River Home

by Elle Keaton

  “Busy flirting with everyone at the party, including my mom,” Joey added from the dining area.

  “Helping her keep her hand in.” Miguel laughed at Joey’s glower. “Annnyway, why did you two come over here tonight? I would have seen you tomorrow.”

  Finally, with Nate’s help, Miguel got them to leave by promising Buck he would stop by the house tomorrow. He would have done it anyway.

  “Take the day off tomorrow, you earned it. Dom and Kevin have already made calls. We’ve put everything off a day or two. If customers don’t like it, they can take their business to that jerk Leonard Bass.” Buck and Miguel both knew that most of his clients would wait rather than take their business to Leonard’s. Anyone who would had already done so when Miguel started working at Swanfeldt’s three years ago.

  After Buck and Joey departed, Nate and Miguel spent what was left of the evening trying to figure out why Miguel’s wallet had been at the scene of a crime. Nate got out a yellow legal pad so he could take notes.

  “Oh, can we play cops and robbers?”

  “Only if you are a very good boy. Or very naughty.” Nate was catching on fast.

  By the time they tumbled back into Nate’s bed, too tired to do anything but kiss, nothing had been solved.

  Two weeks of poor sleep and the stress of being in charge of Swanfeldt’s caught up with Miguel. He didn’t remember shutting his eyes. He was so tired he didn’t dream—or if he did, he didn’t remember. When he woke, the spot next to him was empty but the aroma of coffee wafted from down the hallway. The clock on the nightstand claimed it was after ten a.m. Had he really slept for over ten hours?

  Wiping the sleep from his eyes, then running a hand through his hair, which he knew from experience would do no good, Miguel lurched out to the kitchen. Nate was sitting at the dining table hunched over a cup of coffee and his legal pad.

  “Hey,” Miguel rasped. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Hey, morning.”

  Nate looked up at him and beamed. Miguel had to quell the urge to look behind him to see who Nate was smiling at. It was hard for him to believe the smile was aimed at him. Men and women often smiled at him, but not without reserve. Not with their entire heart visible where anyone could see. Nate’s smile came with a lot of responsibility.

  Miguel wanted to be worthy of it.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “A couple hours.”

  “Sheesh.”

  “Want to go grab some breakfast? There’s not much here.”

  “Understatement of the year. What do you live on?”

  “I eat out,” Nate muttered. “A lot.” Tossing his pen down with a smack, he stood up from the table. “Get dressed, we’ll go see what the line at the Oyster House looks like.”

  Good lord, Miguel could get used to bossy Nate. Maybe it had always been there and Miguel hadn’t recognized it for what it was, but Nate strong, demanding, turned his crank. He wouldn’t want it all the time, but Nate seemed well on his way to figuring out that Miguel didn’t always want to be in charge. That he often preferred the safety of handing someone else the wheel so Miguel could free-fall.

  He got dressed.

  Nate had a flat tire.

  Miguel got to show off by changing it in under ten minutes. “Breakfast? Then we can stop by the shop and really fix it.”

  Breakfast was good. Fancy in a way only the Pacific Northwest could be. Which meant that the menu was pricey, the food was all organic, and most guests were dressed in shorts and plaid shirts. Nate, Mr. East Coast, was the sharpest dressed on the premises, wearing khaki slacks and an off-white linen button-down under a casual summer-weight jacket. Miguel enjoyed the glances other guests gave him. They had to wait for a table, but even if the food had been terrible—which it wasn’t—the view across the Skagit flats was stunning.

  There was a dead animal on Nate’s front steps.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Miguel turned away from the remains, swallowing to keep his breakfast down. They’d come to the front door because Nate had parked on the street instead of under the carport.

  Nate was immediately on his phone. Apparently leaving dead animals at the homes of federal agents was a bad plan. His demeanor changed instantaneously, from relaxed to on-point. Kneeling down for a closer look at the remains, Nate took a picture with his phone and sent it to his superior. “Yeah,” he said into the phone. “Looks like a cat, could be road kill, hard to say.” A pause. “I don’t know. Maybe?” Miguel listened with one ear while he stared up and down the street, studying the houses, driveways, hidden access points. Wondering if the neighbors had seen anything.

  Nate’s stoop was quite visible from the street. There was a small dwarf cherry tree in front of it, but it wasn’t big enough or thick enough to truly block anyone’s view. And it was Sunday; there had to have been someone out.

  “I’m thinking last night or early this morning. Yeah, Buck and Joey Swanfeldt came by; I’m pretty sure they would have said if there’d been a dead animal on my porch. Okay, boss. Sure, boss.” Nate hung up. “That’s gross,” he stated, staring at the remains.

  “Is that your professional opinion, Fed?”

  “Yep. I hope it was hit by a car or something. Not that that’s—I just mean, you have to be pretty sick to kill an animal on purpose.”

  “Why would anyone do something like this?” Miguel wondered. He’d never had pets, but he couldn’t imagine killing an animal, ever.

  “Usually to leave a message. To scare someone: an ‘It could’ve been you’ sort of message.” Nate ran his hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. “Might have something to do with the case I’m sort of working on. I’m going to have to go in to the office.” Nate stepped over the carcass to unlock his front door. He turned down the short hallway toward the smaller bedrooms.

  Miguel followed and found Nate had turned one small bedroom into a home office. Nate’s desk and chair were arranged under a small window opposite several bookshelves stuffed with both fiction and nonfiction. Which was good, because no matter how hot Nate was, if Miguel hadn’t found any books in his house he would’ve had to keep it a one-night stand. One-plus-night stand.

  He froze in place at the idea of permanence, a concept that had never applied to his life in the past. As if he could read Miguel’s mind, Nate looked up from shuffling through his desk and commented, “I’m thinking of taking down the wall between these rooms,” he gestured, “and making one large study-guest area. We could add another desk and a couple more bookshelves. I saw the stack of books at your place.”

  Miguel sputtered. Was Nate really offering to make a place for him in his home? Did he know what he was saying? Miguel was willing to admit, in the privacy of his own head, that it was like being gifted everything his secret heart desired. Which was terrifying, because the last time the secrets his heart longed for had been presented to him it had been a lie. When the dust settled, Miguel had been left with nothing; less even than he had started with. He could feel his heart straining to reach out and accept what was being given. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly he could almost feel it.

  “Nate, the things you say.”

  “I don’t say anything I don’t mean.” Nate’s eyes bored into his, and Miguel was the one who looked away. “The only solution is to prove it to you. If I have to prove it over and over again before you believe, if that’s what it takes? That is what I will do.”

  “Jesus.” What Miguel wanted was to throw himself into this man’s arms; instead, he tried to talk some sense into him. “You don’t know me. I could be a creep, a user, a grifter who will ruin your life.”

  “Practically, I know that’s not true. I imagine Klay has already run you through his database. You’re too close to his personal circle and his boyfriend.” Nate ticked a finger. “Impractically, I don’t feel it. I understand, though. You’ve been burned, badly. It will take you a little while to understand I’m for real. I’ll
wait.”

  Miguel had to shut his eyes. Nate was offering everything, and it felt too rich. He imagined that he felt like a man too long in the desert, so parched that one sip of water wouldn’t be enough, yet more would be dangerous. It was also ironically hilarious that Miguel was usually one to jump headfirst into things, and now that he was trying to be reasonable, Nate was presenting him the moon on a platter.

  He stared at the hardwood floor trying to think of a response, and feet encased in boring black dress socks came into view. Nate lifted Miguel’s chin, and warm lips covered his with a kiss—a gentle promise, nothing more.

  “I’m sorry,” Miguel whispered, not certain what he was apologizing for.

  Nate cleaned up the remains on his porch, wrapping them in a plastic bag before putting them in his car and hosing down the stoop. Miguel tried offering to help but was glad Nate shooed him away. Then he was gone a few minutes later, headed to the not-so-secret FBI lair in Skagit, leaving Miguel at loose ends. “Lock up behind me. If you have to leave, there’s a spare key under the silverware tray and the alarm code is 4174.” He kissed Miguel hard on the lips again, then was gone.

  The house felt empty without him. Miguel wandered around at loose ends for a while, opening and closing a few kitchen cupboards—there was a distinct lack of anything to cook, only canned soup—before wandering out into the backyard, which he was not surprised to see was a little out of control.

  Finally he plucked a book from Nate’s shelves, an old copy of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, and settled into one of Nate’s couches, alternating between reading and watching the birds and squirrels fight over the hanging feeder. The sun started to go down, and much later, he woke with a start when the outdoor lights came on in the backyard, shining into his eyes. Something had set the sensors off; a small animal, maybe?

  He stumbled back to Nate’s bedroom and wrapped himself in the comforter and the scent of them together embedded in the sheets. Laundry needed to be done, but not at 2 a.m. Nate still hadn’t returned when Miguel woke hours later and the sun was shining brightly. He supposed that was what life was like when you hung out with a federal agent.

  Chapter Twelve: Nate

  Klay was already at the office when Nate arrived. He took the animal remains from Nate, examining them through the plastic bag.

  “Not much to tell. You took pictures?” He put the remains in another, less see-through, bag and then into the office freezer. Nate hoped no one opened it; they’d be in for a nasty surprise. “I should probably label that,” Klay muttered before shutting the door.

  “Yeah, I’ll send the rest of the images over.”

  “Do you think this could be a sick prank?” Klay asked.

  “No. I had a flat this morning too. Miguel didn’t say anything, but the tire’d been slashed.”

  “Hmm. You and Miguel Ramirez, huh?”

  Nate felt himself redden, not from shame but from memories of what they’d done together and how he wanted to do it again. “Yes.”

  A wolfish smile crossed Klay’s face. “Others may have called you a monk, but I always thought there was something hidden by your slightly grim exterior.”

  Good lord, he’d known they had a nickname for him but never what it was. “Monk? No, never mind.”

  Klay wanted Nate to try to touch base with Gomez, since the lead Ferreira had been tracking had gone cold. Nate changed into his meth-addict attire, checked out the pickup again, and drove out the long rural road where he had parked over the Fourth of July. He and Klay had pored over every fact about the case… again. There was nothing new. Not even the appearance of an animal corpse on Nate’s doorstep. The traffickers they were trying to pin down had been known to leave “messages” for those who were sniffing around. They speculated that whoever had offed Rosales was aware of the Skagit investigation—or suspected it. Although, Nate had to admit, they had to more than suspect if they’d narrowed it down to specific investigators.

  Nate thought it likely a delivery had been diverted or delayed by Rosales’s demise. Rosales had supposedly been notorious for wanting to personally inspect the victims who decided his offer was too good to refuse. It was possible that there was a shipment waiting in limbo. If so, he hoped the information about where they were hadn’t died with Rosales.

  Rosales and his team recruited through a circuitous bait and switch; not original, but it worked. Vulnerable people, generally from Central or South America, were solicited with the offer of a better life. They were brought illegally across the US border and then installed in a network of labor camps across rural America.

  Conditions in these camps bordered on inhumane. Klay and his team knew this anecdotally, but they hadn’t been able to document it. Workers were treated like prisoners. The mobile homes were always cleaned up by the time the Feds arrived. Maybe not a model of cleanliness and safe working conditions, but nothing like the few victims who’d escaped reported. Gomez was their hope here in Skagit.

  Once the victims were worn down physically and mentally by the living conditions and the harsh work in the fields, Rosales would offer a way out: become a working girl or boy. The drugs he offered in exchange made it easier for them to say yes.

  Nate tried to make himself comfortable on the truck’s vinyl bench seat while he ran over all the facts again and worried for Gomez’s safety. Her last report had been vague, but he inferred that the death of Rosales, the liaison, had sent nervous rumblings through camp leaders. The Marias had been slipping off alone; possibly to use phones, possibly to try to locate the speculated missing delivery.

  Darkness fell, and Nate sat in silence waiting and watching, afraid he would miss something if he looked away. If Gomez was able, she would make contact before midnight. After midnight, guard dogs patrolled the encampment.

  He started when a light tap sounded against the passenger side window. Nate expected to see Gomez, even though she was very close to missing curfew. Instead a young Latino boy opened the door and climbed into the truck. He was thin to the point of near emaciation; his hair was wild and tangled, his eyes dark pools of fear. The sharp sound of dogs barking in the distance reached Nate’s ears. It was later than he’d realized.

  The two of them stared at each other for a moment, the heavy sound of the boy’s (young man’s?) breathing and faintly barking dogs pushing aside the silence inside the truck. The barking dogs meant no Gomez tonight, and his worry for her safety ramped up. Nothing about this case was simple.

  He looked over the young man, a second, closer look, and Nate thought it more likely he was in his late teens. He was shivering despite the warm night.

  “Please.” His tone and eyes implored Nate. “Please drive.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Natalia. She could not leave without danger.” His accent was strong but his English was clear.

  “And you could?”

  “I could not stay.”

  Nate sighed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. Instinct was screaming for him to turn around and try to contact Gomez. Instead she had sent this boy, and Nate needed to find out why. He eased the truck out onto the road, leaving the headlights off until they were several miles away. Turning onto the highway that bisected the acres of farmland, Nate drove until he reached a fast-food restaurant closed for the night. He pulled into the parking lot and called Klay. In the distance a decaying lumber mill, shut down sometime in the 1970s, stood sentinel over the highway and the land surrounding it, a darker black shadow against the night sky.

  Klay picked up immediately. “Yes?” Someone needed to teach that man phone manners.

  “Change of plan. Gomez sent a messenger.” Nate looked over. “What’s your name?”

  “Rafael Possos.” The name was uttered slowly, as if he was unused to speaking it out loud. He was still shivering, arms wrapped around himself protectively. Nate reached behind his seat and handed him a sweatshirt. Rafael took it tentatively.

  “Put it on.” Nate
whispered. It hung on his small frame. Nate wasn’t a giant by any means, and the sweatshirt looked huge on the young man.

  “Possos,” Klay repeated. “Why does that name sound familiar? Never mind, bring him in. I’ll meet you.”

  “We should probably take him to St. Joe’s.” Klay had been waiting for them when Nate pulled into the secure parking lot behind their building. He was studying Rafael through the window of the truck.

  Nate had the same thought; as terrified as Rafael seemed, he’d passed out while Nate drove, slumping against the passenger door, his head lolling back against the seat. He hadn’t stirred when Nate parked and turned the engine off.

  “I’ll see if we can get someone to visit us. I’d like to keep this under wraps as much as possible. Jesus Christ, the gossips in this town are worse than Hollywood,” Klay groused.

  “Isn’t Joey James—Swanfeldt—a nurse?” Nate ventured.

  Klay laughed, and the noise startled Rafael awake. “Calling Joey would be basically telling everyone in Skagit. He has no filter and zero sense of self-preservation. Seth trained as an EMT.” Seth was Klay’s half-brother. “I’ll risk his boyfriend’s wrath. Sacha owes me.”

  “He is dehydrated, undernourished, and stressed beyond belief. He probably could use an IV to restore fluids,” Seth announced. Klay and Nate had half carried Rafael into a small room where a cot was set up. He was currently sleeping, covered with a light blanket. Seth had gotten him to sip a little water, but he had fallen back to sleep mid-sip.

  Nate liked Seth; he was engaging and personable. His partner, on the other hand… Sacha Bolic was intimidating and an ex-US Marshal. He hadn’t said much while Seth looked Rafael over, but now he nodded his chin at Klay and the two of them left the room to talk in the hallway.

  Nate sat down on the edge of the cot, which creaked under his weight. Rafael slowly opened his eyes again.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe,” Nate murmured, hoping it wasn’t a false promise. They needed to get Gomez out of there. Things could go sideways at any time, especially now that Rafael had escaped.