River Run

by J. S. James

  Not one to disappoint, she cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “In the Coast Guard you were what, a petty officer?” He sat back, his brows knitted. She waited.

  Reprieved by Pixie. The waitress unloaded Matusik’s plate of kitchen-sink proportions. For Delia, a cup of steaming brew and powdered pastries. “For you, chèr. Coffee with a hint of chicory and beignets. Good as you get at Café du Monde. Don’t let Jerzy eat them all.”

  She glided away while he filled his mouth until his cheeks bulged. A person sure couldn’t be expected to answer with a mouthful.

  She gave him expectant eyes, reminders she wasn’t letting him off the hook.

  Several bites later, with him fanning his mouth from the heat of the sausage and spices, Matusik set down his fork. “My rank was E-6—petty officer first class. So how do we work this?”

  Her cup stayed on its saucer, her fingers circling the rim. “I’ll get to that. First, I want clarification on your service background.”

  She could almost hear him think crap. His arrangement was with the sheriff, not her, and she was going to know who she had been forced to work with.

  Delia couldn’t stand messiness and made circles around her mouth with her pointing finger, until he realized she meant his mouth. Wiping sauce and powdered sugar off his face, he wadded his napkin and pushed out a sigh.

  He started to summarize his search-and-rescue qualifications, and she waved that off. “Oh, no doubt, your Coast Guard background’s impressive. I want to know about the last part. That naval assignment in the Persian Gulf. Specifically, why the general discharge?”

  “Can’t talk about most of it …”

  She sat back. He was going the classified route? Okay, there was some truth in that, but it was coming across as lame. His glance said he knew it did. She kept her eyes on his—patient but insistent.

  “Let’s just say I let alcohol cloud my professional judgment. I failed to answer muster, and others paid for it.” For a while, he took in the sweep of the river.

  She waited. No signs he’d dissembled. No attempt to overexplain.

  “You going to say something to the sheriff?”

  She shook her head. “Not if you do.”

  “I will. First thing.”

  “Finish your breakfast,” she said, reaching for a beignet.

  They ate in silence.

  In the time it took her to finish the pastry, he managed to download a good portion of the Cajun hash, doused with Tabasco. His lips had to be doing a slow burn. When she spoke again, he was in the process of draining what water he’d managed not to spill.

  “Let’s get down to business.” She pushed the dishware aside and lined up her spoon next to the knife. “Before you put that boat on that river”—she nodded to her right—“you need to know the situation. Two murders, one the end of last hunting season, the second a week into the start of this season. Both victims were hunters found on a flooding river that mutilates bodies and drains away evidence at eighty thousand cubic feet per second. In addition, a detective was injured when a boat trailer ran over him, antihunting groups are sabotaging hunting blinds, and someone, possibly a military fugitive with a military-style Zodiac, may be booby-trapping boaters.” She took a recovery breath. “It’s exasperating.”

  “I guess,” he said, like he meant to say holy shit. “How do you know the two deaths are related?”

  “Each corpse had an index finger sawed off.”

  Matusik’s Adam’s apple did a little bop. “Jeez. Glad you saved that little tidbit until after breakfast.”

  She showed him a smile drained of humor. “Best-case scenario, the killing is over for this year.”

  “Worst?”

  “The season’s young and he’s just getting started.”

  “You think this military fugitive’s behind all of it—the murders, the boat-wrecking?”

  “Apparently, the sheriff thinks so. If he’s assigned you to my investigation, I’ll expect you to help sort that out. Right now, I’ve got a more important job for you.” She had his full attention. “Grice wants to downplay the murders with the press and avoid involving other law enforcement agencies.” She felt stress lines crease her forehead in her struggle to go along with the sheriff’s logic. “Not until I’ve made progress on the case.”

  Matusik nodded. “Yeah, he hammered me on that point.”

  She could feel the furrows deepen. “All the same, it’s critical to warn hunters off that river. Tactfully.”

  He sat back again. Pulled his arms off the table. “That could pose a problem. Duck hunters are a tribe of their own. Hunting’s a passion they aren’t about to give up. We can alert them, and some will listen. But a lot are going to say, ‘Fu—,’ uh, ‘Forget that.’”

  “At minimum they need to be put on the lookout.”

  “We can try. Might catch up with some at the launches. On the water’s best, because they’re usually in duck blinds way before sunup.”

  “On tactics, I want you to handle the blinds while I hit the boat ramps.”

  He squinted at her. “Better if we double-team.”

  “Nope. I want a division of labor—you on the river, me covering shore access points.” She stood and opened her purse “Ready?”

  Matusik reached into his back pants pocket. “Shit, left my wallet at my dad’s house.” He grinned sheepishly. Delia wasn’t amused, fishing bills out of her bag.

  “Don’t let this be a habit. No driver’s license, I suppose.” She moved toward the front of the restaurant, him close behind. “Consider yourself lucky I’m off traffic patrol.”

  On her pass by an empty, dish-cluttered table, she grabbed up an unused napkin, captured a partially eaten sausage link, and handed it to him. “Bet someone’s expecting a treat.”

  As soon as they stepped outside, even under the gray overcast she felt him studying her in profile. Not in a creepy-pervy way. Like he was at a loss for words, seeing her in a different light.

  When they reached his Hummer, Matusik raised the sausage like a finger extension. His yellow Lab mix wedged its big snout through the narrow window opening and gave out a fetching whine. A sucker for dogs and cats, Delia took back the sausage and offered it to the twitching muzzle. Beezer inhaled the snack and slurped her fingers for good measure.

  “You have a natural way with dogs,” Jerzy said, making his way around to the driver’s side.

  “I’m attracted by their honesty,” she replied.

  * * *

  Years ago, Zack had accepted getting skunked as part of the ups and downs of hunting on the Willamette. He knew when nothing was going to happen, duckwise. When to lower the blind, untie the boat, and paddle out to pick up decoys.

  After the sloshing of Charlie’s boots had died away, a fog hush clamped down on Zack’s ears with the force of a headlock. So hush he welcomed any kind of noise, even if he made it. Like splashing water when he drained the hollow keels of his dekes, the clunk of lead weights against plastic mallard or pintail bodies, winding up anchor cord. The imagined calls from Charlie to get a move on. Come pick him up, already.

  Decoy bags filled faster thinking about good stuff. Like a Christmas present for his brother. Something extra special this year. Maybe he’d spring for a Lamiglas blank and wrap Charlie a new fly rod. Custom-shaped cork grip, titanium carbide snake guides, the whole shebang.

  A V-shaped wave cut the surface in front of him, heading upstream toward the entrance to the slough. Out where Charlie had gone. Watching that ripple, Zack felt the jimjams squirm up between his shoulder blades. He shook water out of a decoy’s keel, reminded again of Grundy’s gas station jawboning. How some kind of eco-freak frogman had scared the shit out of him. Kept repeating that he wouldn’t be running the Willamette anytime soon.

  The ripple disappeared in the mist. Zack told himself it was just another one of those damned nutria. He kept on winding anchor line and stuffing decoys into mesh net bags—much faster than before.

  He packed the last fake p
intail into a bag and checked his watch. Charlie should’ve scared that flock off the water by now. Time to motor on up there.

  He was bent low, stowing the paddle, when shots boomed out, one on top of the other. Then came splashes. Loud ones. But not like birds launching off the water.

  He ticked his head to the side, listening. Wondering why the splashes had come after the shots.

  Had Charlie fallen in again? Nah, he’d yell his head off. One time, his brother had squatted down on a log to shoot under some branches. The recoil knocked him backward into three feet of slough water. Funniest damn thing Zack had ever seen. Laughed his ass off watching Charlie feel around in the mud for that old Browning twelve.

  Not so funny now, not in thirty-degree weather.

  The little Johnson coughed to a start on Zack’s first yank. He throttled up and aimed the bow toward the mouth of the slough.

  Zack kept the outboard cranked until the shore brush on his left thinned to bare gravel. The fog started to lift, too. Above, a creamy disk showed through, only to slide back into hiding. He felt like he was coasting through a fuzzy dream.

  About where Charlie should be, Zack cut to a slow troll. For a second, he thought he’d glimpsed a hazy form. His boat was overloaded with decoys or he’d stand when he called out.

  “You shoot any ducks?”

  Ducks echoed back. Zack waited a few heartbeats. Whatever he’d seen was gone.

  “Charlie? Where you at?”

  At repeated itself. The answer he expected didn’t come. His mouth went dry. Oh Christ. Maybe Charlie did fall in.

  The fog climbed into the treetops. He could see out to the Santiam where the low mound of boulders and sand dropped off into heavy current. No sign of Charlie. The whole gravel bar was empty. No sounds except for the river, but he sensed he wasn’t alone.

  He throttled up and moved on, scanning the agitated water past the slough’s intake, hoping to spot a pair of flailing arms, or maybe a bobbing head out in the current. A disturbance broke surface. Bubbles, clusters of them, spaced ten feet apart and coming at him. Grundy’s early-morning prattle bubbled up, too—Son of a bitch swum in from behind. Had me tits up and suckin’ river water.

  A scalp-tingling look out! raced from Zack’s brain into his tiller arm. His hand wrenched the throttle full up. The light boat shot ahead, out of the slough and into the Santiam chop.

  At midriver and into calmer water, he eased off on the gas, took a breath, and threw a glance over his shoulder. The bubbles were nowhere in sight. Zack swallowed his heart back down his throat and scanned the water downstream.

  Something in an eddy caught his eye. A hump of camouflage material, puffed up with captured air, turned slowly in the swirl of current. Along with something smaller. Rounder. Zack felt the blood drain from his face.

  He steered toward the slow-moving water. Zack wasn’t big on church, but he prayed now.

  “Don’t let it be Charlie. Christ, please don’t let it be Charlie.”

  His boat closed in. The Desert Storm boonie floated past, nestled inside a patch of yellow-white detergent foam. Standard stuff on rivers these days.

  Maybe it was the jitters. Eye tricks might give that froth a tint. He steered wide. The edges stayed pink.

  “Oh God. God, oh God.”

  The boat coasted past the hat, and Zack collapsed into a slump, gasping for air as if someone had punched him in the gut. The untended tiller handle vibrated to the left and banged against the metal boat side with each chug of the engine. The Jon boat circled clockwise around the floating lump. He felt frozen in place, afraid to look.

  A shred of hope pushed at him. He had to be sure. Wiping at the corners of his eyes, Zack struggled out of a daze. Maybe it was some drowned fisherman.

  He straightened course and came alongside the lower end of the ballooned-up coat. He made out a collar, then sleeves, dangling down into the depths. Maybe it was empty.

  His hands shook so bad he yanked his gloves off with his teeth. He lunged sideways, latching on to the stiff fabric. The bobbing mass balked at being turned over. He spotted a slit across the shoulder seam. No, more like a razor slice. Leaning far out, Zack used the opening to gain leverage and pulled. This time he succeeded.

  And wished he hadn’t.

  Mouth open, Charlie’s head lolled back like it had come unhinged. Trapped air burbled from his coat front. His body started to sink, but not fast enough. Zack’s eyes filled with horror at the second opening below his brother’s chin. A gaping, red-raw crescent moon stretched from ear to ear.

  Zack recoiled, letting go of the coat. The gorge of morning snacks rocketed up his throat as his brother’s body disappeared into the swirling gray-brown murk. He spewed lumps of Charlie’s jelly rolls over boat and water. He kept on spewing until his stomach touched his backbone. Until he had nothing left.

  Done puking, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and cast around. The roaring hush poured down over his head like an emptied bucket.

  18

  Saturday vigil hours were nearly over when Delia drove up the hill past Saint Fyodor’s, cut into the overflow lot, and stashed her hot rod loaner in a corner slot. It seemed tacky to park her brother’s gaudy ride anywhere close to the eye-catching but simple chapel with its burnished metal onion dome and natural wood siding—a picture postcard from the old country.

  From Russia with love, she thought as she got out and shrugged on a smoke-gray lambskin blazer—the closest she had to mourning attire.

  She’d come to pay respects to the Lukovsky family; also, to catch up with Charlie’s younger brother. Tell him she’d lost a brother, too. That she would not stop until his brother’s killer was in custody. Or dead. A somewhat empty promise, she thought. What with the rising river inundating the lower Santiam, where Charlie had been killed.

  The last rays of winter sun played off the church cupola, turning its copper shingles into molten drops as she approached the front driveway. She’d slip inside and do some praying or chanting, or whatever was orthodox, and if possible avoid an open-casket viewing. No artful concealment of Charlie’s wound could erase the image of him lying on the ME’s table, ash white, gashed from ear to ear.

  She was halfway up a set of railroad ties dug into the hillside for steps when the sheriff’s unmarked Interceptor wheeled into the church driveway and stopped below her. Grice rolled the window down, shouted her name, and motioned her toward him.

  Reversing her steps, she made for the sheriff’s car and peered in his open passenger window.

  “Evening, Sheriff.”

  “Think I’m a fool, Cha-vez?” He flapped his hand up toward the church. “Think I don’t know you sent Shiftless in to twist my cojones?”

  The heat rose in her cheeks. She spoke in an even, hope-you-don’t tone of voice. “Coming in, Sheriff?”

  He tipped his mouse-gray Stetson back on his head. “Just because three kills qualifies as a serial homicide case and the last was a cop, you think we’re going to turn over a major investigation to the Staties? Well, I’m here to tell you nothing’s changed.”

  “I heard Zack lipped off and you kicked him out of your office.” She forced her voice to stay even, if intense. “Charlie and his family deserve the respect of every PCSD staff member.”

  “I know exactly what’s deserved, Cha-vez. Yes, I’ll be at Restlawn tomorrow, leading the ceremonial procession in full dress uniform. ’Cause Charlie Lukovsky once worked for Polk County, and I hate seeing any law officer get killed. I’m sure you’re aware that when Lukovsky quit on me, he left us in a helluva lurch.” If Grice could grow a handlebar mustache, no doubt he’d be twirling one end. “Still, Charlie was one of ours. We’ll honor him by not going off half-cocked, by keeping this investigation solely ours. It stays locked down tighter than a banker’s heart. Comprende?”

  She comprende’d. Grice’s ass-backwards logic seemed all about protecting his side thing, whatever that was.

  In law enforcement work, kudos came after a crimin
al was apprehended. So why put all this energy into locating a fugitive only to back off once they found the guy? She’d done joint response drills with OSP’s SWAT unit, and so had Grice. Why not bring in a team when the time came to make the bust? Was Grice’s side thing tied to this case? Not even kudos related?

  “You hearing me, Chavez?”

  She matched his stare with one of her own. “Better than you think.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

  “If you’re not coming in, why even stop here?” Don’t bait him, Delia. Don’t.

  Grice reset his hat. “I’m on my way to Albany PD, see if I can palm off that barn arson case of yours. Which brings up the second reason. Making sure you’re making full use of Matusik and his boat.”

  “Not fully.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Delia cocked her thumb toward the church. “Besides the obvious? I need something more from you.”

  “More? Jesus. I’m whittling your caseload down to one; I got you a boat and a river-savvy boat driver to team with. What else?”

  “I want what you’ve been holding back on Robert Bastida.”

  Behind the wheel of his Dodge cruiser, old Lizard Breath looked away from her, his tongue darting about. Scouring the dryness off his lips, she figured.

  “Get in.”

  She complied.

  The motor stayed at idle, but Grice’s expression told her his brain-wheels were doing ninety. Stewing over the truth? Thinking up a story to pass the sniff test?

  She waited, watching him peruse the churchyard. The empty cars in the parking lot. The oncoming darkness.

  His eyes narrowed. Quick as a snap decision, he reached over the seat back and brought forward a rubber-banded roll of paper. He tapped the tube against his thigh for a moment, then handed it to her.

  “Planned to brief you anyway—an add-on project that got dumped in my lap.” He switched on the dome light.

  Add-on? she wondered, turning the tube over in her hands. More evasion?