A Desperate Place for Dying

by Scott William Carter

  "He got to his place about eleven," Carmen said.

  "What are you, his damn secretary?"

  Gage pushed past Quinn. The chief grabbed his arm and Gage shrugged him off. Someone was taking photos in the corner; light flashed three times. A uniformed officer built like a barn moved to intercept him. There was a scuffle. Gage was about to throw a punch when Quinn yelled that it was all right, just let him pass. It was like Moses parting the sea. All the people in the room turned to see what the commotion was, moving away from the bed. It gave Gage a clear view of Angela Wellman—or what was left of her.

  There was a lot of blood. There was so much blood that it took him a moment to realize that she was completely naked and not just wearing a thin red nightgown. The blood was thickest around her neck, where her throat had been cut, drenching her skin all the way to her upper thighs. Except for her face and arms—pulled back behind her, tied with nylons to the bed posts—she was so red that it didn't seem real. It couldn't be blood, not so much of it. Except of course it was.

  The whites of her eyes—staring unblinking at the ceiling—seemed all the brighter because of the red. Her cheeks, her arms, her lower legs had not been spared either; she was covered with dozens of razor-thin cuts.

  He felt his dinner coming back up and looked away. He was almost glad the way the blood coated her body; he didn't want to think about the more intimate ways they may have tortured her Carmen ran for the parking lot, covering her mouth with her hands. It also may have been the smell of the dead body, which finally penetrated a roomful of aftershaves and beer breath. She reeked of crap and piss, the smells of a dead body giving up its last hold on life.

  "Jesus, can't somebody cover her up?" Gage said, his voice thick. It was like he had cotton balls lodged in his throat. He turned, ready to punch someone, anyone, for leaving her exposed like this, and that's when he saw the message that had been scrawled on the wall—a message in blood, the letters dribbling down the wall.

  Sparrow Must Recant His Lies

  Or Next Time

  He Will Feel God's Wrath Instead

  The shock Gage felt was quickly turning into anger—partly at the crazies who'd done this, but mostly at himself, for leaving her alone, for not taking her worries seriously enough. Of course he should have known they might target her. Of course this might happen. He'd been a fool not to take precautions. He'd allowed his bitterness to blind him to the danger—and Angela had paid for his mistake with her life.

  "It's a crime scene," Quinn said. "We've got to take some more photos."

  "If any of them turn up on the Internet, I'm going to kill someone," Gage said.

  "Maybe you already did kill someone," Quinn said. "Maybe you killed her and you used this God's Wrath crap to cover it up. Secret lover, maybe?"

  "Christ, you're unbelievable," Gage said.

  "Just doing my job, pal. And you still haven't given me a decent reason not to throw you behind bars right this minute."

  "How about one? I'm not the killer."

  "So you say."

  "And two, she's Loren Sparrow's personal assistant. You know who he is?"

  "Don't insult my intelligence," Quinn snapped. "What the hell is she doing in our little piss-pot town, then? I read the paper. Portland, Eugene—those were his stops this week."

  "She was here to see me."

  "Okay, then why?"

  One of the cops was taking photos again. The other cops went back to their business, a few wearing gloves and pawing through drawers but most milling around like pigs in the slaughter pen, not having anything to do and probably not having the slightest clue how to do it even if they did. They weren't doing anything but getting in the way.

  "So you think your guys can completely contaminate the evidence in one night?" Gage said. "Maybe we should call Guinness. It's got to be a record."

  "Screw you, pal," Quinn snapped. "We're doing the best we can."

  "It's too big for you. The FBI needs to be brought in immediately."

  "Don't tell me how to run this investigation, Gage. And if you don't want to spend the night in lock up, you better answer my question. Why was she here?"

  "How did you find out she was dead?"

  "An anonymous call. Why was she here?"

  "Who?"

  "I said it was anonymous. Answer my question."

  "Was it someone saying they were part of God's Wrath?"

  "Gage, answer my fucking question or I'm putting you in jail! Why was she here?"

  Gage returned his gaze to Angela. With all the cops huddled over her, it was like trying to spot her through a swarm of piranha. He saw her left eye. He saw the fingers of her right hand. He saw a blood-soaked nipple. He had the sense that she was being devoured. Soon nothing would be left.

  He was in the center of the hurricane, surrounded by flashing cameras, low murmuring voices, and tires crunching on the gravel outside. He heard sirens in the distance. Were they coming here, he wondered? What was the point of the sirens? There was no longer any need to rush. She was gone. She'd met her end in this miserable little motel, tortured in solitude, her worries confirmed in the worst possible way, a desperate woman dying in a desperate place. It shouldn't have happened like this. He was to blame.

  "She wanted my help," Gage said.

  * * * * *

  There were more questions. No longer having the will to spar with Quinn, Gage patiently answered them. What would have been the point in arguing? The small-minded bastards had gotten her, a cult of angry people with little minds. Isn't that what she'd called the people who'd run her out of Red Castle? Important people with little minds? But these weren't important people, these killers. They were just crazies with an agenda. The world was full of crazies with an agenda. Gage had met plenty of them.

  Angela had come to Gage because she'd been worrying about Sparrow's safety when she should have been worrying about her own.

  When Quinn was satisfied he couldn't squeeze anything more from Gage, he told the cops to take them home—with a warning that Gage should stay in town until he heard from the chief. Despite all the bluster, Gage didn't really think Quinn considered him a suspect. They'd already gotten to know each other pretty well because of the Abby Heddle murder, the case that dragged Gage kicking and screaming out of his near-catatonic existence, and there was a grudging respect there. Not a friendship, that was something Gage avoided whenever possible, but enough respect that he didn't think Quinn would clamp down hard on him without good cause.

  Still, Gage kept a few things to himself. He told Quinn that according to Angela, Sparrow was being threatened by God's Wrath. He didn't tell Quinn that Angela believed Sparrow was paying them off. Even in his shock, Gage sensed he'd be talking to Sparrow and he wanted to do it before the police mucked things up.

  Back at his place, Gage settled into his recliner in the dark living room, gazing silently out the big window overlooking the houses below. He saw a few lighted windows but everything else was dark, the ocean beyond the rooftops invisible, a featureless black void. Black as his thoughts. Carmen asked him if he wanted a bourbon. He didn't answer She made him one anyway.

  "A little medicine," she said, handing it to him.

  The ice cubes glinted from the light in the kitchen. He took the bourbon and held it on the arm of the chair but didn't drink it. He was aware on some level of the coolness of the glass, but it was a sensation disconnected from the here and now. One of the cats, the gray one, jumped into his lap. Carmen moved to turn on the light.

  "Leave it," he said

  "Okay. You want to talk?"

  He swished around the ice cubes.

  "Garrison?"

  He looked at her. It wasn't her question that snapped him back to the present, but instead thinking about Zoe.

  "You called Alex?" he asked.

  "Yes," Carmen said patiently, "I did it in the car, remember?"

  "And Zoe's fine?"

  "She's fine. She got in a bit late, but she's fine."


  "I want her to stay there."

  "I told her that."

  "She needs to stay there until this blows over. There's still Bruzzi out there—and now these freaks." He briefly considered the idea that Bruzzi was behind the murder and tossed it aside. It didn't make sense. "She's safer with Alex."

  "You should explain that yourself," Carmen said. "It would help—you know, if she understood why."

  He took a drink of the bourbon, let it roll over his tongue, savoring the smoky taste. Warmth spread from his neck to his ears. He was not a heavy drinker, never saw the need even in his darkest moments, but that had simply been a choice on his part. Some people had the choice; others didn't. He just liked a good bourbon in the evening. Sometimes two.

  Greased by the alcohol, the gears in his head started to turn. The machinery of his mind ground back to life. Angela Wellman had come to him for help and he would help her. He would find the people who did this. He would find them even if he had to track them halfway across the country.

  But what about Bruzzi? Maybe Bruzzi wasn't behind Angela's murder, but he hadn't laid down his cards yet either. Could Gage really leave town and leave Zoe to fend for herself? Alex was great in a pinch, but Zoe was Gage's responsibility. He couldn't just foist her off on somebody because a woman he'd had sex with decades ago had chosen to die on his doorstep.

  Harsh. Too harsh.

  "Is there a table for two in there?" Carmen said.

  "Huh?"

  "I'm still here, you know."

  The front of her was cast in shadow, her body lit in silhouette from the light in the kitchen. There was a golden glow around her hair. He was tempted to reach for her, to pull her close, but Bruzzi was still on his mind. It might not have made sense for him to go after Angela, but what about Carmen? If he wanted to make Gage suffer without killing him, he might kill Carmen. She was in danger every moment she was around him.

  "I have an idea," Gage said.

  "Uh oh."

  "You don't even know what the idea is yet."

  "Yeah, but you have that look about you. The one that says you're about to deliver bad news." She settled into the gray love seat across from him, knees together, leaning forward with hands clasped.

  "It's not bad news," Gage said. "I just think—you know, maybe we should cool things for a while."

  He couldn't see her face well enough to know for sure, but he could almost hear her eyebrows arching. "Things?"

  "Us," he said.

  "Ah."

  "Just until I get this mess sorted out. A little break, that's all. We could both use one anyway."

  "I'd appreciate it if you don't presume to speak for me." Her voice was brittle.

  "Carmen, I'm not saying—"

  "Let me finish for you," she said. "You're not saying you want to break up. You're not saying that all. In fact, you might even toss in a "I love you" or two, even though you usually say it with as much conviction as a soap opera actor strung out on Prozac."

  "Carmen—"

  "You're just saying that maybe a little distance would be healthy. Give us some perspective. A little relationship vacation, if you will. And you want to see if you can find out who killed Angela Wellman. It'd be a good time for it. If I protest, you might claim you're feeling a little suffocated. It's not me, of course. It's you. You just need to get your bearings a little. If that doesn't work, you might even bring up Janet."

  He felt his jaw muscles turn to steel. "Finished?"

  "I don't know, am I?"

  "I think you're being a little unfair."

  "At least I'm not being dishonest."

  "Carmen, that's bullshit. I'm trying to be upfront with you."

  "No, you're trying to protect me, but you know I won't let you do that. You're worried about Bruzzi coming after me. Or other crazy people. That's understandable. I am too. But I'm not going to sit here and let you concoct some crap story about needing distance so you can avoid having a big boy conversation about the dangers of being around you right now. You're taking the easy way out and I'm not going to let you do that."

  He didn't know whether to slap her or hug her. Since a hug seemed out of the question considering the tone of her voice, and slapping was ruled out because he'd never slapped a woman he cared about and he wasn't about to start now, he settled on a smile.

  "This is the problem being with a smart woman," he said. "She sees right through you."

  "Don't think you can charm your way out of this."

  "I wouldn't dare. Have I told you how nice your new hair cut looks, by the way?"

  It didn't elicit a laugh, but it did get her to soften her tone. "Here's what I suggest," she said. "Let's just pretend we had this conversation—we both know how it will go. You'll tell me you don't want me to get hurt. I'll tell you I'm a big girl and I'll take the risk—because we're worth it. If I run for the hills every time a bastard enters your life, I'm going to spend all my time in the hills. You have a high bastard quotient in your life."

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "It does have a certain appeal," she said. "It makes you look better by contrast."

  "Hmm. You know, I'm not completely sold on this yet."

  "That's too bad. I'm going to bed. You going to join me?"

  "Lady, I love your style. But I don't think I could sleep after what I just saw."

  She rose, leaning closer, extending a hand. When the light played across her face, he saw that she was grinning.

  "Who said anything about sleeping?" she said.

  Chapter 8

  Strangely, after all the trauma of the evening, their lovemaking was more subdued then it had been earlier. They were both going through the motions and they knew it. He was right about one thing. Even after all those exhaustive measures to tire out his body, there was no sleep to be had. While Carmen finally fell into an uneasy slumber, he watched the liquid light of dawn creep into the blinds.

  Thursday morning. A hot shower and a couple cups of coffee helped clear the cobwebs. While Carmen was in the shower, Gage called Alex from Carmen's cell phone. Alex was already up, early as always, but he was shocked to find Gage calling at any o'clock with the word 'morning' in it. He prodded Gage for details about Angela's death, but Gage wasn't in the mood. He told him he'd fill him in later. His main request was not to let Zoe leave before he got there. He wanted to take her to school. Alex told him he'd pass on the information but couldn't be held accountable for the results, Zoe being Zoe.

  When Gage and Carmen were finished with breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast, neither of which he ate more than a bite or two—they said their goodbyes outside the house. The sky had the same pebbled gray look as his gravel driveway. Below them on the highway, he heard a truck rumbling up the road in a low gear.

  "You remember Quinn asked you to stick around, right?" Carmen said, slipping her legs into her Camry.

  "I remember him saying that, yes," Gage said.

  "But you have no intention of doing that, do you?"

  "I don't know what I'm going to do."

  "You're going to find the people who killed Angela, that's what you're going to do."

  "Huh. When did I decide that, exactly?"

  "It wasn't really a deciding sort of thing. It's in your DNA. I'll also save you the trouble of asking me to print out anything I can find on the wires about the God's Wrath murders. I'll have you a stack of papers for you tonight."

  "Thank you. My reading pile was getting a bit thin. There's only so many times I can re-read my Reader's Digest Condensed books. I may be back late tonight, though."

  She nodded. "Going to Eugene to visit a certain Harvard professor?"

  "I just wanted to visit Costco to stock up on toilet paper. Barnacle Bluffs lacks so many of the good things in life."

  "You could just call him on the phone. I even own one."

  "Yes, but people are so much friendlier to me when I see them in person."

  "You mean they can't hang up on you? Well, be nice. He's probably
drowning in guilt right about now."

  "I know the feeling."

  Her eyes softened. "Garrison—"

  "If I swing by the office before I leave, could you have that stack of papers ready for me?"

  "You're going to drive and read at the same time?"

  "I'm multi-talented that way."

  "All right. You want me to call Sparrow to make sure he doesn't hop on a plane before you get there?"

  "No, I prefer the reaction I get when someone doesn't expect me. And I don't think he'll leave. He has a show tonight."

  "You think he'll do his talk even after Angela was killed?"

  "It would fit him. Anything less would be showing weakness to Angela's killers."

  After she'd gone, he hopped in the van and headed for the Turret House. If he didn't want Zoe to be late for school, he was cutting it close. He thought about swinging by Barnacle Cove, maybe asking the manager and anyone else around last night what they saw, but there was still a mess of police cars parked outside. He figured the cops could handle that much without botching it up any more than thay had already, anyway, so his best bet was to see Sparrow while the professor might still be amenable to opening up about who was blackmailing him. Before long, Gage wouldn't have just the local cops to worry about mucking things up. The Feds would send their suited warriors in to muck things up even faster.

  Zoe was waiting on the porch when he got there, clutching her black backpack in her lap, her face glossy with the wet morning air. He couldn't tell if the mascara was smeared on purpose or because she'd been crying—it gave her the look of a raccoon. She climbed into the van before he'd put it in park, slamming the door and staring forward without so much as a hello. She was wearing a black jean vest that showed off the Henna tattoos of intertwined snakes she'd gotten put on her forearms a few weeks earlier.

  "Well, hello," Gage said.

  "I'm late," Zoe said.

  "I'm sorry. I had a bit of a rough night."

  She didn't look at him, but he detected a slight softening of her mouth. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I heard she was an old girlfriend or something."