The Gray and Guilty Sea

by Scott William Carter

  "Carmen—"

  "It was bad, too. A really bad divorce." Her voice turned brittle. Her pupils flashed wide and dark, and her back stiffened. "Did your parents divorce? Do you have any idea what's it like when you're at that age when you're trying to figure yourself out and then your whole world is turned upside down? Do you have any idea what it's like when you're trying to understand how your father could actually be spending his nights in some other woman's bed?"

  Gage felt his own defenses rise. It wasn't like he'd asked to play the role of therapist—lay down on the couch, ma'am, and tell me all your troubles. Book your next appointment with the receptionist on the way out. But he had been careless and he knew it. This wasn't about him.

  "I didn't mean to mean to come off that way," he said. "Tell me about what happened with you and John."

  She bore into him a moment longer with those tigress eyes, then it was gone, and he was peering into the cracked shell again.

  "He seemed fine with it," she said. "He said things would happen in time. So for the next three years, we settled into a routine. I worked my ass off at the paper, really trying to make a name for myself. He threw himself into his music. We weren't spending a lot of time together, especially once John started touring with his band. He was also getting interest from L.A. to put a record together. I finally got a promotion to Features Editor. Do you know how hard it is to get promoted in a dying industry? It's damn tough."

  "I believe it."

  "When I got the news," she said, "he was out on the road, hitting some clubs in Chicago. I thought I'd surprise him. Got there late. I found one of the band members in the hotel bar, drunk off his ass, and he told me which room John was in. If he'd been sober, I don't think he would have done that. You can probably guess where this is going."

  "I have an inkling," Gage said.

  She shook her head. "Stupid. I was so stupid. So young and naive. I even changed in the restroom into this little black nightie. God . . . Walked in into his dark room and dropped my trench coat on the floor. Could barely make out a shape on the bed. Said . . . said his name . . ."

  "Hey, easy now."

  "Jesus, this was like three years ago and I can still barely talk about it. So . . . The shape moved. There was a cough. When you've been with someone a while, you even know how they cough. It wasn't him. I knew that right away. Then she let out a yelp and flicked on the light. It was this young naked kid, this girl, maybe eighteen but that would be pushing it. She was alone in bed, and she looked up at me all terrified, her big breasts just hanging there. I still remember how big those stupid breasts were. God, the things you notice at a time like that."

  "I'm sure I would have noticed them, too."

  Carmen snorted. "I was still so stupid. I stammered that I was sorry. Told her I must have had the wrong room. I started to back out, but then the curtains covering the doors to the patio pushed aside and John rushed in. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and he was just as naked as her." She lapsed into silence.

  "What happened then?"

  "I don't really remember. There was some shouting. He pleaded with me. He said she didn't mean anything to him, and of course the girl started crying. I rushed out of there and drove home crying. I didn't answer his calls, and by the time he got back into town the next afternoon, I'd already put his things on the curb and changed the locks. He kept calling, both at home and at work, and I'd always hang up on him. He left long rambling messages. He wrote me letters. Emails by the dozen. I didn't even look at them until later. After a couple weeks, he only called once a day. After a month, it was every couple of days. Then, about six weeks in, he showed up at the apartment. I wouldn't answer, but he talked to me through the door. He said he was going out to L.A. in a week, just him. He was going to record some songs. He wanted me to go with him. Said . . . said it would be a good opportunity to see if we still had something left. If we could patch things up. He—he—he—

  "Hey, Carmen, it's all right."

  She took a deep breath. "He said he loved me. He made a terrible mistake and he loved me. I didn't say anything. It was the last time he talked. He headed for L.A. for bigger and better things and I just let him go."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He died."

  "Oh, man, I'm sorry."

  "It was just one of those freak things. He was driving cross-country to L.A., and I guess he had a woman in the car. They were . . . fooling around while he was driving. He must have been distracted, I guess, because he didn't see the van driven by some drunk guy who was veering into his lane. Everybody ended up dead in that one."

  "Jesus."

  "Yeah," she said. "That's what I said when I saw it come across the wire. Then I went into the bathroom and threw up for half an hour."

  "Man, I'm sorry."

  She nodded. "That was a bad day. You know, the worst thing? It wasn't hearing that he was dead. I mean, don't get me wrong, that was bad. But the worst thing was that when I heard he had this woman in a car, I felt—this is awful—but I felt . . . relieved. I thought, okay, well, I was right. He didn't really love me. He was with another woman. If he could move on that quick, it must have meant he didn't really love me. He probably never did. I'd just been stupid all a long."

  "You weren't stupid."

  "Oh, I was. But not for that. You see, it gets better. I decided to torture myself and do a story on it. Local musician on the rise tragically killed. Everybody in the office thought I was nuts, that I should pass it off to another reporter. But I was Features Editor, and this was my penance. I find out this woman was really just another girl, some kid he met at a bar the day before he left. I talked to the other band members. Every last one of them said he never stopped talking about me."

  "He still made his choice, Carmen."

  "Oh, I know," she said. "But so did I. And the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. You see, I think I drove him away. If I hadn't been so scared, if I hadn't been so afraid to say yes, I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if I'd been willing to take that leap, well, maybe he wouldn't have gone looking. I was so afraid he'd just end up being a man who disappointed me and then he did. If I'd . . . if I'd really given him all my love, he'd still be alive today."

  "There's always a lot of what-if's," Gage said. "Believe me, I know. But he did make his choice, Carmen. No matter what you would have done, he very may well have done the same thing."

  "Maybe," she said, nodding, her voice quiet. "Maybe."

  But she didn't sound convinced. She didn't say anything more and he didn't know what else to say. Sometimes there wasn't anything to say. It was a tragic story. It wasn't a unique story. It happened to thousands of people every day. But it was her story. Something had been lost in her, never to be regained. All she could do was what everyone could do: Put the pieces back together the best you could so that what remained could still pass as a whole person. Carry on. Smile. Step around the land mines if you saw them coming, because one more of them and you knew there wouldn't be enough pieces to patch into anything anymore.

  He put his arm around her and pulled her against him. She felt tiny and fragile, a hummingbird in his arms. He waited for her to cry, but she didn't. They sat there listening to the slowing rain, until even that sound was gone and all that remained was the distant murmur of the ocean.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Gage went for a walk on the beach. The clouds lay low over the ocean. He felt this creeping sense of anxiety, worsening by the day, growing into panic. It was that warning on his stoop. If there really were other girls, were they alive? If so, what was he doing going out on dates? If he felt it necessary to sleep with his Beretta by his side, maybe he shouldn't have been sleeping at all. Maybe he should have been doing more.

  But what? He couldn't think of anything for now other than going to that poker game at the Inn.

  On the way home, he stopped at the gas station and called the Bugle. Carmen was there, hard at work on the Abiga
il Heddle story. She sounded pretty chipper. She didn't bring up the previous night and he didn't either. He didn't know what that meant, or whether it meant anything, but when he put the phone down he felt strangely depressed. On the way up to his house, he stopped at Mattie's. Zoe answered, headphones on, deep circles under her eyes. She didn't bother to take them off, barking at him in a voice fit for a crowded bar that Mattie was sleeping. Then she shut the door, leaving Gage in an even fouler mood.

  He spent most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon at his dining room table, drawing diagrams linking possible suspects, jotting down every clue he'd learned, trying to make connections. It was something he liked to do with most cases, a way of free associating to see if it would stir up something new, but this time it only made him more frustrated.

  When the daylight in the bay window was starting to fade, easing into late afternoon, he headed to the bookstore. A couple of families were browsing the children's books, though the children themselves seemed more interested in climbing the shelves. When Alex saw Gage, he immediately took him by the elbow and led him into the cramped storeroom, one hardly wider than their shoulders and packed on both sides with books. There was also a bucket with a mop, and the place smelled strongly of disinfectant.

  "I'm glad you stopped by," Alex said. "I was going to go see you if you didn't."

  "What is it?" Gage said.

  "It's that new girlfriend of yours over at the Community Center. Agnes. She called a little while ago."

  "What?"

  "She said she was at the hospital visiting a friend of hers. When she came out, she saw the director of the Northwest Artist Colony sitting in a car at the back of the parking lot. Ted Kraggel."

  "She sure?"

  "She said she'd know that hairy fellow anywhere."

  "Sounds like him," Gage said. He remembered her saying she'd attended some of the Colony's shows. "Is that it?"

  Behind his glasses, Alex's eyes were beaming. "No. This is the good part. She said Chief Quinn drove up in a cruiser and parked right next to him. Then he got out and had Kraggel roll down his window. It was all the way across the parking lot, but she said it looked like the Chief was shouting at him, like Kraggel was in trouble. Then the Chief got in his car and drove away. She didn't know what it was about, but she said since you'd asked about the place, you might want to know that the guy might be in trouble with the law."

  "Interesting," Gage said. "She was sure it was Quinn, huh?"

  "Hey, I'm just your answering machine," Alex said. "Which, by the way, you should probably pay me for."

  "I'll keep that in mind. So what do you think?"

  Alex took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Hard to say, but I think it's more complicated than Quinn just telling the guy he was parked illegally."

  "That's what I'm thinking, too," Gage said.

  Though what it meant, exactly, Gage wasn't sure. It certainly was a new wrinkle. He thought about doing a little stakeout of Quinn, but it would have to wait. He had a poker game to attend.

  After heading home, he had a quick bowl of chowder with too much salt, then it was time to head out to the Inn at Sapphire Head.

  In the murky night, the tires of the van whispered over wet asphalt. He pulled into the covered drive a few minutes before nine and got the same crap from the valet. He went through the song and dance at the front desk, saying he was there for Mr. Moore's chess club, and a bright-eyed brunette with nice teeth told him to go to Room 313. The elevator was taking forever, so he took the stairs, and regretted it by the time he reached the third floor. His knee was on fire and he was sweating like the out-of-shape, middle-aged bastard that he was.

  The inside of the Inn was just as posh as the outside: lavender carpet with taupe trim; gold-framed mirrors; mouse quiet, not a soul around. Standing outside 313, he wished he didn't have the damn cane. He knocked. When the door opened, releasing a cloud of cigar smoke that smelled like ripe oranges, the person who greeted him wasn't someone he expected.

  Percy Quinn.

  He was dressed in an obnoxious yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt, not his usual drab button-up dress shirt and thin tie, but it was definitely Quinn. Gage gaped at him and Quinn gaped back, those big eyebrows arching.

  "Gage?" he said.

  Gage's mind raced, trying to understand what this meant. First the news of him meeting Ted Kraggel, now this. He saw no shame on Quinn's face, just surprise and suspicion. With the door only cracked open, Gage couldn't see anyone else in the room, just the corner of a cherry wood cabinet, thin blue carpet, and a bit of white laminate flooring to what must have been the bathroom. He heard the rumble of voices, some laughter.

  "In the flesh," Gage said.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Before Gage could answer, the door opened wider and there was Jimmy Lourdenback, dressed in a bright purple suit instead of a yellow one, hat tipped back on his head, a bead of sweat running down the front of his eye patch.

  "Who's this?" he said. "What? This guy! This is a private game, pal. How'd you find out about it?"

  Quinn looked at him. "You know him?"

  Jimmy leveled one of his puffy little fingers at Gage. "He was at the casino on Monday. Won the damn thing, too, but he doesn't play like a normal player. It's—well, I don't know what it is. But he don't belong here."

  "Easy now," Quinn said. "How did you find out about this game, Gage?"

  Gage glanced at Jimmy, but there was no panic in his eyes. If Jimmy was worried about Quinn being there, he didn't show it.

  "If I'm not wanted, I can leave," Gage said.

  "I didn't say you had to leave," Quinn said.

  "I just got to talking to this guy down at my friend's bookstore, Books and Oddities, a few months back. I think his name was Larry. Maybe Barry. He had a funny last name. He was buying a poker book, and we got to talking. I gave him a few ideas he hadn't thought of, and he told me about this game. Said if I mentioned him, they'd try me out for a night. I just finally got in the mood to play some poker."

  Someone shouted from within the room: "Oh, hell, guys, just let the man in! If Harry thought he was good enough, then he's good enough."

  "I'm not playing with him," Jimmy declared flatly.

  There was something on Quinn's face, a growing suspicion, and he held the look a few extra beats as if he was deliberately sending a message to Gage. Then he cracked a smile and held open the door.

  "If Jimmy doesn't want to play," he said, "then it's our gain. Come on inside."

  There were three guys gathered around a circular kitchen table, one of them in a wheelchair. A pitcher of ice tea, a bowl of popcorn, and a pile of chips graced the shiny oak surface. The man on the left was enormous, pushing three hundred pounds at least, with a cascade of chins and oily black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He tapped a cigar burned nearly to the nub over a glass ashtray.

  The man in the middle—thin and gangly, with a buzz cut of bright white hair—was shuffling the cards. The man in the wheelchair looked shrunken, like a wax figure left too long in the sun, his head tipped down as if the glasses he wore were too heavy for him. His cream-colored vest dwarfed his body like a life preserver on a small child. He was hairless except for his brown beard, trimmed into a jutting triangle in a style once fashionable in the nineteenth century. In the back of the room, the air conditioner hummed like a barbershop quartet.

  "Welcome to our little club," the man in the wheelchair said, his voice high and reedy, refined in the way of an English butler. "I'm Winston Hamlin. Pull up a chair. I'd offer you mine, but as you can see, I'm somewhat attached to it."

  His eyes twinkled in a way that reminded Gage of his own grandfather, who used to like to make kids laugh by pulling coins out of their ears.

  "Garrison Gage," he said, offering his hand.

  They shook. The man had a grip like a wet sponge. Gage resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pant leg.

  "Gage?" Hamlin said. "Why does that n
ame sound familiar?"

  "He's the detective I was telling you about," Quinn said. "The one from New York."

  "Ah," Hamlin said, smiling broadly. He had the small, pointy teeth of a ferret. "My son would love to meet someone like you. He's really addicted to those New York cop shows. Sit, sit. I own this fine establishment, so if you need anything, just let me know."

  Gage leaned his cane against the wall and took a seat next to Hamlin. Quinn sat across from him, and Jimmy stood with his arms crossed and a petulant look on his face. Gage watched the other two to see if his chosen occupation provoked any reaction, but if it did, he didn't see it. The man with the white hair and the ponytail went on shuffling his cards, and the big guy stacked up the chips he'd just won, his cigar smoldering in his left hand. Judging by their stacks, they hadn't been playing long.

  "I'll sit this one out," Jimmy said.

  Nobody paid him any attention. Hamlin motioned to the big guy.

  "This fellow here is Charles Logan," he said. "He prefers to be called Chuck. You remember the Power Potato Peeler? Well, that was his invention. He's invented all kinds of clever devices like that. He's one of the smartest inventors in the country."

  "Used to be," Chuck said. "Now I do nothing but lose money at cards. And get fat. That's retired life for you."

  "Oh, pish posh," Hamlin said, waving his hand as if clearing smoke. "We've talked about this before. No jests about your weight."

  "Whatever," Chuck said. He took a puff from his cigar and looked glum.

  "And this distinguished gentleman," Hamlin said, "is Martin Jaybee. He owns—"

  "Let me guess," Gage said. "The Jaybee grocery stores."

  The man nodded. "Half. My brother owns the other part."

  "Your brother," Chuck said, shaking his head. "Don't know why you even mention that bastard. He hasn't lifted a finger to help you in years."

  "Family's family."

  "Not mine," Chuck said. "I left those pricks back in Texas when I was fifteen and they can rot there for all I care."