A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  He ducked into the ivy, landing hard, making himself as flat as he could.

  Kicking up bits of dust and gravel, the police cruiser roared past. Gage jumped out of the bushes, clothes wet, and resumed his sprint. A cop might have helped him, but more than likely would have only stopped him, asked questions, lots of stupid questions. There was no time for delay. How much time did Tatyana have?

  Tick, tock, the poison was doing its work.

  He reached the bottom of the driveway and pushed on, across the road, ignoring the blare of a truck's horn, and sprinted even faster down the road on the other side. To the beach. Be swift. Faster now. He knew he could be faster. He felt a throbbing on his right forearm and knew he must have cut himself in the ivy when he'd jumped, but it didn't matter. It was just more pain. His knee threatened to break in half. His ribs, aching from the blow he'd taken from the killer, were going to cave in on themselves at any second. This useless body of his was no good for this sort of thing, for any sort of thing, really, but it was all he had. He'd make it work.

  He'd save Tatyana or die trying.

  The way was so dark. Why did it have to be so dark? There was one street light near the road, but he'd long since passed that and the road turned into a black void before him. One wrong step and he'd go down and never get up. Another siren was coming up the highway and he prayed that it was an ambulance this time, for Zachary's sake, but he couldn't spare a glance backwards.

  He'd been on this walk hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. So many nightly sojourns to try to walk away his guilt. He knew the path by heart. He didn't need to see.

  Placing his trust in his memory, he ran even harder. The ocean grew loud, and he smelled it too, that great salty expanse, the brininess of it, sharper because the wind barely blew. His nose guided him down the concrete steps. To the sand. On the sand, so lumpy and uneven. Running. Still running. Where was that gap in the rocks? He could barely see it. He stumbled over a log, went down, got back up, still moving.

  Then he got a stroke of luck: a sliver of moonlight appeared in the clouds, like a crack in an opening door.

  It was just enough light, the barest hint of illumination on the sand, but it was enough to show him the way. He dodged half-exposed rocks, crumbling logs, and tangles of sea kelp. He squeezed through the gaps in the rocks and there it was, the sailboat, still listing on its side, the tattered sails barely flapping in the breeze.

  He ran full tilt. In the near darkness, the details of the boat were hard to make out, the white fiberglass hull gleaming like the sloped back of a beached whale. Beyond, the ocean was a black, invisible expanse, somehow even more vast because it could not be seen. Lights from the houses on the bluff behind him checkered the uneven sand with diffused yellow squares.

  He was alone, but he was not alone. To his left, he saw a shape that he thought was a redheaded woman in a bikini, but no, it was just a log. Miranda was gone, lost, never to return. Up ahead and to the right, he thought he saw another woman, wading in the surf, her pant legs folded up to the knee, but he blinked and the image was just sea foam, dissipating with the next wave. He'd taken Janet to the eastern shore many times, but she was nothing but a memory now too. He'd failed her. In the roar of the ocean waves, he thought he could make out a hundred different female voices—there was Zoe, there was Carmen, there was Karen—all calling to him, beckoning him like mermaids singing sweet promises of no more pain and no more guilt, just a slow drift into the darkness until you met your fate on the rocks.

  No.

  There was a woman on that boat, a woman he loved. He splashed into the surf, the cold water soaking his shoes. Clutching the vial in his teeth, he clambered onto the deck. His feet slipped and he fell hard on his back, the edge of his back. More pain. What did it matter? He still had the vial in his mouth and he had not bit down. There was still a chance. A whole life stretched before him, the only one he could see, based on this chance.

  He crawled on hands and knees to the hatch and tossed it open, the door slamming against the fiberglass. His left hand left a bloody print next to the door, suddenly vivid in the growing moonlight. The cabin was a wall of darkness. He ducked his head inside, blinking into that darkness. Was she there? Not waiting for his eyes to adjust, he scrambled inside. He felt the edge of a counter. The edge of a bed. Something rough, like burlap. Not a sheet or a bedspread. A sail? It smelled as if had been soaked in sea water. With a dry mouth, he felt upwards and found what he expected, that the sail was wrapped around a body.

  A shroud.

  Just like what had been wrapped around the body of Marcus Koura, these tattered sails were meant to be a shroud—only this time it had been the killer's sadistic game.

  His heart pounded so hard he felt it in the edge of his fingers as he felt his way up the body. His eyes adjusted. He saw the face exposed, deathly white, far too white, the eyes closed in a sleep that might have been permanent. A bloom of blonde hair spread on the thin mattress. It was definitely Tatyana. He felt her cheek and the skin was cold. Dead? No, no, she couldn't be dead. He took the vial out of his mouth and leaned his cheek down to her nose and mouth, holding his breath, waiting.

  A breath! It was faint, but it was there.

  He shook her gently, then harder. No response. He told her she had to drink something. He told her it would save her. Still nothing. He shook her again and she released the feeblest of moans. Just as she did so, sirens blared up on the bluff, getting louder, closer. He uncorked the vial. He shook her again, harder, trying to get at least a little life in her. Eyes cracked open. Lips parted.

  He held the vial to her lips and poured, just a little, a tiny bit, holding back even though his hands were shaking. She gagged and spat, but this was too be expected, and she was awake now. He told her she had to drink. He told her she had to drink it all. Without waiting for a response, he held it to her lips and started to pour.

  This time she drank it. She drank it all, every last drop.

  When the liquid was gone, what little strength she mustered to complete this task abandoned her. She lay limp. Gage tossed the vial to the side and held her tight. Was her body cold? Or was it warm? He could not tell through the sails. He might have been holding a body in a blanket or a corpse in a shroud. The sirens howled over the beach. He heard voices outside, shouts in the distance. He hugged Tatyana, pressing his forehead against hers, and whispered for her to hold on, just hold on a little longer. There was a life before them, a great life, a life with meaning and purpose, a life where violence could be a thing of the past, he just knew it. He just needed her to stay with him.

  Stay.

  Please stay.

  Chapter 20

  It could have been any beach.

  Slouching in the wicker chair, a glass of bourbon in his hand, the screen door open to the warm breeze blowing into the hotel room, that's what Gage thought when he looked out at the yellow sun and blue sky and all that great stretch of gleaming turquoise ocean that lay before him. It could have been any beach—in Mexico, the Bahamas, the French Riviera. That was the thing about a beach. From a certain vantage point, and at a certain temperature and certain humidity, they were all very much the same. This was Oregon, of course, a little isolated spot outside Bandon that seemed a good place to take refuge for a few days, enough hours south of Barnacle Bluffs to put all that craziness behind them. The press had lingered far longer than he had expected, and it was impossible to find some peace within yourself with a microphone shoved in your face.

  Three weeks had passed since that fateful night when a psychopath had strolled into his house, but it felt more like a year. The killer's name, they eventually discovered, was Benjamin Orvick, and, as they'd all expected, he was an operative for Islamic terrorists who'd been working with Omar Koura and eTransWorld to move funds to where they were needed. Miranda—whose real name had actually been Stephanie Planck—had been his longtime girlfriend until she'd met Marcus Koura and the two of them decided to do something to bring down the
company. What had happened to the money, nobody knew, and anybody who would have known was no longer alive. The FBI, the press, and the world at large would go on trying to sort it out, but as far as Gage was concerned, he was moving on with his life.

  The calendar still showed that it was spring, not summer, but that was the thing about the Oregon coast. This kind of warm day could be had at any time of the year. A cold and blustery day could be had as well. Today, he was glad it was the former.

  Outside, on the patio and to the left, he heard laughter. Voices. Zoe, dressed in denim shorts and a sleeveless pink top, stepped into view. Pink! What had the world come to, that she would ever allow herself to be seen in pink? Barefoot, she was gazing at the ocean and must have sensed he was watching, because she turned and grinned over her shoulder at him.

  "You okay?" he said.

  He held up the bourbon as an answer.

  "No, really," she said.

  "I'm okay," he said. She turned her head, and he noticed a tiny sparkle on her nose. "Hey. You're wearing your nose ring again."

  She smiled. "Yeah. I kind of missed it."

  "Me too."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Strangely enough."

  "Huh. You seen Alex and Eve?"

  "They went into town. Antiquing, I think. Whatever that is."

  She nodded. Zachary, looking hesitant, stepped next to her, dressed in ridiculous purple swim trunks and a black cartoon shirt that depicted one of those yellow creatures from the latest animated movie. Gage saw the edge of the white bandage on his side peeking out from under the swimsuit. It was the only sign of his injury. He no longer crouched or winced when he walked. After only a few days of frolicking in the sun, his face had darkened and blond highlights had appeared in his hair. He looked at Gage, and, honest to God, a pink flush appeared in his cheeks.

  "One of these days," Gage said, "you'll stop being nervous around me, kid."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Garrison."

  "Right. Did you see the news, Mr. Gage?"

  "Garrison."

  "Right. Did you hear about all the charities?"

  "No."

  "Billions," Zachary said, too excited to even think about getting nervous. "It was just on CNN. Billions of dollars in donations at hundreds of different charities. Salvation Army. Red Cross. Doctors Without Borders. All anonymous, all wired from dozens of different overseas bank accounts. They're already saying it's about the same amount of money that took down eTransWorld, the same amount of money that's crippled the terrorists. You know what this means, right? Of course you know what it means. Who am I talking to? But it's awesome, right? Totally awesome."

  "Totally," Gage said, smiling.

  They all grinned at each other, perfectly aware of what it meant. It meant that Marcus and Miranda weren't trying to steal money for themselves. It meant their plan had been a good one all along, a plan to bring down a shadowy terrorist organization, a shadowy banking institution, and a couple of shadowy individuals as well. It meant that Marcus had intended to do this for a long time, which was why he had named his boat Charity Case. It meant that he and Miranda had not died in vain, which was something at least. Not everyone got to say the same thing.

  Zoe took Zachary's hand. She led him away from the patio toward the ocean. He watched them go, watched as their details blurred in the warm haze that hugged the sand, watched them wade into the surf like one person, smiling and laughing at one another. He was glad he had brought them. This was good. He needed good.

  "Can two fit in that chair?"

  She'd whispered the words behind his ear, her warm breath sending a tingle up his spine. He looked over his shoulder and saw her, his Tatyana, blinking at the bright sun, blonde hair mussed and strands charged with static. Usually the picture of perfect composure, it still surprised him to see her in such a disorderly state, no eyeshadow, no lipstick, the wrinkled burgundy sweatpants not matching the purple T-shirt in the slightest. He knew she'd be back to her tidy, compact self before they all went to dinner, but he was glad she didn't feel quite the same compulsion to look perfect for him.

  He put the bourbon on the floor. Climbing into the chair, she draped her arms around his neck and settled into his lap. He marveled at how warm, how alive she was. Zachary wasn't the only one who tanned quickly. Her face and neck had already taken on a bronze hue, so much better than the sickly yellow color she'd had while recovering in the hospital for a week. She'd been a terrible patient, of course, as most doctors were, antsy to get out of there as soon as they were sure she was able.

  He'd figured the last thing she'd want to do would be to spend time with him. In fact, he'd feared she'd never want to see him again, after the close brush with death that was entirely his fault, but she'd asked for him as soon as she'd regained consciousness. She'd insisted on holding his hand, and she'd squeezed it so tightly that he felt the bones in his fingers grinding in her grasp.

  "Good nap?" he asked.

  "Mmm. Very good."

  "I'm glad. I thought about joining you, but you were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want to disturb you."

  "You should have disturbed me. I like being disturbed by you."

  "Ma'am, if I didn't know better, I would think you were subtly implying something other than me sleeping next to you."

  She smiled. "Was I really being that subtle?"

  They were looking into each other's eyes, but he couldn't help but let his gaze drift to her neck, to the absence there. Following his eyes, she touched the spot where the CK necklace would have been and ran her fingers over the empty flesh.

  "You want to ask," she said. "I can tell."

  "Wanting and doing are two different things."

  "Still. You have been wanting for a long time."

  "So far, I've resisted."

  Her smile turned into a smirk. "Oh, Garrison, you just can't let something go, can you? If there's a mystery, you have got to get to the bottom of it."

  "Well, I am a private investigator."

  "It's more than that, and you know it."

  "Hmm. Does this mean you're not going to tell me?"

  She sighed, then nestled her head under his chin. They sat like that for a while, two warm bodies entwined, both of them looking at Zoe and Zachary frolicking in the surf. That was such a frivolous word—frolic—but it was the perfect word to describe the way they were splashing water at one another and laughing with glee. They could all use a bit more frolicking. Gage didn't know if he was capable of it, but he was willing to try.

  "I was that young once," Tatyana said.

  "You're still young."

  "Not that young. I was very young, not even a woman yet, and I had a young man much like Zoe does. We were happy. We even knew each other as children. Our families knew one another. I can't think of a time I did not know him."

  Gage remained silent, afraid that if he even murmured in acknowledgement, he might break the spell and give her a reason to clam up again.

  "His name was Sergei," she said. "Strange, saying it aloud. I have not said it aloud in many, many years. You see, there is a reason why I ... why I do not love easily. The chemist I married was not the first man who knew how cruel I could be. Sergei, he gave me the necklace when we were sixteen. In Cyrillic, the Russian alphabet, his name is actually spelled with what looks like a C to you. Koshkov is his last name. He had a necklace too, but with my initials. He saved and saved to have them made. It was our promise to each other, that we would always be together. But when the time came ... I just could not do it. I could not stay there. Ukraine, there was no future. I had to leave, make something of myself. I left without even saying goodbye, because I knew I would not be able to leave if I saw him. He wrote letters. So many letters, so angry. I never wrote back."

  Her voice became rough, a strange warble deep in her throat. Her face, nuzzled against his neck, had grown warm.

  "I did not wear the necklace again until one final letter came," she said. "It was from his mother.
It was a few years later, about the same time I was having second thoughts about my life in Atlanta. I was thinking of going back, maybe seeing if Sergei would take me back. But his mother ... she said he died in a bar fight, in an argument about the future of Ukraine. He had been spending a lot of time in bars, always drinking. She was not angry with me. She said she hoped I found the life I wanted. It was so much worse, her being nice."

  "I'm sorry," Gage said.

  "Now you know."

  "You were very young."

  "Please don't make excuses. I was cruel. I did not need to be that way. So I wore the necklace as a reminder. I decided I would never love again. I did not deserve it."

  "But you took it off. You're not wearing it anymore."

  "Mmm hmm."

  "Which means ..."

  "I think you know what it means."

  They sat in silence for a while longer. It may have been a minute. It may have been an hour. To Gage, it didn't matter. This was the place where he wanted to be—with Tatyana in his arms, surrounded by his friends, a vast and unjudging ocean stretched out before him. He wanted to stay in this place forever. He knew it wasn't possible, that he wasn't built for it, but he wanted it all the same.

  "Now that you know," she said, "you have to promise me something."

  "Oh?"

  "You're not going to try to fix this. Fix me."

  "Hmm."

  "Is that something you can do?"

  "I can absolutely promise to think about that."

  "Garrison ..."

  "I'm getting hungry. Are you getting hungry?"

  "I'm not done with this."

  "I hear there's a great Italian place just up the road. Let's round up the others."

  She sighed and climbed out of the chair, offering him her hand. If she'd been tearing up, she hid it well, a shock of pink around her eyes the only sign. He got out of the chair and together they walked onto the beach. The sand felt rough and warm under his bare feet. Holding her hand, he found he did not need the cane. It wasn't so much that she carried any of his weight, keeping it off his knee, as it was her presence that made him forget the pain. That was something, at least. In fact, the more he thought about it, the bigger a something it was. Maybe it was everything, really, being with the right person who could help you forget the pain.