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

by Scott William Carter

  "We should do that. I like lemonade. Why don't you two boys run into town and buy some?"

  "I like lemonade," Denny said.

  Elliott rolled his eye. "It's very simple, pal. All I want to know is what information Nora has on me."

  "What?"

  "See, playing dumb is not going to work here. It's not going to work at all. I ask a question, then you tell me the truth. If you don't, this isn't going to be pleasant."

  "Oh, I'm sorry not to keep it pleasant."

  "Are you? Sorry? Well, we'll see. Denny, take him inside. Gage, if you want your new girlfriend to live through the night, I suggest you cooperate."

  The threat may not carry much weight up here in the Oregon woods, with Nora somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean, hopefully protected by a bevy of bodyguards, but the weirdness of Elliott's question made Gage doubt all of his assumptions. Maybe Elliott had her already. Maybe he had connections in the Bay Area, someone who could have helped him. Before Nora had been cut off, she'd said she was meeting someone—a man, she'd said he, so it was a man—who had information about who'd killed her father. Now here was Elliott claiming Nora had information on him. That certainly implied that Elliott wasn't the one she'd planned to meet, but the one she was meeting about. But then, who was she meeting?

  Nothing made sense.

  Denny seized Gage by the scruff of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. His right knee burned, but it was the least of his concerns. With Elliott keeping his Sig trained on Gage, they proceeded across an uneven driveway, half gravel, half dirt, to a weathered porch. The wood planks were mostly gray, but they did not appear to be in bad shape. When they stepped on them, the boards barely creaked. He saw fresh boards here and there, and evidence that new nails, glinting in the liquid dawn, had been put down in place of old ones. Someone had cared for this place, maintained it.

  A rental? Or a hideout owned by a friend? Before they entered the cabin, Gage tried to get some sense of where they were, but other the dense canopy of firs, oaks, and the occasional birch, he saw nothing that could indicate their location. A blue jay fluttered overhead. The stream, down the hill, trickled over rocks. Somewhere not too far away, a little to the west, the whine of a small engine briefly broke the stillness.

  So there was someone not too far away. But where?

  Denny opened the door and shoved Gage inside. It was a single room lit by the daylight coming from two framed windows. There was a queen-size metal-frame bed in one corner, a kitchen in the back, the sink piled with dishes, a hide-a-bed couch that was unfolded into a bed, sheets messy, next to a wood stove and massive television that would have been too big even for a house ten times the size. The couch and the loveseat were both dark leather. The floor was hardwood, a cherry color, and freshly stained. Gage smelled garlic and baked bread.

  Was this where Gage would meet his end? In a place that looked like a mix between an old logger's cabin and an IKEA showroom?

  After flicking on a couple lamps—they provided very little extra light, but they did create a softer, gauzier glow—Elliott grabbed one of the oak chairs from the matching oak table and slid it into the middle of the room. Denny deposited Gage roughly in the chair.

  "Want to play some Scrabble?" Gage asked.

  Denny laughed, and started to say something about not having a Scrabble board, but Elliott cut him off by thrusting the rope he'd brought with him from outside into Denny's gut.

  "Tie him up again," he said, "and this time, do it right. Ankles to separate legs of the chair. Wrists also separated behind him, tied to the frame. Think you can handle that, little brother?"

  He said the words little brother with such disdain that a smarter recipient may have reacted in anger. Denny, on the other hand, only bobbed his head like an eager dog and set to work. Under Elliott's watchful supervision, Denny did as he'd been asked, looping each ankle and wrist so many times, and so tightly, that even as Gage bulged his muscles to create some slack, there wasn't much slack anywhere when it was all done. Elliott inspected the final knot, tied far out of reach of Gage's hands, and murmured his approval.

  It was then that the windows darkened, just a bit, and Gage heard the first tapping of rain on the roof.

  Elliott glanced at the window, where a few droplets of water had appeared. "I'm guessing that's the storm they've been talking about. Hope your girlfriend gets to land before it gets really bad."

  Gage said nothing.

  "A lot of questions in your eyes," Elliott said. He tapped the Sig against his pant leg. "I have questions, too. It seems we both don't know everything."

  "You better talk," Denny said.

  "Shut up," Elliott said.

  Denny hung his head. Elliott returned his attention to Gage.

  "But see," he said, "I'm in a position to ask questions, and you aren't. So I'm going to ask you a question. You will answer said question. If I don't like your answer, Denny will demonstrate my disapproval."

  Denny looked at Elliott, dumbfounded, and Elliott sighed and made a fist.

  "With this," he said.

  "With your hand?" Denny asked.

  "No, idiot, with your hand. You're going to punch him."

  "Oh. Right now?"

  "No. When I tell you to."

  "Oh."

  Elliott closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose, and when he opened his eyes, Gage expected to see rage, but it was like looking through peepholes into an empty room. "My poor brother," Elliott said. "Ever since his unfortunate accident, he has not had his full faculties. It has fallen upon me to make up for his deficiencies. The cross I must bear, I'm afraid."

  "You bear it well," Gage said. "But then, I heard you had something to do with that unfortunate accident in the first place."

  Denny, eyebrows raised, glanced at Elliott, who merely shook his head.

  "What does he mean?" Denny asked.

  "Nothing. It's babble. Please show him my displeasure."

  "Huh?"

  "Punch him, you fool!"

  "What? Oh."

  Like an automaton, Denny stepped forward and smashed his first against the side of Gage's face. It happened so fast that all Gage had time to do was to try not to tense up or resist, just let his whole body snap back with the blow. As it was, it still felt like a rock slamming into his temple.

  His eyes welled up, blurring the two figures before him. His face puffed up like a balloon. He felt a trickle of blood down his nose. It was all he could do to hang on to consciousness. Another blow like that and he'd be gone for a week.

  "Jesus," Elliott said. "Not so hard next time or you'll kill him."

  "Sorry," Denny said.

  "Gage?" Elliott said. "You still with me, pal?"

  Gage liked Elliott thinking Denny had to let up. So he lolled his head around and pretended he was trying to focus. He was still fully there, enough to hear that the rain outside had picked up, loud taps on the roof and the windows.

  "Stay with me now," Elliott said. "No more bullshit. I ask, you answer. What information does Nora have on me?"

  Gage still had no idea what Elliott was getting at. Information? It made no sense. He cracked open his eyes and blinked away the film blurring his vision. His nose was so blocked that he had to breathe through his mouth.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm warning you!"

  "Why—why do you think she has information on you?"

  Elliott shook his head. His usual cool, controlled demeanor was fraying, and it made Gage think of the kid who'd almost succeeded in drowning his brother. He had to be careful. A calm Elliott was dangerous enough, but at least somewhat predictable. But Gage could see what a monster Elliott could become when all of his carefully practiced defense mechanisms withered away.

  "This is seriously how you're going to play it?" Elliott said. "One minute you're threatening me, the next you're acting like nothing happened?"

  "What?"

  "What you wrote!"

  "I don't—"

>   "It was in your fucking text message!"

  Elliott groped into his pocket and thrust a cell phone in Gage's face. It was hard to focus, the cell phone blurry enough that it could have been anything from a giant cockroach to a stapler, but it appeared to be Gage's pay-as-you-go phone.

  "I didn't write a text message," Gage said.

  "Really? That's what you're going with?"

  "But I didn't."

  "You're calling me a liar?"

  "I'm just—"

  "Gage, Gage, I have the proof in my hand." Elliott punched a few buttons. "Right here. Three hours ago. We've now got proof you killed your father, asshole. Better run like the coward you are. You telling me you didn't write that?"

  Gage blinked a few times, his vision finally clearing. His mind was also starting to kick into gear. A text message? What kind of nonsense was this? If Elliott's goal was to confuse him, he was succeeding, but Gage didn't see …

  But then he did. Even in his addled state, he saw the truth all at once.

  Someone had come into his house and sent a text message from his phone.

  His heart thundered in his ears. Something cold and nauseating slid into the pit of his stomach. The realization hit him on a visceral level, and yet he suppressed any outward surprise, not wanting to give away whatever advantage this knowledge provided him. Who had done it? His first thought, irrational as it may be, was that it had been Janet. But no, that was nonsense. It was someone else. They'd lured him out of the house just so they could send the text message. But why? Just to enrage Elliott?

  "Gage," Elliott said, "are you seriously telling me you don't remember sending this?"

  "Maybe he was drinking," Denny offered. "Maybe he was drinking when he wrote it and he forgot."

  "Shut up, Denny."

  "Okay, sorry."

  Elliott paced away, turning at the door and staring at Gage. "No more crap. We didn't kill our father, man. I don't know what makes you think that, but whatever fake info you have, I want it. My feeling is Nora offed him somehow. She's hard up for cash and saw an easy score. Faked the will. It seems bonkers, but she's an artist probably high on coke all the time, so who knows. So you got something you can toss to the police to get us out of the picture. I see on your phone you talked to her tonight, so don't bullshit me. What is it?"

  Gage had no idea what to say. It was still possible Elliott was playing some kind of three-dimensional chess, but if so, what was the endgame? Gage didn't see it, and honestly, he didn't think Elliott was capable of such a convoluted strategy. For as much as he lorded over his brain-damaged brother, he didn't strike Gage as all that smart himself, not really.

  But Gage couldn't give him nothing. In his current, edgy state, Elliott may just shoot him. He had to play for time.

  "Denny," Elliott said with a sigh, "show Gage here what—"

  "Nora wouldn't tell me," Gage said.

  "What?"

  "She said if she did, I'd be in danger and it may not work. That's why she's heading out in her boat. She's—she's afraid you'll come after her. She said she's going to stay at sea for a while until the info surfaces. She's already made arrangements."

  Elliott stared at him. He tapped the Sig against his thigh, nodding to himself, his eyes returning to their flat, dead state, until finally he smiled.

  "Lying," he said.

  "I'm not," Gage said. "I don't have the info. She does."

  "Not about that," Elliott said. "I haven't decided if you're lying about that. But if you know something, I can see that you're not going to tell me. I've always had that gift, the ability to read whether someone will crack. You're tough, Gage. I'll give you that. I could have Denny here beat you senseless and you still wouldn't tell me, even if you knew something. But maybe you don't. Sure. And part of me just wants to let dear brother beat you to a pulp just so I can watch him do it. Then I'd put a bullet in your head, bury you in the woods, and be done with you."

  "Not a bad final resting place," Gage said. "I think I'd like being close to nature."

  Elliott nodded. "Joking even now. I get it. Some other guy, I'd say joking is a way of trying to fool yourself that you're not scared shitless. But you? Nah. You just joke because you like spitting in people's eyes. Fine. But see, I already know Nora is coming up to Florence. You know how I know? Because she's surrounded by people who will do anything for money, people who see her as the piece of meat she is, and they stay in contact with the people she's in hock to, people I know. I promised them a certain amount of work if they could keep me informed."

  Gage said nothing. Elliott looked down at Gage's cell phone. He clicked a button, held the phone up and positioned it steadily, and snapped a picture of Gage. He studied the screen, smiling, then hit a few more buttons.

  "See," he said, "the real reason I brought you up here wasn't really to interrogate you. I wanted to get the measure of you, sure, but I have a whole other plan. The people Nora belongs to, they'd be real unhappy if I even roughed her up. But they don't care a shit about you. So I brought you up here for leverage. There, I just sent a lovely picture of you to Nora, along with a message that we need to talk."

  He put the phone back in his pocket. Gage's face felt like a misshapen melon. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and his mouth was still filled with the taste of blood. It was difficult to think at all, but he knew he couldn't let Elliott leave without trying to change his mind.

  It had been a mistake to deflect toward Nora; he saw that now. He'd only made the situation worse.

  "I didn't write the text," Gage said.

  "What?" Elliott said.

  "Someone's playing us."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I was lying. I didn't know how else to get you to back off. But that text, I didn't write it."

  "Bullshit."

  "I'm telling you, someone snuck into my house while I was … while I was out in the woods. They sent that to you. They were hoping to get you riled up. Get you to, I don't know, go after me and Nora."

  Elliott shook his head. "Uh huh. Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "Right. You should have stuck with your first story. It was pretty lousy, but it was better than this."

  "I'm telling you—"

  "Shut up!"

  "Elliott—"

  "Shut up!"

  The Sig was suddenly jammed into Gage's nose. Whatever deep reservoirs of self-control that Elliott possessed were gone. Gage, his head shoved backward, stared down the barrel at the contorted face of a madman.

  "God help me," Elliott said. "God help me, I so want to pull the trigger. I don't—I don't want to look at your smug face one more second. But I still need you. I need you a little while longer. But I want you to know something, Gage. I may just kill your girlfriend after I've gotten what I want out of her, no matter what the California people want. I'll kill her and everybody else on that damn boat. You hear me? I want you to think on that."

  Gage's nose was shoved back so far he could barely speak, but he had to try.

  "Elliott," he began, "please—"

  With a roar of fury, Elliott pistol-whipped him hard across the face. For just a second, Gage felt himself spinning, tumbling to the floor along with the chair, his mind whirling even faster than his body.

  Then the world went dark.

  Chapter 22

  Gage woke to someone humming.

  He drifted, for a time, in that purgatory between the conscious and unconscious world, a dark and painless void, knowing that all he had to do was open his eyes to be fully awake, yet finding it difficult. His eyelids felt like they were taped shut. It was an unpleasant feeling, but it was nothing like the other feelings that lurked a little further beyond that mild irritation, a tsunami of pain that repelled his consciousness from fully inhabiting his body. Don't go there, it seemed to be saying. Stay in the dark.

  If not for the thought of Nora, which was like a knife blade of urgency piercing the thick wool that covered his mind, he certainly would
have let himself stay in the dark. An hour, a day, a month, whatever it took until at least some of the pain subsided. Yet he couldn't. Nora's life was at stake.

  "What—what time is it?" Gage mumbled.

  The humming stopped. With great effort, he managed to pry his eyelids open. He saw a person hunched over the kitchen sink, turning to face him. His eyes began to focus. Denny. It was Denny, rubbing a blue plastic plate with a dishtowel. His dark jacket was hung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows. His massive shoulders and bulging biceps stretched the thin white fabric. He was a hulking presence in the kitchen, filling the space; the oven, next to him, seemed like a child's toy.

  "Oh, hello," Denny said. "You're finally awake."

  Gage smelled baked beans. Heard wind and rain, a full-throated storm. Behind Denny, water streaked a dark kitchen window. How long had Gage been out? A surge of panic swept aside the fogginess clouding his mind. The pain also joined him in full force, a pulsing cut on his forehead, dried blood around his nose, a steady pounding at the base of his skull. None of this mattered. Elliott was on his way to Nora.

  "What time is it?" Gage asked.

  "I just had a burrito," Denny said. "It's the microwave kind, Elliott showed me how to make it, but it wasn't too bad. Not like Taco Bell but still good."

  Gage closed his eyes and tried to get his bearings. It was dark. It had been dawn on Sunday before. No matter what time it was, another whole day had passed. Or maybe even two days? No, it couldn't have been that long. Sunday night, then. With his eyes still closed, he cleared his throat.

  "Where's your brother?" he asked.

  "Gone," Denny said.

  "Florence?"

  Denny didn't answer. Gage opened his eyes and saw that Denny had turned back to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and sliding the plate inside.

  "Is he in Florence?"

  Denny closed the cabinet and hung the dishtowel from the bar on the oven. "I'm not supposed to say."