The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series)

by Scott William Carter

  "You can stay here, you know," he said.

  "I don't need to stay here."

  "I don't think anything will happen. I just don't know how he's mixed up in this, and that makes me uncomfortable."

  "What's the plan?"

  Her voice had grown terse. She thought he didn't believe in her. That he didn't trust her. By probing her state of mind now, he was only making matters worse.

  "We watch him," he said.

  "That's it?"

  "That's it for now. Come on."

  They got out of the van. Wind buffeted them from all sides, strong enough that Gage had to clamp his hand over his fedora. The ocean, blocked by the house, was a steady whisper in their ears. He hated to bring his cane, but the ground was too uneven to do otherwise. Rather than take the road, where they might be spotted, they scaled the small hill, through pines made thin by the constant wind, and crossed in front of the house next door, where they could plainly see a family of four eating at a kitchen table. With the darkness as their ally, Gage and Karen passed another house before reaching MacDonald's, emerging from the sand onto the gravel drive.

  A wooden enclosure, waist high, had been built for the garbage cans, and that's where they crouched. The tangy scent of spoiled apples rose from the cans. Sand had made its way into Gage's socks; he felt the grittiness of it between his toes. Behind them, up the drive, cars buzzed past on the highway. It was now dark enough that the ocean was nothing but a black canvas behind the house, made all the blacker because of how bright the second-floor windows glowed in the night. He saw cherrywood cabinets in the kitchen, forest-green walls, and a golden chandelier that must have been hanging over a table.

  It was a long time before a person appeared, long enough that Gage's fingers, gripping the base of his cane, had grown numb. Finally, there was MacDonald, dressed in a tight black turtleneck, his hair slicked straight back as if he'd just taken a shower.

  At the sink, MacDonald filled a glass and stared into the night, his face clouded with worry. For a moment, Gage was struck with the uneasy feeling that MacDonald could see them, but then MacDonald turned, glass in hand, and walked into the room with the low-hanging chandelier. He took a drink and put his glass down on a table they couldn't see, then crossed his arms and stared out the bigger window. He said something. There was a moment's pause, then he shook his head and said something else.

  A bare-chested young man walked into view, blond buzz cut, chiseled chin, possessing the kind of muscular body that could have graced the covers of any number of romance novels. If he was twenty, he was a young-looking twenty. He put his arm around a clearly distressed MacDonald and pulled him in for a hug, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. MacDonald, as rigid as cardboard, didn't return the favor, but he didn't push him away either. He wasn't a short man, a little over six feet from what Gage remembered from seeing him at the college, but the young man was at least a head taller.

  "Oh my," Karen said.

  "If I worked out, I'd look like that too."

  "Sure you would. You'd be that tall too. Well, you were right about him. Now what?"

  They watched the two men. MacDonald was talking, the young man listening and nodding. The young man tried to grope his way down MacDonald's pants, the lust on his face unmistakable, and MacDonald slapped his hand away and stepped closer to the window. Worried about that message Gage had sent him, maybe? Worried as only a murderer who's afraid of getting caught can worry?

  "I'm going to knock on his door," Gage said.

  "And then what?"

  "And then I'm going to confront him with what we know."

  "Direct," she said.

  "Sometimes it's best to be direct. We could sit around the bushes all night and not learn anything more than that he has a male lover. If I put him on the spot, we might get somewhere fast."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Stay here," Gage said.

  "Come again?"

  "I want you to have my back."

  "Hard to do if I'm out here and you're in there."

  "If I go inside, I'll be back at the door within five minutes. If not, it means you should call the cops."

  She checked her cell phone, her frown visible from the light of her screen. "I've got signal. But after I make the call, I'm not just standing around. I'm coming in there."

  "I'm counting on it. But I'm not expecting a fight. I'm just making sure we have a way to call for help if I get one."

  She nodded, though he could clearly see that she wasn't happy. Then, surprising both her and himself, he brushed his thumb across her cheek in a gesture of tenderness. He started to rise, but then she grabbed him by his leather jacket and pulled him in for a kiss—and there was nothing tender about it, a hot crush of lips that set his spine on fire. Stay another minute and he knew the two of them would be ripping at each other's clothes, so he pulled away and ambled toward the house. His knee, bent for so long, buckled under his weight, and he was glad for his cane.

  Pampas grass in black pots flanked the door, the ribbed ceramic shiny under the porch light. There was a security camera mounted in the corner. He rang the doorbell and waited, watching the opaque glass window in the center of the door. The shadow of a head appeared. He heard the low mumble of voices. There was a pause, then the door opened and there was MacDonald.

  "What are you dong here?" he said.

  There was worry in his voice, but it wasn't the kind of worry Gage had been expecting. He'd been expecting the worry of a man who was afraid his secret—that he was a murderer—was about to go public. Why else would Gage be at his door? But MacDonald sounded more perturbed than afraid, perplexed and a bit nervous, but not afraid for his freedom. Or maybe Gage was just reading him wrong.

  The scent of baked bread slipped out the door. Frank Sinatra, faint but unmistakable, was playing from somewhere within the house.

  "I need to talk to you," Gage said.

  "About what?"

  "Can I come in?"

  "I don't think so. This isn't a good time."

  "Let's make it a good time," Gage said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "If you don't give me five minutes of your time, I'm going to the police right now."

  MacDonald responded with comically big blinks, cartoon-character blinks, so phony that they couldn't be anything but real. "I'm sorry, did you say you're going to the police?"

  "That's right," Gage said.

  "With what?"

  "With what I know."

  MacDonald shook his head. "This is nonsense. I don't know what you're talking about. Is this about Connor Fleicher?"

  "You know very well what it's about."

  "No. I don't."

  "Oh yeah? How about the guy who was just kissing you a moment ago? You think he might know what it's about?"

  Whatever color was left in MacDonald's face—and there wasn't much—drained away. When he spoke, it was in a strained whisper.

  "My private life is none of your business," he said.

  "It is if it involves murder."

  "That's crazy! I had nothing to do with the boy's death."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "I was home. I don't have any proof."

  "Then I'm going to the police."

  Gage turned to go. He hadn't even gotten off the porch before MacDonald called after him.

  "Wait!" he said. "Please. Don't drag me into this. It won't—it won't help anything, and it will just drag my personal life into the public's eye. Please. Please, come in. Let's talk about this. I'll answer any questions you have. Just don't do that. Go to the police. Not without hearing me out."

  Without making it obvious, his back still to MacDonald, Gage looked in Karen's direction. He couldn't see her. She was well hidden behind the garbage enclosure. With deliberate slowness, he turned and looked at MacDonald. There was genuine fear on the man's face, the kind of fear Gage had expected to see when he first opened the door. "Afraid for your career, huh?" he said.

  "My career
is fine," MacDonald said. "It's not me I'm worried about. Come in, please. Hear me out."

  He stepped aside and gestured for Gage to enter. Because Gage knew exactly how big and muscular MacDonald's companion was, he went inside without letting his guard down—and yet because the attack was so sudden and overwhelming, Gage was still somewhat surprised.

  The bare-chested guy was so thick and blocky, it was like being mowed down by a pop machine. The two of them went crashing to the tiled floor, knocking over a glass vase of dried flowers. The crackle of glass only preceded MacDonald's cry of surprise by a split second, and both sounds were equally grating. Gage, thudding onto his right shoulder, took a right hook on the cheek before he managed to connect with his cane, jabbing the young man squarely in the solar plexus. It was a good thing Gage was moving with his cane before he took the punch, because the young man's fist blacked out his vision momentarily.

  "No, Thomas!" MacDonald cried.

  But Thomas, the big gleaming sweaty muscle of a man, was not stopping. Recovering from the blow, he was winding up for another punch, both he and Gage on their sides on the cold floor. Before he could let it rip, Gage kneed the young man in the balls. That did the trick, because Thomas, as big as he was, still turned into a mewling ball of pain, cupping his genitals and rolling away from Gage.

  "Hold it!" Karen shouted, bursting into the room.

  She swung her Glock from Thomas to MacDonald and back again. Gage, his eyes blurred and black-spotted, saw her as a rippled shadow, but he marveled at the authority in her voice. The command. If she wasn't a natural at this, she'd certainly trained well enough to come across as one.

  He tried to speak and managed only to cough out a choked "Stop." Raising his hand, he struggled onto his knee—his bad knee, the pain splintered up his leg—and then got his other foot under him. By then, Karen was at his side helping him to his feet. Somewhere along the way he got his cane. The world was spinning so badly he felt like a bowling ball crashing into the pins.

  "Oh God," MacDonald whined, "I'm so sorry. Thomas, why did you? Why?"

  Thomas, he of the naked chest and the big muscles, was still curled into a fetal position, and no words were forthcoming. He did manage to glare at Gage with enough hatred to melt steel.

  "What happened?" Karen said.

  Gage rubbed his stinging cheek. "We were just making our introductions."

  "This—this asshole—" Thomas managed finally, and Gage was delighted to find that Thomas had the kind of high-pitched falsetto that would perpetually make him sound like a haughty teenager. "This asshole, he comes into our house, making accusations—"

  "That's enough," MacDonald said.

  "I won't let him ruin us!" Thomas protested.

  "That's enough!"

  Thomas, having apparently recovered enough feeling in his nether regions that he was capable of doing something other than writhing on the floor, staggered to his feet. His hatred for Gage palpable, he made quite a show of arching his back and jutting out his chest, but his face was so pinched and pale that Gage had to stifle a laugh. Laughing now would not be a good idea. That usually didn't stop him, but he decided to make an exception in this case.

  Karen had lowered her Glock and pointed it away. MacDonald bowed his head and rubbed his temples vigorously with both hands, pushing so hard that the skin there turned white.

  "Maybe we should start over," Gage said.

  "This is a nightmare," MacDonald said.

  "Oh, it's not that bad. I'll have a bit of a headache tonight and Thomas might not be able to pee straight for a few days, but neither of us should have to cough up any co-pays."

  "Jokes," MacDonald said. "Jokes, at a time like this."

  "I find it helps lower the blood pressure."

  MacDonald stopped massaging his temples and squinted at Gage with the kind of attention that an entomologist might give to a rare breed of beetle. In the other room, a grandfather clock marked the time with eight gongs. MacDonald went on staring, his eyes red and weary. Nobody said anything. Gage stifled the urge to crack another joke. He needed MacDonald to come to terms with whatever he needed to come to terms with without Gage getting in the way. Thomas stepped over to MacDonald and attempted to put an arm around him, which MacDonald slapped away. Karen busied herself by shutting the door.

  "Maybe we should all sit down," Gage said.

  "Maybe you should leave," Thomas said.

  "Thomas, please," MacDonald said.

  "A bourbon would be nice," Gage said. "You got any bourbon?"

  MacDonald sighed. "What is it you want? I didn't have anything to do with Connor Fleicher's death."

  "I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Do you have an account on the SpacedOut website?"

  "What?"

  "The message forum."

  "I don't even know what that is. I've never heard of it."

  He sounded pretty convincing. Then again, so did Ted Bundy and plenty of other killers. It didn't mean anything. Gage looked at Thomas. "How about you, Mr. Bench Press? You hang out on SpacedOut?"

  "Fuck you," Thomas said.

  "That's a no, then?" Gage said.

  "I've never even heard of it."

  Gage looked at MacDonald. "So if I checked your computer, I wouldn't find that you've visited that forum?"

  "No, you wouldn't."

  "So let's go check then."

  "No. Not without the police. And even then, only with a warrant."

  "Got something to hide?"

  "I've got plenty to hide," MacDonald said. "None of it is illegal, though. Just private. And I'm not surrendering my rights simply for your convenience."

  "Convenience," Gage said. "That's a funny way of talking about a teenage boy who was murdered."

  "I already told you, I had nothing to do with that!"

  There was something about the way MacDonald phrased his denial that was all wrong. "But you know something, don't you?" Gage asked.

  "No!"

  "What is it you're hiding?"

  "I'm not hiding anything!"

  Gage raised his eyebrows at Thomas, then looked at MacDonald again. "Not hiding anything?"

  "That's different," MacDonald said. "Not everyone would understand. You see, it's not about me. Thomas is … Thomas works with younger children. He's a kindergarten teacher in Newport. If it got out he was a … a …"

  "A faggot," Thomas said, spitting out the word. "A homo. A queer."

  "Thomas," MacDonald said.

  "Might as well make it clear," Thomas said.

  MacDonald shook his head in exasperation. Gage got the feeling he spent a lot of time being exasperated with Thomas, which was when Gage knew this was no dog-and-pony-show kind of relationship. This was the real deal. Nobody got that exasperated with somebody they didn't care about.

  "Anyway," MacDonald said, "we're really keeping our relationship under wraps because of him, not me. I just didn't want any unwanted attention."

  "That's the part I don't understand," Gage said. "Attention for what? There's still something you're not telling me."

  MacDonald shook his head, but there wasn't a lot of conviction in the gesture.

  "They wouldn't have a reason to talk to you," Gage said, "unless you knew something worth talking about."

  Still, MacDonald said nothing, his eyes distant and glazed. Thomas, reading something on MacDonald's face, touched MacDonald gingerly on the elbow.

  "Daniel?" he whispered. "What is it?"

  "Nothing. It's nothing."

  "Did something happen?"

  "No."

  "Then what's wrong?"

  MacDonald went back to rubbing his temples. They all waited. Gage hoped that for once his patience would be rewarded. MacDonald crossed the room and stood in front of one of the side windows, staring out as if he could actually see something through the frosted glass. It was quiet enough that Gage thought he could hear the hush of the ocean even through the walls. He glanced at Karen, who raised her eyebrows but said noth
ing.

  "I think you need to leave now," MacDonald said quietly.

  "Daniel—" Thomas began.

  "You too," MacDonald said.

  "What?"

  "Everyone," MacDonald said, turning to face them. The anguish on his face was so palpable that it caught Gage off guard. "Everyone needs to leave now."

  "It really would be easier if you—" Gage began.

  "I don't think so," MacDonald said.

  "The police," Gage said.

  "Go to the police, then. Do what you have to do."

  "It doesn't have to be this way," Gage said. "If you tell me whatever it is you know, we don't necessarily have to bring in the police."

  MacDonald shook his head. "You don't understand."

  "No, I don't. That's why I need your help."

  "And I told you, I can't help you. I really don't know anything."

  "But you know something."

  "It's not relevant. It has nothing to do with the boy's death."

  He said it with as much conviction as he could muster, but his expression did not match it. There was doubt. Gage wanted to go on arguing, but MacDonald opened the door and swept his hands forcefully for them to go. Gage glanced at Thomas for support, but the younger man folded his arms and glared at Gage. Apparently his doubt about his partner took a backseat to his resentment toward Gage and Karen. There was nothing to do but go, which Gage did reluctantly, turning on the porch to give one last effort to pry MacDonald away from whatever was haunting him. The breeze stirred the pampas grass.

  "This isn't over," Gage said.

  "I'm sure you're correct," MacDonald said wearily, "but I won't be a willing participant in my own destruction."

  "But what is going to destroy you?"

  "I can't say anything more."

  He started to close the door. Karen put her hand on it.

  "Please," MacDonald protested. "I'll call the police if you don't leave."