The Gray and Guilty Sea

by Scott William Carter

  "He's out," the bigger one said. "Come on, you take one arm and I'll take the other."

  The voice, the voice—where had he heard it? Now they were lifting him out of the bed, one on each side, the leather gloves digging into his armpits. He went as limp as a rag doll, letting his chin droop and his feet drag. Gage was not a light man, too many late-night bourbons the last few years, and the two of them were really huffing as they dragged him down the hall.

  His sense of self-preservation was screaming at him to do something, to flail or scratch or kick his way to freedom, but he tamped it down. Not yet. He focused instead on offering no resistance; he was a lump of slumbering flesh, nothing more.

  He stole a few glances through cracked open eyelids, but all he could make out were black ski masks and black sweatshirts. He fully expected them to veer towards the front door, to drop him in a trunk, and was surprised when they headed instead toward his kitchen table. When they angled him into one of the wooden chairs, it dawned on him what they were going to do.

  Suicide, baby. The great detective decided he just couldn't take it anymore and offed himself with his own gun.

  His suspicion was confirmed when he felt the cold handle being pressed into his palm. This was it, then. He had to act now or he was dead.

  But his body wasn't behaving. He could barely twitch his fingers.

  "Wait a sec," the bulkier man said. His voice came from slightly behind and to the left, which meant it was the thinner of the two men pressing the gun into Gage's hand. "Wait. Hold on."

  The gun was removed from his palm. Gage held still. There were footsteps, heading back down the hall. Bathroom? Wherever he was going, it bought Gage a few extra seconds. He focused on his hand—the tendons coming to life, the blood flowing through all those little veins. He focused on what he was going to do, the exact motion of his fingers and his arm. Rehearsing it in his mind. Seeing it happen again and again. The feeling was coming back fast now, the tingling all over his body. It was going to be close.

  More footsteps. Since they were both behind him, Gage cracked open his eyes. He saw the black glove come into view, holding something; there was a clatter on the oak table. His vision was mostly blurred, but he saw that it was rectangular. He saw the glint of metal, the shine of glass. He knew what it was: Janet's picture, the one he kept by his bedside.

  "Nice touch, eh?" the bulkier one said. "Okay, do it."

  The gun was pressed into his palm. Fingers were maneuvered into place, one gloved hand holding his arm, the other positioning the gun. Even as his mind raced, Gage still didn't resist. The ants were dancing on his hand, thousands of tiny pinpricks. The gun was pointing down, so he couldn't act now. He had to wait, wait until he had the best chance of hitting them before they could react.

  He heard movement behind him; the big man had shifted, but where? He wouldn't be able to get the taller one, because he was holding the arm, but the bulkier one might only take a slight jerk of his arm. His gun hand was lifted, coming up, pointing at his temple. The cold barrel of the gun pressed against his skin.

  The tall one's gloved hand reached for his finger. Through slitted eyes, Gage looked at the picture of Janet—graceful as a swan in her white business suit, her wide, glimmering eyes like passageways to another world. It would have been easy to let go. He was one trigger-pull away from joining her, wherever she was.

  All he had to do was . . . nothing.

  It was a fleeting whim, but it didn't take hold. It wasn't Gage's way. There was also Mattie and Zoe and Carmen and Alex and all the other people who'd wonder: why, why this way, why now? Oh no. He might take a dive into the deepest of deep ends one day soon, but it wouldn't be like this.

  An idea came to him. He let his head slump forward, as if he'd fallen into a deeper sleep. Just as he hoped, a hand took a fistful of his hair and jerked his head into place. The rough grip made his eyes water, but he stayed limp. Two hands on the gun meant the hand on his head was the bulkier man.

  "Do it," the man said.

  It wasn't as good as a bat's echolocation, especially in Gage's stupor, but the voice gave him a pretty good sense where the bulkier man was. The gloved finger closed on his trigger finger, starting to push. Gage summoned his strength, slowly tightening his grip on the handle. The key was to put all of the effort into pushing his whole arm upward—keeping his wrist firm, no wasted energy, the whole movement directed at getting the Beretta aimed at the man's chest.

  An instant before the trigger was pulled, Gage felt the man holding the gun pull back ever so slightly. Away from the blast. Face probably turning away. It was a normal human reaction, and it's what Gage had been hoping for.

  He shoved his lower arm upward with everything he had.

  The gunshot was like an earthquake inside his head. His vision went white. The recoil snapped his hand back, his wrist rolling, but he managed to hold fast to the Beretta. There was an anguished scream. The man holding his arm let go, and Gage rolled to the left—off the chair and toward the floor.

  Something heavy thudded against his chair just as Gage slid off it, toppling it forward, slamming it into the table. Gage went down hard, rolling, ears still ringing like church bells. His forearm banged against one of the oversized table legs. His vision faded in out of black. He willed himself to stay awake, still rolling, rolling completely over, bringing the gun up.

  Just as he managed to turn, he saw a huge shape descending on him—a boulder in an avalanche—and fired the gun into it. Fired it again and again.

  It was a man. He saw that an instant before the body crashed into him, slamming his head against something hard. Then everything went dark, cold and dark, and he thought to himself stay awake stay awake stay awake . . .

  Chapter 18

  Gage woke with a start, a great pressing weight on top of him. His body was crumpled awkwardly, his bad knee screaming in agony. The room was pitch dark, and the moaning of the wind and the bustle of the pines were so loud he thought he was outside. There was a moment of disorientation—Was it an earthquake? Was he buried under a house? —and then he smelled the musky sweat of his attacker and the leather jacket and the gun smoke still hanging in the air.

  Gun smoke. If he still smelled gun smoke, it couldn't have been too long.

  The other man might still be in the room.

  A door banged as loud as a gunshot and Gage tensed. Front door. That was why the wind was so loud. His right hand was still firmly entrenched on his Beretta. A good sign.

  With a great heave, he pushed the big man off him. It wasn't so dark after all—his oven light, a pale bubble in the darkness, cast shadows over everything. Down under the table as he was, it took a bit of doing to untangle himself, wincing when he unfolded his bad knee. Sweat broke out on his brow and he felt himself fading out again, but he didn't let himself go. He was alive and he wanted to stay that way.

  His racing pulse felt more like a fluttering of wings than a heartbeat. When he managed to pull himself into a sitting position, his breaths came in short gasps. The table leg pinched his back. He lifted the Beretta, holding it close, blinking away the sweat. It took a moment for him to get his bearings.

  Sandwiched in the space between his kitchen counter and the table, the big man was sprawled on his back, one leg bent under him in a way that no living person would tolerate. In the shadows, the blood pooling on Gage's carpet was as black as ink. There was so much blood—buckets of it. The man's clothes were so dark that the whites of his eyes, visible through the cloth ski mask, hovered ghost-like in midair. Gage thought that the mask covered the man's neck until he realized that the reason the neck was dark was because of all the blood.

  He reached out and took hold of mask and yanked it off the man's face. Swollen eyes stared upwards, unblinking. Pasty-faced, a big handlebar mustache, a wispy comb-over—Gage recognized him immediately.

  The bartender from The Gold Cabaret.

  * * *

  "Somebody drugged me," he said. "I'm sure of it—so
mething was put into something I drank at that poker game. One of those date rape drugs, probably."

  The gas station was deserted, the mini market dim except for the lights inside the coolers. The Budweiser sign glowed neon red in the window. The air was as thick as cotton, damp on his face. Above him, the street lamp wore a golden crown; the rest of the night was painted black. He couldn't see the ocean over the houses across the quiet highway.

  "Quinn?" Carmen said. She'd sounded groggy when she answered moments ago, but not anymore. It was well past three in the morning.

  "I've got no proof of anything, but that's where I'd place my bet."

  "It could have been one of the others. Or somebody who spiked something in your house."

  He picked up the dangling phone book and paged through it. Sure enough, Percy Quinn was listed, just as he hoped. Dorfang Road. He supposed a small town police chief with political aspirations would want to be listed. "Well," Gage said, "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

  "What do you mean? Garrison? You're not going to do something stupid, are you? Maybe you should wait until the morning when things seem a little more—"

  "Don't call it in," he said. "I plan to report this one myself."

  She was still talking when he hung up.

  * * *

  Driving south along Highway 101, Gage clenched the steering wheel with one hand and his Beretta with the other. In the foggy murk, the road seemed like a tunnel to nowhere. When he reached the end of town, just past the sand and gravel pit, he turned east into the hills. Once he was into the pines crowding the narrow road, and with no streetlights, only his headlights penetrated the darkness. He passed a few paved roads, then a few unpaved ones, until he finally came to Dorfang.

  It was a gravel road, deeply rutted. A wooden sign listing Quinn's address, the only one, was nailed under the street name. Gage parked on the muddy shoulder, the right side of his van brushing against a thicket of ferns. He shoved the Beretta into his leather jacket and reached for his cane—and found, in his haste, that he'd forgotten it.

  Didn't matter. Trudging up the slight incline, his heart racing, his knee didn't bother him at all. Within the forest, the air felt cooler. Without a flashlight, he had only what little moonlight managed to squeeze through the thick air and the dense canopy—a patchwork of shadows, a contrast of dark and darker. He was glad when he spotted a flicker of yellow ahead, guiding him like a lighthouse.

  The gravel road widened into a circular drive, inside a clearing in the trees. The porch light shone on a wrap-around porch attached to a bright blue manufactured home, dolled up with a white picket fence and a garden at least twice as big as the little house, crowded with dozens of lawn ornaments. To the right was a blocky metal building as big as an aircraft hangar. A late-80s Ford pick-up was parked in front.

  Gage wiped the moisture out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Other than the porch light, the little fluorescent bulb over the kitchen window was the only light on in the house. To the right of the storage building, two squares of light lay like yellow blankets on the gravel. He started for the house until he saw a shadow pass briefly over the squares of light.

  He froze. When it didn't happen again, he crept toward the light. Rounding the building, he saw the paned window, the glass splintered and dusty. There was a metal door, a sliver of light where the door was cracked open. He stepped up to it. Held his breath.

  There was a clatter that made him jump, something thudding on wood. Then a gnawing—a chisel? Gage moved to the window, taking his time, easing his head down to the glass. Peering inside, he saw a tall man leaning over a workbench, his back to Gage. A silver motor home, an aluminum fishing boat, and a rusted-out old Chevy filled most of the space; the L-shaped workbench was nestled in the corner. The man wore a knitted wool hat tucked low over his ears, so Gage wasn't sure it was Quinn until the man turned, and Gage got a good look at the bushy eyebrows and gaunt face, thick glasses with black frames resting low on his nose. Quinn, all right. He wore oil-stained gray sweatpants and a brown flannel shirt.

  Gage eased out his Beretta and undid the safety. Carefully as he could, he eased open the door. It made no sound. That gnawing—it was definitely a chisel. Quinn was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he didn't notice Gage slipping into the room. A space heater whirred near Quinn's feet.

  Gage leaned against the flat front end of the motor home, about a dozen paces from the workbench.

  "Couldn't sleep?" he said.

  Quinn spun around, brandishing the metal chisel like a knife. Turned as he was, Gage could see what Quinn had been working on—a wooden block he'd been carving into a sleeping cat, half-finished.

  "Gage!" Quinn said.

  "More lawn ornaments?" Gage said.

  "What're you doing here?" And, after noticing what was in Gage's hand: "Are you out of your mind?"

  "Probably," Gage said.

  "What happened to you?"

  The way Quinn scrutinized Gage's face, Gage realized that he must have had blood on his forehead. It probably would have been a good idea to check himself in a mirror before leaving his house, but what did it matter?

  "I want some answers," Gage said.

  "You better put down that gun, pardner. If you don't—"

  "Shut up."

  When Quinn advanced towards him, Gage raised the Beretta. Quinn froze, face darkening. Behind the thick glasses, his eyes were enormous.

  "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

  "Tell me right now," Gage said, "was that you at my house a couple hours ago?"

  "What?"

  "It was pretty sneaky of you, putting something in my drink like that. Did you do it when I was on the patio talking to Hamlin?"

  "Are you nuts?"

  "Would've worked, too, except I've always had a fast metabolism. Either that, or you didn't use enough. What, afraid it would've knocked me out right there in the apartment? That wouldn't do, would it? Not if you wanted to make it look like suicide."

  The police chief stood as still as one of his lawn ornaments, confusion reigning on his face. "What are you talking about? Someone broke into your house?"

  "I figured you'd play dumb," Gage said.

  "You're making a mistake, Gage."

  "Uh huh. Then tell me, why were you meeting with Ted Kraggel yesterday in the hospital parking lot?"

  There was a pause—a brief one, but still there. "What?"

  "Is it because you both like teenage girls?"

  A flare of pink appeared on Quinn's neck like a collar. "You better watch yourself, mister!"

  "So you don't deny it, then? You met him?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "Why'd you meet him?"

  "None of your damn business!"

  "He your fuck buddy? Do you do him, too, or just the girls?"

  "You're an asshole!"

  "Are there others, Chief? Where are they? Tied up in your motor home?"

  "Get out!"

  "I'd think that having a hooker wife would be more than enough—"

  With a scream, Quinn launched himself at Gage. He may have been tall, lanky, and on the downside of fifty, but he charged forward like a guy who'd played some linebacker. Gage had a split second to make a decision on firing the Beretta, but something made him hesitate. Something wasn't quite right.

  The hesitation cost him the upper hand, and then the chief was plowing into him, a battering ram into his gut. Gage managed an uppercut to Quinn's chin with the handle of the gun before his back slammed into the motor home. It was like getting pancaked between two brick walls.

  The impact knocked the wind of him. He slumped to the floor, knees jarring against the concrete. Fortunately his uppercut had done the same to Quinn, who was staggering backwards like a boxer seeing stars. By the time Gage was getting to his feet, using the motor home's bumper for support, Quinn had shaken the blow and was running at him again. The look on his face—he was like some kind of mad dog.

  This time, Quinn ca
me at Gage with a fist straight to the face. It was a good punch, powerful, lots of shoulder behind it. The kind of punch that would have taken down most men. The advantage Gage had in these situations is that people always underestimated his reflexes. Even before he was hobbled by the knee injury, he tended to lope from place to place, giving people the mistaken impression that he was also slow. But he wasn't slow. When you were the type of guy who tended to say things that pissed people off, you needed some speed to get you out of trouble. Gage never would have lasted in this business otherwise.

  At the last second, Gage shifted his head six inches to the right. It happened so fast that Quinn didn't have time to adjust his aim. All that force and weight behind his punch plowed his fist straight into the motor home's metal siding.

  The bang was like a thunderclap. To Quinn's credit, the impact didn't stun him for long, just an instant while his face screwed up in pain before he was turning to go at Gage again—but it was long enough. It gave Gage the chance to knee Quinn in the groin.

  With a loud groan, Quinn doubled over, but now it was Gage who underestimated his adversary. He figured with a knee to the groin like that, the chief would be down for the count, but Quinn threw himself onto Gage like a wrestler grappling for position.

  In his surprise, the Beretta flew from his hand and clattered to the concrete.

  Quinn had his arms wrapped around Gage, and Gage had Quinn's head in an elbow lock. There was some screaming and huffing and then both of them went sliding down the side of the motor home—shoulders slammed against the floor, sweat flying, and both of them flailing and jerking and pummeling, neither of them able to get the advantage. Gentlemanly combat was out; survival was in. Quinn's wool cap went flying. With his head locked in his Gage's arm, Gage could see the liver spots within the tufts of thinning white hair.

  "Percy?"

  It was a woman at the door, blocked from their view by the motor home. They both froze as if they'd just been whistled by the ref. Gage thought it was an old woman's voice because of how frail she sounded.