River Home

by Elle Keaton

  Robert nodded, not taking his eyes from the pixelated photograph.

  “When?”

  “Maybe yesterday afternoon.” He looked up at Nate, eyes wary. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. He’s missing, and we are trying to retrace his steps.”

  “Mmm.” Robert hummed, as if he had heard that story before, too many times to count. “I sold him a ticket to Portland and then to Eugene.”

  “Did he seem nervous or jumpy?”

  “Boy, that describes most of the folks coming to buy tickets. But, yes, he did seem jumpier than most of my customers. So the other police officer who was looking didn’t find him?”

  Dread, fear, worse, washed through Nate, leaving him wobbly. “Other officer? What did he look like?”

  “Well, I’m not so good with faces, you know, but the other officer struck me as…” Robert stopped, seeming to need to find the right words, “hard. Mean. He was very impatient. I was glad to be behind glass. When I told him I’d seen this man,” he indicated Miguel’s picture, “go toward the restrooms, he didn’t even thank me, he just turned and left. Nearly knocked over someone behind him.”

  “Do you know if the first man ever got on the bus?”

  “No.”

  Nate’s stomach twisted painfully.

  “No, he didn’t. The driver waited as long as he could, but you gotta understand he had connections to make.”

  Miguel was still close, possibly still in Skagit. That was what Nate heard and tucked away. And that creep Justin Oakes had him. Nate knew it. He’d known it before; now he was certain. He was also certain that time was not on their side. Whatever journey Oakes had been taking, obsessing over Miguel, following him to Skagit… it was coming to an end, and Nate was very afraid for his lover. He almost wished Miguel had been able to get away, to disappear again. At least he would be safe from Oakes.

  No, a little voice said, Miguel would never be safe from someone like Justin Oakes. Oakes had decided Miguel was his; he’d given up too much of his life—lost his job and the respect of his colleagues. None of which was Miguel’s fault.

  Oakes’s endgame was very final, of that Nate was sure. If Oakes was willing to kill an innocent couple, he would take both himself and Miguel out before allowing himself to be apprehended. Where the hell were they?

  Chapter Seventeen: Miguel

  What was Justin doing? Miguel had been trying to keep track of time. It seemed like Justin had been downstairs for at least half an hour. Miguel was uncomfortable lying in this awkward position but afraid to move until he had a better idea of what Justin had planned.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” Miguel whispered.

  Angel gave him a “Yeah, right, whatever” kind of look. As much as one could when their mouth was covered by duct tape.

  “Really. I’ve let this guy control my life for far too long. I’m not letting him win.” It was kind of funny the things a person thought about when everything was at stake. Miguel was under no illusion that unless they acted Justin wouldn’t end up killing them both. In his head, Justin had justified it in some fucked-up kind of way, but he didn’t intend to let either Miguel or Angel walk out of here alive. “I’m sorry for getting you involved. I didn’t know he was here. In Skagit, I mean.”

  Angel shook his head fiercely, his black eyebrows drawn together in a V. Miguel didn’t know what that meant, but maybe Angel wouldn’t hate him when this was all over. Maybe they wouldn’t both be dead.

  They needed a plan, but Miguel also needed to try to figure out what Justin’s plan was. The ominous sound of footsteps preceded Justin’s reentry into the bedroom. For the life of him, Miguel couldn’t figure out what he had seen in Justin to begin with, or why he had stayed so long.

  What about Justin had been so compelling? Medium height; he’d bulked up since Miguel left—his biceps bulged from the polo-style shirt he was wearing. His neck was thick and veiny, and already-broad shoulders were now packed with muscle. He’d never been this built before. He reminded Miguel of the muscly guy in the back of vintage comic books, the one who kicked sand on the scrawny kid.

  The door opened, and Justin stopped just inside with a creepy expression on his face. “You two really are beautiful together. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I prepared it myself. I’d like to be able to trust you won’t try and run off.” He tilted his head, seeming to consider the possibility of Miguel behaving. “Well, we’ll risk it. If one of you disappoints me, the other one will be punished.”

  Miguel shivered.

  Justin led the two of them back down to the main floor, Miguel and Angel both naked. When they reached the bottom, Miguel realized either one of them could have shoved him down the stairs and ended everything. Fuck. A glass table had been set with three place settings. An open bottle of red wine sat at one end. Whatever Justin had cooked, Miguel would never be able to eat it again.

  “Sit.” Justin indicated where he wanted each of them to sit. When they were seated, he tied their wrists behind their chairs. The edge of the chair dug painfully into the underside of Miguel’s arms. How did he expect them to eat?

  As if he heard Miguel’s silent question, Justin said, “I will feed you both.” Justin pulled Angel’s chair toward him and tore the duct tape off his mouth. Miguel could see how much it took for Angel not to scream in pain as the tape took off a layer of delicate skin. “If you bite me, you are dead. If you scream, you are dead. If you do anything other than eat this meal I prepared, I will kill you.” Angel nodded mutely.

  Chapter Eighteen: Nate

  Weir was a wonder boy. Not that Nate would ever say that to his face. Within an hour, he came up with a list of vacation rentals that they all agreed Oakes had likely been hiding out in at one time or another. Three on the list had reported break-ins more than once over the past few months.

  All three were higher-end homes located on bodies of water, with views. Usually advertised as perfect for girls’ weekends, couple’s retreats, or honeymoon getaways. The first two were empty with no sign of anyone, legal or illegal, in residence. No cars, no tracks, nothing. The third was located on Old Charter.

  The owner had discovered evidence of a break-in over the weekend before Memorial Day. Normally he and his wife stayed there during that time period, but they had been at their daughter’s wedding that weekend. Nothing had been taken, but things were out of place and the TV remote had been crushed and left under a coffee table.

  SkPD found recent evidence of a vehicle, and there was garbage in the trash can that the owners had not generated, but nothing else. The alarm had never gone off but had been disabled. SkPD chalked it up to owner paranoia.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Klay growled at Nate. “Just drive by the address and see if there are any signs of life. I fucking can’t go with you because Sophia Possos and her entourage are going to arrive at any moment.”

  “I can ride along,” Weir piped up.

  “No, you fucking can’t. You aren’t a field officer any longer.”

  Weir squinted at Nate, then looked back at Klay. “You know he’s going to do something stupid, right?”

  “If he values his life, he won’t.” Klay dragged his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair. “It’s bad enough I have to wear a suit today, now I have to worry about you going off half-cocked. I promise you, Richardson, if you do something stupid I’m siccing Gomez on you. Got it?” He jabbed a thick finger against Nate’s chest, emphasizing his point.

  “Yes sir.” Nate was going to do whatever it took to make certain Miguel was safe.

  “I don’t believe you.” Klay shook his head, grabbed his car keys, and left without saying goodbye.

  Nate snatched the sheet of paper with the address off Klay’s desk, shoved it in his pocket, and headed out to his car. Weir followed, saying something, but Nate wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying to come up with a plan of attack.

  There were definitely lights on in the house, even though it wasn’t
dark yet. Sunset wasn’t until sometime around ten p.m. Three hours of light left, but under the dense cover of trees it was already dusk.

  Nate had parked his car on the shoulder and hiked through the underbrush toward the house. Oregon grape scraped against his slacks along with bristly pine branches. Himalayan blackberry snagged and dug into his clothing, leaving scratches along his hands and forearms. His suit was a mess, but it was worth it. The house was supposed to be vacant. It wasn’t; there definitely were forms moving on the first floor.

  “Damn,” Nate muttered. He needed to see who was in the house. It would be embarrassing to call this in, only to discover Weir had made a mistake about it being empty for the next few days. The house was three stories, and three of its sides were almost entirely glass. The home probably had an amazing view, but Nate’d approached from the rear, which was concrete and wood.

  His cell phone buzzed against his thigh. Nate sighed; it was Klay or Weir checking up on him, he was certain. He looked at the text from Klay. Don’t do anything stupid. Too late. Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he inched closer to the building and to the left, where he would be able to see what was going on inside. Unfortunately, the north side of the home had less trees and shrubbery than the back. Nate risked being exposed if he wasn’t very careful.

  What he saw made him go cold. As an agent, Nate had seen terrible things. He’d been on a team that discovered a group of illegal immigrants who had been left in the desert in a container truck. Some had died before they’d been found. But his participation in those events had been after the fact. The violence had already happened.

  From his hiding spot between two large fir trees, what he witnessed chilled him to the bone. Nate wished he’d thought to bring binoculars, although he hadn’t expected to need them. Crouching again, he crept as close as he dared. A twig snapping under his weight scared a bird, but the sound was lost in the soughing of tree limbs and distant crashing of waves.

  Three men were sitting at the dinner table. One he recognized as Oakes/Scott from the coffee shop; the second was Miguel. Nate’s heart pounded. Nate didn’t recognize the third; he was young, with longish dark hair and pale skin. He appeared to be stark naked, as was Miguel. Neither Miguel nor the unknown man moved while he watched. Oakes stood up, and Nate saw he was fully clothed, with an apron tied around his waist. What the fuck?

  Nate’s phone buzzed again, and he reached into his pocket to press the power button. He wasn’t risking being seen or heard by Oakes because his phone went off at the wrong moment. Sorry, boss.

  His legs were starting to cramp from the crouched position he’d been in for the last half hour or so when Oakes disappeared around a corner. From where Nate was positioned, he saw the edge of a set of stairs. Taking advantage and hoping against hope that Oakes would be gone for more than a few seconds, Nate ran closer to the house.

  There was no cover between the house and the surrounding walkway. Nate could see directly inside. Miguel and the other man, a very young man he saw now, were tied to the dining chairs, full glittering place settings covering the table in front of them. The younger man was facing the window, and his eyes widened dramatically when Nate motioned.

  Miguel’s head turned, and their eyes caught. Nate saw his mouth move and form the word “No.” From behind, Nate heard a footstep, and he turned just in time to see Oakes coming after him with a shovel. He ducked aside, and the heavy tool smashed against his right shoulder instead of his head. It felt like he’d been stabbed in the arm with a white-hot poker. He stumbled but remained on his feet somehow. Oakes screamed with rage, spittle spewing from his mouth, and raised the shovel again.

  Oakes stumbled backward on the uneven terrain, the heavy shovel setting him off balance. It was going to be Nate’s only chance. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and arm, Nate rushed him, grabbing the shovel and trying to pull it from Oakes’s grip. They crashed to the ground, and Nate was stunned for a moment by another stab of pain as he fell. Unfortunately it was just long enough for Oakes to slam a meaty fist into the side of his head. Everything went black.

  Chapter Nineteen: Miguel

  How in hell had Nate found him? That was the first thought that crossed Miguel’s mind. Angel made an unintelligible noise, and Miguel realized he’d just heard the front door open. Before he could do more than scream “No!” at the top of his lungs, Justin appeared on the other side of the window and attacked Nate with a shovel. The fight was short. Justin had caught Nate off balance, plus Justin probably had fifty pounds on him. Nate’s body went slack, and Miguel lost his shit.

  Rocking back and forth in the heavy wooden dining chair, he forced himself to tip over, banging his head sharply against the bamboo flooring. Wiggling desperately, he pulled his arms up and over the high-backed chair, all the time watching Justin through the windows. Justin kicked Nate viciously several times before leaning down and grabbing him by the ankle to drag him around toward the front door.

  Miguel had no idea how much time they had, but he absolutely had to get his and Angel’s hands free before Justin came back into the house. The fact that they were naked was secondary. He had to help Nate. Justin would kill him. Miguel was going to kill him if they got out of this alive. What had he been thinking? Wasn’t he a trained officer? Didn’t he know better? Miguel hoped against hope that some sort of backup was on the way.

  This fucking hope thing flared in Miguel’s chest again. Well, hope mixed with terror, because he didn’t know how injured Nate was and still had no plan to get them out of this mess. But hope nonetheless, and it propelled him forward with a strength he didn’t know he had.

  Half jumping, half falling upward, Miguel got to his feet and ran over to Angel, who seemed to be frozen in place. How hard was it, really, to get his hands in front of him? He’d never tried it before… well, and he’d only been in handcuffs before, not tied up by a maniac. The bindings were loose already, because his arms had been behind the chair. They could do this.

  “Angel, you need to breathe. Help me get out of these. Use anything—use your teeth, for fuck’s sake.”

  There was a thumping sound. Angel copied Miguel, falling to the floor and then wiggling from the chair.

  “Shit. We need to hide. We need a weapon.” He looked around frantically, seeing only empty countertops. “Upstairs.”

  They flew, stumbled, tumbled up the stairs. The door on the second floor was locked.

  “Shit, keep going.”

  They burst into the master bedroom. Miguel leaned his forehead against the door, closing it, panting. Angel came up behind him, and he felt slim fingers tugging at the knot holding his hands behind him.

  “How’d you get free?”

  Underneath the fright in Angel’s voice there was a hint of humor. “I’m very flexible.”

  Miguel’s hands were finally free. He rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into his skin. He reached over and engaged the thumb lock in the door handle. They were mostly useless, but Miguel hoped this one time the lock would prove helpful.

  “We don’t have any time.” Miguel and Angel spoke at the same time. “What are we going to do?”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

  “Quick, block the door.”

  Together, they dragged the heavy bed in front of the door. Just as it was in place, Justin slammed against it. The door shuddered in the frame but held. Miguel had never been one for praying, but he prayed now to the gods of strong doors and whatever saint it was who protected the wounded. He couldn’t think about how still Nate’s body had been.

  “Put some clothes on,” he told Angel. Justin was screaming for them to open the door.

  “Open this door, you shits, I’m going to fucking kill you!” Justin was slamming against the door again. Miguel hoped he’d break his shoulder.

  There was no time for Miguel to find something to wear. Angel had managed to pull on a pair of flannel lounge pants; they must have been Justin’s, because they hung ridiculously on him. T
he bedroom had nothing that could be used as a weapon. They had to find a way to escape.

  “The balcony.” A three-story drop maybe wouldn’t kill them, but Justin would. Abandoning the bed and door, they both ran to the balcony. Angel opened the sliding glass door.

  “There’s more stairs here.” Angel pointed to the end of the balcony.

  They bolted outside just as they heard the splintering sound of the door giving way. Miguel slammed the slider shut, hoping it would give them a few more seconds. Pounding up the metal staircase, Miguel and Angel found themselves on the roof of the home. There was a hot tub, gas fireplace, and another set of patio furniture. The view was stunning. Why was he thinking about the view when he was most likely about to die? Miguel shook off his thoughts, looking around for something to use as a weapon.

  His gaze landed on the fancy gas grill. Hanging from its side were several barbeque tools.

  “Get away from the edge.” Miguel snatched up one of the tools. it was a long-handled grill cleaner with a wire-bristled brush on the end of it. It would have to do.

  The top of Justin’s blond head appeared. Angel grabbed something from the grill too. Miguel didn’t see what it was. They backed up, keeping a small storage shed behind them. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

  “My, my, my, aren’t we fierce?” Justin’s face was a weird mottled shade of red, and there was a trickle of blood running down one cheek. Nate had managed a few blows after all. Justin drew closer, and Miguel brandished the grill brush.

  “Get away from me,” Miguel growled, anger pounding through his veins and overwhelming his fear.

  “Get away from me,” Justin repeated in a high, mocking voice.

  Miguel would never be able to sort out the sequence of events that happened next. Justin made a grab for Miguel and the grill brush, seeming not to care that the sharp metal dug into his palm. He was strong and jerked Miguel almost off his feet. Then he screamed. Angel had stabbed him in the forearm with a two-pronged fork, the tines about four inches long and embedded deeply in Justin’s arm. It stopped him long enough that Miguel could use the brush as a weapon; he hit Justin in the face as hard as he could with the wire brush. Justin screamed again, grabbing at Miguel’s arm. Miguel stumbled, the rooftop decking rough under his bare feet.