A Desperate Place for Dying

by Scott William Carter

  "Not as much fun as you thought it'd be?" Pantelli said, studying his face.

  He looked at her. Tall, dark, confident—in a way, Karen Pantelli even reminded him of Angela. She was certainly as beautiful. Of course, she worked for the FBI. But then everyone had flaws.

  "No," he said.

  "It's easier when they're just bad through and through," she said. "It's much harder when they're complicated.

  "I guess. Or maybe I'm just getting soft."

  Everyone had left but the two of them. They stood there, nodding as if this amounted to divine wisdom rather than something that might have come out of a Cracker Jack box.

  "A favor," Gage asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Keep me out of the news on this one."

  "I'll do my best. I certainly owe you." She hesitated, swallowing a little, showing signs of nervousness that he didn't think she had in her. "Say, if you have time, I'd like—I'd like to buy you dinner."

  It was such a small thing, but Gage could see how much it had cost her, how much she'd risked, by this little gesture. He was flattered. He was also quite ready to go home—where a pretty lady who loved him waited. Even a meal with another pretty lady seemed like a sort of betrayal, and he'd never been the betraying sort of a guy.

  She saw all this on his face before he'd had a chance to formulate his answer. "No biggie," she said. "Just thought two hungry people might eat together."

  "Could be fun," Gage said. "Maybe another time."

  "Maybe," Pantelli said, nodding.

  To her credit, there was no moping or wilting, just a gaze held for a few extra seconds, then the briefest hint of a smile.

  Very brief. So brief he might have imagined it.

  Chapter 21

  It may have been that look in Pantelli's eyes that stoked Gage's own desire, but he found himself thinking about Carmen during a night of fitful sleep at the Motel 6 near the Los Angeles airport, during the interminable plane ride back to Portland in the morning, and even more during the rainy, windswept drive back to Barnacle Bluffs. He thought about her lips and her eyes. He thought about the way she looked when shadows laced with moonlight fell across her naked body. Mostly, he thought about whether she would object to some passionate lovemaking there in her office, or whether he would have to wait until he got her back to her place.

  Or his place. Either would do.

  But by the time he parked his van in front of the Bugle's office, the rainy morning melting into a rainy afternoon, he knew he couldn't put off what he knew was inevitable—even if he was fairly certain she would enjoy the putting off as much as he would. Trudging up the stairs to her office, he felt miserable and cold, and it had little to do with the blustery wind billowing about in the hall. He'd also left his cane behind. This would be hard enough without feeling like a cripple at the same time.

  Of course, when he saw her, she looked more beautiful than ever, her figure startling in the hip-hugging black skirt and simple white blouse. Such a monochrome outfit might have been bland on someone else, but on Carmen it served to draw even more attention to the vividness of her green eyes. She was standing over the copier, holding a folded page of newsprint; dressed in black heels which drew even more attention to her figure.

  And of course she would give him a broad smile that only made it harder to say what he knew had to say. He didn't even let himself indulge in pleasant small talk before outing the words. When he said it, her smile disappeared.

  "I don't understand," she said.

  "I said I think you should take that job with MSNBC," Gage repeated, finding it easier the second time. "You don't want to make them wait. You should tell them yes before they change their minds. Besides, I hear Atlanta is very pretty in December."

  She nodded. He could see he was losing her already. "So you want me to go," she said.

  "Hell no," he said.

  "Then I don't understand—"

  "I'm saying you want to go. And I want what you want."

  They stood close, her still by the copier, him leaning on the desk next to it. The crushed look in her eyes was worse than he could have possibly imagined, and it made him glad, as abrupt as he was, that he'd come straight to the point upon entering the room. If he'd tried to ease into it, he might have lost his resolve. If she'd cried, he might have tried to take it all back. That was the kind of hold she had on him. But she didn't cry. Her eyes turned misty, but she held back the tears. In a way, it was confirmation that he was doing the right thing.

  "So that's how it ends, huh?" she said. "Not with a bang, but with a whimper?"

  "I'm not whimpering," Gage replied. "Are you?"

  Carmen nodded thoughtfully, not looking at him. Outside, the murmur of traffic rose and fell along with the wind.

  "Maybe a little," she said. "Inside."

  "Don't think of it as the end. Think of it as a break."

  "Is that what you believe?"

  "I think it's probably God's will."

  Carmen, sobering quickly, shook her head. "Even now, jokes."

  "It's what I know," Gage said. "A defense mechanism, maybe. Or just something I do because I do it. Listen, you jumped at the chance for that interview, Carmen. You want this job. Barnacle Bluffs—it was just a brief hiatus for you, a rest stop on your way to great things. You weren't meant to stay here. We both know it."

  "Are you saying you don't love me?"

  "I'm saying maybe love isn't enough. At least not right now."

  "That's not a very romantic way of looking at it."

  "Life isn't always very romantic."

  She looked at him steadily. "Come with me."

  "Thank you," he said.

  "I mean it."

  "I'm sure you do. And I appreciate you asking. But this is where I belong—as much as I belong anywhere. Barnacle Bluffs isn't much, but it's home. I've also got Zoe to think about. She needs some stability right now. So I'll be here. I'll be here so long as the reporters don't chase me out, I guess."

  He hadn't intended this last remark to have a double meaning, but he saw, by the look on her face, that it clearly did. It wasn't hurt he saw, though, so much as a flicker of amusement. She even allowed herself a little smile—and that's when he knew everything would be all right between them. Maybe not for a long time, but eventually.

  "So," she said, tentatively reaching for his hand, "do you think it would be all right if this reporter chased you out of her office . . . a little later?"

  * * * * *

  Returning to his house in the early afternoon, the rain finally easing, Gage felt both more depressed and more at peace than he'd felt in a very long time. He knew he was doing the right thing with Carmen, but that didn't mean he felt good about it. The last hour they'd spent together, with the shades in her office drawn and the lights off, hadn't made him feel any better either. It only gave him a stark reminder of what he was going to miss when she was gone—which may have been her point.

  He had an hour to kill before he needed to pick up Zoe from school, and he intended to spend it finding the bottom of his bottle of bourbon. If he hadn't been in such a deep funk, and if he hadn't been so single-minded in his desire to drown out his sorrows, he might have picked up on subtle clues that someone was in the house before he actually stepped inside.

  But he didn't realize it until a big fist punched him in the side of the face.

  It was like being hit by a bulldozer. Gage was tumbling across the room before he'd even realized what had happened—crashing into the kitchen, his arm swatting the bowls left for the cats, spilling water and sending cat food skittering across the vinyl floor.

  The room spinning, the taste of blood in his mouth, Gage still had the presence of mind to grope for his gun in his jacket. But as he pulled it out, the Beretta was slapped from his hand and it went clunking to the kitchen floor. Massive, hairy hands grabbed his jacket and heaved him up, as if he was nothing, as if he weighed no more than a spoon, and tossed him against the cabinets, slamming him so ha
rd it knocked the wind out of him.

  Gasping for breath, he struggled to his hands and knees. His vision was so blurry it was like trying to see through a waterfall. He'd broken at least a rib or two, maybe his little finger in his left hand. The pain was really something. It was the kind of pain that was so big it could have had its own zip code. He looked at the massive creature lurching his way and finally recognized this hairy beast as the giant everyone assumed had burned up in the fire in Idaho.

  "Wall," Gage croaked.

  Again, Gage was grabbed and jerked upright, held so high his shoes didn't even touch the floor. Wall pulled him close, leering at him with those huge, vacant eyes, his breath as rancid as rotting meat. There was so much so much strength contained in the man before him—it was overwhelming. Gage had never faced such raw power.

  "I kill you now," Wall said.

  As Wall reached for his neck, Gage spat in his face. It was the least he could do. Wall blinked rapidly, saliva oozing down his hairy cheeks, then erupted. With a howl to wake the dead, he tossed—no, threw—Gage across the room.

  Gage rifled through the air like a torpedo and smashed against the paneled wall next to the fireplace, narrowly missing the brick, getting his arms up to take the brunt of the impact at the last moment. Pain flashed up his right arm, and when he crashed to the floor, darkness threatened to swallow him. If he went under, it would be the end of him.

  Rising feebly to his knees, Gage felt like a boxer in the eighth round who just wouldn't admit he was overmatched. And he wouldn't. His head was turned the opposite direction, but he heard Wall thundering toward him, felt the vibrations through the carpet.

  Wall grabbed Gage by the back of his jacket, hoisting him up. It was then that Gage glimpsed the fireplace poker on the rack. He grabbed the brass handle and swung the rod, twisting his body, giving it everything he had even as he felt his strength evaporating into the pain. He wasn't even aiming. He was just swinging and hoping for the best.

  Amazingly, the poker landed on the side of Wall's face, a direct hit. Even more amazingly, the big man did not go down. He gaped at Gage, blood trickling down his cheek, and roared.

  Wall ripped the poker from Gage's hand with enough force that if Gage had maintained his grip on the handle another second, it may very well have ripped his arm off. As it was, his arm was yanked hard from its socket and he felt the burn of muscles tearing.

  Then Gage was punched hard in the face. The world dissolved and, mercifully, for a moment so did the pain. He was punched again. And again. Blood pooled in his eyes. His face felt like shattered glass. One more punch and that would be it. Game over. He'd die here at the hands of this dim-witted beast.

  A cannon boomed in the house.

  In his half-conscious, pain-soaked state of mind, that's what it sounded like to Gage. He thought maybe he'd imagined it until Wall dropped Gage to the floor, and then lurched about, slowly turning toward the front door.

  A second boom rolled through the house.

  Crumpled on the floor, Gage struggled to keep his eyes open. He blinked away blood and tears whatever else was clouding his vision and saw Wall holding his chest. He saw him take one staggering step, trying to straighten, eyes raising to search the front door.

  Following his stare, Gage finally saw the silhouette of a man standing in the front door—a door which had been never been shut.

  It was all bleary shadows over there. Gage couldn't recognize the man. A third boom—no, a shot, it was definitely the shot of a gun—brought Wall to his knees. The dishes in the kitchen clattered. Then Wall, with the same gathering momentum and force of a tree, toppled forward. His body rocked the house like a wrecking ball.

  He didn't rise.

  From his vantage point on the floor, head pressed to the carpet, Gage tried to focus on the person in the doorway—a big person, a muscular right arm outstretched, gun in hand. The person in the doorway approached, like a dark shape swimming toward him in the deepest depths of the ocean. Gage blinked and blinked, trying to clear his vision, but even when the man was close he didn't really recognize him until the man spoke.

  "Gage, pal, you really know how to make enemies."

  It was Bruzzi. No mistake. Blue Face Bruzzi—mafia man, killer of wives, and Barnacle Bluffs stalker. All the blinking finally cleared Gage's vision enough that he finally got the image to go along with the voice—the slicked-back hair, the low-buttoned Hawaiian shirt, the obscenely large gold cross dangling from his neck. He held a big gun in his right hand, though Gage couldn't see well enough to know what kind.

  Bruzzi's strong hair tonic, when the alcohol smell finally penetrated Gage's swollen nostrils, was like a smelling salt, rousing Gage back from the brink of unconsciousness. His mouth was thick with his own blood. Even the slightest movement started a chain reaction of pain, but remaining motionless wasn't much better.

  "Here to finish me off?" Gage said.

  The words came out in a mumble, but Bruzzi must have heard them because he laughed.

  "Man, you never quit," he said. "Look at you. It'd be easy to kill you now, you know. I just pull this trigger and it's over. But I want you to—"

  Bruzzi never finished the sentence. There was a gunshot—this time Gage had no doubt—and Bruzzi stopped speaking. He didn't jerk upright or double over in pain; he simply looked mildly annoyed, the look he might have gotten if they were in the theater and somebody was talking behind them. He glanced down at the front of his shirt, lips pursed, and Gage didn't know what he was looking at until he saw the blood appear.

  "Well damn," Bruzzi said.

  He dropped his gun—a big Magnum, Gage saw now. Bruzzi didn't fall so much as sit, slumping cross-legged there next to the huge inert body of Wall. Bruzzi was still staring at the front of his shirt, smiling with blood-stained teeth, as if he still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Gage's vision was clearing, and looking up, he saw a much slighter figure with the afternoon light at her back—and recognized her immediately even though he still couldn't see her all that clearly.

  "Zoe," Gage said.

  Edging forward, Gage's own Beretta raised in front of her, she was crying and sputtering nonsense. Gage couldn't make out a word of it until she got closer, the gun still trained on Bruzzi. Dressed in black as she was, she emerged into focus like a slender version of Death himself. It was a strange thought. Gage wondered if this is what they meant when you saw Death, at the end, when it was your time. He wondered if they looked like somebody you knew.

  ". . . was going to kill you . . . had to . . . had to stop him . . ."

  "Not—not your fault," Gage said.

  ". . . had to stop him . . . thought I'd come home early . . . surprise you . . ."

  "You didn't know—"

  ". . . heard the shouts . . . saw him . . . saw him there . . . and you . . . so bloody . . ."

  "It's okay."

  ". . . saw your gun on the floor in the kitchen . . . pick--picked it up . . ."

  "You did fine," Gage said. "You did great."

  In the end, it was Bruzzi himself who must have recognized the perils of what had just transpired—not for him, and not for Gage, but for the girl with the gun. Still holding his chest, his shirt nearly solid red, he looked up Zoe with an earnest sympathy Gage had never expected to see on the man's face. He was looking at her and nodding, each nod getting slower than the last.

  "You're right," he said. "You're—you're very right. I was . . . I was going to kill him. I was going to do it. I was going to . . . shoot him dead. Me and . . . me and my pal here were going to do it together. You . . . You saved him, girl. You did it. You saved him. Don't ever let him—let him forget it . . . You saved him."

  That was all the strength he had left. While Gage and Zoe watched, Anthony "Blue Face" Bruzzi closed his eyes for the last time. He closed his eyes and placed his open-faced palm over the big gaudy cross on his chest. The gold was all the brighter surrounded by all that blood, like a bright star in a crimson sky. Even as
his head sunk and his breathing stopped, even as the life seeped out of him, Bruzzi kept his hand over that cross.

  It was still there when the police and the medics arrived a short while later.

  Chapter 22

  It was nearly spring before Gage made it back to Angela's grave—a breezy afternoon with the temperature hovering around sixty, a bright blue sky marred only by the occasional long, serpentine cloud. It might have even been warm if it weren't so windy, steady gusting strong enough that Gage kept his hand clamped on his fedora as he made his way up the gravel path. In Barnacle Bluffs, where the weather was boxed in on one side by the Pacific Ocean and the other by the coastal mountains, it was the kind of day that could have happened almost any time of the year.

  Thanksgiving weekend. Fourth of July. Even early March, like today. It was one of the things that people either loved or hated about the city. The people who liked the change of seasons hated it. The people who liked the comfort of consistent, temperate weather loved it.

  Gage was indifferent. The weather wasn't worth getting worked up about. Like so many things in life, it just was.

  His chest still felt like a bag of loose bones, sharp, stabbing pain plaguing him with each step. His bare hand, gripping his cane, was already numb. His other hand was shoved deep in his trench coat. The grass was short and soft, like a sponge beneath his shoes. Cresting the trail, kept company only by the gravestones crowding the hill, he could finally see the ocean stretching to the west like a vast ornamental rug. The sun was low enough, and the sky clear enough, that he could only stand to look that way directly for a few seconds.

  It was an old graveyard, one the pioneers had chosen before anyone could have realized how much value such a view would have, and it was because of the view that Gage had paid such a premium price for Angela to be buried there. In truth, he didn't even know if she would have wanted to be buried. Cremation may have been more of her style. But she had talked about possibly retiring to the Oregon Coast, and he wanted to think she might have enjoyed gazing at the ocean from time to time.