A Desperate Place for Dying

by Scott William Carter

  He was seized by a fear unlike any he'd ever known—short and sharp, like a knife to the back. He was afraid, with how out of control she was, that she'd plunge into a ravine or get lost in the woods; people died of exposure in the Oregon woods all the time, especially in the winter. He hadn't realized, until that moment, how much he'd come to count on her presence in his life. He hadn't realized how deeply it would wound him if he lost her.

  He heard her before he saw her—a keening, moaning, gasping creature, a seizure of sounds, appearing first as a lump at the base of a giant oak, then as a hunched figure. Ferns and wet grass gave way to muddy earth. What was left of the daylight, a hazy purple glow, filled the clearing. With her head bowed and out of sight, she was the darkest thing in there, a quivering black mass.

  As if approaching a wounded animal, he knelt cautiously beside her. She braced herself against the trunk with both hands. There was something supplicant about it, like a nun praying. Her breathing was still rapid, but it was slowing. He placed his hand on her back and she didn't shrug him off. The muscles of her shoulders were as tight as metal coils.

  "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said. "I should have. I should have done that. I don't know what I was thinking."

  She nodded, but her head was bobbing so much that he wasn't sure if it was deliberate. She was focused on the bark of the trunk, as if she was trying to read something there. The breathing slowed. Her body stilled. The silence of the forest closed upon them. The other sounds that had been lost to them—a hooting owl, the swish of the leaves—rose in their ears. He felt the sweat on his back cooling.

  "Don't—don't do it again," she said.

  "I won't."

  "I don't like lying. That's—that's one thing about you that was different. You didn't lie to me. You didn't bullshit."

  "Okay."

  "I don't want any more bullshit."

  "No more bullshit."

  He hadn't said it as a joke, but she still looked at him sharply to read his expression. Her eyes were glossy. The meticulously applied eyeliner and mascara ran in bold lines down her mud-splattered face.

  "And I don't want to move out," she said.

  "Zoe, it could be dangerous for you."

  "So what? Am I going to move out every time you do your detective thing?"

  "There won't be an every time. There won't be any other times. This is it."

  She snorted.

  "I'm serious," he insisted. "That life is over. I'm just doing this for Angela."

  "Okay, whatever," Zoe said, "but it doesn't matter. I'm not moving out. That's my house now. Wasn't that the point? You can't just foist me off on somebody else just because some creep might be around."

  "I'm not foisting—"

  "It's either that or I'm gone. I mean it."

  He could tell she meant it. He was glad that she was talking in an even voice, that her breathing was mostly normal. The chill air seeped into his clothes. The daylight was fading by the second. They needed to get out of here, back to the idling van, on the road. He didn't want to have this conversation right now, but he could see that he had no choice. And what could he tell her? The truth was, he didn't want her to leave—not for a week, not for one night. She was making it easy on him.

  "All right," he said, "but I'll have some conditions—just to make sure you're safe. And you'll have to follow them."

  "Fine," she said, "but I've got a condition of my own."

  "What's that?"

  "I want to learn to shoot a gun."

  Chapter 11

  "And let me guess," Alex said wryly, "you told her yes?"

  They were seated behind the counter at Books and Oddities, alone in the store. Motes of dust floated in the golden shafts of afternoon light. Across the gravel parking lot, two burly guys in dirty overalls were unloading some turn-of-the-century furniture from the back of a rusty flatbed truck. Gage, seated on the stool behind the cash register, was rifling through the stack of papers Alex had printed for him, everything he could get from the FBI regarding God's Wrath that wasn't beyond his clearance, while at the same time relaying to his friend everything that had happened on his trip to Eugene.

  Gage glanced over the top of the papers at Alex. "You've got some chocolate on your chin," he said. "It's very endearing."

  Alex put down the Boston Crèmes—already his third donut—and dabbed at his chin with a napkin. The low sun glinted off his glasses. "So sue me. I'm a messy eater."

  "Is this everything you could get?" Gage asked, holding up the papers. "It's pretty light."

  "Hey, I am retired, pal. Even if I do some freelance work for them, there's only so much I have access to."

  "It's not much more than what Carmen dug up on the Internet."

  "Well, that's today's world for you. Most of the good stuff is out there freely available if you just know where to look for it."

  "Or maybe that's the state of today's FBI for you."

  "Hey, buddy, those guys pay for my health insurance. Let's talk nicely about them."

  "Sorry."

  "Even if they are mostly staffed by pencil-necked morons who can rattle off endless statistics about Alaska and Maine and everything in between, but would piss their pants if somebody came at them with a knife. It's not the FBI I used to know, that's for sure." He sighed. "See what you made me do? You're a bad influence."

  "I thought it was the other way around."

  "Nice try. Eve tells me you are the bad influence and her opinion trumps yours every day of the week."

  "Well, I can't argue with that. She still claiming that your blood pressure is directly related to how much time you spend in my presence?"

  "Don't change the subject. I'm still waiting to hear what you told Zoe. You told her you'd teach her to shoot a gun, didn't you?"

  Gage straightened the papers and put them back on the counter, looking squarely at his friend. "Do I get points for arguing with her?"

  "Jesus, man. Really? You think that's a good idea?"

  "Not really. But after the crap that Bruzzi pulled, it's probably a better idea than it was before."

  Alex shook his head. "I still can't believe you told her she could stay with you. Where is she now?"

  "With her friend Charlotte," Gage replied. "That was one of the conditions. She can stay with me at the house, but only when I'm there. Otherwise she's got to be with someone else I approve of."

  "Did you actually say, 'approve of?'" Alex asked. "As a father of two grown daughters, I can't imagine ever saying that to them when they were teenagers and living to tell the tale."

  "Well," Gage admitted, "I may not have used those exact words."

  "Ah-ha. You can be taught. About some things, anyway. No matter how many times I ask you to get me the donuts with the little sprinkles, you never remember."

  "I'll endeavor to try harder," Gage said. "Now, about God's Wrath—is there anything you can tell me that's not in here? Something that could help me track them down?"

  Alex shook his head, bemused. "You never lack for confidence, that's for sure. The FBI has been working on this for the better part of a year and yet you think you can just waltz in and find their top secret hiding place when hundreds of agents haven't been able to do it so far."

  "Do they actually call it the top secret hiding place?"

  "I was being ironic," Alex said. "This type of group doesn't have one secret hiding place. That's part of the problem. Look, why don't you tell me what you know about them. Then I'll fill in any gaps."

  * * * * *

  It turned out that Gage actually knew quite a bit about the God's Wrath cult, even before he'd read the material Carmen and Alex had given him, but he'd only been paying attention with half his mind closed; it wasn't until he focused on it that everything he'd read about them the past few years crystallized into a coherent picture rather than disparate fragments of information.

  After the first victim claimed by God's Wrath, the police had nabbed a couple cult members who caused a minor di
sturbance at an academic conference on evolution in Oklahoma, men who claimed to be part of God's Wrath, but, like many of the homegrown terrorists following 9/11, it turned out they were only loosely inspired by the cult and not in direct contact with the ones behind the murder. The sluggish economy, with so many people in desperate straits, was helping fuel their cause. Everyone wanted someone to blame for their woes. This was what worried the authorites more than anything else: that the cult had reached a tipping point where their ranks would swell with legions of new followers.

  Clues had proved to be frustratingly elusive. There were rumors that the cult leaders were based in Montana. Others insisted it had to be in Alabama or Georgia, because of the high number of hooded YouTube speakers with a southern accent. The longer the cult eluded the authorities, the more the media cranked up the hype. All but the most fanatic of public figures condemned the killings, of course, but some did more openly than others, and that disparity alone was enough for more outrage from both believers and non-believers alike.

  There'd been more Sunday morning panel discussions and hour-long network specials on the nature and history of atheism in the past two years than there'd been in the twenty before. Polls were run. Focus groups conducted. Did people still trust atheists less than child molesters? Was the percentage of non-believers growing or shrinking? Did atheists or religious people make more money? It was all up for debate.

  * * * * *

  "That's about right," Alex said, nodding in agreement when Gage finished. "A whole lot of questions. Not a whole lot of answers."

  "You'd think after a year they'd have something a little more concrete," Gage said.

  "How long did it take them to find Osama Bin Laden after 9/11? Almost 10 years, and he was a wanted man long before that."

  "But he was hiding in Pakistan, under the unofficial protection of government authorities. We're taking about a group of nut balls here in our own country. All it takes is one slip and all the walls come crumbling down for these guys. I'm just amazed it hasn't happened."

  "So is the FBI," Alex said ruefully. "They count on the stupidity of criminals. It makes them look smarter."

  "Not one shred of forensic evidence has gotten them closer?"

  Alex shook his head.

  "Impossible," Gage said.

  "Well, it does bring up one other bit of information that I was going to share with you. There's a theory in the Bureau that these guys—or at least the group actually behind the murders—are former special ops."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. They cover their tracks too well. They're definitely trained. If not by us, then by somebody. Now, I'm not talking about those jokers who make the videos. But the killers are too good to be your average pot-bellied wacko survivalists waiting for the 'end days.' So if you do manage to work your magic and find them when thousands of law enforcement officers across the country haven't been able to do it—well, you better be careful."

  "I can hold my own," Gage said.

  "In the old days, sure," Alex said. "But that knee of yours . . ."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  Alex sighed. "Come on, pal. You walk with a cane. You're not exactly the spitting image of Sylvester Stallone in his prime. I'm glad you're working again. It's good for you. But—"

  "It's a one-time deal."

  "Sure, it is. I'm just saying that this God's Wrath stuff is a lot bigger than a dead girl who washed up on the beach. You don't have to do this. There's certainly enough brain power focused on it. They're going to get these assholes. I promise you."

  "Like they've gotten them so far?"

  "Okay, fair point. But this isn't just about you any more, is it? It's also about Zoe. You've got Bruzzi lingering around. Look at me. You don't see me chasing wicked rainbows. I'm happy to do my part promoting literacy here in Barnacle Bluffs. Now, don't get mad. You got that look about you. I'm just trying to be an honest friend, that's all."

  Gage shook his head and turned to the window, staring at the morning sun alighting on the gravel parking lot. Still no customers. How could Alex sit around here all day, just waiting for people to show up? Of course, he knew that was partly the point. It was therapy, the store. It was exactly the slow, lethargic pace that gave Alex what he needed, that unwinding of his self from the long life of stress and hardship that had almost killed him. He had the scars from his open heart surgery to prove it.

  Gage wasn't mad. He wasn't even irritated.

  He also wasn't detoured in the slightest.

  "You know I'm going to do this," he said.

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Last year, you tried to talk me into it. Now you're trying to talk me out of it. I wish you'd be consistent."

  "I try to keep you guessing."

  Gage looked at him. The way the light fell across Alex's face deepened the creases and folds, made him look old and tired. Maybe Gage looked that way too, who knew, but he didn't feel it. He felt young and alive and determined to make someone pay for killing Angela, for extinguishing a light in a world that needed all the lights it could get. The problem now was what to do next. After coming up empty with Sparrow, at least for the time being, he needed some leads.

  "I think I'll go talk to the motel manager," he said. "Maybe some of the guests, if there's still any around."

  "I'm sure the police have already done that," Alex said. And when Gage didn't dignify this with a response, Alex added: "Well, it's as good a place to start as any, I guess. But one other thing. You'll probably have company at some point today, and I'm not talking the local kind. The Bureau has two of its best agents on the way. Make sure you say hello for me." His brow wrinkled in concentration. "On second thought, don't bother. Next thing you know, they'll be in here wanting free books."

  * * * * *

  On his way north on Highway 101, with the sun low over the ocean, Gage felt the familiar butterflies in his stomach—that feeling he always got during an investigation when the possibilities were endless, the clues few and far between, and the way forward foggy at best. It wasn't exactly excitement. There was certainly excitement mixed with everything else, but there was also plenty of trepidation, confusion, and frustration. He found the feeling comforting, just as he did back in New York. It freed up his mind. Gave him focus. Allowed him to let all the other frustrations and anxieties of his life fade to the background.

  Maybe Alex was right. Maybe he really was back.

  But if that was true, why did he want to be home filling out crossword puzzles? Or taking a walk on the beach, looking forward to a bourbon on the rocks when he got back to the warmth of his fire?

  No, this one was for Angela. That was enough.

  Gage wouldn't have thought it possible there would be more cops at Barnacle Cove than early that morning, but sure enough, there were so many cruisers and other police vehicles at the garish little motel that it could have doubled for a police station. They'd done the motel the courtesy of confining themselves to half the parking lot, the half nearest Angela's room, but it was mostly in vain. Four news vans, mostly local television stations out of Portland, dominated the other half. There were cops all over the place, both uniformed and otherwise, and where there weren't cops there were news reporters and camera men.

  Gage parked his own van between a KATU and a KGW van, feeling a little like a homeless vagrant squeezing between two businessmen decked out in Armani.

  His only consolation was the cloud of noxious fumes his Volkswagen spread over all concerned. More than a few people waved angrily at the air and stared at him coldly. Gage made sure to smile back. He knew he wouldn't have any luck getting into Angela's room, and didn't think he'd gain much by doing it, but he hoped to sneak into the motel office unnoticed.

  This hope, however, was dashed when one of his least favorite detectives emerged from the office just as Gage was killing the engine—a bedraggled middle-aged man with deep bags under his eyes. His few remaining tufts of gray hair, billowing in the breeze, were
roughly the same color as his rumpled trench coat. Seeing Gage, the man frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. His frown deepened when Gage climbed out of the van.

  "Detective Brisbane," Gage said.

  "Aw, Christ," Brisbane said. "I was hoping you wouldn't show up."

  "Thanks, pal, I appreciate the sentiment."

  "If your van was a horse, somebody would put it out of its misery."

  "Somebody could say the same thing about you."

  Brisbane shook his head. "I should toss you out of here. Feds are going to be here any minute, and last thing I need is you embarrassing us."

  "I'm sure you can handle the embarrassing all by yourself." And when Brisbane's face darkened, the splotches on his cheeks discoloring like bruises on an apple, Gage held up a hand. "Relax. I'm just here to book a room, that's all. My Aunt Polly's coming in tomorrow."

  Brisbane only shook his head. Gage had never heard him laugh. He wasn't sure the man was capable of laughter. Brisbane smelled faintly of brandy. His eyes were bloodshot. The press, crowding the barricades and yellow tape around Angela's room, weren't paying them any attention, but Gage knew that wouldn't last long. They were blood in the water. It was only a matter of time.

  "I'm gonna tell Quinn about this," Brisbane said finally.

  "Nobody likes a tattler."

  "You know, if you wasn't such an asshole, more people would like you."

  "I know. Wouldn't that be terrible?"

  Brisbane shuffled toward the hubbub of activity, muttering to himself. Gage watched him go, feeling like he was watching an alternate version of himself, what he might have looked like if he'd chosen a life with a badge, where he would have suffered the daily abuses and humiliations that a police officer attracted like rotting meat attracted flies. If Gage ever doubted his decision to drop out of the FBI academy so many years ago—which, so far, he never had—he need only take a hard look at Brisbane to know he'd made the right decision.