River Run

by J. S. James

  “Doctor says there’s no sign of permanent damage. Can’t move my fingers yet, but they tingle.”

  She hustled over to him and pulled up short of an embrace. Jerzy smelled of Tiger Balm. Slightly rivery, too. No sign of blame in his eyes, though. Blinking, she swallowed a walnut-size lump.

  He looked her up and down, still grinning. “Nice outfit. Kid Frost stop by?”

  Wearing a cholo smirk, she tucked her knuckles under her chin and stuck out her elbows. “Eh, vato. ¿Qué onda?” She snatched at her belt, yanking up just in time to keep the pants from dropping to her ankles, both of them laughing. Once her clothing was secured, the worry came back. “Seriously. You going to be okay?”

  The ER resident, Dr. Morgan, to whom she’d given her name earlier, stepped in and closed the hanging divider behind him. He motioned for Jerzy to put on a shirt that hung over a chair back—another loaner, except better-fitting. Morgan sat on a stool and took up a medical chart holder.

  “You’re a relative, Ms. Chavez?”

  “Partner. Polk County Sheriff’s detective.”

  “Ah.” He flipped through the chart, curling pages over the back of the holder. “He has no bone fractures or torn ligature. Short-term paralysis, but no lasting nerve damage. More like a sports stinger.” He looked up. “All in all, you have a resilient partner.”

  She agreed, only silently, breathing a prayer of thanks for Jerzy’s resilience.

  Morgan went on. “Hypothermia notwithstanding, the two of you spending that length of time in cold water had its benefits. The ice packs will continue to help reduce the swelling. The injury is not acute, so cold-heat contrast therapy should help with swelling and muscle relaxation.” He looked contemplative, tapping the chart against his knee. “It’s late, but you could try the OSU sports complex, or—”

  “My hot tub’s equipped with a Jacuzzi. Will that help?” Delia clamped her mouth shut, surprised at the eagerness in her voice. She shot Jerzy a glance, who looked up from his one-handed button-fumbling with a quizzical smile. Instant heat attacked both of her cheeks.

  “Okay, sure. That would be an acceptable option.”

  “Hey,” Jerzy said, “after today, a soak in a hot tub sounds great. I’d say we’ve earned it.”

  Aided by the image of them together in her tub, Delia’s burn spread down the sides of her neck and over the base of her throat. She stepped in front of Jerzy and helped him finish buttoning, doing her best to ignore the upturned corners of his mouth.

  Morgan got up, drew back the curtain, and beckoned to someone as he stepped out. Bernie poked his head in, holding up a jeans jacket. “Doc says you’re both good to go. Need a ride to your vehicle?”

  Jerzy took the jacket, looking as if he’d never put one on before. “Sure do. But what about my boat?”

  “That’s been arranged.” Delia helped Jerzy into one sleeve and draped the other over his injured shoulder. “Bernie will tow your boat and loaned trailer to the McMinnville impound lot.”

  Jerzy nodded okay, then threw his good arm up, smacking the palm of his hand into his forehead.

  “Beezer. Shit. Bet he’s gotta pee so bad his eyes have gone yellow.”

  * * *

  “Sheriff, they’ve been to hell and back.” Annie had Gus’s full attention, leaning across his desk that way to make her case. “What say you study the preliminary Chavez dictated over the phone? Then decide whether you have to drag her in here tonight.”

  It was the cleavage that convinced him. Especially when she reached down and turned back the cover page on the incident summary—almost like she was using those bodacious ta-tas to bring him around to her point of view. If she was, he didn’t mind.

  “At least give her time to rest up. Say, nine AM tomorrow?”

  He got to his feet, torn between prolonging the sight and shooing her out of his office so he could doctor the mug of coffee in his hand.

  His dispatcher had stuck to his ass worse than a horsefly on a buckskin, shadowing him into his office, over to his coffee hutch, then back to his desk, trying to explain away the sorry mess Chavez had made of her stakeout. It was her idea. She should be the one in here, sweating. But, if he wanted to wet his whistle with something besides coffee …

  Gus took a slurp and winced. Tepid java and no zing. He sighed in surrender. “Nine sharp. I want her in here by nine.”

  She straightened up and smiled. “I’ll let them know.”

  “While you’re at it, tell Cha-vez I want a full report by noon.”

  He admired the vista of Annie’s retreat in those hip-hugging slacks as he made his way back to the coffee hutch. Pausing until the door latched behind her, he emptied the mug into the sink.

  Gus refused to drink reheated coffee. He’d take his rum neat.

  Back at the desk, he sat and swigged and swallowed. Waited for that rosy buzz to take the edge off. Settle his nerves.

  Thing was, he’d spent the whole damn day chasing a string of dead-end motel leads on Bastida, only to learn that Chavez and Matusik might well have stampeded his pot sweetener into skipping out.

  Three fingers went down the hatch while Gus skip-read the bare-facts narrative Annie had transcribed from Chavez. He’d get to the hows and whys of her screw-up later. For now, he needed to learn something else. Had Bastida gone upriver, back into Polk County? Or downriver toward Portland, meaning he was on the run?

  That directional information dictated whether Gus’s situation was salvageable. Whether he could dissuade Bannock from cutting him off. If Bastida had slipped back into Gus’s jurisdiction, then maybe Bannock was right. A family-grudge obsession might be what held the fugitive in the area.

  Whoever that family turned out to be.

  State and county records checks had turned up a handful of Bastidas scattered around Oregon, especially over in Basque sheep-ranching country, but none residing anywhere along the Willamette. Somehow he’d entered the Navy on that alias.

  Gus realized he’d glossed over a compacted part of the report: how Chavez and Matusik had lost and retrieved their boat.

  He scrutinized the last two pages, stopping once to snigger at a sketchy passage, including Chavez’s laughable attempt to place Bastida under arrest. Gus shook his head, thinking aloud. “That woman has a goddamn death wish.”

  Pay dirt came at the end of her report.

  Subject’s boat last seen heading south.

  Upriver. Gus sighed in relief.

  He sat back in his chair and studied the ceiling, searching his memory for clauses in the Civil Process Manual dealing with insubordination.

  Ah, Chavez. What to do?

  The answer made him sit up. When you find you’re riding the wrong horse, switch horses.

  He took a healthy draw from his mug and mulled over his options. Not many, being so short on patrol staff. Chavez was a cogitator—too thinky and unpredictable. Gus needed somebody cautious to a fault and rock solid.

  Rock-headed was close enough. He did have somebody in the department who would follow instructions and not ask questions. Too bad it was his nephew.

  Then again, blood was thicker than water.

  27

  Late that evening, Delia wheeled Enrique’s convertible into her driveway and cut the engine. She sat for a moment in the countryside quiet of Monmouth, Oregon, and listened to the all-male duet: dog pants from the back seat and man snores from the passenger side. How Jerzy could sleep folded like a pretzel into a bucket seat, she’d never know.

  After Bernie had dropped them off at Riverview Park in Independence, and after Beezer had watered a lamppost until his eyes went back to brown, they decided to take the Camaro to her place for Jerzy’s hot tub therapy. Neither had said anything about going back later for the Hummer. Nothing either about picking up his boat from the Yamhill sheriff’s impound lot. His shoulder had improved, but they agreed not to push things, to play the rest of the night by ear.

  Beezer whined, rousing Jerzy from his catnap.

  Sh
e opened her car door and stepped out. “Home sweet home.”

  Jerzy yawned, unfolded, and rolled out of his side. Beezer followed. Both car doors shut with the sound of one. “Great old farmhouse.”

  Her porch light was on, but Delia fumbled for the right key, embarrassed at feeling so nervous.

  “By the way, how’s your dog with cats?”

  “Oh, he’s just a big old pussycat himself.”

  “Well, Clawed—spelled with a w for good reason—is not. So you’d better hang on to Beezer’s collar until they get to know … Dammit.” Working the lock, Delia kicked at the rain-swollen door and forced it open. She switched on lights, relieved to have picked up before leaving that morning.

  The high-ceilinged living room was a showcase for her garage-sale budget. Pillow-stuffed rattans flanked a scarred mahogany coffee table. The jungle flora divan looked like it belonged in a Havana hotel lobby, but it suited her. Potted big-leaf tropicals bookended the sofa, an afterthought to soften the Victorian room angles.

  Jerzy stepped in ahead of her, keeping Beezer close at his side. “Nice feel. Homey.”

  “Thanks.”

  A lump on the back of the divan rose up and yawned, then drooped into a languid, black-and-gray stretch. Beezer sneezed. Clawed’s eyes rounded on the dog. In a flash, he was on the floor, humpbacked and stiff-legged.

  He closed the distance, able and willing to take on the intruder.

  “Holy buckets, what a monster cat.” Jerzy bent low and slipped his fingers into the dog’s collar.

  She rested her hand on the knob, ready if necessary to throw open the front door. “Half Persian, half Maine coon. Been known to ride neighborhood dogs into the next county.”

  Cat and not-cat sniffed the air, checking each other out. Beezer whined and backed into the closed front door.

  Barely two feet away, Clawed showed fang. The Lab’s stocky neck stretched tentatively forward, his ample sniffer collecting enemy intelligence. A paw swipe from Clawed and the Lab yipped, drawing his nose in against his chest.

  “Maybe your dog should cool it in the Camaro?”

  “Let’s try this first.” Jerzy nudged Beezer with his knee and pushed the flat of his hand down toward the hall rug. “This is Clawed’s place. You’d better mind your p’s and q’s, buddy, or you’ll be out in the cold.”

  The Lab slowly lowered to the floor, his muzzle resting over a front leg as far away as he could get from the cat’s scowling puss.

  Clawed sat, tail switching, satisfied to post guard in front of the cowed trespasser.

  Delia motioned Jerzy toward the kitchen as she switched on the light and headed for the fridge. “Through the sliding door at the back of the house. Tub’s sunk into the deck. Just slide the lid off and dial it up.”

  “Oh, um …” An awkward moment had arrived. She looked up from her search for something edible that wasn’t yet a host for fungus. “I don’t have a man’s bathing suit, but the arborvitae hedge around the backyard makes for privacy.”

  The corners of his mouth curved downward. “After today, soggy briefs feel like a second skin.”

  Delia laughed, handing him a bowl of hummus and a packet of semi-petrified pita bread.

  He backed against a counter, digging into the bowl like a tailgater on game day. She stepped toward her bedroom, desperate to get out of the loaner outfit, but not sure into what.

  “Room for two in that tub, right?” Jerzy’s mouth couldn’t have sounded more stuffed. Still, his invitation sent a tingle through her heart. She kept walking and spoke over her shoulder. “Well, okay. Give me a minute.”

  Three swimwear changes later, Delia opened the patio door juggling towels, glasses, and bottles, thanking her inner bitch for making her do all those ab crunches and belly roll-ups at Golda’s. The triggerfish-blue two-piece she’d opted for had come home with her on her last vacation in La Paz.

  She saw no professional issue after what they’d endured. No contradiction either in her fondness for warm seas and white sand beaches, versus the callous, life-sucking river they had just won a round against. Saltwater healed. Rivers killed. And when they didn’t, they left deep scars.

  She left the door partway open—in case Beezer needed an escape route—and padded across the deck. Conscious of the way chill air could pucker, she kept a beach towel wrapped around her.

  Not that the man soaking in her hot tub hadn’t already felt or seen most of her.

  Delia motioned toward Jerzy, holding the necks of a Diablo Rojo and a Garnacha Blanca. “Red or white?”

  His hand came out of the swirling water, waggling that her choice was iffy. “Uh, got anything lighter?” She frowned, setting the glasses down but keeping the bottle.

  “Oh, I guess. Sure, probably good that we don’t, after the day we’ve had.”

  She went back inside and returned with sparkling cider. “I keep it on hand for my aunt Matilda.”

  After pouring two of the bubblies and handing him one, she tossed the towel and stepped in beside him, settling into a wondrous warmth that made her groan with relief. The small tub’s curvature molded them together shoulders to knees. She didn’t mind.

  Jerzy started to take a taste, stopped, and clinked his glass against hers. “To Detective Delia Chavez: oorah lifesaver.”

  She snorted. “You can drop that in the dumb-luck box. If Bastida hadn’t brought back your boat, we’d be floaters for sure, sliding over Willamette Falls about now.”

  He nodded. “When that Zodiac crept back upriver, I figured we were dead meat. Especially the way he’d hovered over us before, inspecting his handiwork. Something had changed his mind. Any notions on what that might be?”

  She took a sip and smiled, batting her eyes. “I look hot when I’m wet?”

  Jerzy took a swallow, grinning. “Definitely would change my mind.” His smile melted away. Their faces were inches apart now, her eyes locked on to his.

  It was a sideways kiss, since both clutched glasses and she still had the bottle. Contact was mouth-to-mouth only. Warm, tender, apple tangy. Too soon over.

  Jerzy had broken off first, his back settling against the staves. She set the half-empty bottle afloat after pouring, polishing off another glass and recapping. She now wished it’d had some kind of kick to it. Confused, she put her glass aside and debated getting out. Maybe his hurt shoulder bothered him too much.

  She moved away, crossing her arms over her chest, staring into the water. Second thoughts about what he’d gotten himself into? About her?

  Setting his own glass aside, he shifted around and looked straight at her. “Will my being here bring trouble for you? I mean, complications with the sheriff?”

  “No more than usual.” She studied his face and saw genuine concern. “Thanks for asking, but what I do off the clock, and who I do what with, is my business.” She sidled back, closer to him. “Truth is, I’m a permanent resident on Grice’s shit list, no matter what. So I might as well do what.”

  “Well, in that case …” With his cheesy grin, he pushed the bottle toward the far side, then continued his smooth move with a theatrical yawn and a movie make-out stretch, ending with his arm behind her head and across her shoulders. Apparently, that injured arm had made a rapid recovery.

  Smiling to herself, she played along and nestled in against his chest.

  Neither spoke for a long while. Long enough that her eyelids started to lower on their own. The rise and fall of his chest against her cheek slowed. The Jacuzzi warbled a bubbly, drowsy lullaby. The poor guy was wiped. He couldn’t even …

  * * *

  Delia swam out of a foggy drowse, opening her eyes to a bobbing bottle and the sensation of her cheek resting against a warm chest. When she lifted her head, Jerzy slowly removed his arm from around her shoulder, rubbing at his bicep.

  “Go away, Beez.” He’d awakened first, apparently by the dog lapping at his ear.

  Beezer complied, flopping down with a groan some distance from the hot tub while Jerzy rubbe
d at his upper arm. “Seems like we nodded off.”

  “Seems so. How’s your shoulder?”

  “Arm tingles and the joint’s stiff, but better.”

  Sitting up, she scrunched around and leaned in close, giving his shoulder a light finger massage. “Looks like Clawed and Beezer reached a truce.” She nodded back across the bubbling hot tub, where her tail-swishing cat lay sprawled atop her beach towel.

  His eyes shifted in that direction, then back on her, as if he’d just noticed her swimwear. “Maybe decided to be friends?”

  Somewhere under a sky full of stars and up on a far ridge, an owl hooted. A love call? she wondered.

  “Hear that owl? He sounds lonesome.”

  “He?” she asked, her fingers traveling downward, kneading his bicep. Finished, she linked her arm inside his.

  “Felt great,” he said, flexing his hand underwater. The hairs on his forearm barely brushed her thigh, sending prickles up into her chest, a flush that spread over the base of her throat. “Just what I needed.” His eyes locked with hers. “Thanks. Catnap did wonders. For both of us, I guess.”

  She lifted her hand, showing the wrinkled undersides of her fingers. “Prune skin, though.”

  “Me, too.” He held his palm up against hers to compare. Their fingers entwined and she drew him close. Her lips moved warmly across his, searching out and finding the sweet spot, then settling in. After a while she broke off but kept in close, inviting with her eyes. Jerzy accepted with a full-press embrace and a hungry kiss. She shut her eyes this time, putting more passion into the moment than she could have done even an hour ago. More than she remembered feeling, maybe ever.

  Their third kiss was supercharged, an exploratory dance of tongue tips that percolated her blood. Suddenly, she drew back and studied his face, weighing. Deciding. The wall lights of the tub ebbed and flowed, reshaped by the constant water movement.