"The cane," she said. "I read . . . I heard you used a cane. Because of what happened with your . . ." She trailed off, but Gage heard her say the last word anyway: wife.
"Sometimes," he said.
"You left it in your van, didn't you?"
"Are we going to talk about my cane or are we going to talk about important people with little minds?"
She nodded, and he saw just a hint of a smile. "Always to the point. It's why I loved you."
The word love, even in the casual way she'd uttered it, startled him. It seemed to startle her as well. He could see it in her eyes.
"Anyway," she said quickly, "you never heard the whole story. That little weasely man—that principal, what was his name? Harold Jefferies. He had pictures. Of us together."
"What?" Gage said.
"I don't know how he got them, but I have my theories. I think one of his good-old-boy friends hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on me. He needed something to blackmail me to leave of my own accord."
Gage shook his head. "I thought you quit."
"That's what he wanted everyone to think."
"Couldn't he have just—" Gage began, and then answered his own question. "He didn't want to fire you. He was afraid it would create a controversy."
"He was afraid I would create a controversy. And he was right. I probably would have. If they were going to get rid of me for teaching that Creationism is a nice bedtime story and nothing more, well, I would have gone out in a blaze of glory. Much better if he could force me to quit and leave town without making a stink. He just needed the right kind of leverage." She shrugged. "I guess he found it."
This was all new to Gage. He felt like a fool. In hindsight, it should have been obvious, but he'd been young and too blinded by his own bitterness to see beyond the simple fact of her leaving. He'd never questioned why. He'd always assumed she'd simply gotten bored with him. Or that he'd simply been a pleasant diversion. Maybe not even pleasant—just a diversion. Red Castle had never suited her. He'd just been something to do until she found a way to escape. Even with this new information in mind, it was still hard to get over the abruptness of her departure.
"I really did want to say goodbye," Angela said, as if reading his mind. "I was just—you know, afraid you'd make a stink about it. Get yourself in trouble. I didn't want that. Better to have you angry with me than angry with the whole world."
Gage still wasn't sure he bought her explanation completely, but he didn't see much good in retreading this ground forever. "Yeah, well, I ended up angry with the whole world anyway. It's a genetic flaw, I'm afraid."
She smiled. "You know, therapy could help with that."
"Problem is, hating the whole world pretty much includes therapists."
"Ah. Well, a really kind therapist helped me get through a divorce a couple years ago, so I guess I have a soft spot for them. Or maybe I just read The Prince of Tides too many times."
"That's where the 'Wellman' came from? From your ex-husband?"
"Yes. Too much trouble to change my last name after having been married for a decade."
"I'm sorry to hear that. About the divorce, I mean."
She shrugged. "Just grew apart, that's all. I married someone who wanted to change the world and I eventually found myself sleeping next to a man who cared more about his 401K and his golf swing. And I went the opposite direction—I found myself wanting to re-commit myself to something bigger than myself."
"So that brings us tonight's feature presentation," Gage said, eager to get out of the doldrums of the past. He was afraid she was going to start asking him questions about Janet. "I assume that's where Loren Sparrow comes in?"
"Eventually, yes," she said. "I met him at one of his speeches about three years ago when he was in Boston. It was when he was promoting The Beautiful Godless Universe. One thing led to another and eventually I became his business manager."
One thing led to another. Gage knew that phrase could mean a lot of different things. She saw his hesitation.
"It wasn't like that," she said.
"Ah."
"I mean—there was something briefly, but . . . No. He relies on me a lot, but our relationship is strictly professional."
"I see."
"Will you stop that?"
"Stop what?"
"That damn condescending tone!"
"I didn't realize—"
"It was a stupid fling," she said. "It was hot and wonderful and brief. But it couldn't really hold up."
"I see. Kind of like another relationship from your past?"
"Is that bitterness I hear, Garrison?"
"Nope. Just an observation."
The muscles in her jaw were tight. She kneaded the bedspread in her fists. "I see. Well, whatever. Just because we're not sleeping together doesn't mean I don't worry about him. And I'm really worried about him, Garrison. That's why I'm here. He's in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
Angela regarded him coolly for a few seconds, then the anger subsided, the clenched fists relaxing their death grip on the bedspread. "Do you know about The God's Wrath people?"
The fact he'd just been discussing them at dinner would have been a very strange coincidence except that just about everybody was talking about them at dinner these days. "The religious fanatics behind all those murders? Who doesn't?"
She swallowed. "I think they're going to kill Loren."
"What?"
"They've been threatening him for weeks. First letters. Then phone calls. Emails. Crazy stuff. They want him to recant all his theories and embrace Jesus. If he doesn't—if he doesn't . . . They said they'll make an example out of him. They've been showing up at his lectures and yelling at him for a couple years, but it's never been this bad. They're going to kill him, Garrison. I'm sure of it. We have to stop them. We have—we have to do something."
Her voice was changing, speeding up, taking on that anxious quality he'd heard on the phone. She didn't sound like the Angela he remembered. He realized he'd really botched this whole thing pretty badly. What else was new? Story of his life. He grabbed a lime green chair that was against the wall and scooted it in front of her, taking her hands. They were cold.
"All right," he said, "let's take this one step at a time. Have you called the police?"
"I want to," she said
"Let me guess. Loren doesn't?"
She shook her head. "He said he's afraid it'll give them the publicity they're seeking. He said—he said that's why they're targeting him. To raise their profile."
"How about protection? Has he hired any bodyguards?"
"He won't. He said that'd be letting them win."
"Protecting himself is letting them win?"
She stared at him. He became conscious of their touching hands, how close they were sitting. She pulled her fingers away, gently, fiddling nervously with her hair.
"You don't know Loren," she said. "That's how he thinks. Everything is an ideological war."
Gage chose his words carefully. "I guess I'm just not sure what you think I can do."
"You're a private investigator. I thought maybe you could, you know, investigate."
"I was a private investigator. I'm retired now."
"You can't retire from what you are, Garrison."
"Did you get that from the inside of a fortune cookie? Look, if I were you, I'd just call the police no matter what he says."
She shook her head vehemently. "He'd never forgive me if I brought the police in on my own. He'd probably hate me for even talking to you if he knew. He thinks I'm visiting an old senile aunt."
"I've been called worse," Gage said.
That got her to laugh—not much, but it broke the dour mood. "I just didn't know who else to turn to, Garrison. I'm a pretty tough woman, but this . . ." She shook her head. "It gets worse, too. I think—I think he tried to buy them off."
"What?"
"I overheard him on phone. This is back in Boston, last week. He thought—he tho
ught I hadn't come into the office yet. I was back in the supply closet. The phone rang. It was them. He yelled at them. He told them it should be enough. He said—he said that was all they were going to get so they should leave him alone. When he saw me, he hung up. I asked him if that was them. He wouldn't answer but I could tell by his eyes it was. I begged him to go to the police. He got angry. He said he'd handle it. This was two nights ago. That's when I started thinking about you. It was luck that you happened to be in Oregon at the same time."
"Lucky me," he said. When her eyes clouded, he added, "Sorry—that came out wrong. I am glad you're here."
"Are you? Really?"
He nodded. "But I still think the best thing you can do is bring the police in on this."
"Oh, I couldn't."
"If they kill him, Angela, they're going to get far more publicity. And taking a payoff, that's a different twist. That's not something they've done before as far as we know. It might help the FBI on this."
"He'd be so mad at me."
"Well, I was too once. You get over it."
She looked hurt. "Oh, Garrison, I really am sorry—"
"Let's not play that song again, okay? Really. It's okay. Look, how about we sleep on it? You think about calling the police. I'll brainstorm a little more. Maybe something else will come to me. I'll be back here at eight in the morning. We'll do breakfast."
"I need to leave by eight. To be in Eugene. He's—he's expecting me."
"Okay, I'll be here at seven then. I think I can manage to drag myself out of bed at that hour."
"Night owl, huh?"
"Not really," Gage said. "Just not a big fan of mornings."
There was a flicker in the eyes. It started as amusement then shifted to something else. They held the gaze for a moment, then she rose, awkwardly. There was heat between them when they walked to the door. He could feel it. When she opened the door for him, he held out his hand. She ignored it and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, a whisper of a kiss but it still got his blood going.
"Thank you," she said softly.
She pulled back. He could still smell her perfume—vanilla. Or was it body lotion? Her eyes were wide and bright. Something could happen if he didn't speak soon.
"Until tomorrow," he said. His voice was thick.
She smiled. It looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead she nodded and closed the door.
* * * * *
On the Oregon Coast, the temperature seldom ranged beyond mild, regardless of the season, but on the way back to the van there was a cold snap to the breeze that definitely gave the night the feel of winter. Traffic was nonexistent. He had the road to himself, the air thick near the pavement.
Driving home, Gage felt a weird brew of emotions—a stirring of happiness, because even though Angela had abandoned him all those years ago, he was still happy to see her; and a gnawing guilt for allowing himself to even entertain sexual thoughts about her. Carmen had been good to him, hadn't she? The least he could do was not botch it up by being unfaithful. She deserved an honest effort.
He was tempted to drive straight to Carmen's house so he could show her exactly what she meant to him, but decided it might be better to let her cool down after the tense end to their evening. There was also Bruzzi to consider. He was still lurking. He would have to be dealt with eventually, and until then Gage wanted to keep those he cared about at a safe distance.
He was therefore both surprised and irritated to find Carmen's red Toyota Camry parked in his gravel driveway. Not only that, but lights were on in the house.
When he barged through the front door, intent on chewing her out for ignoring his warnings, he never got a chance to say a word.
She was on him in a blur. He only caught a flash of blond hair and silky white skin before Carmen's lips were locked on his, her hands clawing into his clothes. It was so sudden and so savage that he at first thought he was being attacked—and only barely avoided his instinctive reaction to slam his assailant into the wall. That feeling was quickly lost in a tornado of animal passion.
She bit his ear, drawing blood. She ripped off his jacket and his shirt. Fabric tore. Buttons flew. Fingernails raked across his naked chest. The red peppers from dinner lingered on her lips. Her eyes, glimpsed like flickers in a film reel, were wide and dark. He barely got the door closed behind him before they were both on the floor.
* * * * *
The first time was a roller coaster. The second time wasn't much different, though he managed to get her to the bedroom first. It wasn't a gentle kind of love-making. It wasn't even love-making at all—just raw desire fulfilled. There was need and anger and passion all coiled into that taut little body of hers, but not much in the way of love. It was the third time, after they'd dozed a few hours in a tangle of sweaty sheets, where their movements were more languid, where their actions seemed more savored than rushed. There was exploring rather than groping. There was caressing rather than clutching.
The need, however, was just as strong. He saw it in her eyes as she lay beneath him on the bed—a need that bordered on desperation. There was that word again. It came in all shapes and sizes. She was trying to hold onto something. She was trying not to let go.
When they were still in the throes of it, she clutched him close and spoke with a shuddering breath into his ear: "Don't leave me."
"I—I wasn't—"
"I can't lose you."
"Why would you—"
"Say you love me."
"You know I love you."
"Say it and mean it!"
"I love you, I love you!"
When they were finished, her eyes were moist; tears were imminent. He didn't understand. When he slumped next to her, she rolled away from him. He touched her back in the darkness and she recoiled—only slightly, but it was as if she'd doused him with cold water. What had he done? He searched for the right question but couldn't find it. Outside his room, the breeze stirred the bamboo wind chime she'd bought him for his birthday.
He was still wondering just what had happened when there was a hard pounding on the front door. She sat up, clutching the sheets against her chest. He sprang out of bed, heart pounding, and stumbled to the front door. His clothes were still there.
Groping for the Beretta in his holster there in the foyer, he shouted: "Who's there?"
"It's the police," a man said. "Please open up."
The police? Gage didn't recognize the voice. "What do you want?"
"Please open the door, sir."
"All right, all right. Hold on."
Hopping into his pants, Gage flicked on the porch light and peered through the peep hole. Two uniformed police officers, grim-faced, stood on his stoop. They blinked at the sudden light. A patrol car was parked behind them. Now Gage's panic turned to confusion. Keeping his gun hand out of sight, he opened the door a crack with his left. They were both big beefy boys with round faces and nicely ironed uniforms. Except for hair color—one was brown, the other a rusty red—they could have been twins. He didn't know them. Probably the new officers the city had hired.
"Garrison Gage?" the one on the right said.
"What's going on?" Gage said.
"You're Gage?"
"That's right."
"Chief wants you to come with us. He said to bring you pronto."
That's when Gage felt the first prickle of fear. Carmen may have been with him, but Zoe was out there. Bruzzi could have gone after her. There was Alex and Eve. "What is it? What's happened?"
The kid swallowed. "Sir, the Chief said he'd—"
"Am I under arrest?"
"No."
"Then I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me what this is about."
The kids eyed at each other. The one on the right shrugged and looked back at Gage. "Do you know a woman named Angela Wellman?" he asked.
That tiny prickle of fear swelled until it engulfed him. He felt his pulse in his neck. He knew what they were going to say before they said it. He wante
d to be like the director who could yell "Cut!" He would rewrite the script. It didn't have to go like this.
He must have nodded because the cop spoke again.
"She's dead," he said.
Chapter 7
The Barnacle Cove motel was lit up like a carnival. Seven patrol cars were already there, red and blue lights strobing across the garish orange building when Gage and Carmen rolled into the lot. An ambulance was headed the opposite direction, lights off, no hurry. It wasn't until then that Gage felt the sinking sense of certainty that this wasn't the Chief's idea of a weird joke.
Carmen said something to him but he barely heard it. She was on the cell phone with Alex—Zoe was all right; that was all he heard, all he needed to know.
The two cops led him to the door of Angela's room. Motel guests lingered at the periphery, some in pajamas, rubbernecking like it was the latest tourist attraction. Uniformed officers and plain clothes detectives bustled in and out of the room, most of them dazed and white-faced. The entire Barnacle Bluffs police force must have been there. Nobody wanted to miss the big show.
A scowling Chief Percy Quinn emerged from the room just as they reached it, a tall man with a gaunt face, gray hair a mess, his white shirt buttoned wrong. There was red spotting on the pocket that might have been blood. When he saw Gage, his eyes burned like hot coals. Gage had always thought Quinn looked a little like a slightly more rumpled Mr. Rogers, minus the V-neck sweaters. He looked nothing like Mr. Rogers tonight.
"I want to know what the hell you know," he said, "and I want to know it now."
"I want to see her," Gage said.
"Were you here tonight? She had your info in her purse. Manager said he saw you talking to her in the parking lot."
"I was with him just now," Carmen said.
Quinn glanced at her, his scowl deepening. "Oh great. The press is here already."
"I want to see the body," Gage said.
"You're going to answer some fucking questions first," Quinn said. "What time did you leave here tonight?"
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