He finally figured it out. "You're angry I didn't check in when I got back from Eugene?"
"No."
Her tone conveyed the opposite. Again, she adjusted the hem of her skirt. It was about all he could see.
"I just got caught up in what I was doing," Gage said, realizing he was only making her point. He didn't dare tell her what had happened with Bruzzi on the University of Oregon campus. "Wanted to get to the motel before any leads went cold. I didn't think there was any reason to worry."
"You didn't think," she said tersely. "Those were the operative words there."
"Carmen—"
"The man who killed your wife is in town, a man who apparently is taking his time doing whatever he's going to do to you, and you didn't think I'd worry? I suppose if the situation was reversed, you wouldn't worry about me at all?"
"Of course I would," he said, his own tone getting clipped.
"Then why would you assume it would be different for me?"
He stared into the darkness. The laughing people had left in their hybrids and their mini vans, taking their joviality with them. They were right on Highway 101, only a building separating them from the road, but he couldn't hear the road noise at all. It always amazed him what even a shift of a few dozen feet could do to alter an environment.
"I'm sorry I didn't call you," he said. He wanted to add, I know it was selfish of me, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say the words. "I'll do better next time."
She didn't answer. The door to the lounge opened and a couple of obnoxiously loud drunks barreled out, making the other people seem like mutes by comparison. So much for silence.
"All right," she said. "Let's go eat. I'm hungry."
"Okay."
They opened their doors. Before they closed them, she gave him a long, meaningful look across the dark interior of the van. Outside, within reach of the lamp by the door, he could at least see her face in the thick night air. There were no tears. There was no anger. There was only a tired face—a beautiful face, certainly, but the worn face of a woman who'd used up all her last reserves dealing with him and his antics. He would have preferred tears or anger.
"Garrison," she said, "I know you're trying. I just—I can't do all the heavy lifting here, you know? There's got to be some give."
She closed the door before he could answer, heading for the restaurant. He was actually glad.
He had no idea what he was going to say to make it better.
* * * * *
Although her irritation with him didn't completely melt, Carmen told him over garlic bread and red wine that she'd do her own checking on the names Gage had lifted from the Cove's log book. She also told him she'd gotten calls from CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News, as well as all the local stations, not to mention dozens of national magazines and big city newspapers, all asking her for information about Angela's murder. There was a good chance she might even end up interviewed on camera.
She reassured him that she hadn't said anything about his past with Angela, nor would she. It was hard to read her face in candlelight, but he could still see what a struggle it was for her, fighting her journalistic instincts.
However, she warned him that the press would find out soon enough. Somebody in the police would tip them off. It was inevitable, so he'd better be prepared for a truckload of news vans to show up on his doorstep.
The fog beaded on the window on the way back to the Bugle. After dropping her off at her car, he headed for Zoe's friend's house. It was a little before seven, though, and he'd told Zoe he'd pick her up around eight, so he decided to use the hour to stop at a few gas stations along Highway 101. The insurance salesman in the white van was his best lead, and if he'd followed Angela from Portland then it was a good bet he'd fueled up somewhere in town.
Nobody had seen, or least could remember, a slender, professor-like man in glasses driving a big white van. Gage noted that a couple of the stations had security cameras, but he didn't have time just then to watch the recordings, even if the attendants allowed him. He planned to come back in the morning and talk to the day crew anyway.
Zoe's friend, Charlotte Melloy, lived not far from Gage himself, but in the kind of neighborhood with the dormered windows and picketed fences that could have been in any city in the country. Blinking Christmas lights decorated nearly every house. Flashing electric snowmen and glowing reindeer adorned almost every yard. It was on the east side of the highway, up the hill and nestled in the pine trees, a subdivision that was something of an oddity in Barnacle Bluffs—a true middle class neighborhood in a town that was almost completely divided between the very rich in their ocean view homes and the very poor in their little cottages and manufactured houses with not even a glimpse of the beaches. The Melloy house was truly only a quarter mile away from the ocean, but once inside the cloaked embrace of the trees the house could have been in Colorado.
The big white house was alive with lights, both upstairs and down. A Saturn sedan and a Toyota Land Cruiser, neither more than a year or two old, were parked in the driveway. A spotlighted nativity scene took up most of the front yard, and when he got out of the van he heard Silent Night playing faintly in electric tones.
The moist air dampened his face. It must have also been playing havoc on his knee, because the damn thing felt like a pin cushion, the needles slowly pushing deeper into muscle and marrow. He swallowed his pride and limped with his cane to the door, positioning it slightly behind his leg after ringing the bell.
Charlotte answered, a round face in a cloud of red hair, dressed in a thick purple sweater with a high turtleneck.
"Mister Gage!" she exclaimed.
"Charlotte," Gage said. "I'm here to pick up Zoe." Then, noting the concerned look on her face and the pink hue of her cheeks, he added, "What's wrong?"
"I just—Zoe's not at home?"
His apprehension was like a cold knife to the gut. "What do you mean? She's not here?"
"She said she was going to walk home."
"I told her to wait for me!"
Gage had barely raised his voice, but the way Charlotte's face darkened, he might as well have slapped her. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. She just—she told me—"
"When did she leave?"
"I . . . An hour ago, I guess."
"On foot?"
Charlotte nodded. The nativity scene was pausing at the end of the song, and the silence in the fog-shrouded neighborhood suddenly felt more ominous. The shadows were deeper. Someone could have been lurking behind every corner, crouching behind every car, hiding behind every tree.
"She didn't call anybody? She didn't ask somebody to pick her up on the corner or something?"
"No. No, I don't think so. My little sister has been on the phone all night, so no." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Gage. I knew something was up. We were reading verses from Luke and she couldn't stay focused on it. She was acting weird. I asked her what's wrong and she kept saying nothing. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have—"
"It's all right. I have to go."
"Is everything okay?"
"It's fine. Really. I just—I wanted her to wait for me."
Gage could see that this didn't satisfy Charlotte, but he didn't have the time, or the inclination, to provide her with a better explanation. Leaving her with instructions to have Zoe call Alex if she should return, he limped back to the van and shot out of the neighborhood. He could see he'd made a mistake now. Carmen had been right. Even when he thought he'd been doing what was best for Zoe, he'd still been thinking of what was best for himself.
Bruzzi was in town. Bruzzi had killed Janet. Bruzzi was obviously out for revenge, and he was a brutal man of means and intelligence. Gage could clearly see how stupid he'd been, how selfish and self-serving. Why on Earth did he think that anybody he cared about would be safe anywhere in town as long as that asshole was here?
It would take Zoe at least half an hour to walk to his house. He hoped she hadn't gotten there yet. He cursed and banged the wheel at
how stupid she was being, then cursed and banged the wheel some more at how stupid he himself had been. On his way, he ground the gears a few times, tearing up his gravel driveway less than five minutes after he'd left Charlotte's house. The porch light was on, as he'd left it, but the rest of the house was dark.
There was a white Lincoln Continental parked at the back of the circular drive, facing him, headlights off, two people in front.
His heart, already pounding, beat even harder. The angle of the porch light shadowed their faces. They were just shapes. When he skidded to a halt, they got out of their car—nonchalantly, as if they weren't in any hurry. He got out, too, drawing his Beretta at the same time.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Whoa!" cried one of them, a man with a deep voice.
"Hey!" said the other, a woman.
It was a tall black man with a basketball player's build and a wispy raven-haired white woman, both in gray trench coats, the porch light reflecting off the man's glasses. They started to reach inside their coats.
"Don't," Gage warned.
"Sir," the man said. "You need to put that down right now before —"
"Shut up," Gage said, limping toward them, his cane left behind in the van. "Who are you? Why are you parked outside my house?"
"Garrison Gage?" the woman asked. She didn't sound nervous in the slightest. When he didn't answer, she pressed on: "We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir. I'm Agent Karen Pantelli. This is my partner, Agent Ben Wilde. We're just here to ask you some questions, sir. About your relationship with Angela Wellman."
Gage didn't have time for this nonsense. Shaking his head, he holstered his weapon and limped toward the house. He didn't even care how he looked to them. Both agents started for their guns, or maybe their identification, but seemed confused when he ignored them. The front door was locked. While he took out his keys, the metal jangling noisily, the woman spoke.
"Mister Gage, we know who you are. About your past. I don't even blame you for drawing your weapon on us—"
"Excuse me," he said, opening the door. The inside of the house was dark and still. He took a few steps inside. "Zoe?" There was no answer; two of the cats appeared out of the darkness and curled around his legs, meowing. Hungry. Zoe was always good at feeding them, so she probably hadn't been there. He glanced behind him and saw the agents advancing to the foot of his stoop. They appeared more wary now, ready for him to do something else crazy. "Zoe, you here?"
"We knocked when we got here," Wilde said. "That was an hour ago. Nobody's come home."
"Zoe?" Gage called again, ignoring him.
"Mister Gage," Pantelli said, "can we come in?"
"No," Gage said.
"No?" she said.
It was the tone of a woman who wasn't used to being refused. He stepped between them, heading back to his van. Standing as they were in the porch light, he got a better look at them. She was slender, slight of build, boyish in a way. Her hair was as straight and fine as silk. Green eyes. Olive skin. Wilde's skin was almost as dark as her hair. The trench coat barely contained his broad shoulders—big without being overly muscular. As Gage passed, Wilde took out a Blackberry and punched a few of the tiny buttons.
"Zoe Pellman," he said, reading his screen. "Your adopted daughter?"
"Just daughter is fine," Gage said.
"She's missing?"
"Butt out of my business."
Gage opened the van door and climbed inside.
"We really need to speak to you," Pantelli said.
"Fine," Gage said. "Here. Tomorrow. Nine o'clock."
"How about nine tonight?" Wilde said.
"How about you get the hell off my property?" Gage said.
He slammed the van door. Heading down the drive, Gage saw them staring at him with disbelief, an odd couple if he ever saw one. He planned to try Zoe's boyfriend's house, but when he reached the bottom of the hill he had another idea. He crossed the highway and drove down the hill on the west side until he reached the four-spot parking area, a two-foot concrete wall separating it from the beach.
He parked and got out. Even here, the wind was still, the ocean a whisper. The lights from the houses lining the beach illuminated the edges of the surf, the ocean beyond it an impenetrable black.
The tide was in, almost to the wall. He heard muffled music from one of the houses. Laughter on the beach. He took his cane, walking carefully down the concrete steps, safe as long as he was in the light. That didn't last long. A scattered rubble of logs and boulders turned the beach near the barrier into a maze. It was hard enough for him to walk on the beach in daylight. It was a treacherous adventure at night.
He soon spotted the source of the laughter—a half dozen kids huddled around a fire, drinking from cans. When he reached them, he studied their faces in the glow from the fire, but Zoe wasn't among them. They hadn't seen her pass, but judging by their slurred voices, he wondered if they were too drunk to even notice.
Alone, he walked north, in the direction of Charlotte's house. The angle of the house lights left the area beneath the rise in total darkness, so he would have missed her if she hadn't called out.
"Garrison," she said.
He stopped. He heard rustling clothes, footsteps. Her pale face, surrounded by all those black clothes, appeared like a ghost. When he saw her eyes, saw how much fear was in them, his anger faded—not completely, but enough that when he spoke his voice was soft, with only a shade of anger. She adjusted her backpack, waiting for him to speak.
"I told you to wait for me," he said.
She nodded.
"Why didn't you?" he asked.
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. He heard the words anyway. He heard her say the words I was scared, even though he knew they were words she could never actually get herself to say aloud.
"It was the safest place for you to be," he said, and knew it was a lie. The safest place was for her to be with him. The second safest place for her to be was with someone who could protect her, and that person certainly wasn't Charlotte. "When you just take off like that . . ."
He trailed off, not sure where to go with it. She nodded.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's okay."
They stood in silence, listening to the murmur of the ocean. He smelled barbecuing steak, a teasing sent overwhelmed by the sharpness of the salty air. The kids down the beach laughed obnoxiously. The sound was even more obnoxious in the darkness, sound pollution, worse than Styrofoam cups and plastic spoons.
"Can I hold the gun?" she asked.
"Well . . ."
"Please. You promised."
"This isn't the best place. We should do it somewhere safe."
The word sounded ridiculous, and he fully knew why. What place was safe in their world? He took out the Beretta, slipped out the clip, and checked the chamber twice. Then he pointed the weapon at the sand away from them and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Even so, he turned on the safety before handing it to her.
Her eyes wide, she took it from him as if she was handling a baby, reacting with surprise at the weight of it. He told her it would be even heavier when loaded. He stood behind her and helped her get the correct posture, having her aim at the waves. She tried to get into the standard position so often seen on TV: feet squared off parallel, which does not give the body good balance. He told her to think of herself like a fighter who might take a punch. Pelvis at a 45 degree angle, and since she was right-handed and firing with both hands on the handle, right leg in the rear. Shoulders slightly forward. Since there wasn't much to Zoe, she needed all the balance advantages she could get.
High, hard grip to prevent the involuntary movement of the other fingers. Index finger of the right hand lightly on the trigger, on the crease of the distal joint for best leverage. Zoe obeyed all without a word. Gage inexplicably found himself sweating. He had her line up the two sights, then told her to focus on the front one. The light was bad, and there wasn't much to f
ocus on in the waves, but he wanted her to start with good habits. He told her to think of it like a fighter pilot locking missiles on a target. The front sight was the lock.
"When you pull the trigger," he said, "you want the pull to be smooth but not too fast. Firm, uniform, consistent. Think of it more like a squeeze, squeezing your palm and finger together. Too fast and hard and you get a lot of jerk, which throws off the aim. Best way to get it down is to practice. Go ahead. Try."
She squeezed it too slowly the first time, and the click made her jump.
"Again, faster," he said.
She did it a dozen more times, each time better. She hadn't even fired a bullet and he could already see she was going to be a fast learner. She wasn't scared of the gun. That was the big thing. Most people were scared of guns at first, some forever, and a person couldn't master something that scared them. That wouldn't be a problem with Zoe.
Unfortunately, this did not make him feel any better. He actually felt worse, how quickly she was taking to it. Gently, he took the Beretta from her, loaded it, checked the safety, and slipped it back in its holster.
"Let's go back to the house," he said.
"When will I get to shoot it?"
"Soon," he said, starting up the beach.
"When?"
"Very soon."
Chapter 13
The night was long and offered Gage little sleep. There was no wind or rain, but this actually made matters worse, since every creak and knock outside the house got his heart pounding. Long after Zoe trotted off to bed, he lay awake in the darkness. All the information he'd collected since Angela's murder brewed like a thick stew in his brain, and he stirred it, churned it, around and around, hoping to make some sense of it. God's Wrath. Loren Sparrow. The extortion. A strange salesman in a white van.
In the old days, he rarely had trouble sleeping. He was always able to compartmentalize his work from his personal life without too much trouble. His life had been a house with many rooms and everything had its place. But now those once well-defined walls had crumbled, everything spilling into everything else. He was thinking about Bruzzi's threats one moment and Carmen's frustrations the next. An image of a doe-eyed Zoe holding the Beretta was quickly washed away by Angela's blood-soaked body sprawled on the motel bed. In the stillness of the night, his emotions rode their own wild roller coaster.
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