A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5)

by Scott William Carter

  "It's nice, but I'm not sure how a middle school yearbook over twenty years old is going to prove anything."

  "They do look kind of, I don't know, demented in their pictures."

  "Hmm."

  "Okay, I know it's not much, but I'm just saying, if I'm up there, maybe I'll see something that will help."

  "I want you up here as much as anyone, Nora, but not until it's safe."

  "But—"

  "No."

  "All right, all right. But I'm getting antsy. I've got to do something."

  "Just hold on a little longer."

  "Okay, fine. Keep me in the loop."

  "Always. Something will change, and soon. I promise. It always does."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I am. It's the one thing I know for certain. If I keep poking around, the status quo always breaks."

  * * *

  Gage was right. Something did break, and soon—the next afternoon, in fact, though it didn't seem to have anything to do with him poking around, at least not directly. He spent most of Saturday morning digging up and talking to some of the people who'd been part the neighborhood gang of kids who'd run with Nora, starting with one of the names Nora remembered from perusing her old middle school year book and going from there. It turned out to be the same name Howie had said to him: Jimmy Long.

  Jimmy, now in his early forties, owned Jimmy's Auto, a thriving three-bay repair shop behind Arrow Shopping Center. While taking a break from working on the alternator of a '67 Chevy Malibu, Jimmy wiped his greasy hands on a blue cloth and listened as Gage explained he was trying to track down an old friend for a client who wanted to be anonymous, and the person he was looking for, the client said, had run around in a group of neighborhood kids that Jimmy had been part of. Did he remember any of their names?

  With the whirring of power tools and the roar of motors all around them, Jimmy pondered the question for a while, then rattled off a couple of names that Gage dutifully jotted down in little notebook. Then Jimmy mentioned Nora Storm-Tree and smiled.

  "She was really something," he said. He was a big guy with a heavy mop of loose blond hair, which billowed in the breeze coming over the tops of the outlet stores. "All the boys had a crush on her. Even the boys who were a couple years older, like me. Man, I haven't thought about her in years. She kind of disappeared after middle school. I wonder what happened to her. Would that be the one your, uh, client is looking for?"

  "No, but that's interesting. You know where I might find any of these other names?"

  Jimmy said he didn't, that most of those kids got the hell out of Dodge after high school, though he did think one of them, Steve Schiller, lived in Portland. When he got home, Gage managed to use the Internet and the iPad Zoe had bought him to track down three Steve Schillers in the Portland area, one of whom actually answered the number Gage dialed and turned out to be the same Steve from Barnacle Bluffs. He had no new information, other than he, too, remembered the radiant Nora and wondered what became of her.

  While Nora's effect on people was interesting, Gage did begin to wonder exactly what he was hoping to accomplish with this line of investigation. The proximity of Deedee and Ronnie's residences, and Ed's connection to both, seemed to imply something that might tie into Ed's death and possible murder. Why? Because coincidences were actually quite rare in his line of work, at least when it came to something of significance. He just didn't know what it was yet.

  Early Saturday afternoon, he tried calling the Kayok Tribal Office, hoping someone might tell him something about the Deedee Storm-Tree, but he got an automated message saying they were closed weekends and to try again Monday. He'd just set down the phone on the kitchen table, rubbing his temples and staring at his muted reflection in the wood surface, when his phone rang again. It was an unlisted number.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "So this is how it's going to be, huh, Gage?"

  It was Elliott. His voice was high and clipped.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You know full well what I'm talking about. When I saw that Nora was back in California, I thought you guys got the message. But this afternoon she goes out and gives a statement in front of her fancy digs in San Fran."

  "What?"

  "Don't play dumb. This is something you two obviously cooked up—leaking the news about her long-lost father to the press. Then she gets to respond to it, so it doesn't look like it came from her. You're trying to throw a wrench into the probate process."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Elliott. And how'd you get this number?"

  "Sure, sure, right. I warned you about that picture I took. Two can play this game. Maybe Nora doesn't care—"

  "She doesn't." More than anything, Gage wanted to get off the phone to find out if what Elliott was saying was true. "Neither do I."

  "Yeah, well, we'll see. I may hold it in my back pocket for now. There are other kinds of leverage."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "It is what it is."

  "Elliott—"

  He hung up. Uncertain, but feeling a growing sense of dread, Gage got out the iPad and went straight to CNN. Sure enough, there was a news item there, not a top headline but still on the front page: NORA WEST RESPONDS TO RUMORS ABOUT FATHER IN OREGON.

  Gage clicked the link and plowed through the story. It seemed that Elliott was right. Around noon, about the time Gage was talking with Jimmy Long, one of the gossip sites had run a story about Nora's possible link to a suicide in Barnacle Bluffs. The strangeness of the story had been like catnip to the press. Rather than deny it, she'd come out with a statement confirming her past life in Barnacle Bluffs, her real name, Storm-Tree, and a request for privacy as she dealt with the death of a father she had never known. Gage wasn't mentioned.

  He called her immediately. It went to voicemail. He left a stern message, then paced in his living room. The Douglas firs outside his window were wreathed in fog. He felt the moisture in his bad knee, wincing with each step, and the irritation only fed his anger. He called her again, left another message. He called Alex at the store, and the two of them brainstormed who might have leaked the news and concluded it could have been any number of people: Elliott himself, as some kind of ruse, someone Gage had talked to who had connected the dots, someone who worked for Nora, or maybe even Nora herself. Maybe she'd gotten impatient that things weren't developing quickly enough. But what would this accomplish?

  A few hours passed, in which he left a couple more messages, and still she hadn't called. He was getting worried. Where was she? At dusk, when his windows were growing dark, Chief Quinn showed up in his F-150 and demanded answers. What kind of game was this? Seeing no reason to hold back, and temporarily overcoming his normal distrust of the police, Gage told him everything—the letter to Nora, who Ed's sons were and their involvement, and the little bits of information that made Gage believe Ed's death may not have been a suicide. Quinn, skeptical, didn't see that there was enough evidence to do anything, not yet, and they ended up shouting at one another until Quinn finally left in a huff.

  So the police would be no help, at least not now. A little before midnight, Gage's phone rang. Nora.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Gage shouted at her.

  There was a long pause and crackling static on the line. Outside, in a night so murky and dark he couldn't distinguish the trees, he could still hear them: a whisper through the branches that rose and fell like someone taking a breath.

  "I'm sorry I haven't called before now," she said. "I've been … out of cell phone range."

  "What do you mean? Where are you?"

  "You're going to be mad."

  "Nora …"

  "I'm in my boat."

  "You're what?"

  "We're bringing it up to Florence."

  "Nora!"

  "I knew you'd be mad."

  "Why on Earth—"

  "Look, I'm not even supposed to talk to you right now. I just … I couldn't resist. The bars on
my cell phone are pretty weak. I'll probably lose the connection any second."

  "What? What are you—"

  "He said he has proof who killed my father. I'm going to meet him."

  "Who? Elliott?"

  "I … I can't say more. He was very clear that if I … Look, I'll be there soon. Should be tomorrow night. Ten or so, according to my captain. We're trying to get in ahead of the storm. Just trust me. I've got to do this. For me. For Ed." The static was growing louder; she was breaking up. "Trust … okay? I'll loop you in … soon as …"

  "Nora!"

  "… got Lady … me …"

  "Nora, do you know who leaked the news about you and Ed to the press?"

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 20

  Unlike the old days, when Gage actually had a landline in his house—or at least Janet had, and he'd tolerated it—there was no dial tone after a broken connection with his cell. Just dead silence. Somehow the silence was even worse. He called her right back, but it went straight to voicemail. He waited a few minutes and tried again. Same result. Clutching the phone, he almost hurled it against the wall, then caught himself at the last second. This was how she could get in touch with him. He couldn't afford to be without it.

  The wind had died, and the night was so still he could hardly believe a big storm was coming late Sunday. But it was, at least according to the news, and she was bringing her boat up right in the middle of it. What would motivate her to do something so insane?

  He said he has proof who killed my father. I'm going to meet him.

  Who was she talking about? Elliott? If it was Elliott, wouldn't she have said so? Someone was moving levers behind the scenes, trying to make something happen. But what? Nora was coming up in her boat. Elliott was riled up. What was all of this supposed to accomplish?

  Gage paced for a while, stewing, then collapsed in his recliner and stewed some more. The clock ticked into the wee hours of the morning. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't even think of sleeping. He tried calling a few more times, never getting an answer, and ended up staring at his phone on the end table next to the chair, just hoping. What could he do at this point? She had all the answers. His best bet was to meet her tomorrow at the docks in Florence and demand that she tell him what was going on.

  "Garrison."

  He heard his name. He may have been dozing for a moment, but he thought he heard his name—not quite a whisper, but soft and high. A woman's voice? Was it the person he thought … No, it couldn't be. This was in his mind, a product of his anxiety and all the adrenaline coursing through his body that had nowhere to go.

  "Garrison."

  There it was again, and this time he sat bolt upright in the recliner, because this was no phantom of his mind. Or was it? No, no, this was real, and it was coming from the direction of the kitchen. Most of the house was dark, how he usually had it when he was home alone, but the tiny oven range light cast its feeble glow on the walnut cabinets, on the vinyl countertops, on the small aluminum window cracked open just a hair … Yes, that was it. That was where the voice had originated. He left that window cracked open almost all the time, to get a little fresh air in the house, and if this sound was coming from anywhere, it would be coming from—

  "Garrison."

  Now he knew for sure, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His heart picked up its pace, a steady twitch behind his eyelids. He strained, trying to see a shape in the dark window, but the window was high off the ground and situated over the junipers, so there would not be a person there unless they were at least seven feet tall and could balance on thick but unsteady branches. But the voice, the voice, it could be her, couldn't it? Yes, it could.

  But no. This was an illusion. Not real. He wanted it to be real, but—

  "Garrison."

  And then he was up and moving, bad knee be damned. He flipped off the oven light and slid open the window the rest of the way, peering into the night. He had not turned on his porch light, he seldom did, and only a faint amount of moonlight penetrated the dense cloud cover, casting a silvery sheen on the familiar shapes of his property—the junipers below, the gravel path, the arbor vitae. Then, as he scanned east, into the grove of firs, filled with an endless array of shadows that all seemed to take human form … something moved.

  It was back in the trees, obscured by more than one trunk, but he'd definitely seen it. Then he saw it again, and he knew for sure that it was definitely a person—hunched and moving, sprinting behind another tree. A person with long hair. That was what really set his mind on fire. Long black hair. She had not always worn it long, sometimes preferring the convenience of keeping it short, but he'd always preferred it long. He'd loved the feel of it against his face in the wind. He'd loved smelling it after she showered. He'd loved how it sometimes slid over her face like a veil when they were making love.

  Outside. He was outside. He might as well have been teleported for how fast it happened. Somehow he must have had the presence of mind to slip on his shoes, because there they were on his feet, bare feet in tennis shoes. And what was that in his hand? His Beretta. While everything else felt like part of a dream, the gun felt so real, the metal handle cold and solid. His heart told him there was no need for a weapon, it was Janet, and if it was Janet there was nothing to fear, but some tickle in his rational brain told him that it could all be a trick. He'd keep the safety engaged, but he'd still be ready: fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.

  Real or not, it was hard to fool a 9mm.

  Cool air nipped at his bare arms. He was in the trees, searching the shadows. A bed of leaves and twigs, made soft from the frequent rains, crunched under his shoes. Inside the house it had been still, but out here there was the slightest breeze, just enough to mask the sound of footsteps. He smelled fir and wet earth and just a hint of the ocean. Spindly branches, unseen in the poor light, raked at his face. In his haste, he'd left the porch light off, but that was fine, that was good; better that his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Where was she? He couldn't see her. Was she going to leave him alone again? He didn't want to be alone anymore. He ventured deeper, toward the apartments, remembering he'd seen the person moving toward them a week ago. Had it been Janet? Yes. She'd come back to him. The house receded behind him, a dark shape among other dark shapes, but the apartments were still far ahead, unseen. He was in the thick of the forest and completely alone.

  Something caught his eye, a yellowish glint. There was a clearing ahead, big enough to allow faint moonlight to filter through the branches and illuminate the rotting stump of what once must have been a proud oak tree. The yellow was there, hanging from the jagged bark that surrounded the top of the stump. A chain. A gold chain. He saw, clomping through the damp grass and clovers that grew thickly around the base of the stump, that it was clearly a necklace.

  The tiny hoops were both fragile and brilliant, and he knew whose it was even before he saw the rest of the jewelry heaped in a pile on top of the stump. He knew it and felt the icy-cold hand of dread reach into his gut. He'd bought it for her on their fifth anniversary. The ruby earrings—for Christmas one year. The silver bracelet with three emeralds—on a whim, as they walked passed the window displays at Bloomingdale's.

  And what was that diamond ring?

  The one with the larger diamond surrounded by a dozen smaller ones?

  The one with the band that was actually two bands threading back and forth through one another, like the intertwining fingers of two lovers?

  She'd worn her wedding ring every day, from the day he'd married her to the day she'd died fighting a lunatic in their claw-tooth tub. Since then, he'd kept all of her jewelry in a drawer next to his bed. How could it be here? Someone had come into his house and taken it. Janet? No, no, don't be foolish.

  Something moved in the shadows, to the east. He saw the hair, rippling like a mane when a horse was in full gallop. Seeing this, he felt a clenching in the middle of his chest, a tightness tha
t made it hard to breathe. He sprinted, right knee throbbing, in that direction. She darted to the right, disappearing into the shadows. He heard the crunch of footsteps on the spongy forest floor. He tried to follow the sound, but lost it. He thought he caught another glimpse of her, this time off to the left, and he ran in that direction only to find nothing there.

  Out of breath, he stood in the middle of that sweep of darkness, hands on his knees, straining to hear her footsteps again, but his ragged breathing and the quickening breeze made it impossible.

  "Janet?" he called.

  There was no answer. He heard a truck rumbling over the hill on the highway, a dog barking somewhere to the north, the wind speaking through the trees. He pressed through the forest all the way to the apartments, standing on the dew-laden grass under a yellow cone of light, but she wasn't there.

  He headed back into the forest, tromping around in the darkness for quite a while, an hour, maybe more, tripping over the occasional log, slipping in a divot and scraping his hands on a jagged rock, searching, hoping to find some glimpse of her but finding nothing. He returned to the jewelry, his heart racing, and stuffed it all in his pockets. This, he couldn't explain away as some figment of an anxious mind. The precious gems and stones felt cold and slightly damp.

  Strangely, now that the original shock had begun to wear off, he felt a little relieved. He wasn't crazy. Someone really had come into his house. A pale predawn light was just beginning to filter through the trees from behind him, the darkness lessening its grip on the leaves and twigs that littered his path, so he must have been out quite a while. The house waited for him, no porch light, mostly dark except for a faint glow from within, the front door ajar. Had he left it that way? In his haste, he must have.

  Still, he felt uneasy. His rational brain was beginning to take hold again. Whoever was out there wasn't Janet, no way was it Janet, but the jewelry proved that this person was real.