by Doc Macomber
Jill’s full lips pinched into a tight frown as she shot him a vile glare. Fortunately, they were at opposite ends of a butcher block when she grabbed the knife.
“Jill?”
“I can’t decide. Cut up these limes, or cut off your dick?”
“I’d like to offer a suggestion…”
“I’m all ears.”
“We can be out of town by noon at the latest. We’ll still have the room booked at the lodge. We’ll go night skiing. Have champagne afterward. How’s that sound?”
Jill hesitated, thinking it over. Then she glanced down at a lime on the cutting board and jammed the pointed blade through the center of it. Juice squirted everywhere including his right eye.
He squinted but kept talking. “Night skiing. Romantic. Not as crowded. Warm and snuggly afterward.”
“This about the kid on the five o’clock news?”
Colefield held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“And it’s important you do this tomorrow morning?”
He searched the counter for a towel as his eye teared. “It is.”
Jill finished dicing the lime into little wedges and then set the knife down on the counter. She pulled down a plastic container from an overhead shelf and scooped the chunks into it with her palm.
“Scouts always keep their word,” she warned.
* * *
When he got back to the office everyone was gone. He sat at his desk and searched all the missing persons reports filed over the last twenty-four hours. Nothing.
Why did he always feel like one big letdown to Jill? Or was this just some blowback from the return of Tamara Costa?
He found his work jacket, removed the shotgun shell from his pocket and transferred it to his windbreaker before shutting off the lights and heading out the door.
Colefield’s old Ford F-100 pickup was the only vehicle in the parking lot. He climbed behind the wheel and stuck a bent key into the ignition.
He took the long way home, staring at a sliver of silver surrounded by a few glittering stars. He wondered if the stars would look larger up on the slopes?
By the time he arrived at the Portland Rowing Club the moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Earlier the weather guys had called it wrong. Were they correct now? He hoped not. Rain would wipe out any remaining evidence. He climbed out of his truck and hiked down the gangplank to the small houseboat he rented from a crotchety old pirate named Montgomery.
The tender sat still in the water, deck lights off.
His landlord lived in the front houseboat, ten times the size of his. Montgomery did things in style. Owning the largest houseboat at the marina was just one needle in a haystack of excesses the old man claimed.
Colefield wasn’t ready to turn in just yet. If Montgomery was still awake, he had some business to discuss.
Down by Montgomery’s door he heard the familiar sound of a faucet running. He peered down to the end of the walkway. His landlord was up to his old tricks. The eighty-five year old was swaying back and forth on tiptoes with nothing on but a bathrobe held open while he peed into the river.
Colefield caught him off guard. “You could get arrested for that!”
Startled, Montgomery looked up and grinned. His frizzled snow white hair and full beard glowed in the dim light. “I’m going to rust this rail in two before I die if it kills me!”
Even with marginal lighting from the entryway, Colefield could see where the paint on the metal handrail had flaked off and freckly pitting marred the surface. Years of pissing had paid off.
“It looks like you’ve nearly succeeded. What will you piss on next?”
“I’m sure I’ll find a worthy cause…”
Montgomery finished his business and retied his bathrobe. He smiled over at Colefield and picked something from his front tooth.
“For a few weeks, it’ll be no tinkling in the river for me or you.”
“What are you talking about, Bill?”
Montgomery steadied himself on the handrail. “The dreaded dredging starts next week. Electricity and plumbing kaput! You’re going to have to vacate the premises for a spell. A friend of mine might have a place in the Pearl District for you to drop your duffle during the move out. Interested? Or are you going to shack up with that bartender floozy?”
Colefield had totally forgotten that the month-long dredging project was happening so soon. It had been in the back of his mind but he thought it was at least a couple of weeks off. He never understood why there wasn’t an easier method to remove built up sand from the river without disrupting entire communities from their homes for weeks at a time. Some type of vacuum system a diver could use underneath the houseboats instead of scooping it up one bucket at a time from below the water’s surface. He was going to research that when he first heard about the coming dredge but had spaced on it.
“Hell of a time to dredge,” Colefield mumbled. “Dead of winter...”
“Deadly wiener?”
“I said – dead of winter.”
The ex-marine, if there was such a thing, crinkled his forehead, smiling. He had not heard him, of course. Served as a lieutenant in the Korean War or was it WWII? Years of firing every imaginable firearm known to mankind not to mention a small armory of explosives upstairs where he toiled away late into the night working on God knows what gun or device, had left him with about twenty-percent of his hearing. Yet he refused to wear hearing aids for “personal reasons”, claiming it came in handy on dates.
“Can’t hear you, but I’m all for you,” was Bill’s answer to most questions.
“Goodnight Bill. We’ll talk in the morning. And get me the number of your friend.”
Montgomery raised his right arm. “Ora pro nobis…”
Colefield fingered the shotgun shell absently as he headed home, thinking his Latin was about as rusty as the pissed-on railing. He managed to recall the well-worn phrase as he neared his door. “Pray for us.”
Inside, Colefield flipped on an overhead florescent, opened the refrigerator and removed the last bottle of ale from the bottom shelf. He twisted off the cap, tossed it across the room and nailed the sink for a three-pointer. The ale was not nearly as tasty as the draft at Jill’s. Next he rummaged for some beef jerky. Armed with dinner, he moved to the living room.
The hardwood floor squeaked a familiar hello as he flipped on a lamp. Tonight the room seemed smaller than normal, and colder. He noted his shallow breathing. Agitated and restless he flipped on the TV. Nothing interested him. He moved to the window and turned on the XM radio. It was tuned to a mellow station.
His grandfather once told him that in order to protect his emotions and hide any inner weakness; he needed to develop a strong physical persona. He took the advice to heart, first as a college quarterback, and later in the military and as a patrolman, where the ability to be viewed with respect and fear trumped parleying with an opponent any time.
He picked up his 50 lb. dumbbells and began working out to the music. A Leonard Cohen song was playing. “We find ourselves on different sides of a line that nobody drew. Though it all may be one in the higher eye, down here where we live it is two.”
Colefield paused.
The words struck a familiar chord. Family, work, lovers … he had always struggled with relationships. Then the tempo changed. “Mack the Knife” came on.
His face twisted up into a crooked smile. A knife, really Jill? She was feistier than the Lab that had nipped at his leg. He loved that about her.
Warm thoughts flooded through him, a momentary distraction which quickly faded, leaving a deadly hollow in its wake.
Chapter 6
“Meet me at 0900 at the country store on Sauvie Island. We’ll have coffee and then drive out to the crime scene,” Agent Tamara Costa said on the telephone the following morning.
“What evidence do you think we missed?”
“Things always look different in the morning,” she replied.
“It’ll be good
to see you, Tam.” Instead of a response, dead air.
Not exactly the way he had envisioned them chatting after so many years. No, Colefield – better to let sleeping dogs lie. Rekindle that teenage bonfire and someone gets burned. He had tried before. Once during leave. Another after his discharge. With his career starting off and training to attend, a permanent arrangement never materialized. Then she met someone else.
He put his cell phone down on the kitchen counter, refilled his coffee cup and opened the refrigerator to look for the carton of half-and-half. Stirring in the cream his mind began to wander.
Her reappearing out of the blue unsettled him and though Harvey had said it was fate that she had been called in on the case, he wasn’t sold on that notion. Still the line between his past and present seemed to dissolve the more he worked this case. Facing Scarbough after all these years, why had he hidden his identity? Was a terrified boy still buried inside him? If that was true, he’d have to jettison that weakness and fear to solve the boy’s murder.
As he opened the door to fetch the newspaper, the breeze off the river had a bone chilling bite. A northwesterly was pushing a bank of threatening clouds inland. It looked like rain, maybe even snow on the valley floor by Sunday. Whatever surprise the low pressure system building off the coast had in store, there was a sure chance of snow in the mountains and fresh powder on the slopes. The pass through the Cascades would probably require chains, but conditions would be ideal for skiing. He remembered the last time he and Tam had gone skiing. Back when it didn’t cost a week’s salary for a lift ticket. Those were the days. The slopes weren’t crowded. Even underage they toted little flasks of whiskey to sneak a drink up on the mountain. Everything was about the adventure … and that it had been.
He and Jill had never been skiing together. This was to be their first trip. How would it measure up?
He picked up the newspaper and closed the door. Sitting at the kitchen counter, he opened it and looked to see if The Oregonian had a story about the boy. He found a small article inside in the Metro Section which added no new information. He tossed the paper aside. Where had he laid his jacket and sidearm the night before?
He found both by the bookcase, put them on, and headed out.
To his surprise, his landlord was hobbling toward the parking lot. Montgomery wore baggy jeans and his favorite filthy blue sweatshirt, with USMC lettering on the front. The right pocket of his nylon jacket sagged – a Smith and Wesson – Colefield figured.
He had stopped to catch his breath and was leaning against the ramp railing with a cane in his hand, when Colefield caught up to him.
Montgomery raised the cane, pointing upriver. “Look!”
A flat barge hauling an enormous dredge that looked like some eerie carnival ride crawled toward them. This protruding metal apparition, rusted and menacing, had a large conveyor and oversized steel buckets for teeth. The industrial device belonged in a sci-fi film, not at their moorage.
“We’re about to be invaded,” Montgomery said.
“About that friend of yours … the one with the loft in the Pearl … tell her I’ll take it!”
“Chicken shit! This could be the perfect time to move in with your bartender. Make an honest woman of her.”
“Funny. You have her telephone number on you?”
Montgomery hobbled onward leaving Colefield behind, wondering if he’d heard him or not. He followed him the rest of the way up the ramp and into the parking lot before he brought the subject up again.
“Hey, if you want me out, I’ll need your friend’s number.”
“Well, my friend Sally will take care of you.”
They stopped beside Montgomery’s old beat-to-shit blue sedan with the sprung trunk lid, the hinges bent from the last incident. The lid bounced up and down as he drove down the street like a big metal clamshell snapping open and closed. Montgomery had tried to secure it with a frayed rope, but that failed to hold it in place. Besides the trunk issue, the driver side front fender and door were caved in. The entire car was sprinkled in dents like it’d been hit with shrapnel. The passenger side had a long yellow crease that ran from the front fender all the way back to the rear quarter panel, courtesy of the Portland Street Car Montgomery had collided with on his way to the Multnomah Athletic Club.
It was pointless but he put his hand on the trunk and attempted to force it closed. No luck.
“You want me to get a bungee out of my truck?”
Montgomery rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Fuck it … I’m just going to the liquor store. Let it flop around. By the way, your name’s in the paper. You’re giving us hunters a bad rap.”
“I don’t believe it was a hunter who shot him.”
“Who then?”
“Good question.”
Colefield had nearly forgotten what was in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out the evidence bag with the shotgun shell and dropped it into Montgomery’s hand.
“Christmas has come and gone my boy…”
“I’ll need the pellet size and count. From the lines on the casing I’m pretty certain it’s a home load. If you can determine the type of reloader used – all the better. Make a note of anything out of the ordinary.”
“Do I sense underbelly tactics, here?”
“The lab would take weeks to get results. It won’t be admissible as evidence but it will give me leverage, should I need it.”
“Well, old boy, I can’t seem to locate my good cheaters. My BB count may be off a wee bit.”
“Buy a new pair. I’ll reimburse you.”
Colefield leaned on a post and waited. Watching Montgomery maneuver his gimp leg into the front seat was painful. Grimacing at the effort, he extracted a crumpled scrap of paper from his back pocket.
“No hanky-panky with her,” he pointed his finger at him, frowning. “She’s mine…”
Colefield took the old sales slip, turned it over and looked at the scribble on the back. He assumed it was Sally’s contact information.
“Where are you moving?” Colefield folded the paper and tucked it inside his pocket.
“I can’t hear you, but I’m all for you.”
Colefield raised his voice. “When do I have to be out?”
“You want to make out?”
“Forget it – I’ll call Sally today.”
“Whatever flips your wick!”
Colefield only made it half a car length when the all-too-familiar sound of click, click, click, came from under the hood of Montgomery’s pockmarked heap.
He reluctantly walked back over to the driver’s side door. Montgomery shoved it open so they could talk.
“Pop the latch,” Colefield said. “I’ll go get my jumper cables.”
“I owe you one, old boy…”
Colefield returned with his truck and pulled in beside Montgomery’s car. Leaving the engine running, he climbed out, opened the hood of both vehicles, and stretched jumper cables across battery terminals.
He stepped out from under the hood and shouted, “Give it a try!”
The engine groaned but didn’t start.
“Let it charge for a minute.”
“You’re going to charge me?”
“The battery.” Colefield pointed to the engine compartment. “Let it charge! I’m going to climb inside my truck and rev the engine so the alternator can do its thing…”
Montgomery didn’t seem to get any of what he had said, but he was willing to wait until further notice from the rank and file.
After five minutes of idling, he figured there was enough juice in the battery now to turn over.
“Try it again!”
This time the engine sputtered to life and the old pirate hollered, “Thar she blows!”
The engine ran rough. “Keep it running,” Colefield shouted over the chugging.
While he disconnected the cables and stepped back, Montgomery kept pumping the accelerator. Each time he’d gun the pedal, the fan belt fired a shrill screech in protest.
“God and country thank you!”
As he pulled out of the parking lot, Colefield checked his watch. He was late. If it hadn’t been for Montgomery he would have been on time. He could use that as his defense if need be. After all this time, he didn’t want to resume things on the wrong foot with Tam.
The drive to Sauvie Island took about a half-hour. Although traffic had been light along the way he seemed to hit every red light. He picked up his phone and dialed her number but got her recording.
The steel bridge crossing the Multnomah Channel to the island had recently been remodeled. Extra lanes were added, making an ideal speed trap. A patrol car sitting alongside the shoulder of the ramp, window down, aimed a radar gun at oncoming bridge traffic. Colefield let up on the accelerator.
At least he thought he had. It’s tricky to drive 25 mph with a lead foot. Yet, for both Tam’s and Jill’s sakes, he’d tried to keep within the posted speed. A citation would mean precious minutes cut from his time on the slopes. A chatty patrolman that sucked up time or a citation that sucked up a pay check. Neither was acceptable.
He drove by the patrol car and kept his fingers crossed. Glancing in his rearview, he didn’t see any flashing lights. He checked again after the bridge. Just to be certain. Coast looked clear.
Traveling on the island offered options to a visitor. One road veered to the left and headed south out toward the famous Pumpkin Patch, unending farmland and cornfields. The other road continued north, straight down the bridge ramp, past the country store to the left and followed the channel. According to his watch, he should have arrived at the very spot where he was to meet Tam twenty minutes ago.
He pulled into the crowded parking lot and killed the motor. There were hordes of bicyclists and sleek racing bikes of all kinds stashed here and there. The spritely riders were standing around or sitting on wooden picnic benches alongside the building, sipping water, talking, and devouring nutritional snacks. All wore skin tight garments he wouldn’t be caught dead in. Racing shorts, cleated bicycle shoes, jerseys, all sorts of pointy helmets. The expensive bicycles were made by foreign manufacturers whose names he could barely pronounce.
