"And my Remington. And my Winchester. I'm well-stocked, you don't have to worry about that. But, Garrison—"
"No, no, don't argue with me. This is a crazy last-ditch effort and I know it, but this guy needs to feel he has a clear shot at me. I'll also call Quinn, ask him to put someone parked here in an unmarked car."
"Won't the chief want to know why?"
"I'll just tell him I have reason to believe the killer might come after you. He doesn't need to know more than that."
"He won't believe that's all it is."
"Nope, probably not. But he'll still make sure you're all safe."
"Hey," Alex said, "I may be a bit rusty, but I can protect us."
"I know you can. I just want to make sure we catch this guy, too. You have to promise me you won't come over to my house to help. I'm counting on you."
"Oh, don't worry about that. If it's a choice between helping you or protecting my beautiful wife, it's no contest, pal. There are still two big reasons why this plan of yours isn't going to work, though."
"What's that?"
"Zoe and Tatyana. Convincing them to hole up here while you go through with this harebrained scheme of yours is going to be a lot tougher than convincing me. And without them safe, I know you won't do it."
* * *
Alex was right. There was no way Gage would put any of his friends at risk—not any more than they already were just being in his life. Violence had always followed Gage, in one form or another, and anybody who spent any time in his orbit eventually found themselves caught up in it. After Janet's death, he'd decided that he was just one of those people who should not be allowed to love or be loved. Only he could bear the responsibility for the darkness that surrounded his life and, never being one for whom suicide was ever an option mostly because suicide would release him from the guilt he felt he deserved to suffer, he'd moved from New York to Oregon to live out his days alone.
Yet, over the past six years, people had found him. Connections had been made. As much as he'd resisted, he'd found himself loving and being loved back. The violence came, too, as he knew it would.
It had finally dawned on Gage that he needed both in his life to feel whole. Love and violence didn't find him by accident. As much as he found this truth about himself despicable, he sought them out. He may have clothed his need for violence in some kind of self-righteous crusade to help those in need, but he knew the real reason he kept putting himself in harm's way. It was a selfish addiction, made all the worse by his inability to insulate himself from others so they wouldn't be affected by it too.
But what of it? It was what it was. All he could do was never put those he cared about at risk if there was something he could do to protect them.
The green-glowing electric clock on Alex's stove read a quarter past three in the afternoon, meaning time was already growing short if he wanted to put his plan into motion tonight. He called Zoe first. He abhorred having the conversation over the phone, but the hungry press parked outside the Turret House would not be easy to lose on the way to Books and Oddities, and he didn't want them—or the killer—getting any kind of sense of what he was doing.
He got right to the point, which was actually easier because it allowed him to skip past any awkwardness that might exist between them after the incident on Monday night, and told her his plan. She protested, of course, but he silenced her by asking if she thought Miranda might deserve a little justice. She reluctantly agreed to come straight to the Turret House after the bookstore closed, and he got her to promise, even more reluctantly, not to even think of coming to their house in some misguided effort to help him.
He called Tatyana's cell and she didn't answer. He called her at the hospital, and after five minutes on hold, the unit clerk returned to tell him that Dr. Brunner was busy with a patient and would have to call him later. When he told the clerk it was urgent and that he was willing to wait, he spent another ten minutes on hold drumming his fingers on the marble counter before Tatyana finally came to the phone.
"What is it?" she said.
"Sorry to call you at work," he said. "I need to talk to you about something important."
"Right now? It's crazy here."
"When do you get off?"
"Usually at three, but I'm going to be here until at least four, I think."
"Can I meet you at your place at 4:30?"
There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Garrison, I think maybe we need a little break. Things happened very fast. And after Miranda ... Well, I'm not sure we should—"
"Fine," Gage said curtly. "Whatever. But this isn't about us. It's important."
"What is it about?"
"Can you be at your place at 4:30 or not?"
"All right."
He called Quinn next, and as expected, the chief did not take too kindly to being asked to provide undercover police protection for the Turret House without a little more information, but after some heated back and forth, he finally relented—on the condition that Gage wasn't withholding the identity of the killer. This Gage could promise with a clear conscience.
After checking in one last time with Alex, he drove to Tatyana's condo. While he'd been inside, a bank of gray clouds had moved in from the west, approaching the beach. They did not look like rain clouds to Gage's eyes, but solid gray, like a wool blanket being tucked over a bed. Without the sun warming his face, the air felt cooler. The headlights of the approaching cars burned brighter in the deepening gloom. Those who kept track of the weather may have designated a specific time for sunset, but in Gage's experience, it was more of a moving target on the Oregon coast. The sun went down when it felt like going down.
As he'd anticipated, Buzz Burgin and some of his journalist friends tried to tail him, and this time he was in no mood for an escort. Knowing the town much better than them, he darted through some side streets on either side of Highway 101, finally losing them by parking in a state campground on Big Dipper Lake and waiting until they passed.
When he knocked on Tatyana's door, she answered even though it was only a quarter past four. She still wore blue hospital scrubs. Seeing her, he felt his pulse quicken, an immediate reminder of how intensely he already felt for her. But there was something in her eyes that had not been there when they'd last seen each other, as if she was trying to see him through a thick sheet of bulletproof glass. She ushered him inside without a word.
"So what was so urgent?" she asked; if she was trying to play it cool with him, her voice sounded strained with worry.
Gage looked around her condo, not at all surprised that everything was new and perfect and in its place—a leather couch, Architectural Digest on the end table, dried flowers on a gray granite breakfast bar.
"How long will it take you to pack a bag?" Gage asked.
"What?"
"I booked a place in Newport for you. Just for the night."
She sighed and rubbed a hand against her forehead. Her fingers looked particularly white and pale, as if they'd been bleached. "Garrison—"
"It's not for us. It's just for you."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a nice place, right on the ocean. It's called the Sylvia Beach Hotel and every room is themed after an author. Won't it be nice to wake up and look at the ocean? Come on, I'll help you pack your bag. I was going to have you stay with Alex, but I think this will be better. Nobody will even know where you are."
"Garrison, what is going on?"
He told her. Like Alex and Zoe, she did not respond positively to his plan. She said he was being an idiot. She said he had some bizarre need to do everything on his own when there were plenty of people who would help him. Her voice, cool at first, quickly became heated. The wall she'd erected between them fell away and suddenly she was more emotional than he'd ever seen her, voice strained, a high pink flush riding up her face. Unlike with Zoe, asking her if Miranda deserved some justice didn't change her mind, and in fact, only made her more angry.
S
he told him to get out. He refused. She picked up the vase with the dried flowers in it and threw it at his face. He ducked. The vase smashed against the wall, breaking into pieces, which only seemed to enrage her further. She came after him with her fists and he grabbed her and held her, even as she pummeled his chest. He embraced her more tightly until the storm passed and she was crying. They stood like that for awhile, in the middle of the living room, him holding her until her body stopped shaking and they were both silent. It was quiet enough that he heard the wind blowing through the firs.
"I did not want this to happen right now," she said, sniffling. She spoke into his chest, and he felt her words as much as he heard them. "I've been acting stupid. I was not in control of myself."
"I like you when you're stupid," he said.
"Don't joke."
"I'm not. I mean, I like it when you lose some of that control."
"I don't ... I don't know who I am when I'm not in control. It was a fantasy, our time in Crescent City. I realize it now. It was not real. I was pretending to be someone else, but now that I'm here, I have to be the real me again. I'm a doctor. That's all I am. There is no room for anything else."
"Don't say that."
She shook her head against his chest and didn't answer.
"Right now," he said, "I just need to know you're safe. After what happened with Miranda, I can't take any chances."
"I'm not going."
"Tatyana—"
"No."
"You have to."
She sighed. "Why? Why should I do anything you say?"
"Because I love you."
He'd said the words without thinking, but once he'd said them, he knew they were true. He knew it without any doubt whatsoever. Her body stiffened, and it took her a long time to pull away and look up at him. The bulletproof glass in her eyes was gone. She searched his face, a fragile thing, a woman exposed.
"You are just saying this to convince me," she said.
"No."
"You don't know. It's too soon."
"I know."
"Garrison—"
"I love you, Tatyana. I want you to be safe. I need you to be safe. Will you do this for me?"
She stared into his eyes for a long time, as if trying to tease out any hint of deception, then finally nodded and headed for the bedroom. The same compact suitcase she'd used to go to Crescent City, the one with the long handle, was sitting by the door. She set it on the pastel blue bedspread and popped it open. It was still full of clothes. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her pack, taking out a few things, putting in others. He took out the paper on which he'd written the name of the hotel and the address, placing it next to the suitcase.
Five minutes later, she was ready to go, and he walked her to her car, a Honda Accord that was the same blue as her bedspread. Of course it would be that way. Of course it would, and he loved her even more for it. He scanned the parking lot but saw no dangers. He didn't see any reason for danger now, before his plan had been set in motion, but he felt apprehensive nonetheless. The canopy of fir trees blocked what little sunlight had made it through the graying sky, and the street lamps glowed a faint amber.
Once in the car, she rolled the window down and looked up at him. He wanted to tell her many things in that moment. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He'd said it before, but he wanted to find some other way to say it so she would really believe it.
"You will call me when it's over?" she asked.
He nodded. She put the car in gear and drove away. He watched her go, watched her taillights disappear into the trees, stood there in the chill air long after he could no longer hear the sound of her car's engine.
It was only then, as he started back to the van, that he realized she hadn't been wearing the CK necklace.
Chapter 19
An hour later, after first calling Alex to make sure Zoe was indeed at the Turret House and police protection was outside, Gage set his plan in motion.
Sitting in his recliner, dialing Buzz Burgin's number on his cell phone, the house was completely dark. With the thick clouds smothering the moon and the stars, it could hardly be darker. He wanted it dark. Though he could not see well, his memory of his own house filled in the rest of the details and that gave him the advantage. He felt the cold weight of his Beretta in his hand, resting in his lap.
Burgin answered on the second ring, already breathless.
"Garrison?" he said.
"Yeah," Gage said, and as he continued, he tried to make his voice sound slurred. "Listen. This is—this is very important."
"Are you still in the bar? I went in there and didn't see you."
The phone already felt hot against his ear, and Gage adjusted it. He'd parked his van at Tsunami's and walked home, just in the off chance that some of the press would see fit to come to his house. Now he was glad he'd done so. The last thing he needed was Buzz Burgin getting in the line of fire.
"I went home with a friend to his place," Gage explained. "Had—had a bit too much to drink. Listen, I went to tell you something. I got a scoop for you, pal. You can tell your blog readers I got a scoop for you."
"Yes? Yes? You're such a great detective, I'm not surprised. I knew you'd crack the case."
"I can't tell you everything now. My head's a little too fuzzy. But I can give you a hint. A little ... tease. You want to write this down? I don't want you to miss it. I know your readers will soak up every little detail."
"I'm typing as we speak!"
Gage gave him the whole spiel. He insulted the killer at every turn, called him a patsy for terrorists who were using eTransWorld to funnel money to their causes, a coward who hid behind disguises, a minor player in a scheme concocted by Omar. He'd been played by Marcus and Miranda, a woman who'd been with him in New York and told him that her lover had suffered a debilitating impotence that had twisted his mind. He told Buzz there was more, much more, but he'd tell him in the rest in the morning. How about eight o'clock at the Turret House?
Buzz, his voice humming with barely controlled glee, pressed for more details, but Gage told him it was tomorrow at the Turret House or nothing. Then he hung up.
And waited.
In this kind of darkness, the eyes deceived, conjuring up red and orange afterimages, hints of things that might have been there but probably weren't. He sat motionless for so long that the recliner began to feel like part of his body. He lost the sense that his feet were touching the floor. The handle of the Beretta was slicked with sweat.
Time passed, maybe an hour, maybe two. How late was it? It must have been drawing on midnight, but he had no sense of time. Maybe he'd slept without realizing it. Maybe a whole other day had passed and he'd come to a new night. Maybe this whole exercise was a complete waste of time. Why did he think the killer was so stupid? He was never going to fall for such an obvious ploy.
He heard a noise.
It was a creak from the back of the house, one of the bedrooms maybe, a wall or floorboard, loud enough that he doubted it could just be the shifting and settling of old wood. A chill ran up his spine. Was the killer already in the house? He checked his gun one last time, making sure the safety was off, and started to rise.
That's when the cell phone rang.
The creak from the back of the house was nothing like the piercing chirp of the phone in how it penetrated the stillness and set Gage's heart racing. Settling back into the recliner, he opened the phone and saw Tatyana's name and number. He punched the answer button.
"Tatyana," he said, "I thought I told you—"
"Hello, Garrison," a man said.
He spoke in a raspy whisper, in a voice that was not at all like the D.D. Conroy imposter, but Gage had no doubt it was the same man. It only took a split second for the shock of hearing the man calling from Tatyana's number to be replaced by an overwhelming fear of what the killer had done. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Preparing for a cruise to
Hawaii," the man said with a laugh. "Actually, she is totally safe. Totally safe—at least for now."
"I swear, if you hurt her—"
"You'll what? You don't even know where she is. Barnacle Bluffs is quite the tourist town, isn't it? How many hotel rooms do you think there are? Twenty thousand? Forty? You think you can find this needle in a haystack? You haven't even heard the worst part."
"We can make a deal," Gage said. "We can come to a—"
He was in the middle of the sentence when he heard a rattle, then a creak—the front door opening.
Gage aimed the Beretta. The door swung open slowly. He'd left his porch lights off, and his house was isolated from the houses around it by tall hedges of arbor vitae, junipers, and laurel bushes, but there was still enough ambient light that Gage saw a tall lean figure in the doorway. He felt a cold draft blow into the room, one that smelled of the dust and gravel from his driveway.
"I know you're there," the man said, no longer bothering to speak in a whisper. He had a smooth voice, a confident voice, the voice of a man who liked to dip his words in honey not for the sake of others but for himself. "I also know what you're thinking. You're thinking you could shoot me right now. And it's true. You could. But then you would not be able to save Tatyana. You'd better think twice before pulling that trigger."
Gage, lowering the phone to his lap, didn't answer. He didn't want to give away his location.
The man said, "I'm coming in. I'm also going to turn on the light. This is your best chance to shoot me—if you decide that killing me is more important than saving the woman you love. Oh yes, I heard you say that to her outside her place. Very nicely put, very stirring. But know this: I don't plan to shoot you, Garrison. I had a hundred opportunities to do that in the past few days. No, I have something else in store."
Gage said nothing. Should he take his chance now? The killer may have been bold, but Gage doubted he was stupid enough to leave any obvious clues as to where Tatyana was on his person—no hotel receipt in a wallet, no room key in his pocket.
"You won't find her if you kill me," the man said, as if reading his mind. "I know what you're thinking, too. You're thinking you could just wound me or maybe disarm me, then beat the truth out of me. I believe you are capable of it, too. But that won't work either, and after I turn on the light, you'll find out why."
A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4) Page 24
