by Nancy Bush
Still, it came as a small shock to realize he was out of shape, that he couldn’t just fire up the engines and expect to run at breakneck pace, full-on, for as long as it took. Not only did he see long hours in the gym ahead of him, he saw a possible fine-tuning of his diet. Fewer burgers, fries, and greasy fast-food chicken. More salads, fruits, and vegetables lightly sauteed in olive oil. That was fine by him, but he was no gourmet cook. If it didn’t come out of a drive-thru window, it was kind of off the menu.
The fact that Cade Worster had brought him to this realization put him in a foul mood, and that foul mood made it impossible for him to feel kindly toward the fleet-footed thief.
He walked right around the back of the house and didn’t have to knock, holler, or attempt a break-in because Cade was coming out of the back with a hastily thrown-together black duffel bag in one hand and his precious pizza box balanced in the other. He was holding a slice of pizza in his teeth, the cheese and pepperoni sliding with gravity.
“Don’t move,” Lang said in his cop voice. He didn’t have his gun. It was locked in the glove box. Didn’t have anything but his anger, but by the wide-eyed fear in the younger man’s eyes, he thought it might be enough.
A piece of pepperoni hit the ground. Lang didn’t drop eye contact with the kid.
Cade’s shoulders slumped. He slipped the pizza box under his chin, opened his jaw, and dropped the piece of pizza atop the cardboard. “Ah, man…” The duffel bag hit the top step and bounced down to Lang’s level.
“I just wanna talk about your cousin, Rafe. That’s all.”
It took a while for that to register. He was either slow or scared. Maybe both. “What?”
“You sold a Chevy truck to him.”
“Sold it? Shit, no. He borrowed the fuckin’ thing for forever! He owes me!”
“This is the same truck you borrowed from Tim Rooney, about a year ago?”
“Don’t know what’ cher talkin’ about.”
“Let’s go in and sit down and I’ll make myself clear.”
He didn’t want to. He didn’t really get who Lang was and what it was all about, but that suited Lang just fine. He hated the waste of time it took to play by the rules, and anyway, Lang didn’t give a rat’s ass about what Cade stole from whom and why.
Cade picked up his pizza box and shuffled back in the house and Lang took the two steps in one stride and followed him in. Cade stood in front of the refrigerator and Lang positioned himself to face him with his back to the counter. If the kid decided to escape again, Lang could leap either way and make a great stab at stopping him.
“Who are you?” Cade decided it was time to ask.
Lang ignored him. “I think your cousin Rafe is dead. I think he took your truck, with or without your permission, and left with his pregnant girlfriend. But something happened at a rest stop on Highway 26 and he was stabbed and killed. The pregnant girlfriend was attacked, too.”
Cade had set the pizza box on the counter and it was a good thing, too, because his arms went slack to his sides and his jaw dropped. “Bullshit,” he said.
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“I saw about the pregnant girl—don’t know her—but Rafe? Nah, man. You gotta be wrong.”
“I’ve got a picture I could show you.”
“A dead picture?” Cade’s brows lifted in dismay. “Like of a dead person?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“I kinda need an identification,” Lang said.
“Who are you, man?”
Cade was getting upset, so Lang told him about working with the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department and his pending job appointment with Tillamook. Cade’s attention faded away early on but Lang realized it was because he believed him, didn’t much care, and was processing the information about Rafe.
“Rafe Black Bear’s your cousin,” Lang finished, trying to nail down the facts.
“Yeah, man, but his name’s not Black Bear. People just call him that ’cause it was his dad’s name, but his mom and dad never married. His dad was an Injun. But Rafe’s a Worster, like me. His mom and my dad are brother and sister.”
“So you’re saying that Rafe took your truck without your knowledge?”
“That’s about it.”
“You know when?”
“Uh…a couple weeks ago?”
“Are you asking me?” Lang almost smiled. It was the classic attitude of a kid who was searching for the right answer to keep himself out of trouble.
“I don’t know, man. Why don’t you just leave me alone.” He wrapped his arms even closer around his chest.
“If it’s Rafe, and somebody killed him…” Lang tried.
“It’s not Rafe. He’s too real to die.”
“Too real?”
“Look, he’s a pain in the ass, okay? But he’s all right.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I’ve got a picture of a homicide victim. I’m pretty sure he’s your cousin. I just need some identification. And then I need to find who stabbed him, and you might be able to help catch his killer.”
“You got it wrong. It’s not Rafe.”
“Denial isn’t going to change the truth,” Lang said. “Let me go get the picture.”
As he turned to the door, hoping to high heaven that the kid wouldn’t start running again, he saw Cade’s gaze drop to the floor. He seemed to shrink in upon himself. “Ah, man…” he said with a catch in his voice, sliding down the front of the refrigerator to sit on the floor, his forehead touching his knees, his hands clasped on his head.
He was finally getting the picture.
Feeling like a heel, Lang hurried to his truck for the manila folder that held Rafe Worster’s photograph.
Claire’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?”
“There’s a call for you from Leesha at Laurelton General,” the receptionist said.
“Put it through.”
A moment later, Leesha was on the line. “How’re you doing? How’s our Jane Doe?”
“Getting better. Still unaware. Still pregnant,” Claire said with a smile in her voice. “How are things going with you?”
“The emergency room’s run over by people who think they’ve got the flu. I was just wondering…did that nurse ever get hold of you? The one who thought she could identify Jane Doe? Dark hair. Medium tall. From Good Sam?”
“No one’s contacted me. Maybe she talked to Freeson, though I think he would’ve said something.”
“I gave her your name specifically.”
“It didn’t happen.”
“Huh.” Leesha sounded perplexed. “Maybe she changed her mind. I was kinda pissed, ’cause I thought the girl at the front desk gave out Jane Doe’s whereabouts, but she said no. This nurse must’ve figured it out on her own. She sure acted like she was going to come your way.”
“I thought the authorities were sifting through would-be identifiers.”
“They are. It just seemed like she might know something…hmm…”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Claire’s next appointment knocked on the door, a stunning athlete whose dream of playing college football had been dashed when he’d been diagnosed with an enlarged heart. He was having serious trouble redirecting himself and was so low that Claire had prescribed antidepressants and made sure he was never alone.
She hung up as he slouched himself into a chair. “How are you doing, Jeremiah?” she asked and spent the next hour pulling out monosyllabic replies that didn’t bode well for his overall mental health.
Cade was still in the same position when Lang got back. He lifted his head a little, peeking from beneath dark brown bangs, as the back door squeaked open and Lang reentered the kitchen. His gaze zeroed in on the manila envelope in Lang’s hands and he swallowed hard. Lang pulled out the photograph, the one of the victim on the ME’s stainless steel gurney, most of his body covered by a sheet, though a stab wound near his collarbone was plain to see, and held
it up for him.
Cade swallowed. “Shit,” he whispered.
“It’s Rafe?”
“Fuck…oh, God…holy shit…”
“Put your head between your knees,” Lang ordered, seeing the color drain from his face. When Cade didn’t seem to hear, Lang dropped the picture on the floor and pushed Cade’s head down for him, using more speed than finesse. Cade was gulping air.
“Can you tell me about him?” Lang asked after a couple of moments. “He was your cousin and a friend. You both grew up around here.”
He lifted his face and his eyes were red. He wasn’t exactly crying; Cade was a tough guy. But he sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. “Rafe’s dad was never a real dad, y’know. He was gone early. I don’t know. Maybe somebody knows where he is, but Rafe didn’t. And he didn’t care. His mom died a coupla years ago. Some kinda cancer. Rafe was rentin’ with me for a while but he moved.”
“To where?”
Cade shook his head, either not knowing or maybe just not eager to tell.
“You haven’t been aware that he’s been missing,” Lang said.
“He goes off sometimes. He just works in people’s yards and doin’ stuff like hauling crap away and fixes fences and stuff.”
“A handyman.”
“Yeah, a handyman, I guess. And a lover.” He shot Lang a weak smile. “Really got the girls. Just, they were all over him.”
“A good-looking guy,” Lang said. In this kind of interview, it was all about keeping them talking.
“Yeah, but, more’n that, too. He was kinda stupid-good? Never really knew what was going on with women, what they were thinking. He just sorta ignored all their shit and was okay with it? You know what I mean?”
“I think so.” Lang’s own experience with women was limited to a couple of half-assed relationships that he sensed might be his own fault. He sorta ignored them, too, but he wasn’t really okay with any of it. He just thought they should stop acting hysterical or emotional or ridiculous, and they had a tendency to object to that opinion.
“Women are all over that shit,” Cade said.
“Was he dating a blond woman? Someone around twenty, maybe?”
“Nah.”
“No? He was with a young blond woman who was pregnant.”
“Hell, no!” Cade blinked a couple of times. “Maybe you got the wrong guy! Rafe was with Rita. She just, like, took him over!”
“That couldn’t be this girl?”
“Nah, she’s part Injun. Dark hair. Kinda fierce-lookin’ in that cool way, like she’s gonna eat you alive, y’know? He was really hot for her…although…” He thought a long moment, staring off into space.
“Although?” Lang prompted.
“Although, I don’t know. He didn’t talk about her much lately. I haven’t seen him a lot, really. He was busy at that job with the cult.”
“The cult?” Lang was half-amused, half-exasperated. Cade’s rambling view on women and relationships, and now the mention of a cult, made him wonder how much of this recount was truth and how much was Cade’s own weird take on life as he knew it.
“You know them? The ones that live at the lodge with the big fence around it? Been there forever, like some of them are really ancient. I’ve seen some younger ones, though. Once in a while. They all wear those long dresses and their hair’s up.” He motioned upward in a spiral that Lang took to represent a bun. “Rafe’s been doin’ work for them for a while. They really don’t let anybody in but him.”
“Could this girl have been from there?”
“Was she wearin’ a long dress?”
“Uh…” Lang wasn’t sure. “A smock, or something. She’s pretty pregnant.”
“Too bad you can’t just ask her,” Cade said.
“No one’s come forward to identify her, even with all the press.”
“Bet she’s from that place, then.” Cade nodded. “They don’t have TV. They don’t do nothin’, like, modern. It’s like Little House on the Prairie. You ever seen that old show?”
“I know of it.”
“That’s what they dress like.”
“Are they blond?”
Cade rolled that over. “Maybe. I’ve seen the old lady. She’s gray. And she’s the one who lets you through the gate, or not. Mostly not. The younger one I saw mighta had a hat on. Coulda been blond.”
“Maybe I should go talk to them. See if one of them’s run away.”
“Good luck with that.” Cade snorted. “I bet you don’t get past the gate.”
“Where is this place?”
Cade described it as being closer to the highway, near Deception Bay, with a view across the road to the ocean but back down a long, rutted lane. “You know where the lighthouse is?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“And then there’s an island out there? Rocky and kinda in like a hospital?”
“Inhospitable?” Lang guessed.
“Yeah, that’s it. Their lodge looks right out over that. If you’re on the water, lookin’ back, you can see their place. All fucked up, spookylike. Candles and shit. Looks like it’s lookin’ back at ya? You know what I mean? Like its windows are eyes and it sees you.”
“Uh-huh…”
“But don’t go out on the bay if you don’t know what you’re doin’. That’s why it’s called Deception Bay, y’know. My dad told me. Because boats get smashed against the island, or the lighthouse, or the jetty. Lots of accidents with stupid boaters who don’t know what they’re doin’.”
Lang realized Cade had a lot more imagination than most thieves he’d run across. Most of them were in the clutches of meth or heroin or some other addictive drug that forced them to steal to make money to buy more drugs. Maybe Cade had an addiction problem, maybe he didn’t. But he sure as hell wasn’t the usual lost soul Lang ran across.
“I’m going to give your name to a friend of mine at the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department.”
“I told you everything I know! What do you mean? Thanks a lot, you bastard. I don’t have the truck no more. You guys have it! It’s not my fault it’s stolen!”
“Actually, yeah, it is. You stole it first,” Lang corrected him. “But that’s not what I meant. We need someone from Rafe’s family to make arrangements for the body.”
“Oh, shit, no.”
“Looks like it’s you, unless he has some other closer relative?”
“No…no…” He was on his feet, absorbing, starting to pace.
“Can you name me another relative? What about your dad and mom?”
“Mom’s remarried. She’s not around. Dad lives in Seaside. You can call him.” Cade looked relieved. “That’d be about it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Lang picked up the picture and slid it back into the folder.
“Dad doesn’t like Rafe. He thinks he’s a bad influence.”
Since Rafe had a job and it looked like Cade’s source of income was from criminal activity, Lang wondered who was the bad influence on whom.
“I know you’re tellin’ me the truth,” Cade said, “but I still think Rafe could walk in here any minute. I don’t really believe he’s gone, though I know he is, y’know?”
“Yeah.”
Lang left, thinking about Melody all the way back to his house.
Chapter 13
Lang had a laptop as old as Methuselah. Its wireless capabilities, though it purported to have them, were cagey. Sometimes they acted like they were there, but then, mysteriously, they were gone. He couldn’t remember the last time his laptop had connected to the Internet unless it was actually plugged directly into the modem. Maybe never.
“Gotta stop paying for that service,” he said to the empty family room. The television was on, flickering with an action movie he thought he’d seen before but couldn’t quite place. Not that he was paying much attention. His thoughts were elsewhere, on his case that wasn’t really his case, and on his upcoming employment with the TCSD, and on Claire Norris, though he sought to deny it.
&n
bsp; It had been an interesting week and a half.
He’d been to Seaside to talk to Cade Worster’s father, Silas Worster. Silas was a developer whose business had died in the housing slump and now he worked as an electrician, his original trade. More accurately, he was currently an electrician’s assistant, as the amount of work had dwindled from a rushing river to a trickle that sometimes was a mere drip.
Lang met Worster outside Palmer Electric, which Worster suggested after Lang called the office and left a message on the man’s cell phone voice mail. Worster was picking up some supplies before his next job the following morning, and when Lang connected with him, it was while he was checking off a list he had on a clipboard of various and sundry wires, tools, and equipment.
“You’re the guy who called?” he questioned, giving Lang the once-over.
Worster himself was about five-ten, going to gray though he still had most of his hair, lean enough except for the beginnings of a middle-aged belly. He wore gray work pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a Columbia Sportswear jacket with a hood and a lot of pockets, most of them weighted down with tools of the trade.
Lang introduced himself as working with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and explained about the body at the Winslow County ME’s office, waiting for identification and dispersal. He showed him the picture of Rafe’s body on the gurney.
Worster turned back to his checklist. “Cade gave you my name.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s just about what you’d expect. Pass the buck. Make dear old dad clean up every mess.”
“This isn’t about Cade,” Lang said slowly, feeling his way.
“My son and I don’t talk. We don’t really like each other. The only time he contacts me is when he needs something from me.”
“He said that Rafe Worster was the man in the picture and that Rafe is his cousin. He also said there’s no one else in the family except him and you.”
“Well, he was telling the truth there, for once.” He tossed the clipboard into the back of his truck and slammed the doors shut. “So, how’d Rafe get himself killed?”
Lang explained about the rest stop and the knifing, and Silas Worster suddenly woke up.