Vacant Shore

by Jack Hardin

  Tyler joined Buster on the porch and made sure to pull the front door shut all the way—his mama hated it when he left it cracked. Mosquitoes got in, and boy did his mama hate mosquitoes in the house. “They get me while I’m sleeping, Tyler. They get at your father when he’s on the john. I don’t know why they keep their thieving straws out of you. You’re just so sweet.”

  On the east side of town, not a two mile walk from Tyler’s house, sat an abandoned pit the locals had long ago dubbed “The Bucket.” A full century before, a group of mining executives had come down from Nevada and convinced the local government to let them test a new piece of mining equipment in their sun-baked hardpan. The town council gladly accepted a check for saying yes, and the digging commenced and continued over the next four months. When it was over, the big-wigs from Nevada went back to their own desert, leaving a giant hole a hundred feet across and nearly sixty feet deep. The Bucket never was filled back in. Ever since, a mile to the northwest, off Highway 96, were the dumpings from said pit, which was reasonably termed “The Boob.” The Boob had dwindled down over the years, but nature finally got around to covering it in enough fountain grass to ensure that it remained the only hill in the flattest landscape outside of Kansas. The Bucket never did fill in, and twenty years later a new city government thought it a wise idea to run a couple strings of barb wire around the perimeter. So there it sat in the middle of the desert floor, looking like an infant canyon or the remains of an ancient riverbed. Eventually, water found its way into it and a small creek cut across the bottom, so half the year four to five feet of water ran through and the other half of the year it was no more than a damp gulch. Cottonwoods grew up from the floor, some of them reaching up past the top ledge.

  That morning, two ten-year-old boys dipped under the barb wire and slipped up near the edge of The Bucket, spending the next hour popping off squirrels and watching them fall through dozens of branches and hundreds of leaves until they hit the loose gravel below. The boys relocated as the sun moved higher across the sky, and Buster was the first to hit another rodent. They watched it hit the bottom with a muted thud and then watched with a horrid exhilaration as the mother of all rattlers slalomed across the gravel and the dirt and slipped itself around the twitching squirrel. Buster started slapping Tyler on the shoulder, “You see that, man! Oh my god. Look at that mother!” Watching a predator of nature work mercilessly to finish off its prey sent an icy chill through his veins. But it was a good kind of chill. Like a snowcone across your tongue on a hot afternoon.

  When Buster inched forward on his belly to get a better look, Tyler could hear the soft trickle of sand slipping off the edge, sliding down little rivulets and making a sound like a delicate rush of water.

  “Buster, maybe you should get back a little ways. Some of that dirt ain’t steady.” Buster turned and looked him—no, glared at him—like he would if his older sister had come along with him. “Oh shut it, Tyler. I just wanna see. Oh my gaawwhhhdd, he’s got that little sucker in his mouth. You see this? Oh man, oh man, get over here and see this!”

  Tyler eased a up little closer but hesitated to advance any further. He loved snakes and wanted that look. But something kept him back. It wasn’t prudence, and it wasn’t smarts. It was a voice. A voice telling him to stay put. It wasn’t his mother’s voice; it wasn’t that of his father, or a teacher. It certainly wasn’t his own prepubescent vocals. This voice was deep. He had never heard it before, nor after. It was only years later, when he was watching reruns of Dukes of Hazzard, Tyler nearly choked on his pizza when he realized that the voice had sounded an awful lot like Uncle Jesse. Call it what you will. Call it the voice of God or a guardian angel; Tyler heard it, and it saved his life.

  Tyler, back up.

  That was when Tyler experienced life in slow motion, long before he would ever hear someone use the phrase. A wedge started to loosen off The Bucket’s edge like a melting glacier, and Buster’s chest suddenly moved down a few inches.

  “Aaaahh! Help! Tyler—Tyler, HELP!!” Tyler reached out and grabbed the back heel of Buster’s boot. “I’ve got you. Now push back easy with your han—” But at that moment the traitorous wedge of hard-packed dirt slipped fully away from the cliff face, and Buster fell forward, his boot ripping from Tyler’s grip. “Tyyyyler!” That hesitating scream so filled with dread that told Tyler their friendship was about to end. That scream that would never stop reverberating across his eardrums.

  Tyler’s dad, up until he died of lung cancer ten years later, held to the opinion that his son had grown into a jokester because he had watched his best friend fall to his death and needed a way to cope. Tyler told jokes because he thought life was better when you laughed. But the older he got the more he came to believe that maybe his father had been on to something after all.

  And what he felt now, just sitting back, sipping coffee, waiting for Ellie’s killer to show, was that same sense of helplessness. That same feeling of watching your best friend crawl to the edge of something they might never come back from. And that was also when, as Tyler sat staring at the monitors, he felt as if someone had whacked him in the back of the head with a hand or a hat. Buster’s ghost, perhaps. Maybe Uncle Jesse’s ghost. But whatever—whoever—it was, it was telling him something. It was telling him not to back up this time, but to go forward.

  Tyler set his coffee down hard enough that some slopped over the edge. He stood up.

  The plan had just changed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the early morning hours the salty waters of Pine Island’s canals were as dark as old motor oil, and Trigg Deneford swam silently beneath the surface with all the expertise of a former frogman.

  The canals on the southwest section of the island were like that of an open hand, accessed by one southern entry point which branched out into four distinct canals. Ellie O’Conner’s house was at the northern end of the westernmost canal, and once Deneford started swimming up it, he had three hundred and fifty yards to clear before arriving at the seawall behind her house.

  He came up for air twice, hearing no sounds but that of palm fronds whispering through the coolness of the night air and ocean water lapping gently at the seawalls. When his head came up for the third time he found that he had judged his distance perfectly. His head slipped up from the water just before Ellie’s boat lift, where a small ramp no more than eighteen inches wide clung to the seawall, rising out of the water and ascending into her backyard. In his research over the last twenty-four hours, Deneford had learned that she had a Jack Russell. His only guess was that the ramp was for the dog. It was unfortunate that, after tonight, the dog would have to find a new owner.

  When Ellie arrived home from the Keys, he would exact not only his mandate, but also his revenge. He would not use a syringe like he had planned for her friend in Arizona. No, with Ellie, Deneford’s work would make headlines throughout the state. Ellie would be getting the classic Mozambique: two in the chest and one in the head. Maybe two in the head. Or three.

  Her back porch light was off, as were most of the backyard lights along the canal, residents feeling perfectly safe without them. Deneford swam over to her boat where it was resting on the lift, out of the water. Using the boat for coverage, he slid his night vision goggles over his face. He turned them on, and, while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the greenish monochrome imaging, he removed his gun, slipping it from the customized holster designed to accommodate a silencer. Deneford found a foothold on the seawall and crawled up into Ellie’s backyard. He crouched and moved like a shadow across the grass to her sliding back door. The inside curtain was drawn. Earlier today, Deneford had driven down her street and scanned for a security system. Nothing had shown up.

  The curtain was blocking his view of the back of the track, so he was unable to see if there was a stick lodged there. He grabbed the handle and set a hand against the glass, then lifted up and down, trying to slip the door from its track. After working at it until he was certain it w
asn’t going to give, he slipped his pick set from his pocket and got down on a knee. Less than two minutes later, Deneford had the door unlocked and, as a precaution, drew his weapon.

  He slid the door back a couple feet.

  When he pushed back the curtain, the green shapes in his goggles showed nothing but the kitchen table to his left and a narrow, shotgun kitchen to his right. He set his right foot inside just as a bright explosion of light lit up his night vision, temporarily blinding him as though the sun had suddenly fallen in the room. He threw his hand up and tore the goggles from his face just as someone slammed into him, causing him to fly backward across the threshold. He flew over the small concrete pad that was the back porch and landed into the grass with a grunt. His right hand still clutched his gun, and he swung it toward the door as he regained his bearings. The toe of Tyler’s boot caught his wrist, and the gun leapt from his hand and arced up toward the water, falling into the grass and landing inches from the top of the seawall. Deneford spun on his side and jumped to his feet, turning to face his attacker. Like him, his attacker was well over six feet, standing before him with a scowl on his face. Neither spoke as they stared each other down and sized each other up. Deneford entered a boxing stance, holding his right elbow up near his ribcage and bringing his back heel loosely off the ground.

  Tyler did the same and gave a slight bend to his knees so his weight transitioned to the balls of his feet. They loosely circled each other, and in the darkness of Ellie’s microscopic backyard, Tyler said, “Old college friend, huh?”

  Deneford was the first to advance. He took a short, quick step with his leading leg, and his front hand made a quick jab. Tyler shyed back and the shot missed. He retaliated with a jab of his own, but, unlike Deneford, he didn’t stop, he didn’t test. He moved in, keeping his center of gravity low and striking forward with a hardened fist. Deneford stepped out and Tyler's knuckles slipped through Deneford's beard, just missing the cut of his jaw. Tyler snapped his arm back as Deneford moved in again, this time faking a left jab before coming around with a right hook that caught Tyler just below the eye. Tyler’s head whipped to the side, and he saw a flash of starlight. He stumbled back, and Deneford stayed on him, landing another punch to his midsection before Tyler dropped to a knee and slammed a fist up into Deneford’s stomach, who stumbled back. Tyler came back to his feet as they both reset, both breathing heavily.

  His fists covering his face, Tyler came in fast, firing off a cross punch. Deneford blocked it with his forearm and countered with a punch of his own, catching Tyler in the chest. Tyler stumbled back and Deneford charged him, but Tyler recovered enough to sidestep him, and as he did, he brought his fist around in a wide, arcing orbit, connecting it with Deneford’s nose. A muted crunch carried across the yard, followed by a painful grunt. Deneford staggered back and brought an instinctive hand to his face while blood ran from his nose. Tyler didn’t let up; he moved back in, raining punches that caught Deneford on his shoulder, neck, and ear. Deneford grunted, and just as Tyler thought it was nearly over, his opponent pivoted and shoved his body into him. Tyler’s boots left the ground, and he flew back into the grass. Before he had fully landed, Deneford was on him, straddling his chest with a knee on either side. His left arm was pinned, and Deneford started at him, pounding him in the chest and face.

  Tyler ducked his chin and snaked his right arm around Deneford’s side. He reached up behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt as high as he could. His range of motion was severely limited by Deneford’s massive weight on his torso, but Tyler pulled down with all he had.

  It was enough. Deneford moved back just enough for Tyler to get his left arm free, and then he shot both hands toward Deneford’s throat, who fell backward, the back of his head landing on Tyler boots. It gave Tyler an opportunity for the perfect shot, and a view he never wanted to see again. He brought his right fist back and, with all the fury he could muster, sent it hurling into the bearded man's crotch. He pulled back immediately and did it again. Deneford groaned angrily and rolled off of him. Tyler scrambled over on his hands and knees and pressed his palm against Deneford’s head, sending his fist repeatedly into the larger man’s face. Deneford tried to bring an arm around to grab Tyler, but it was too late. Tyler grabbed Deneford’s head with both hands and sent a knee into the back of his head.

  Deneford’s light blinked out and he lay still.

  Tyler crumpled onto Deneford like a used rag and lay there catching his breath. Across the canal, a porch light came on. He finally struggled back to his knees, and then his feet.

  Tyler stood over Deneford, still panting. “Well,” he said, working his jaw and rubbing at it, “aren’t you a big turd in a little yard.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  She called Tyler and the call went straight to voicemail. She tried again with the same result. Growing irritated, she pulled the truck onto Route 41 and headed south. She called Tyler every sixty seconds, trying to convince herself that he wouldn’t have forgotten to charge his phone. Not on a night like this. When she was halfway back to St. James City, he called.

  “Tyler?”

  “Sorry, I had my phone turned off. Just remembered.”

  Ellie eased off the gas pedal a little. “Why did you have it off?”

  “Come over to your place and I’ll show you?”

  Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel. “My place? Tyler, you can’t be there.”

  “Well, I am.” She thought she heard a smile in his voice. “Everything’s okay. See you in a bit.” Then he hung up. She tried calling him back, and when he didn’t answer she growled and tossed her phone on the seat.

  When Ellie pulled up to her house, the front porch light was on, as well as a couple interior lights. She parked in the driveway and jumped out, hurrying to the door. She put her hand on the door knob and opened with a measure of trepidation. The first thing she saw was Tyler sitting on her kitchen table, legs dangling, looking toward the far end of the kitchen at something she couldn't see.

  “Hey,” he smiled. “How was your shift?”

  “What is going on, Tyler? Why are we here?” As she came closer she could see that his eye was nearly swollen shut, like a swarm of bees had all chosen the same place to work him over.

  Tyler lifted a finger toward the kitchen. “I went fishin’.”

  She looked around the kitchen wall. Sitting on the tile, leaning back against her oven, arms tied behind him, feet bound in front, was Trigg Deneford. A strip of duct tape was over his mouth.

  Ellie nearly gasped. “You got him?”

  “Well, you don’t have to act all surprised about it. But, yes. And before you go thinking that maybe he wasn’t alone, he didn’t have a radio or any kind of transmitter on his person.” At that, Ellie’s shoulders lowered a couple inches. She approached Deneford and squatted in front of him. The duct tape lay hard across his lips and beard. Ellie grabbed the edge of the tape and slowly tore it off, the adhesive backing plucking out several hairs along the way.

  Deneford grimaced while keeping a hard glare fixed on her.

  Ellie stared at him for a long time. His right eye, like Tyler’s left, was nearly swollen shut. His cheek was puffed out like it was stuffed full of food. His bottom lip was cracked, his beard stained from where blood had dripped into it. Finally, she spoke. “You have tried to kill me twice in as many months.” She leaned in. “Did you kill my friends? Did you kill Virgil and Cicero?” He looked away. “Okay,” she said. Her chest rose as she took in a deep breath, as she bore down hard on the bitterness that was silently turning her anger into revenge. Her right hand curled into a fist. “You bastard,” she whispered. “They were good men.” Her anger channeled down her arm and into her fist, and with a single swift motion she brought it high above her head and plowed it downward into his solar plexus. Deneford’s eyes bulged from their sockets, and he fell to the floor on his side, wheezing.

  She stood up. Tyler said, “Everything he had is here on t
he table.” She went to the table and assessed his equipment. They were all standard items that included NVGs, a lock picking set, a TimeEx watch, a spare magazine, a gun, and a small flashlight. “Where’s his knife?”

  “Didn’t have one.”

  She turned to Deneford and said sardonically, “No knife?” In many ways, Ellie and Trigg had trained with the same manual. Bringing a tactical knife was on the 101 list. Even in a suburban scenario when you perceived the mission to be no more than than shooting fish in barrel. “Just going to slip in and pop me after I come back from vacation?” She walked over to him and squatted down again. She leaned over him. “Virgil called and warned me.”

  It was subtle, but she saw the shock, the surprise that rose in his eye. Ellie stood up again. “Where’s your gun?” she asked Tyler.

  “Didn’t bring one.”

  “What?”

  “So, I got to thinkin’...Castle Doctrine wouldn’t apply to me. This isn’t my house. If I would have shot and killed him, I’d be looking at some time in the big playhouse, whether I’d been trying to save your life or not. We knew ahead of time and didn’t bring the police in on it.”

  She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Yeah...good thinking.”

  “I do that sometimes.” Still sitting on the table, he looked at Deneford. In his best Marlon Brando voice he said, “He coulda been a contenda. He could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum. Which is what he is.”

  Ellie looked down. “Where is your gear?” she asked Deneford.

  No reply.

  She brought back her right leg and sent the toe of her boot into his kidney. He groaned. “I asked you where your gear is.”