island escape. Thirty minutes ago, everything was bright and beautiful. Now a girl was raped and murdered. This wasn’t a sweet Stone Harbor thing. This was a seedy LA thing. She felt like some evil had tracked her across the country and finally caught up, injecting itself into her world of clarinet music and home-style pizza.

  Memories of the Dark Thing broke through the ground she had shoveled over its grave, and began to track muddy footprints through her mind. The strength she’d felt earlier in the day crumbled. The supposedly solid foundation she thought she’d built turned out to be more like a hollow shell, one that cracked at the first sharp blow.

  She needed an escape. The sweet burn of alcohol, the mellowing warmth of pot, the euphoric rush of cocaine. All the old vices volunteered, with smirking promises both she and they knew would never be kept. The easy path beckoned, the downhill stroll that always ended as a plummet off a cliff. Were she still in LA, she’d have herself hooked up in minutes.

  And that was why she was at Stone Harbor. Three thousand miles of land and thirty miles of sea between her and the twisted temptations she’d indulged. All that to insulate her from the rest of the world, and the screwed-up crap that filled it. But somehow, the crap had found its way here.

  She glanced at a wall clock, counted the hours before sunrise, and despaired at the number.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Waves beat the car ferry’s hull as it cut through the eastern reaches of Long Island Sound. All summer, the lumbering ship left a miles-long, frothy wake as it plied the waters between Stone Harbor and the mainland. But this morning, the rough fall seas scrubbed all records of its passage, like an accomplice covering the tracks of a criminal.

  Though down to two trips a week, the lightly loaded ferry still rode high in the water. The nearly empty car deck spread out open to the sun’s feeble rays. A glossy black pickup towered between two squat Subarus near the exit ramp. Off-road suspension raised its fender wells above the smaller cars’ hoods. A windowless cab covered the rear bed. Three stubby antennae sprouted from its center like shark fins.

  Almost all the passengers had abandoned their cold vehicles for the warmth of the enclosed cabin above the car deck’s center. Five exceptions remained out on the open lower deck, men spread out at irregular intervals along the railing, backs to the sea, watching nothing happen with far too much intensity.

  All had walked aboard, arrivals staggered. None exchanged a word with another, but it was clear they were all together.

  They all looked older than their actual mid-forties ages. Deep-lined faces and crooked noses told stories of misspent years. Scars enjoyed a liberal distribution, faded unprofessional tattoos came in a close second. All wore dark pants and white, short-sleeve button-down shirts so new that the collars had chafed a few necks red. A small overnight bag lay at each one’s feet.

  At the halfway point across the Sound, Rene Kyler stepped out of the driver’s seat of the pickup. A blast of spray crossed the deck and coated his face. He didn’t flinch. Over his arm, he carried five black nylon jackets too light for the weather. His dark eyes scanned the perimeter of the deck and paused at each of the nervous, white-shirted men.

  Kyler approached the first man, one with a shaved head and a Fu Manchu biker moustache that stretched past the edge of his mouth in two long black streaks. A small hoop earring hung from his left ear and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. The big guy pushed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, easy. Fu Manchu’s eyes never met Kyler’s as he approached, but tension ratcheted up in his arm muscles the closer Kyler got. Kyler stopped three feet away.

  “Ramirez,” Kyler said.

  Ramirez rolled the cigarette to the other side of his mouth. It quivered between his lips. “Is Oates on board?”

  “Already on the island.”

  The tension melted from Ramirez’s shoulders. “I don’t like the setup. Ain’t no way off that rock.”

  “We’re making our own exit. Of course, if you’d rather pay your debt in full now, I’ll arrange it.”

  “No, no, it’s all good. I’m cool with it as is.”

  Kyler handed him a jacket. “Head to the truck.”

  The sky turned to gray overcast as Stone Harbor Island appeared on the horizon. Kyler moved on to the next passenger, whose pockmarked face sported a ropy scar that ran from the corner of his mouth across his cheek to his ear, like half of a demented clown’s smile.

  He addressed the man as Ricco and had a similar exchange. Three more, Washington, Santiago, and Culpepper, got the same instructions and all five met at the truck’s tailgate.

  The ferry whistle blew at the Stone Harbor channel marker, the crew’s signal to docking stations. Deckhands emerged from the warm cabin and climbed down to positions at the bow and along the starboard side. The engine slowed to half speed as the ship passed the harbor’s breakwater.

  Kyler and the five at the truck donned the dark jackets, FBI stenciled in white on the back of each one. Kyler dropped the tailgate. Two green wooden footlockers lay in line down the center. The five climbed inside the truck’s bed.

  The ferry pulled up to the mass of pilings that made up its berth. Kyler glanced over the ship’s side and across the empty marina dock. The low, sleek mass of the Killin’ Time floated on the pier’s far side. The ferry’s wake washed against it, but it did not move. Kyler straightened his jacket.

  The boss is on the job, he thought. Time to get to work.

  The ferry’s engines went into full reverse. The ship shuddered and its forward momentum slowed. The pilings strained in their footings as the ship nosed into them. The ferry slipped a few feet right, and lined up with the exit ramp. The pilings and the ship relaxed. Crewme
n tossed heavy ropes to waiting dockhands.

  Kyler reached in and flipped a footlocker open to reveal six M4 assault rifles. The five’s faces had been filled with apprehension from the minute Kyler first spoke to each. Now they all smiled.

  “Pistols and ammo in the other box,” he said. “Load up. We’re about to get busy.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Something in Stone Harbor was going very wrong, very fast.

  Scott had barely slept all night. He hadn’t had nightmares, per se, but every time he nodded off, memories of the previous day’s chilling events brought him back wide-awake.

  For Scott, the slow and steady heartbeat of life in Stone Harbor had skipped a beat, twice in fact, in one day. First. Joey Oates had arrived at his hardware store with some wild story about Scott’s father, and then Natalie Olsen was dead at the hand of Carl Krieger. He could even add in the emotional peak and valley of his half-day reunion with Allie. He got out of bed before dawn, resolved to take action on all three. Considering the hour, getting to the bottom of Oates’ story was first on the list.

  Oates had walked into Scott’s store Thursday, and autumn ferry service was down to a Friday and a Saturday run. Oates sure as hell hadn’t been here all week. Old handyman Len, master of the gossip grapevine, would have given Scott an earful about it by now. By the look of Oates, he was no Olympic swimmer. That meant he had to come in by boat, that boat had to come into the harbor, and Charlie Cauble would know all about it.

  Scott pulled into the harbor parking lot. The sun had yet to fully crest the eastern hills and long shadows painted the empty streets in shades of gray. The bed-and-breakfasts and souvenir shops had closed for the season. A few owners who still courted trade swept the sidewalks in front of their shops, the signs in the windows flipped to Closed until the clock struck nine.

  Scott rolled down his window. A sharp, stiff breeze washed him in the rejuvenating scent of dried algae and salt. The deep bellow of the ferry’s horn rolled in from a few miles outside the harbor entrance.