Lone Jack Trail

by Owen Laukkanen

  Finally he could take it no longer, and he kicked for the surface, broke the water with his mouth open, gasping for breath but as quiet as he could, and behind him he could hear the sheriff calling his name, and the sheriff sounded close, but Mason didn’t dare look.

  He ducked under again and kept swimming, feeling the cold sapping his strength, eating away at the adrenaline that was propelling him forward, and he knew he had to get out of the water quickly, or else he would die.

  He angled toward the riprap and the pilings beneath Spinnaker’s and came up for air once more, his breath coming in clouds and his teeth chattering; he could feel his mind starting to fog as his body lost heat. The sheriff was still shouting, but he sounded farther away now, and Mason still didn’t look back but kept swimming to where the pilings rose out of the water, and underneath them was blackness.

  Once under the pilings, he kept his head above water, out of breath and already exhausted. His mind a single track now, desperate for warmth and a dry place to stand or sit or lie down. He paddled between the pilings to where the rocks met the water, and he pulled himself up on barnacled, kelp-covered granite, his lungs burning and his chest heaving.

  But there was no rest, not now. The sheriff and Gillies were only two men, but they would call others soon enough, and anyway, between the two of them it wouldn’t take long before they figured out where he’d gone. The rocky slope was slippery from high tide and steep, and his hands were numb, but he forced himself to climb anyway, struggling and slipping and gradually gaining ground until he’d reached the underneath side of Spinnaker’s, and then he followed the rocks to the north end of the restaurant.

  The air seemed to have dropped ten degrees since he’d stood on the dock with Hart and Gillies. Mason was cold, and he knew he would succumb to hypothermia if he didn’t find some warmth and a change of clothes soon. Around the far side of the restaurant was the parking area, and beyond that he could hear the siren from Hart’s or Gillies’s vehicle. There was no time to waste thinking about a plan. Mason stayed low on the rocks and crept clumsily away from the restaurant and the town, kept going until he reached the rusted chain-link fence that marked the edge of the restaurant’s property and the start of Brad Anderson’s marine ways and boatyard.

  Anderson was the lead volunteer for the Deception Cove Fire Department, and he’d struck Mason as a stand-up guy the odd time they’d crossed paths. The light was on in Anderson’s workshop, and at any other time, Mason wouldn’t have hesitated to ask the man for help, but tonight’s problem wasn’t something a stand-up guy like Brad Anderson was equipped to deal with. He’d likely take the sheriff’s side, and Mason knew he couldn’t blame him. He crept along the fence line to where it opened at Anderson’s driveway, and then he followed the road away from it into the forest.

  He was still cold. He was very cold and wet, and his clothes were heavy and his limbs were heavy too, and the cold was still slowing his thoughts to a crawl, and there was only one place he could think of to go.

  He walked deeper into the forest, away from the water and toward the lights of the town. Kept himself hidden as best he could in the shadows, and willed his body to keep upright just a little longer, just as long as it took.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The way Lucy’s tail thumped on the bed, Jess knew it had to be Burke outside.

  The dog had a sixth sense for when Burke was around, some kind of bond forged before she knew Jess. Before Burke had trained her, when she’d been so traumatized from the dogfighting that she’d peed all over Burke’s lap practically the moment they’d been introduced to each other.

  She was a different dog when Jess met her. There’d been no sign of that terrified creature then, when they created their own bond together on a ranch a couple hundred miles inland, a bunch of fucked-in-the-head veterans like Jess and a pack of dogs the military promised would help them. It wasn’t until Jess had known Burke a while that he’d told her how Lucy was when he met her, how far she’d come.

  “Runt of the pack, she was,” he’d said, and he’d smiled affectionately at Lucy as he talked, scratched between her ears, the dog grumbling with a grudging kind of approval. “I caught all kinds of hell from the other guys about her—and honestly, Jess, I was pretty pissed off myself, at first.”

  The other inmates had been given golden retrievers, German shepherds—happy, playful dogs without any issues. He’d resented the agency lady for sticking him with Lucy, but he’d gradually come to see how desperately the dog needed him, needed someone to treat her with love.

  He’d told her how Lucy had stuck up for him toward the end of the program, an almost-fight between Burke and a couple of gangbangers. She’d had his back the same way she had Jess’s, like she knew they were family and she was going to stay loyal.

  “That’s why I wound up coming out here, I guess,” Burke had said. “She was the only one had my back when I needed it. I couldn’t let her down when she needed me.”

  They hadn’t really talked about whose dog Lucy was, after Burke had come to Deception Cove and Jess had asked him to stay. Burke had assured her he wasn’t there to take Lucy from her, just to make sure Kirby Harwood and his gang didn’t kill her. But the bond was there, and it was obvious, and it had made Jess feel jealous at first, her dog liking this ex-con so much.

  Later, she’d come to see it as a point in Burke’s favor. All the more so since he seemed happy to let Jess’s relationship with Lucy come first.

  But there was a bond, and it was evident now as Lucy’s ears perked up on the motel-room bed, tail beating the blanket like she was dusting a rug.

  And sure enough, a moment later someone tapped on the door, and Jess went to the peephole and looked out, and it was Burke. Lucy stood, stretching, jumped down from the bed and padded across the room to join Jess at the door, and Jess hesitated just a beat before she unlatched the chain and unlocked the door and swung it open.

  She’d been in the middle of getting dressed for the night shift, her hair up in a ponytail and her uniform shirt unbuttoned, had only another twenty-five minutes before she was supposed to be at the detachment, and she’d yet to eat her dinner, besides.

  One good look at Burke, though, and Jess forgot about the night shift. The man was soaking wet, shivering, his skin pale and his lips tinged blue. He hugged a rain slicker around himself, though it didn’t seem to be doing him any good; his clothes were as wet as the rest of him, and he smelled faintly of salt water and diesel.

  “God’s sake, Burke,” she said, staring at him. “What in the hell happened to you?”

  He shrugged out of the slicker and dropped it to the pavement outside her door, and she could see how his shirt underneath was drenched too; he was soaked to the bone. He looked up and down the line of doors and out into the parking lot.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. “Just for a second?”

  Wordless, she stepped aside, and his boots made wet, sloppy sounds on the floor as he walked past her into the room, Lucy circling around his legs now, kind of whimpering and nuzzling up to his hands. He was shaking, and his eyes were dull. There was no point in asking any more questions, not yet.

  Jess closed the door, locked it. Shooed Lucy away and went to Burke, took hold of his hands where they were struggling with the buttons on his shirt. His hands were as cold as ice, and he couldn’t seem to get his fingers to work right; she set his arms at his sides and began to unbutton his shirt herself, feeling the cold radiate off his body, the smell of diesel stronger now, almost overpowering.

  “Did you fall in the chuck, Burke?” she asked. “Is that what you did?”

  She’d never known him to drink to excess, but maybe he’d been drinking; it had happened to her husband, and he’d died for it. But Burke shook his head, tried to form words and couldn’t.

  She got the shirt off of him and tore the blanket from the bed, wrapped his shoulders inside it as she started on his pants. “Hush,” she said.

  By the time Jess had Burke n
aked, he seemed to have warmed up some, and she wrapped the blanket tighter around him and went away into the bathroom to run a shower, scalding hot. But when she came back, she found the blanket on the bed and Burke in fresh skivvies, rooting around in the dresser drawer where he kept his spare clothing for the nights he slept over.

  “The hell are you doing?” she asked him. “You’re a block of ice, Burke. You gotta warm up some more before you—”

  “No time,” he told her, and there was at least some semblance of strength in his voice. “They’ll come looking for me; here’s the first place they’ll check.”

  Her stomach fell. She watched him pull out fresh jeans, a sweater, and she wondered why she’d opened the door for him at all.

  “What are you—”

  “They’re setting me up.” He stepped into the jeans and pulled them up his legs. Looked over at her, and his eyes were dark and serious. “Someone told Hart to send a diver to the harbor. They found a gun in the water underneath my boat.”

  Jess stared at him. Her mind struggled to catch up. Somewhere in the room were her belt and her service pistol. Her handcuffs, her radio.

  Burke watched her eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “Look,” he said. “You can call Hart if you want; I won’t fight you. If you truly believe I’d do something like this…”

  He trailed off. She didn’t move, felt her heart pounding. Even Lucy was still, like she was waiting to see what would happen next.

  “You know me, Jess,” Burke continued. “And I’ve never lied to you. I didn’t kill Brock Boyd, but somebody in this county sure wants it to look like I did.”

  There was resignation in his voice. Like he suspected already that she wouldn’t believe him, she’d already sold him out in her mind. Like there was no point in running if he couldn’t even keep her on his side.

  Your career, or the man you love.

  “What do you need?” she asked him, her voice rough. “What is it you expect me to do for you, Burke? You said it yourself: here’s the first place they’ll look.”

  He blinked. Studied her a beat, and then he shook his head and pulled the sweater down. “No,” he said. “Don’t risk your job for me. Just don’t—don’t turn me in to the law just yet, if you can.”

  “You could run.” She crossed to where her purse sat on the room’s little dining table. “I have some cash and you could take the Blazer; I won’t tell Hart. Just get the hell out of Makah, Burke, and don’t look back. You—”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” Frustrated, an edge to his words. “I’m not running.”

  She didn’t say anything. Watched him finish dressing, and Lucy did too, her head between her paws as she stretched out on the bed. The dog’s eyes were sad, as always, and maybe a little sadder; surely she could tell that something in her world had gone drastically wrong.

  Burke slipped back into his soaking-wet shoes. Made a face, but bent down to tie up his laces. Jess found the spare key to the Blazer, held it out to him. But he waved it off as he stood. They were close now; he seemed to tower over her.

  “I don’t need anything from you, Jess,” he said. “You don’t even have to cover for me if you don’t think it’s right.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, but he was already turning away, and she watched as he swung open the front door and peered out into the parking lot, surveyed the lot quickly and stepped out into the night. She made no move to stop him, and then he was gone, and the door swung closed behind him and she was left there in that little room with the scent of him lingering beside the smell of diesel fuel and the ocean, the memory of the hurt she could see in his eyes, and the dog watching her from the bed as if she had any answers.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jess stood in that room for a long time, not moving. Lucy lay on the bed and watched her, and it was like time seemed to stall for both of them. Outside, the rain fell on the roof of the motel. Burke was out there somewhere, and she didn’t know where or what he planned to do, but she was afraid for him and wished he hadn’t gone.

  She couldn’t make herself think straight. Before he’d come in, she’d believed he was innocent, and she still didn’t see how he could have murdered Brock Boyd. There was a part of her now, though, that wondered if she could be wrong. If she was blind. She’d fallen in love with men before, after all, and believed they were good. And some had been anything but, in the end.

  They found a gun in the water underneath my boat.

  I’ve never lied to you.

  Jess didn’t know what to think, not now that Burke was gone again. But she was afraid for him anyway, and she hoped he was running.

  Then came another knock at the door.

  Jess thought it was Burke, at first, and her heart leaped and she reached for the handle and thought to swing it open and take him inside and tell him to just hide out for a spell while she thought of a way to solve this, but somehow she thought better of it, caught herself, and when she checked the peephole, it wasn’t Burke but Sheriff Hart, and Jess was damn glad she hadn’t opened the door.

  The room was a mess. The blanket lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, Lucy half on it and half off, and it was damp from Burke and probably smelled like him too. Burke’s wet clothes were on the floor, and there were footprints where he’d walked in his soaking shoes. Anyone could see that he’d been here.

  Hart knocked again. “Jess?”

  It snapped her to life. Quickly, she gathered Burke’s clothes and took them into the bathroom, dumped them into the tub. She brought a towel out with her, mopped up the puddle by the door and tried to wipe away the footprints. Then, as quiet as she could, she shooed Lucy from the bed and relaid the blanket, smoothing it over the mattress and hoping the damp spots didn’t show. It was the best she could do; any longer and Hart would get suspicious, if he wasn’t already.

  There was nothing she could do about the lingering smell; Jess could only hope the sheriff had a cold.

  She herded Lucy toward the door, praying the dog would be a distraction. Kept her uniform shirt unbuttoned for more or less the same reason, and she turned the knob and pulled the door open and reached down to catch Lucy with her free hand.

  “Sheriff,” she said, making her voice breathless. “Running a bit late—sorry. Come on in.”

  She pulled Lucy back so that Hart could enter, the dog looking askance at her, like What exactly do you want from me? as Hart took a step inside, surveyed the room.

  “The place is a mess,” Jess said. “I’m sorry. Really looking forward to when my house is finally finished.”

  Hart nodded but said nothing, his face revealing nothing either. She wondered if the sheriff already knew Burke had been here. If he did, he wasn’t letting on.

  “You, ah, heard from Burke tonight?” he asked her. She saw fatigue in his eyes, concern, but nothing more. No guile, though she knew better than to assume that meant it wasn’t there.

  “No, sir,” she replied, buttoning her shirt. “We haven’t talked since yesterday, and I don’t expect to see him again any time soon either, not with this whole Boyd thing still up in the air.”

  She was lying to the sheriff. She supposed that made her complicit, and she knew Hart would take her badge if he ever found out.

  Your career, or the man you love.

  Hart asked her, “Was that your decision?”

  “Mutual, Sheriff,” Jess said. “We both figured it wouldn’t look all that good on me or the detachment, not while Burke’s still a person of interest.”

  Run, Burke. Run.

  Hart nodded. Took a couple of steps over toward the bed, held his hand out and let Lucy sniff at it. She’d taken up her spot on the blanket again, and if Hart looked past her and up toward the pillows, he might see the damp spot. Jess waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  Then Hart turned away from the dog, squared his shoulders.

  “We had a witness come in, said she heard men fighting down in the boat basin the night of the murder,” he said. “Said s
he heard a gunshot too. Then maybe a sound like somebody was throwing a gun in the water.”

  Jess waited. Thinking if she did speak, interrupt him, she might give the game away.

  “We brought a diver down,” Hart continued. “Me and Tyner. The diver found a .38 just off the stern of Burke’s boat.”

  Jess tried to make herself look surprised. “Did you—is he—”

  “Made a run for it,” Hart said. “Or rather, he swam. Jumped into the water off the end of the wharf and we haven’t seen him since. Might be he drowned out there or might be he slipped away. It was only me and Gillies out there, after all.”

  He looked at her, made a face.

  “Best as we can figure, there must have been an altercation,” he said. “Maybe Boyd came back for another round, found Burke on the docks.”

  Jess remembered how Burke told her Boyd had found him on the Nootka a few days before the fight. Boyd knew where Burke was staying, that much was certain.

  “You never saw Burke with a .38, did you?” Hart asked.

  Jess shook her head. “No, sir.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Well,” he said. “Not too hard to find a weapon in this part of the world.” He paused, looked around the room again. “Boyd’s body was too far gone to tell if there’d been any violence before the gunshot. But Burke must have put the bullet in his head, fired up that old boat and driven out into the strait, dumped the body. Just his bad luck Boyd washed up how he did.”

  Jess tried to picture Burke piloting that old Nootka, couldn’t see it happening. The ex-con was from Michigan, wasn’t much of a mariner. But then she still couldn’t fathom him killing Brock Boyd in the first place.

  “What do we do about this, Sheriff?” she asked. “I can keep my eye out for him on patrol, but we’re kind of lacking bodies for a manhunt, aren’t we?”

  Hart rubbed his face. “Not for long, we aren’t,” he said. “A murder racket like Burke’s, a killer on the loose? We can’t afford to waste any time.”