"It must have been the thunder," Gage said.
"There hasn't been any thunder," Quinn said.
"Well, then it must have been something else. We're going inside to get some hot cocoa. You want to join us?"
"Gage, I'm not in the mood for—"
"We'll even toss in some marshmallows."
"Gage—"
"Not a fan of marshmallows?"
Water dripped from Quinn's enormous black eyebrows, running down the hard lines of his face like water flowing through ravines. The red lights of the police car continued their rhythmic sweep. Gage prodded Jeremiah forward, but the chief put his hand gently on the kid's shoulder.
"Hold on there, son," he said. "I recognize you. Jerry Cooper, isn't it?"
The kid responded with an ever-so-slight tip of his chin.
"Anything you want to tell me, son?"
"No."
"Everything all right at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mind telling me what you were doing out there?"
"Just walking," Jeremiah said.
"Just walking?"
The kid nodded. Quinn looked at Gage, who shrugged.
"All done?" Gage said.
"I don't like this," Quinn said. "I don't like this at all."
"Sorry to trouble you."
Quinn stared, unblinking. The rain spotted his trench coat like the splatter on a Jackson Pollock painting. Shaking his head, Quinn turned and slumped away into the rain, toward his police cruiser. "It's what you've been doing ever since you got to this damn town," he said, loud enough for Gage to hear. "Troubling me."
* * *
Soggy shoes and socks were discarded at the door. Towels were provided. There was no hot cocoa, but there was hot lemon tea—Eve, Alex's wife, already had it on the stove, as she did most nights for any guests who might want it. She had three steaming mugs laid out on the dining room table before they'd even settled Jeremiah into one of the chairs. He sagged into it like a pile of wet laundry, head bowed so low that the white towel she'd draped over his neck was in danger of sliding off. Water trickled from his hair onto the red silk tablecloth. He stared morosely into his mug, steam billowing across his face.
Beethoven played from the stereo in the other room, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. Gage, taking the seat across the table, watched the boy. Eve also watched him from the kitchen archway, her Mediterranean complexion looking even darker in the dim room, especially with the light from the kitchen behind her. She made no move to turn on the lamp. Gage heard Alex, still in the foyer by the front door, talking to someone on the phone.
"Do you like it when people call you Jerry?" Gage asked.
The kid looked up, confused. "What?"
"Quinn—the chief, he called you Jerry. Do you like that?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know or you don't care?"
"I don't know."
"Or you don't want to say?"
The kid shrugged. He looked back into his mug, as if he could divine the answer there.
"Okay, then," Gage said. "I'll call you Jerry. Is that all right, Jerry?"
"Whatever."
"If you don't like it," Gage said, "you should tell people. Then they'll stop."
Jeremiah looked up, and Gage thought he saw a flash of anger there. It was a relief. Finally, a bit of life.
"Is that what you do?" Jeremiah asked pointedly. "Like, if somebody calls you Gary instead of Garrison?"
"Nope. I just punch them in the nose. Believe me, they never do it a second time."
For just a moment, Gage thought the kid might smile. There was the tiniest flicker of it, a near subliminal blip, but if the lips curled up at all, they made up for it by curling downward even more. Still, Gage took that as proof enough, just as a scientist took a distant star's gravitational wobble as proof that a planet was in orbit around it. If the kid could laugh, or even show the potential for it, there was hope.
"You want to tell me what you were doing with the revolver?" Gage asked.
Jeremiah shrugged.
"I'd like to help you," Gage said.
"I don't know."
"You don't know if you want me to help you?"
Another shrug. He was still transfixed by the steam rising from his tea, but he hadn't taken a sip. Gage took a sip of his and found the lemon flavor wonderful and sweet, which was no surprise, since everything Eve made was wonderful and sweet. Eve returned briefly with some baklava, depositing the glass plate on the table near the boy. He didn't eat this either. Gage, mindful of the few extra pounds he'd put on lately, resisted for five seconds before giving in. He did manage to prevent himself from eating Jeremiah's portion at least. The crispy exterior of the baklava was still warm, and the blueberry filling just tart enough to give it a little extra kick.
"Can I have my gun back?" Jeremiah asked.
"Are you asking me or the tea?"
"Huh?"
"It'd be easier if you look at me when you talk to me."
Jeremiah glanced up, but it appeared to take an enormous effort to keep his head in that position, as if invisible rubber bands connected his chin to the table. His head was cocked to the side, and his chin was tipped slightly down. It was the kind of expression that would have gotten most women to cross to the other side of the street.
"Don't hurt yourself," Gage said.
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Tell you what. You tell me where you got the revolver and what you planned to do with it, and I'll think about giving it back to you."
Jeremiah's eyes, already glassy, appeared to recede away from Gage. The steam from the cup continued its dance across the kid's face. They weren't getting anywhere.
"I can't help you unless you trust me," Gage said.
There might have been a nod there, or it might have been in Gage's imagination. It was impossible to say. The rain picked up, a ferocious roar, and Jeremiah turned and stared at the dark window at the end of the hall. Gage was tempted to ask if the kid was going to eat the baklava, but he restrained himself.
"I like the rain," Jeremiah said. "Do you like the rain, Gary?"
This got a smile out of Gage. The obvious poke with his name was another good sign that there was still life in the kid.
"I wouldn't have moved to Oregon if it bothered me, Jerry. But rain like this—I'll be honest, it scares the crap out of me."
"Not me," Jeremiah said. "I like it especially like this. I think it's lovely."
"You don't say."
"Lovely and wicked."
"There's two words you don't often hear together," Gage said.
They were really going now. It was almost like they were having a conversation. Gage was debating about asking Jeremiah what his favorite color was, but then he heard the front door open in the other room, voices murmuring, then Zoe and Alex appeared in the dining room.
As she made a beeline for Jeremiah, Zoe barely glanced in Gage's direction, but there was enough hostility in that one glance to last a lifetime. Pow. A real punch to it. Just as quickly, as she looked at Jeremiah, her expression changed to one of motherly concern. Her hair, black with a few indigo streaks, was cut short and spiky. She was dressed in her usual goth-hybrid garb—black jeans, black garage-band T-shirt, black eye shadow—but she'd left most of her bling at home, something he noticed lately she'd been doing more. Some silver hoop earrings and a tiny diamond nose stud were her only facial adornments.
Dark spots from the rain speckled her black clothes. Her pale face and arms gleamed with moisture. She swiveled around the seat next to Jeremiah, sitting in it so her knees pressed up against him. She cupped her hand around his neck, pulling him a little closer, leaning into his ear, an intimate gesture. Jeremiah didn't look at her even then, but Gage did see the skin around his eyes quiver.
When Zoe spoke, it was a whisper, too soft for Gage to hear over the rain crackling on the roof. The kid shook his head. She said something else. He shook his head again. Zoe glared at Gage defi
antly.
"What did you do to him?" she said.
"Me?"
"He wants to go home."
"I have a few more questions first."
"You can ask him later."
Without waiting for his reply, she stood abruptly and gestured for Jeremiah to do the same. After a brief glance in Gage's direction, he rose and meekly accompanied her, her guiding him by the arm as she might a blind man. He was a full head taller than Zoe, but somehow he seemed shorter. Before Gage could think of something to say, they were out the front door and driving down the road in Zoe's Toyota. He was still feeling the draft from the front door when the sound of the Toyota's engine faded to silence.
Alex held up his hands apologetically. "I called her because I thought she might be able to help."
"It's all right," Gage said.
"Hope I didn't screw things up."
Gage gazed into what remained of his tea. Maybe the kid was right to look for answers there. It was just as good as anywhere else.
"Screw what up?" he said. "I don't even know what happened."
"Well, we've still got the revolver at least," Alex said. "Now he can't hurt someone. Maybe that's the one good thing we've done."
"Maybe you're right," Gage said, though he was left with the nagging feeling that somehow they might have made things worse.
Chapter 3
The storm broke a little after two in the morning. By then, Gage was back in his house above the highway, having drifted off in his armchair by the wood stove, a crossword book in his lap and his hand still cupping a pencil. The storm did not die off slowly; it was an abrupt change, a 180-degree swing from moaning wind and pounding rain to … silence. The difference was so immediate, in fact, that Gage snapped awake, still in the thrall of a dream where Janet and his old girlfriend Carmen were arm wrestling for the right to bear his child. He didn't know what the dream meant, but he was disappointed he wasn't going to find out who won—not so much the arm wrestling, but how they reacted to the outcome.
Since neither of them had wanted children, he wasn't even sure how they were defining a win.
He poked his head into Zoe's room and saw her asleep on top of the covers and under a copy of Rolling Stone, headphones on, music blaring. With no cane, using the walls for support, he crept inside and turned off her iPhone, covered her with the afghan her grandmother Mattie had made her before she died, and turned off the lights on the way out. He liked doing things like that. He'd done it dozens of times in the two years she'd been living with him, and he felt a pang of sadness that he wouldn't get to do it much longer.
He may have wanted Zoe to go to a good university, with all the opportunities it provided, but that didn't mean he wanted her to leave. If there was a contradiction in there somewhere, he refused to acknowledge it.
A few hours of fitful sleep later, he woke to the sound of someone knocking on his front door. It was such a hard, forceful pounding that he was up and out of bed before the first knocks were even finished, heart thudding in his ears, all the sleepiness gone by the time he hobbled into the front hall. He was already opening the door when he realized he'd forgotten not only his cane, but his robe too. He was standing there in nothing but his boxers.
No gun either. Stupid. What if another one of his old pals from the Italian Mafia in New York had shown up to pay him a visit?
Fortunately, the person standing on his porch was neither Italian nor Mafia—not unless you counted high school sports as Mafia, which, in a small town like Barnacle Bluffs, may not have been far from the truth.
Arne Cooper filled most of the stoop outside Gage's door. He was big and broad, thick in the chest and stomach, his green Bearcats windbreaker zipped so high that only a glimpse of his white T-shirt showed beneath. The jacket fit him as tight as paint on a barrel. What was left of his reddish brown hair, just a fringe, was slicked straight back, and his eyebrows were nearly invisible. A fine mist hung over the arborvitae bordering Gage's gravel driveway. Arne's bald head glistened like a polished egg. The only physical trait he shared with his son was his pale skin.
"I hear you have something that belongs to me," he said, smacking his gum. He stood close enough that Gage caught a whiff of spearmint. Behind Arne was a big black Ford Expedition so shiny and bright, it looked like it had just rolled off the lot.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm Arne Cooper."
He said it as if he expected a salute. Gage didn't like the tough-guy act. And in his experience, anyone who had that attitude wasn't really tough when it came down to it—not when it really mattered, anyway.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I know I called a plumber, but I wasn't expecting you until—"
"Jerry's my son," Arne said with a sigh.
"Ah."
"He says you have my revolver."
"He says correctly."
Arne raised his thin eyebrows and went on chewing his gum. Gage had no gum and didn't feel like raising his eyebrows, so he simply stood there. It was hard to look imposing in boxers, especially when he was facing off against someone as big as a grain silo, but he did his best.
"I'd kinda like my gun back, champ," Arne said.
"That's a reasonable request."
"Okay. So why don't you go get it then?"
"I will. Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"That's right," Gage said.
"Listen, champ—"
"Champ. I like that. Feel like I should be wearing boxing gloves. Or at least chewing some gum. Not really much into the gum-chewing thing, sadly."
Arne blinked a few times and went on smacking his gum. He had the kind of blank stare that could have either meant there was nothing going on behind those eyes, or that there was plenty going on but he'd learned to hide it behind a flat stare for optimal intimidation. Gage wasn't sure which it was, though his experience led him to believe it was most likely the former, people being the eggplants they generally were.
"I don't get you," Arne said.
"Well, that makes two of us. I don't get me either."
"You some kind of comedian?"
"I do like to make jokes. I find it lowers my blood pressure."
Arne shook his head. "You're Zoe's dad," he said, as if that explained everything. "Look, pal—"
"Pal. Even better than champ."
"—I just want my piece, okay? Jerry shouldna taken it, he's been punished like he knows he would be, and now I got to make sure it's locked up better. But I don't got all day to make chitchat, so if you could just hustle your ass and get it for me, I'd 'preciate it."
"No," Gage said.
This finally got Arne to stop chewing his gum. "What?"
"I said no."
"You won't get my gun?"
"No, I won't hustle my ass. Especially for you. And if you talk like that to me again, you can get the hell off my property."
"Hey now. Easy. I just want what's mine."
"I don't even know if the gun is yours. Maybe it's stolen."
Arne's face flushed bright pink. Because of the paleness of his skin, it didn't take much pink to be noticeable, and this was a real doozy.
"What the hell!" he said. "Now you're calling me a thief?"
"No. I'm saying you may be a thief. There's a difference."
"Listen, sport, if you don't—"
"Sport! Pal, champ—we have the complete trifecta!"
"Get me my damn gun!"
"Nope. And I think it's time for you to go."
"I don't get you! What the hell do you want anyway?"
"I was going to ask you some questions about Jeremiah. But now I'm not in the mood. You should leave."
Arne leaned in closer, his jaw clenched, eyes dark and intense. "Man, if you don't go get me my gun right now …"
"Yes?" Gage said.
"It won't be pretty."
"Oh, that's too bad. I'm a fan of pretty."
This apparently was all the kidding around Arne Cooper could take. He lunged for Gage, not really a punc
h or a grab, more of a clumsy push. This was not a man who was used to fighting people who put up much resistance. Gage, who was always underestimated because of his limp and his general slouched demeanor, dodged to the side and clamped his hand on Arne's wrist, yanking him toward him, farther into the house.
Once he had the bigger man off-balance, executing the next move was relatively easy. With a pivot and a twist, he had Arne's arm up and behind him, the wrist bent to apply just the right amount of pressure to paralyze his opponent. Still, Arne tried to squirm free, so Gage tweaked his wrist just a little. He spun Arne around, facing the door, never relinquishing the pressure.
"Hey! Hey!" Arne cried.
"Just relax," Gage said.
"How can I—how can I relax when you got my damn arm bent?"
Gage was close enough to Arne's back that he could smell him, a mixture of musky animal sweat and a minty deodorant. With each little movement of Arne's body, his windbreaker squeaked and rustled.
"Let me go!" Arne shouted.
"Not yet," Gage said. "I want an apology."
"A what?"
"You heard me. I want you to apologize for being an asshole."
"I don't believe this! You have to be out of your—"
Gage responded with another tweak of the wrist, this one sharp enough that Arne stopped mid-sentence with a yelp.
"Try again," Gage said.
"Fine! I'm sorry!"
"Sorry for what?"
"Let me go!"
"Try again. Sorry for what?"
"I swear, if you don't—owww!"
"Try again!"
"Fine! Fine! I'm sorry—sorry for being an asshole!"
"Much better," Gage said.
He shoved Arne out the door. To make sure the man couldn't swivel right around and attack him—his sheer size, in such close quarters, would give him an advantage now that he knew the man he was fighting with was no patsy—Gage stepped on Arne's right foot, just enough to cause him to stumble. A lighter man might have been able to catch himself, but a freight train like Arne Cooper really didn't stand a chance against the law of gravity. He bobbled off the porch until his legs buckled and sent him sprawling on the gravel.
The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series) Page 2
