Ransom River

by Meg Gardiner

  Ransom River flowed out of the national forest in the mountains north of the city. The trail was a gravel frontage road above its banks. Below Rory, willows dragged slim limbs in the water.

  In dry months, the river drizzled along the valley floor. But the autumn had been rainy, and now water rushed noisily over rocks and creek grass. After downpours the river would swell to a crazed muddy flood. To control it the city had concreted the riverbed for three miles and fenced it off. Along one stretch they’d driven the river underground into a storm drain and constructed a neighborhood over it. She could see it in the distance, overinflated beige houses with fourteen-foot cathedral ceilings and postage-stamp lawns, packed side by side. A Poltergeist neighborhood—cheap gaudy dream houses piled together, like in the movie. Maybe not built over ancient burial grounds, but still draining to the spirit.

  She could run this trail blindfolded. She’d run it since she was fifteen. She loved it—and hated the fact that she was running it today.

  For two years, she thought she’d made it out. She had grabbed a job by her fingernails and flown away without a look back. She’d healed. And Helsinki had been amazing. Lonely as hell, but beautiful. The summer sun rose at one a.m. and set at eleven p.m., and so she had run. At first, that’s all she’d wanted to do. Run, all night long, through birch forests and along the harbor past the Russian Orthodox cathedral. Running helped her forget. It proved that she had recovered. It proved she could leave the rest behind. The part that snapped in the wind, sheets like ghosts.

  The trail rose. She dug in. Chiba paced her. In the distance, somewhere downtown, the sound of a siren floated on the chilly breeze.

  What the hell had the courthouse attackers been after?

  Maybe they hated the defendants. Hated them for being cops. Hated them for killing Brad Mirkovic.

  Brad was no Cub Scout. He’d had run-ins with the police and issues with drugs and alcohol. He was a punk. P-u-n-k, spelled out in diamond-flecked letters. So at first, public sympathy lay solidly with Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf. Spoiled son of a rich crook attacks a cop and his partner, in the cop’s own home, and gets shot? Instant karma.

  Then Samuel Koh walked into Ransom River police headquarters with a CCTV video that captured the killing, and things changed.

  It became known that Brad Mirkovic had caught the defendants in bed. And that, on a double-dare, he decided to snap a souvenir photo of Smith and Elmendorf banging out a rhythm to beat the USC marching band. But he forgot about the automatic flash on his phone’s camera.

  In the screaming aftermath, Brad fled. He clutched his phone and the incriminating photo, and he ran to the kitchen and threw open the back door and staggered into Smith’s backyard.

  Which exposed Lie Number One in the defendants’ story.

  Brad was outside when he was shot. Not in the kitchen. Not attacking Jared Smith head-on.

  The police had not released images from the video. But based on its contents, Smith and Elmendorf were arrested and charged with murder. Soon after, the harassment campaign started against Koh. Then the dead boy’s father gave a string of interviews claiming the “city political machine” planned to rig the trial. The case became a swamp of gossip and conspiracy theory.

  Into all of that, the jury summons had pitched Rory headfirst. And then the courthouse had been attacked. None of it made sense.

  She got to the top of the Pinnacles in twenty-five minutes. She didn’t stop to enjoy the view of the city and the valley. She turned around and came down fast, letting the rhythm of the run drown out everything that threatened to overwhelm her.

  When the road flattened she forced the pace. Chiba ran easily at her side, steady and relaxed.

  She was a block from Petra’s house when a black Suburban pulled alongside her. It slowed to match her speed. Its windows were tinted dark and reflected the glare of the morning sun. Gunning the engine, it screeched ahead of her and stopped.

  Oh God. Rory pulled up sharply. She grabbed her keys and stuck them through her fingers like claws.

  “Chiba,” she said.

  The Suburban’s passenger door opened. Out climbed a man wearing a funereal suit over two hundred pounds of steroid-marinated muscle.

  Rory backed up. “Chiba.”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t, Rory. Grigor Mirkovic has a question for you.”

  17

  Rory scanned the street. Aside from the black Suburban, it was deserted. Her nerves fired, an adrenaline Morse code tap-tap-tapping through her veins. Chiba darted to her side. She backed up another step.

  Grigor Mirkovic knew her name and where she lived.

  The stump in the black suit stood in the open door of the Suburban. “Mr. Mirkovic needs answers from you. Stop right there.”

  Rory turned and ran. Sprinting, flat out, zero to hauling ass in half a second.

  “Not smart, lady,” the man called.

  Across the street was a house with the curtains open, TV flickering in the living room. She ran straight to the door and pounded on it with the flat of her palm.

  “Help,” she called. “It’s your neighbor, Rory Mackenzie. Please.”

  Nobody answered. Inside, the television blared—the damned theme from Courthouse Siege: Nightmare in Ransom River.

  She shot a glance over her shoulder. The man was walking toward her. Despite his bulk he moved with slick fluidity. His skin was tanned and shiny, his features so flat as to be vestigial. He looked like a six-foot night crawler in Armani.

  The next house was a hundred yards away. Rory dashed for it, fumbling in her pocket for her phone. Chiba sprang happily at her side. The engine of the Suburban dropped into gear.

  Grigor Mirkovic knew full well not to contact a juror from his son’s case. He shouldn’t have known her full name. And he should never have been able to find her address.

  Ahead of her was a windbreak of tall pines. Beyond it, the road curved. A car rounded the bend. She dashed toward it, waving her arms.

  “Stop. Help me—”

  The driver’s mouth went round with surprise. He swerved and raced away.

  The Suburban pulled alongside her, cruising up the wrong side of the road. The Nightcrawler stood in the passenger-side doorframe, braced against the open door, and stared blankly at her across the roof of the vehicle.

  “When Mr. Mirkovic asks a question, you don’t run away. You listen. And you answer him,” he said.

  And fricking e-mail wasn’t good enough for Mirkovic?

  Grigor Mirkovic owned nightclubs and a construction firm in Los Angeles. He was in the cocktail and nail-gun and concrete business. He was also rumored to be in the labor business, smuggling people over the border. Mirkovic had immigrated to California himself, from Serbia, and had all the go-get-’em traits that turned poor boys into success stories. Especially poor boys willing to break the law, and do it well armed and without remorse.

  And she knew that his men in the SUV weren’t going door to door on his behalf, selling plywood and roofing shingles.

  The Suburban paralleled her. Ahead, seventy yards away, a Civic was parked in a driveway. She knew the woman who lived there, Andi Garcia. Rory aimed for the house and groped her phone, trying to unlock it and call 9-1-1.

  The Nightcrawler watched her, his face callous. Or bored. “Mr. Mirkovic has one question for you. Did you know the gunmen were coming yesterday?”

  She didn’t slow down. Her shadow fled ahead of her like a spike.

  “Who got to you? Jared Smith? Lucy Elmendorf’s husband? The Police Benevolent Association?”

  Breathlessly, she said, “That’s five questions, you prick.”

  The driver’s window buzzed down. A slab of meat sat behind the wheel, aviator shades pinging with the morning sun. “Run your mouth all you want, but this thing can chase you to Vegas.”

  Ahead, a brown Chrysler wallowed around the bend in the road. It was confronted head-on by the Suburban. The driver braked harshly.

  The Suburban sw
erved across the road. The Nightcrawler ducked inside. The driver stepped on the gas and roared away.

  Rory turned to the Chrysler, her chest heaving. Thank God, she thought.

  Detective Xavier climbed out.

  Xavier watched the Suburban whine out of sight around the curve in the road. She had the Chrysler’s police radio in her hand. “Who was that?”

  Rory couldn’t believe it. The worst-case scenario was turning out to be a joke book. She put her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath.

  “They said they work for Grigor Mirkovic.”

  “What did they want?”

  Chiba trotted over, his tongue hanging out, and nuzzled Rory’s side. Some guard dog. She straightened. “Why are you here?”

  Xavier was freshly repackaged for the morning shift. Her pantsuit was navy blue, her sunglasses flat gray. The gun on her hip was the color of a shark.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” she said.

  Rory had previously invoked her right to counsel. Xavier shouldn’t have been there. Shouldn’t be asking questions. And if Rory started talking, Xavier could claim she’d waived her Fifth Amendment rights. But to keep silent would only make things worse.

  “That Suburban drove up and a guy jumped out who said Grigor Mirkovic had a question for me. He wanted to know if the Police Benevolent Association has me on its payroll,” she said. “I didn’t answer. I ran.”

  Xavier put the radio away.

  “How’d he get my name?” Rory said. “How’d he find out where I live?”

  “Maybe you told him.”

  “Please don’t.” Rory tried to keep her voice calm, but heard the glittering, glass edge in it. “If he found me, he may have already found other jurors. Or Judge Wieland’s family, or Cary Oberlin’s.”

  Xavier hesitated for a moment, as though considering whether to press her advantage on a distraught and breathless woman. “Did they threaten you?”

  “They weren’t here to stick happy-hour coupons through mail slots. They said nobody ignores Grigor Mirkovic. When I ran they offered to chase me to Nevada.”

  “Because you know what it looked like,” Xavier said.

  Rory didn’t want to play this game. “Tell me, Detective.”

  Her voice was clipped. Xavier glanced away. Looked back.

  “Like yet another instance of bad guys having a strained conversation with you.”

  “It wasn’t a conversation. They followed me. They intimidated me. I don’t know them. I’ve never spoken to, written to, or spit at Grigor Mirkovic. And Jesus, if you can’t tell a scared witness from an accomplice, God help you.”

  Xavier gave her an inscrutable, reflective-shades look. These cops, Rory thought, with their smoked glass and mirrors. It creeped her out.

  “Is it true you called one of our officers an asshole yesterday?” Xavier said.

  Rory slumped.

  “You got a problem with cops? Because the court might find that interesting.”

  “No problem with cops.”

  “Just with detectives?” Xavier said.

  “Say again?”

  “People remember you dating Seth Colder.”

  The chilly air tingled on Rory’s face. “Good for them.”

  “Interesting that you both split town around the same time.”

  Like she wanted to stick around after the accident? “Breakups don’t involve a victory parade. People just drive away and don’t wave good-bye.”

  Her voice was cool, but inside, a filament had begun to heat.

  Xavier seemed bemused. “Curious that he hasn’t been back.”

  Rory had a million things she could say, and not one she wanted to mention to this woman. And one question she dared not ask: What happened to him?

  “Did Colder ever tell you why he quit the force?” Xavier said. “Because some folks in the department would still like a clear explanation.”

  “I was working halfway around the world when he left the force. I heard it third-hand. I haven’t talked to him about it.”

  And why did Seth matter? Was Xavier just trying to provoke her? “Why did you come out here?”

  “To give you a heads-up. Townie to townie. Detective Zelinski plans to apply for warrants on you. Search warrant for the premises where you live, and an arrest warrant for conspiracy and felony murder.”

  Rory held as still as the trees. Inside, the filament shattered into flailing streams. The Thing. If this were a horror movie, Xavier would have been torn to shreds.

  “He doesn’t have probable cause,” she said.

  “The courthouse is a mess. It’ll take twenty-four hours for him to get the application before a magistrate. So figure you have till tomorrow this time before he comes up your driveway with cuffs. If you’d like to avoid a scene, I suggest you turn yourself in before then.”

  Rory kept her face blank. “Is that all?”

  Xavier got back in the car. “It ought to be enough.”

  Rory walked the rest of the way back to the house. The blue Southern California sky, perfect and empty, seemed to drain the energy from her. Chiba walked at her side, head down, panting.

  She climbed the steps to the porch and fumbled with her keys. She had to do something. But what?

  The voice, coming from the sidewalk behind her, was quiet. “Rory.”

  She stared at the keys. They hovered an inch from the lock. She could get inside and shut the door in four seconds, maybe five. She could slam the door without saying a word.

  The silence behind her was freighted. She turned around.

  He stood on the sidewalk, hands at his sides, waiting.

  She said, “Hello, Seth.”

  18

  He looked the same, and not. Taller, weirdly. His shoulders had that same tilt, not exactly a pose, but an attitude. A stance that said, Yeah, right. Prove it to me. I’m not buying your bullshit.

  But the smile, the fearless grin that had always taken the sting out of the attitude—that was missing. His sandy hair was short. He had lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there two years earlier. The planes of his face, of his physique, seemed more sharply defined. He’d lost weight.

  He looked uncertain. She thought if she snapped her fingers, she might blow him out like a candle.

  Seth Colder, the center that did not hold.

  “Knew it would be sometime. Didn’t think it would be today,” she said.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Better if I do that inside.”

  She looked at the keys, for someplace to rest her gaze other than on him. Not now, she thought. Not like this: unprepared. Two years she hadn’t seen him, spoken to him, written to him. And yet, yesterday in the courtroom, she had found his image welling up in front of her. She felt like she had goddamned conjured him here.

  Chiba padded to his side, tail wagging. Seth scratched the ruff of his neck. His gaze stayed steady on her.

  She unlocked the door and let him in.

  His walk was familiar. A long, slow stride. His jeans were scuffed, his Caterpillar boots covered with dust. She didn’t recognize the denim work shirt or the white T-shirt beneath it.

  She shut the door. “How did you find me?”

  He kept walking, a tactic she remembered. It gave him time, it drew out the suspense, and it drove her mad. The tilt of his shoulders remained. He held himself tightly. He looked around at the house.

  Too much like the cop he had been. Everything was evidence.

  “Seth.”

  He paused by the mantel to examine a photo of Rory’s parents. He had an eerie ability to hold himself stationary, and so silent that he seemed a black hole, swallowing light.

  That stillness had always been a trick. And it was a useful trick for a cop. Open a conversation, pose an awkward or aggressive question, then shut up. Let the other person grow anxious in the silence. Until they finally filled it and revealed all kinds of things. But beneath the silence Seth had alw
ays run hot, and sometimes ragged.

  “Why are you here?” she said.

  Where have you been? How can you look so good and so bad at the same time?

  “I saw the siege on the news.” His voice, always deep, had a new edge. “I saw you.”

  She didn’t answer. He glanced at her shirt. It was an old cross-country T-shirt that said, My sport is your sport’s punishment. It was stuck to her with sweat.

  “You—” He cleared his throat. “You ran long this morning?”

  “Six miles.”

  He nodded. “Glad you’re—good to know you’re running. Great. A hundred percent great.”

  The last time she’d seen him, he was on his knees in the middle of the road, covered in glass and blood, much of it hers. She had a crack in her femur and a compound fracture of the tibia. He had a gash in his forehead. He’d cut it on the frame of his pickup when he climbed out through the window. Climbed without looking, without thinking about broken glass. That was him back then: rash. Throwing himself into things wholeheartedly, foolhardily, was his modus operandi. That’s why he’d answered a police emergency call in the first place, with her in the truck. He had turned his entire existence into a police emergency call.

  She hadn’t spoken to him since that night, since the minutes after the crash when he tried to rescue and comfort her. Worse had come, she had heard, though Petra had only vague details. Nearly killed, Petra had said. End of his career in the Ransom River Police Department.

  Where have you been? The question caught in her throat. She wasn’t going to ask. Not when she had been the one who bolted town without telling him good-bye. Not when she’d gotten over him. She took a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and poured it into Chiba’s dish. The dog put his head down and drank noisily.

  Seth said, “Where’d you run?”

  “The river trail.”

  A wistful smile crossed his face. The river. The old times, the back before. The smile quickly ebbed, as if caught in an undertow. The place had dark memories too.