The Portal

by Russell James

  “Hey there, Scott,” he heard from behind him.

  He hung his left elbow out the window and looked back. Charlie Cauble sauntered up to the driver’s door.

  “Awful news about the Olsen girl,” Charlie said. “So sorry. I know you’re friends with Stan and Colleen.”

  “It’s hard to believe it happened here,” Scott said.

  “Well, I always knew Krieger was scum,” Charlie said. “Just not that scummy. Glad he saw some justice.”

  Scott hadn’t bought Scaravelli’s version of Natalie’s murder, and was a little surprised that Charlie had taken it in whole.

  “Any new boats in the harbor?” Scott said. “Maybe came in yesterday?”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed and he made a quick, disgusted gesture toward the town dock.

  “Just one here. Black speedboat came in yesterday morning. Don’t like the guy on board one whit. No sir. Bad mojo with that one for sure.”

  Scott followed Charlie’s pointing to the town dock, but the tide was on its way out, and the speedboat rode low in the water on the pier’s far side. Only the two lines tying it off were visible.

  “Short, bald guy with a goatee?” Scott said.

  “Dressed black as midnight with a personality to match.”

  “Did he say what he’s in town for?”

  Charlie shot a contemptuous glance at the ship’s berth. “Don’t know. Don’t care to know. Hoped he was leaving today with the tide, but there he sits.”

  A second, louder blast of the ferry’s horn signaled its entrance into the harbor. The shore crew exited the tiny ticket stand where they’d sheltered themselves from the wind and headed for the ferry ramp.

  “A speedboat, huh?” Scott said. An odd choice of craft. Sailboats filled Long Island Sound, rigged any way from simple sloops to gaff-headed schooners. There was also a plethora of powerboats, the younger crowd favoring runabouts, the older set preferring staid cabin cruisers. Saltwater racers were rare, being loud, thirsty, and impractical for anything but being the fastest way from point A to point B.

  The ferry neared the dock. With a final blast of the horn, the ship’s engines roared in reverse. The ship nosed into the pilings. Shipboard crewmen tossed lines over the side. The lines uncoiled through the air like striking snakes and were caught by the crew ashore.

  The metal car ramp slowly lowered onto the ferry deck. When the plates clanged into contact, the ship’s crew rolled back the gates to let the cars depart. Scott recognized every car but one as returning islanders.

  One by one, the crew waved the cars forward and they disembarked. Their tight formation split and they scattered in all directions like pool balls at the break.

  An unfamiliar big black Dodge Ram pickup started with a throaty rumble. It chirped the tires as it left the ferry, and barely missed the edge of the ship as it disembarked. It executed a rolling stop at the parking lot’s exit, and then roared up Main Street.

  “Judas Priest!” Charlie said. “Mainlanders drive like fools. Where’s a cop when you need one?”

  Scott knew right where they were. They were on the other side of the island, with weightier problems than traffic violations.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Scaravelli’s gun belt pinched him in the kidney. He shifted in the seat of his cruiser and gave the belt a twist. He checked the clock again.

  “Two-and-a-half damn hours,” he muttered. Following Oates’ orders, he’d relieved Milo at 7 a.m. To do what? He had no idea. “Keep the crime scene secure,” was all Oates said. With the population of sheep in this town, crime tape worked even better than an electric fence. There wasn’t even any police work to do. Milo had happily spent the night taking pictures, bagging the .38 revolver and boxes of other useless evidence. Willett’s Auto had even towed the van back to the impound lot behind the station. So Scaravelli sat executing a complete waste of his time.

  His performance last night for the grieving Olsen family had been just the opposite. He played the concerned cop to the hilt, slathering on layers of false empathy and taking full credit for slaying a killer the courts would have somehow set free. The grieving Colleen even cried on his shoulder. Even that jackass Tackett would have to give him a little respect after that recital.

  So Oates had been right and right again. Krieger had been where Oates said when Oates predicted. And Scaravelli had wasted him with zero repercussions and, judging by the early reaction of the townies he’d met so far, earned the exact popularity boost Oates had forecast. This hand was coming up all face cards. So if Oates wanted him to hang out in the woods a while, what the hell. The guy had a plan.

  A gust of wind sent a jet of cold air through the bullet hole in the windshield. Scaravelli bent over and turned the heater blower up a notch. When he looked back up, a big black pickup had its chrome grill pressed against the police tape at the end of the dirt road.

  Scaravelli rubbed his chin. He knew every truck on the island, and this four-by-four brute sure wasn’t one of them. It must have crossed on the morning ferry. Word couldn’t have spread quickly enough that mainlanders were here to ogle the crime scene. That would be more shit than he was ready to deal with.

  Something about this truck made him think of Oates, but he’d lay ten-to-one Oates managed to get around the island without transportation. The day the Devil needed a pickup truck….

  The front doors opened and the tailgate dropped. Six men with assault rifles wearing FBI jackets got out and clustered around the truck’s nose.

  Scaravelli’s mood took a nosedive. One look at them told him that these thugs weren’t FBI. He was more likely to see these goons through a set of bars than in front of them. The adulation of the townspeople for their hero chief of police would evaporate as soon as they got wind of a gang armed with assault rifles wandering about the woods. He gave his bushy moustache a nervous pull and levered himself out of his cruiser.

  The pickup’s driver broke from the group and went straight for Scaravelli. His muscular physique and short black hair announced him as some kind of military veteran. He looked the least thuggish of them, but that wasn’t saying much.

  Scaravelli squared his shoulders. He could handle these types. Once they knew he was in charge, everything would be fine. A pack always followed the alpha male. Stone Harbor was Scaravelli’s territory, and these fake agents weren’t going to be marking it with their piss. The truck’s driver stopped in front of Scaravelli.

  “Where do you want to start, sir?” the man said.

  Scaravelli internally smiled at the deferential tone. An excellent start.

  “Start the search at the edge of the road,” Oates said from behind Scaravelli.

  Scaravelli spun around. Oates stood just feet behind him.

  “Go from there to the hilltop, Mr. Kyler,” Oates said. “Find the stone. I expect my property by nightfall.”

  “Understood,” Kyler answered. He turned to the five men standing by the truck and waved them forward and onto the dirt road. Each of them passed under the yellow crime scene tape and around Scaravelli, as if neither made much difference. All but Kyler avoided eye contact with Oates.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Scaravelli asked Oates. “Who are these felons in cop costumes?”

  “These associates of mine are here to retrieve me a lost item,” Oates replied, “and you’ve secured the area so we can search without raising no suspicions.”

  “These guys aren’t cops,” Scaravelli said. “These breathing mug shots have no authority here. I don’t want them on the island.”

  Oates looked deep into Scaravelli’s eyes. An icy chill formed in the center of Scaravelli’s chest. His lungs locked in place.

  “These gentlemen, they’re here at my pleasure,” Oates said. “Same as you. You forget that?”

  Scaravelli’s eyes bulged. His face flushed bright red. Oates looked away. Scaravel
li’s diaphragm dropped, and his lungs sucked in gallons of air. He sagged forward and rested his hands on his knees. Fear that they’d destroy his carefully laid trail of evidence pointing to Krieger’s guilt hit him. He looked up with bleary eyes at the real alpha male of Stone Harbor.

  “But the crime scene,” he gasped, “the evidence….”

  “You have all the evidence you need to cover your ass. No one’s gonna ask no questions when all the facts are out.” Oates smiled in a way that was anything but reassuring.

  “Well, these guys, they weren’t part of the deal,” Scaravelli wheezed. It came out more like a whine than the bold statement Scaravelli had intended.

  Oates squatted down in front of Scaravelli. He grabbed Scaravelli’s chin with a hand cold as a corpse. His eyes flashed ruby red. His lips parted to reveal two rows of shark-like teeth.

  “Watch your tongue before I rip it out,” Oates said, “I always keep my deals. Always. I told you I’d take care of things after you killed Krieger, and I am. You’d best stay on my good side or I’m gonna realize that you ain’t useful no more, and call in your debt.”

  Scaravelli quivered. He slid his tongue into the painful, empty socket in his lower jaw.

  “No need for that,” he pleaded.

  Oates released him and stood up. His eyes and teeth went back to normal.

  “Now,” Oates said, “your presence ain’t required here. First, go to Krieger’s apartment. Find the necklace he kept from the Dickey girl and tag it as evidence. You’ll also find a hoard of child porn you’re gonna use as character witnesses. Take that back to the office. I need you answering questions from the curious public.”

  “What do I tell them?”

  “Whatever you want, just keep ’em away from here. Capisce?”

  “Capisce,” Scaravelli replied.

  Scaravelli returned to his cruiser and collapsed into the front seat. Through the shattered windshield, he saw the six men from the black pickup formed in a long line in the woods. They trudged uphill, kicking through leaves and prodding the ground with sticks. Oates was suddenly gone.

  Scaravelli closed his eyes and rested his head against the steering wheel. In minutes, he’d lost control of the situation, and had no leverage to get it back. He lay at the mercy of someone he could not trust, and it scared the hell out of him.

  In a rare moment of insight, he realized this specific emotion had filled Carl Krieger’s face in the last seconds of his life.

  Chapter Twenty

  Scott looked out his windshield at Stan and Colleen Olsen’s house. Bright blue shutters offset the gray cedar shingles, and a red box kite sat on a porch chair. A wind chime plinked out a random, mournful tune in the morning breeze.

  He’d known Stan and Colleen since they were kids. He’d been here a half dozen times for dinner and each time the house absolutely radiated energy, between Colleen’s infectious smile and Natalie’s unquenchable enthusiasm. To pass through their door was to enter a land of bright colors, loud music, and rolling laughter.

  But on this overcast morning, the house had all the energy of a snuffed candle. The bright box kite Natalie flew down at the beach sat crooked on the porch. Its red seemed to have faded to rust overnight. The cedar shingles wept great gray trails he’d never noticed before. The low, diffused sun leached the shutters’ and trim’s usual brilliance into a muted approximation of faded denim. The aura, the essence, the life force of the house was gone.

  When Scott knocked on the door, Stan answered, though he seemed more like the ghost of Stan, with sagging, sallow skin and empty eyes.

  “Scott?” Loss had drained the life from Stan’s voice as well, and left it little more than a whisper.

  Stan reached out to shake Scott’s hand. Scott pulled him in for a quick, rugged hug instead.

  “Stan, I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m managing. But Colleen….”

  “She’s upstairs?”

  Stan nodded and stepped aside. Scott entered and climbed the stairs. At the top, the door to Natalie’s bedroom stood open. He paused in the threshold.

  Colleen sat on Natalie’s bed. The vivacious, vibrant woman, the perky blonde who bought that box kite at his store, who dropped Christmas cookies off around town each year, sat shattered almost beyond recognition. She clutched a framed eight-by-ten-inch against her chest, picture facing out. The shot was of Natalie in a yellow dress, flashing her usual dazzling smile. Colleen rocked back and forth, a human metronome marking hollow seconds that had to feel like days. She stared off into space. Long black streaks down her cheeks confessed that she’d wept away this morning’s attempt at normalcy. She repeated the same phrase to herself in a low, faraway voice as she swayed on the bed.

  “We didn’t need rolls. No, we didn’t need rolls.”

  She didn’t acknowledge Scott.

  He wanted to hug her, console her, try to absorb some of that loss that consumed her. But he was afraid to even speak, as if his words might break the eggshell that guilt had left of her sanity. He backed out into the hallway and halfway down the stairs.

  A knot of friends and family stood in silent mourning in the living room, cups of coffee clenched in their hands, their tethers to a world where little girls weren’t raped and murdered. The incomprehensible horror seemed to leave them all at a loss, only able to offer their presence as consolation, to Stan and Colleen, and each other.

  Stan held a phone to his ear and looked a thousand miles in the distance as he couldn’t say when the medical examiner would release the body for burial. Scott tapped him on the shoulder as he passed and whispered that he’d be back later. Stan nodded, though Scott wasn’t sure it was in response. Scott passed through the front door, depressed by the injustice of the Olsens outliving their daughter, and disappointed at how little he could do to help.

  He got into his truck as another car of mourners pulled up behind him. He opted to channel his frustration into action. He was certain there was more to this than Scaravelli had told him. Scaravelli’s story was too neat, his role too heroic. The other two selectmen were off-island, which was a plus since they tended to back Scaravelli on everything, so it would be up to him to get some real answers for the Olsens.

  * * *

  Scott marched into the police station. Scaravelli looked up from his desk in disgust.

  “What do you want, Tackett?”

  “An update and some answers for a start.”

  “I don’t owe you shit.”

  “You report to the Board of Selectmen, jackass.”

  “Yeah, well, then call a meeting, we’ll have a chat. Oh wait, two-thirds of the board are off-island. Gotta wait for a quorum. Call me when you get one.”

  “Christ, Scaravelli, a girl’s dead and so’s her alleged killer. The town needs to know how this could have happened.”

  “I already told you what happened. Krieger killed her, and I killed him in self-defense. And I’ll add a few other items I’ve uncovered.”

  The idea of Scaravelli conducting a professional investigation was absurd.

  “Krieger was a bigger scumbag than we thought,” Scaravelli started. He pulled a plastic bag from his drawer and tossed it on his desk. Inside was a cheap necklace with a scallop shell on it. “I found this in Krieger’s apartment, belonged to the drowned Dickey girl from the summer. Also found a pretty disgusting collection of kiddie porn. I’d always suspected that he had something to do with the Dickey girl’s death.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, Tackett, I was a cop while you were still in diapers, you know.”

  “You thought that Krieger killed the Dickey girl all along?”

  “Well,” Scaravelli said, “I got a sense of these things. I’ve seen a lot of child molesters in my line of work, and he fit the mold. After the Dickey girl went missing, I talked to Krieger to see if he’
d seen anything suspicious around Captain Nate’s Boatyard that day. He seemed real nervous, like he was hiding something. Had him in my sights ever since.”

  “So when Natalie disappeared…?” Scott asked.

  “I went straight to Krieger’s. His van was gone. By the time I found it, it was too late.”

  This whole scenario was preposterous. Scaravelli hadn’t processed crimes greater than a parking ticket since he’d arrived here.

  “I see the van’s out back. Mind if I check it out?”

  “Sure. Soon as you become a cop. It’s evidence.”

  Scott wanted to punch the haughty jerk. “I’ll just head back up to Canale Road myself.”

  Scaravelli’s face paled. The smugness left his voice.

  “That crime scene is still off-limits and secured,” he said.

  “Milo is up there working by himself?” Scott said.

  “No,” Scaravelli said. He hesitated slightly. “I’ve got some help from the Feds covering that.” He gave a forced little chuckle and an artificial smile. “We were a bit undermanned on this one. They cover kidnappings.”

  Scott assembled a quick mental timeline. It was impossible for Scaravelli to have asked for help in time for the FBI to make the morning ferry the next day. A vision of the jet-black pickup-on-steroids flashed in his head, like an errant puzzle piece that finally fit somewhere.

  Scott’s anger at this double talk was about at a boil. Scaravelli was just going to keep feeding him lies, when what he and the Olsens needed was the truth. He took a deep breath to gain control. “I’ll be back later to check on any developments.”

  “Don’t strain yourself,” Scaravelli said. “I’ll call you.”

  Scott spun around and went straight for the front door. He’d always disliked Scaravelli, but this turn of events made him despise the man. Incompetence was one thing. But it seemed like Scaravelli had crossed that line into covering up something that felt plain evil.