Zoe came next, holding the silver urn tight against her black sweatshirt. She gazed up at him, and though her face still looked hollowed and pale, though she still wouldn't talk about losing Mattie or any of the other awful things that had happened, there was more hope on her face than had been there lately. She didn't smile, but she did take his hand and allow him to help her onto the bluff.
The wind was stronger, whipping at their clothes. The surf crashed on the rocks and the driftwood below. They gazed out at the vast ocean under a vast sky. High above, a few seagulls riding the thermals cawed a few times, but otherwise they were alone. And yet, for the first time in a long time, with Zoe on one side and Carmen on the other, Gage did not feel alone. He did not know what the future would bring, and it scared the hell out of him, but he was not alone.
Zoe waited until the wind waned, then stepped to the edge of the bluff, bracing herself with one foot on a battered stump. They'd talked about saying a few words, a poem or a prayer, but Zoe insisted Mattie wouldn't want it that way. She pressed the silver metal to her lips, a long and tender kiss, then opened the lid and let the ashes spill onto the breeze. The ashes plumed in the air, up to the seagulls and the gray sky, already indistinguishable from everything else.
Then they watched. They watched and said nothing, three souls alone with their thoughts but not alone. They watched the ocean swells. They watched the seagulls on the breeze. They watched the shifting layers of the sky, the different shades of gray all moving in concert.
"I think I see the sun," Carmen said.
They all looked. There it was, a brightening in the west, a place where the gray was not quite so gray. It may have been the sun or it may have been a trick of the eye. It all depended on how the clouds changed. It all depended on what happened next.
"I see it, too," Zoe said.
About the Author
SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER's first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a "touching and impressive debut" and won the prestigious Oregon Book Award. Since then, he has published ten novels and over fifty short stories, his fiction spanning a wide variety of genres and styles. His most recent book for younger readers, Wooden Bones, chronicles the untold story of Pinocchio and was singled out for praise by the Junior Library Guild. He lives in Oregon with his wife and children. Visit him online at www.ScottWilliamCarter.com.
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Books by
Scott William Carter
Garrison Gage Mysteries
The Gray and Guilty Sea
A Desperate Place for Dying
The Lovely Wicked Rain
Myron Vale Investigations
Ghost Detective
The Ghost Who Said Goodbye (forthcoming)
Other Novels
The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys
President Jock, Vice President Geek
The Care and Feeding of Rubber Chickens
Drawing a Dark Way
A Tale of Two Giants
Wooden Bones
Short Story Collections
The Dinosaur Diaries
A Web of Black Widows
The Man Who Made No Mistakes
Visit
www.scottwilliamcarter.com/books
for more information.
Keep reading for
a free preview of
A Desperate Place for Dying,
the next Garrison Gage
adventure.
About A Desperate Place for Dying
A Garrison Gage Mystery
Nearly a year has passed since Garrison Gage became the reluctant guardian of a troubled teenage girl, but neither fatherhood nor the intervening months has improved his mood. His right knee is still mostly worthless. He still prefers to drink his bourbon alone. And even with a certain blonde bombshell a persistent part of his life, he still can't be bothered to buy a cell phone. Or any phone, for that matter. Why? Then somebody might call him.
But grumpy as Gage can be, he still finds that life on the Oregon Coast has settled into a comfortable if not happy routine—until the man who murdered his wife shows up in town.
That's just for starters. A desperate plea from an old flame—his first love, in fact—soon entangles Gage in a high profile case involving a famous and brazenly outspoken lecturer on evolution and atheism, a crazy fundamentalist cult that uses all means necessary to silence its critics, and a brutal local murder of a far more personal nature.
Before the mystery can be unraveled, Gage's abilities and beliefs will be put to the ultimate test. And the man who claims he doesn't need anyone will discover he may just lose everything.
Chapter 1
His real name was Anthony Bruzzi, but at his trial he told the judge that only his mother called him Anthony—everybody else just called him Tony. The truth was that other than his wife and a couple of his sisters, few called him Tony either, even if he insisted. That was too informal for such a feared man. Even Mr. Bruzzi was too presumptuous for some, or perhaps too ordinary, so as he rose up the ranks of the Italian mafia in New York, becoming an enforcer known for his ruthlessness, his associates eventually shortened his moniker to Mr. B. To those who despised him, he was Blue Face Bruzzi, a nickname he'd picked up as a boy because the color his cheeks turned when he got angry.
But nobody ever called him that to his face. At least nobody around long.
Whatever he was called, there was no denying who he was. One glance across the crowded diner was enough. One glance and the new life in Barnacle Bluffs was gone with the jingle of the door.
"Garrison Gage," Bruzzi said, his mouth full of scrambled eggs, his fork like a toothpick in his big meaty hand. His booming voice and New Jersey accent got all the heads to turn. "Gage, you old bastard, I been waitin' for ya—take a seat."
The way he smiled and waved his fork playfully, it was like they were old friends. It was like they'd been meeting for breakfast for years, golfing pals or old Army buddies, lots of shared memories.
He wasn't acting like the man responsible for putting Gage's wife in the grave.
The Times crossword folded under his right arm, his cane under his left, and his fedora dripping from the morning rain, Gage waited in the doorway. Would some greasy-haired goon pop out of the kitchen with a machine gun and mow him down right in front of Bruzzi, so Bruzzi could have the pleasure of watching Gage bleed-out on the floor? Or maybe Bruzzi, prison life having fried his brains, was going to do the deed himself, whipping a handgun out of his blue blazer and blasting Gage four or five times in the chest?
Neither of those things happened, and Gage became more conscious of all the faces studying him. He didn't like the attention. He wasn't the sort of man who liked attention, any attention, didn't matter what kind. He eased his way toward the table, because what else could he do? His wet soles squeaked on the tile floor. It was a struggle not to limp, his right knee killing him, but he wouldn't use the cane. Not in front of Bruzzi.
Bruzzi was seated in Gage's favorite spot, next to the juke box and before the narrow hall to the restrooms. Like he knew, for God's sake. Like he knew exactly where Gage liked to sit. Had he been watching Gage? If so, it had to be recent. Gage had only been coming to Eddie's a few weeks, often after dropping Zoe off at school. It had been Zoe's idea. She'd told him to get out more. She'd said it would be good for him.
The diner was a dingy affair, the kind of place that suited Gage just fine, but on an overcast day on the Oregon Coast it seemed even dingier than usual. Something about the dim light drew attention to
every chip and scuff mark on the black and white checkered floor, every tuft of yellow stuffing in the red vinyl booths, every speck of grease on the plain white walls and the plain white ceiling. Even the Mamas & the Papas song playing from the juke box, which might have been cheery and nostalgic on another day, sounded more plaintive and melancholic when the sun hadn't shown its face in days.
Since the place was tucked a couple blocks off Highway 101, it was mostly locals inside; and since it was a Wednesday in the middle of December, even more so. By the time Gage reached Bruzzi's table, most of the other diners had already returned their attention to their meals. That was what Gage liked about Barnacle Bluffs. There was a kind of intentional indifference that drew him to the town in the first place. Live and let live and all that jazz.
"I tell ya," Bruzzi said, still devouring his food, "these are some good eggs. I haven't had no eggs like this in a long time. You wouldn't think something like good scrambled eggs could make you happy, but it's the truth, man."
Whatever Bruzzi had sprayed in his hair could have doubled for gasoline—it was that strong. When he dipped his fork, a Rolex flashed out of the sleeve of his blazer, bright gold on a thick hairy wrist. He was a big, swarthy fellow, flabby in the neck and face, with jowls that would have put Walter Matthau to shame. The bright Hawaiian shirt under his blazer was patterned with coconuts. The circles under his eyes were almost as dark as his slicked-back hair, hair that had thinned so much since Gage had last seen him that bits of pink scalp were now showing. His big nose was bent and flattened, giving his head more of a square appearance than a round one. A nose didn't end up like that unless it had been broken more than once.
Gage studied the shape of Bruzzi's jacket, searching for some sign of a weapon amidst the fat folds. He didn't see anything, which didn't mean it wasn't there. There were a lot of bumps and ridges that could hide a gun.
"What're you doing here?" Gage said.
"Hey now," Bruzzi said, sounding legitimately wounded, "that how you talk to an old friend?"
"We're not old friends."
"Well, we could be. We could be."
"Not likely. I don't have any friends."
"Really? Not a one? Come on now."
"Nope. Heard they were bad for my cholesterol."
"Well—"
"Or maybe I'm just afraid they'll end up drowning in my bathtub and I'll have to clean up the mess. I hate unnecessary housework."
Back in the corner as they were, and next to the juke box, there were few that could overhear, but there was still one old timer in an OSU baseball cap who glanced over his shoulder at them. Gage kept his focus on Bruzzi, who patted his lips with a napkin and finally looked squarely at Gage. For just a moment, the affable Italian facade slipped and there was nothing but pure rage.
Bruzzi recovered quickly, smiling, but the brief glimpse told Gage everything he needed to know. If somebody wanted to find out if an old pit bull was still the mean-ass mongrel of its youth who'd bite a baby if given the chance, he just needed to poke it with a stick and watch what happened.
"Still the funny guy, huh?" Bruzzi said.
"Was I being funny, Blue Face?"
"I always liked that about you. It's like you tell jokes but you don't care if nobody laughs. So what's it gonna be, pal? You gonna to take a whack at me with that thing or are you gonna sit your ass down?"
He glanced at Gage's right hand. Following his gaze, Gage saw that he was wielding the cane as if it was a club, his knuckles white. He looked back at Bruzzi, actually considering whether to whack that big fat head with it, how good that would feel, how just and right, and Bruzzi saw that he was thinking about it. There wasn't fear there so much as an awareness that maybe Gage was just the sort of person to do it, consequences be damned. That wasn't as satisfying as beating him senseless, nothing could be, but it gave Gage at least a smidgen of pleasure to know he could keep a man like Anthony Bruzzi off guard.
With deliberate slowness, Gage brought the cane around and slid it into the seat, then deposited himself next to it. He kept his gazed fixed on Bruzzi, whose smile never wavered.
"That's more like it," Bruzzi said.
"You haven't answered my question."
"It's bothering you, ain't it? What if I told you I always wanted to see the lovely Oregon Coast?"
"I'd say you were the one telling jokes."
"Hey now, maybe it's the truth. You got nice weather here."
Gage glanced past Bruzzi at the drab, gray sky visible through the white lettering painted on the windows, then looked at Bruzzi again, eyebrows raised.
"Well, maybe not today," Bruzzi said, "but I seen pictures."
"When did you get out?"
Bruzzi took a sip from his coffee. "What differences does it make? I'm here."
"They put you away for twenty. It's been six."
"Jails are crowded, Gage. Recession and all that. I got out on good behavior."
"For accessory to murder?"
"Hey, hey," Bruzzi said, waving a finger at Gage like some kind of school marm, "we're around nice folks. No need to bring that kind of talk in here. Anyways, I'm surprised you didn't hear nothing about it. You used to have connections. Lot's changed, huh?" He pointed at the crossword puzzle Gage had placed on the table. "Now you got more important stuff to do."
Privately, Gage was surprised he hadn't heard about Bruzzi getting out—what, nobody thought he should get a phone call, after everything he'd gone through?—but he was mostly pissed at himself. This never would have happened in the old days. He'd let all the distance and solitude cloud his judgment. Try as he might, it wasn't like he could ever really escape the past. Quit the business and move three thousand miles and still your past might show up one day wearing an expensive watch and on the hunt for good scrambled eggs.
"What, you don't like crosswords?" Gage said.
Bruzzi shrugged. "I'm just sayin', it's a big change. You're still a young guy. Ain't even fifty yet, are ya?"
"Well, you have to do something. There's always Alzheimer's to worry about."
"Say again?"
"I read in Good Housekeeping that crosswords can help keep the mind sharp, prevent synaptic decay. You worry about synaptic decay, Blue Face? No, I don't suppose you do. You have to have synapses first."
Gage was hoping for another flare up, but he was disappointed. Bruzzi never stopped smiling.
"I ain't letting you bait me, man," he said. "It ain't why I'm here."
"Why are you here?"
Bruzzi shook his head. "You're like a broken record."
"Revenge?"
"That what you think?"
"I don't know what to think. All I know is, the man who killed my wife shows up out of the blue, something's not right."
Bruzzi shook his head and picked up his fork, poking at the hash browns. When he spoke it was in a whisper: "You know I didn't kill her, Gage."
"No, you just had her killed."
"It wasn't supposed to be her."
Now, finally, Gage was the one losing his control. He felt his throat tightening, a warmth spreading up his neck to his ears. "Oh, right, it was supposed to be me, wasn't it? Almost worked, too. Except Janet came out of the bathroom while that freak you sent was bashing in my knees with a baseball bat and threw herself on his back. She was naked and dripping wet, but you wouldn't know it by the way she fought. She took out one of his eyes with her fingernails. It was a good thing. He didn't see me coming—you know, when I finally got my act together. But I was too late. He'd already drowned her in the tub. But you know all that, don't you, Blue Face?"
It was probably the most Gage had said at one time in six months. It may have been the most he'd said in six years. Bruzzi took it all in as if he was attending a seminar, folding his hands, watching Gage with serious contemplation. As if on cue, the juke box came to the end of the song, leaving the clinking of dishes and the murmur of conversation. Nobody paid them any mind.
When Gage was done, Bruzzi waited a f
ew beats, then raised his eyebrows. "You got it out of your system?" he said.
"Go to hell," Gage said.
"Ah, pal, don't do that. Let's keep it civil."
"Fuck you. You killed my wife."
"I told you. That was Farid. He was a royal screw up. Must have been all them steroids he did while he was in the circus. Melted his brains or something."
They stared at one another in silence. A waitress, a stout woman who lived in the apartments near Gage's house, stopped at their table, smiling her smoker teeth, but Gage shook his head at her before she could even open her mouth. After she'd departed meekly, Gage leaned forward.
"Tell me why you're here," he said. "No bullshit."
Bruzzi laughed. He took another sip of his coffee, stretching out the moment, making Gage wait.
"You know," he said, "I was gonna tell you, but now I don't think so. You wouldn't believe me, pal."
"Try me."
Bruzzi signaled to the waitress, miming writing on a pad. "Naw. Another time. Trust me, you'll be seeing me."
"Fine," Gage said. "Where are you staying?"
"What?"
"What hotel? I'll come visit you. You can tell me then."
Bruzzi shook his head. "You're incredible, you know that? Really, one of a kind."
"No, that was Janet," Gage said, "but she's gone."
This remark, finally, seemed to sober Bruzzi. Gage wouldn't have thought it possible until he witnessed it himself—a wince as if pricked, then a softening of the eyes, all of it amounting to at least the pretense of sympathy. Was it all an act? Gage didn't see how there could even be a shred of humanity left in somebody like Anthony Bruzzi. And if there was, so what? They said even Hitler was nice to children. Non-Jewish children, that was.
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