Deception Cove

by Owen Laukkanen

  Harwood stared into the house, at the spray from the fire hoses. “Guess you didn’t know Shelby,” he said at last. “I guess none of us did.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Lucy was gone.

  The Blazer sat where they’d left it, tucked into the shadows in that stand of thin trees. But Lucy wasn’t there; she’d spooked out at the first sound of gunshots, and wherever she’d run to, it wasn’t here.

  Burke lay flat on the gravel and peered under the truck, and Jess watched him, feeling some kind of empty start to grow in her stomach, the sick sense that she and Burke had fucked up, and now the night was slipping away from them.

  One street over, Shelby Walker’s place was a zoo, and the night sky and low clouds were lit up with the reflection of spotlights and flashers from Harwood’s cruiser and the volunteer fire department. The chaos had Harwood distracted for the moment, but Jess knew the deputy wouldn’t stop chasing them for long.

  We have to get out of here.

  Burke pushed himself up from the gravel. Stood and brushed his palms clean on the front of his jeans and squinted off into the dark. “You see her anywhere?”

  “I’m still standing here, aren’t I, Burke?” she said, feeling her anger flare up, frustration. “You don’t think if I’d seen her, I’d have taken action?”

  Burke didn’t reply. He glanced over at her, and his mouth twitched, and then he walked to the front of the Blazer and surveyed the trees some more. She heard him give a low whistle and call out Lucy’s name about as loud as he dared, which wasn’t very loud at all, not with Harwood and his men so close at hand.

  “Black dog on a dark night,” he said, walking back over to where Jess stood. “What do you think we should do?”

  Jess didn’t have an answer for him, just that gnawing void inside her, getting ever larger with every minute that passed. Black dog on a dark night. Best-case scenario, she digs a hole somewhere and stays hidden until dawn.

  And the worst case?

  Worst case was Kirby Harwood took another thing from her. Same as he’d taken Ty, same as he’d taken her house. Worst case was she’d lose the only damn thing she had left; same as she’d lost Afia in that terrible valley. Worst case was Jess would let another friend die.

  She met Burke’s eyes. “I need to haul ass for Dixie, find that package Ty stole,” she told him. “You stick to the shadows, keep your eyes open, you might just find that dog before Kirby does. Hole her up somewhere safe until I’m home free.”

  “And if you don’t make it?” Burke said.

  “If I don’t make it?” Jess laughed a little bit, hollow. “Well, shit, I guess that’ll clear up the question of who gets to keep Lucy when it’s all said and done, right?”

  Burke looked around again, as if he was expecting Lucy would just come running out of the trees, save them the tough conversation. But Jess knew better. Lucy wasn’t coming back here, she knew. Not on her own.

  “You don’t make it,” Burke said finally, turning to face her again. “I take Lucy back to Michigan. And then, what, we all just forget about Harwood? No.…” He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you to finish this thing by yourself.”

  Jess stared at him. Hating him. Wishing he’d just shut up and play by her rules. Knowing he was right, that she’d need him for this next part, and hating him all the more for it.

  She let out a breath.

  “I need to track down some supplies before we get out of here,” she said. “There’s no sense the both of us running errands while the dog’s on the loose. Can you find your own way to the government wharf?”

  Burke nodded.

  “Thirty minutes, Burke,” she said. “If you can’t find her by then, we’ve just got to hope she found a good place to hide.”

  “I’ll find her,” he replied, already turning to go. “See you in thirty.”

  “That damn dog is probably going to get us all killed.”

  He stopped. Looked back at her, and he was smiling a little bit, wry. “Oh, probably,” he agreed. “But you know that dog would surely die for us, too.” Then he shouldered the shotgun and set off down the road.

  Thirty-Eight

  Jess drove the Blazer through Deception Cove toward Main Street, her eyes half on the road ahead for any sign of Lucy, half on the rearview in case Kirby or his friends had taken notice. She thought about the dog as she drove, and she felt the dog’s absence like concrete crushing down on her chest, as heavy as the exhaustion that dragged at her eyelids and slowed her thoughts to sludge.

  She hadn’t slept much lately, and neither had Burke, as best as she could tell, and she wondered how much longer they could go on like this, full out, before one of them fucked everything up.

  Jess wondered if they’d already fucked up. And she wondered how much it would cost them.

  She made it to Main Street and turned south up the hill toward the highway, climbed the hill and slowed at the top and turned into the lot out front of Hank Moss’s motel. She guided the Blazer in around the long, low building and parked in back, in front of Hank’s apartment back door, cut the lights, killed the engine, and stepped out onto damp gravel. There was smoke in the air, mixing with the salt air off the ocean and the smell of diesel off the highway. That smoke was from Shelby Walker’s place, Jess knew, and her own house too. It was a reminder that she’d already lost plenty.

  Jess squared her shoulders and walked to Hank’s apartment and knocked on the door.

  The motel owner swore she hadn’t woken him up, though he answered the door bleary eyed and in jockey shorts, his T-shirt inside out. Jess explained the situation, everything she could. Capped off with the shootout at Shelby Walker’s house, Lucy gone missing.

  Hank’s reply was a long string of army-issue curse words. “What do you need?” he asked when he was done with the cursing.

  “Firepower,” she told him. “And a chart and tide tables for Dixie.”

  The guns were the easy part. Hank had a duffel bag full of a couple of pistols—SIG Sauer P320 and a Beretta M9, ammunition for both—and one long gun, a Colt semiautomatic that looked a lot like the M4 carbines that had saved Jess’s ass more than a couple of times in Afghanistan.

  “All registered in my name,” Hank told her. “So don’t get caught holding, or it’s my ass too. I’ll give you to the day after tomorrow, and then I’m reporting everything stolen. Can Burke shoot?”

  “Not yet. But he’ll learn.”

  “Guess he’ll have a decent teacher.” Hank handed her a little pamphlet and a folded, well-worn marine chart. “That there is Dixie,” he told Jess. “I’ve only done the pass a couple of times, but I tried to mark it out how I remembered, best I could.”

  Jess took the chart. “I appreciate it. Are those the tide tables?”

  “They are indeed.” Hank made to hand them over, hesitated. “Listen, even Ty got nervous running that pass, Jess. There’s a lot of good sailors been wrecked at that entrance.”

  “It’s the only good anchorage on that island, right?” she said. “Ty said the rest is all cliffs and exposed beach. We’ve got no other choice.”

  “You go in a slack tide, or you don’t go at all.” Hank handed her the tide tables. “Eight thirty tomorrow morning, that’s your next shot. Miss it, and you’re waiting all day.”

  “We can’t afford to wait.” Jess zipped closed the duffel bag. Lifted it and started for the door. “I’d better get moving. Thanks for your help.”

  Hank lingered. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked Jess. “It’s been a long while since I fired a weapon in anger, but I can’t see how it’s something you forget.”

  “You’ve done more than enough, Hank,” she told him. “You’ve got brothers. Family. Just keep an eye out for my dog, would you?”

  She didn’t have to say the rest. This might be a suicide mission, what we’re talking about here. There’s a good chance we don’t come back. She figured Hank already knew that part.

  He didn
’t argue, anyway. Just nodded again and watched her drive off.

  Thirty-Nine

  Somewhere in Deception Cove, Lucy was scared.

  She’d bolted when she heard the gunshots, the noise of the fight triggering some flight instinct inside her such that everything but her fear disappeared from her mind. She’d run from Mason and Jess, wouldn’t have returned even if they’d called to her, run to the Blazer and didn’t recognize it in her panic, and kept running into the trees as the firefight continued behind her.

  Now she was lost. The guns had stopped firing, but the night was still filled with unfamiliar sounds, threatening sounds. Car doors slammed. Men shouted. Diesel trucks rumbled past. Lucy stayed to the shadows, slunk alongside dark houses, her ears flattened back and her tail tucked between her legs, the leash dragging on the ground behind her. She wasn’t panicked anymore, but she was scared nonetheless. She wanted to find Jess and Mason and safety.

  And she wanted to see to it that Jess was all right.

  Lucy might well have hidden. Curled up in the crawl space beneath somebody’s trailer and shivered and been scared and waited for dawn or death or whatever was coming for her. But she was a well-trained animal. And though she felt fear, she also felt a duty to Jess and a kinship to Mason, and it was those instincts that won out over her fear.

  She stayed as hidden as possible, but she didn’t stop moving. She skulked through weedy backyards and over crumbling asphalt streets, searching for Mason and Jess.

  * * *

  The man named Joy also searched the streets. He drove slow in his black Suburban, eyes scanning left and right for any movement, any life, anything out of the ordinary. He kept his thoughts calm, and he drove with a patience. The night had been singularly unsuccessful thus far, but Joy held out hope that the widow and her companion would make a mistake. People always did.

  Joy would hunt them. He would hunt as he’d hunted years ago, across the ocean, when rivals in the swamps of the Niger delta were stealing oil—his oil—from the pipelines, stealing food from his family’s table. Joy had been a good hunter then. He’d been patient and resourceful. He’d allowed the rival militiamen to wander so far into his traps, there was no possible escape but the slaughter. His family had eaten well. The oil had remained in his employer’s control.

  This was not the Niger delta. The widow and her friend were not militiamen. But Joy would hunt them all the same, and he would slaughter them, too.

  Something moved in the shadows ahead, at the fringe of the Suburban’s headlights. An animal, low to the ground and blacker than the night, trotting alongside the pavement in the same direction as Joy was driving. A dog, he saw, black with white markings. A leash but no owner to hold it. Possibly it was the widow’s dog. But where was the widow?

  Joy slowed the Suburban as he gained ground on the dog. The dog continued on its way, oblivious to Joy’s Suburban or ignoring it. It moved with a purpose, trotting at a steady pace, nose to the ground and hackles slightly raised, as though it knew the night was hostile, but meant to reach its destination regardless.

  The dog moved with such purpose that Joy couldn’t help but believe it really was the widow’s animal. Perhaps they’d been separated in the earlier confusion. The dog had been lost. The dog seemed to know where it was going, anyhow. Joy resolved to follow. If he was lucky, the dog would lead him to the widow.

  The dog trotted onward. Joy idled behind. He searched the night for any sign of the widow, and he let the dog lead him where it would.

  * * *

  Is this a mistake?

  Mason walked the empty streets, searching for the dog. Passed a church and a cemetery, a boatyard full up with decrepit, rotting hulks. Every block he walked had more shadows, more places for Lucy to hide. Mason figured the dog must be too scared to run, must have squirreled down a hole somewhere, must be all but invisible.

  Come on, he thought, peering out into the dark. Come on, dog, show yourself. Come out of your hiding hole and let’s haul ass for Dixie.

  He checked the time on his watch and saw that twenty minutes had passed, and he knew it was about time he found his way to the harbor. Knew Jess would leave without him if he didn’t show in time.

  Lord, lead me in your righteousness because of my foes, he thought. Make your way straight before me.

  But Lucy still wasn’t there when he looked up from his watch, and nothing on the street had moved or changed. And he didn’t see any sign anywhere from any higher power that he ought to stay here or go to Jess, and he knew the decision was his to make, and his alone.

  And he hoped he was making the right decision, if there was such a thing. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

  Find a deep hole, girl, he thought. Find a deep hole, and stay there until we come back for you.

  He squared his shoulders and turned to walk down to the harbor. And then he saw her.

  Forty

  Lucy was a block away from Mason, moving east. South of where he stood, toward the hill and the highway, not the water. He watched her trot into the intersection and pause and sniff the ground, and he knew it was her, recognized the way she was running with her back in a hunch like she was scared, her nose low to the pavement and her tail tucked. Saw the leash dragging behind her and knew she was his dog, all right.

  He started after Lucy, but she was already moving again. Continuing east toward Main Street, on a side road parallel to Mason’s own, and before Mason could run to her or call out, she’d crossed the intersection and disappeared from view behind somebody’s house.

  Mason figured to cut her off. He cradled the shotgun and jogged east, past more quiet houses and trailers in various states of abandonment. He knew he should stay careful, stealthy, keep aware of his surroundings, but he didn’t want to lose the dog again. There was a vacant lot at the end of the next block, and he imagined he could angle across it and get in front of Lucy.

  He ran, the shotgun heavy in his arms and his heart pounding in his ears. Made the empty lot and ran through tall weeds and bare dirt, dodging refuse and varmint holes. Slipped in the mud and almost ate shit, but he managed to stay upright and didn’t hardly lose speed. He cleared the lot and came out on the street where Lucy should have been, and she was right there where he expected, still trotting along on the other side of the street, heading for a destination Mason couldn’t conceive of.

  He called out to her and she stiffened, and he thought he’d spooked her again, but then she turned and saw it was him and her tail wagged and her ears relaxed, and she looked east again toward Main Street and then back at Mason, and then, cautiously, took a step in his direction.

  Mason met her in the middle of the street. Took the lead from the ground behind her and wrapped it around his knuckles, scratched Lucy behind the ears and leaned down and let her lick his face, and he could feel her relief in the way she nuzzled against him, and he wondered if she could feel how he was relieved too.

  And it was about that moment that Mason’s focus expanded, and he became aware of the glare of the headlights and the roar of a Detroit motor as someone in a big black SUV bore down fast on them from the direction of Shelby Walker’s place, to the west.

  * * *

  Joy pressed hard on the accelerator, closing the distance between his Suburban and the widow’s friend and her dog. He’d let the dog lead him, and now Joy would reap the reward. He would use the ex-convict to lead him to the widow, and the widow would lead him to Okafor’s missing product. Joy was certain he could convince both parties to cooperate.

  But first he had to relieve the ex-convict of his shotgun. And perhaps the use of his legs.

  Joy sped his vehicle toward man and dog, washing the criminal in the bright white of his high beams. The criminal had been fumbling with the dog’s leash, but now he reached for the shotgun, swinging it toward the Suburban as the Suburban ate road. Joy didn’t waver. The Suburban would hit before the man could take aim. It would run the man over, maim him, kill the dog. Joy would intervi
ew the man as he lay bleeding in the street. Then he would kill him.

  The man didn’t have time to mount a credible defense. Joy kept his foot planted. Smiled as man and dog disappeared beneath the nose of the vehicle, and waited to hear their bodies break beneath his wheels.

  * * *

  There was no time for the shotgun. Mason grabbed Lucy, shoved her away from the truck, and then leapt clear himself, dodging the wheels but clipping his knee on the bumper, bouncing off hard and skidding across gritty asphalt.

  Lucy was running again. This time her leash hobbled her; she stepped on it and stumbled in her haste to get clear. Mason pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the shotgun, ignored yesterday’s aches and the fresh pain in his knee, and hurried after the dog as, behind him, the Suburban came to a hard stop. Mason reached the dog and took her lead in his hand without losing a step, without losing his grip on the shotgun. Dragged her off the street and up between two ratty trailers, heard a car door slam behind him and then footsteps as the driver gave chase.

  Mason and Lucy cut between the trailers, reached a tangled and unkempt patch of grass in the back. He kept running, and Lucy figured out the game; she loped along beside him, then ahead, until she was dragging Mason forward and he was struggling to keep up.

  They cleared the grassy patch and reached a tired shed at the edge of the property line and, beyond it, thin trees and a narrow, deep creek bed. Mason slowed Lucy before she could drop into the ditch, ducked behind the shed and raised the shotgun. Waited, listening for the sound of their pursuer.

  He could kill this man now. Somehow Mason knew this was the man who’d murdered Shelby Walker. He’d wanted to shoot the man in the Walker backyard; now he would have his chance. Mason could hear the man approaching, hear him breathing. In seconds he would come around the side of the shed. Mason could put him down, easy.