Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  "Pepper—" she started. Then stopped, laughed. "Even your name sounds funny tonight. How'd you get that nickname anyway? And don't say because you're SO hot, you've always been called that. Even our first-grade teacher..."

  "My name's Peter. But Jake always had trouble pronouncing it when he was young. Dragged me around like a stuffed animal when I was a baby. Peddah, Peddah, eventually became Pepper. So it was Jake."

  "That is too cute." Maddie stepped close and kissed him.

  Pepper could feel her hunger. Her teeth pulled at his lip and her kiss broadened into a grin. If the world could stop, thought Pepper, and be this simple. If he could hold a woman who wanted to be held…kiss a woman who wanted to be kissed.

  Pepper realized they were on the beach in front of his family's property. Right below his trailer… Maddie pressed up against him, her back to his front, facing the ocean they couldn't really see in the near darkness, then said in more of a little girl voice, "Pepper, what're we doing?"

  He pulled her even closer. "I'd say, heading to second base…"

  "No. What're WE doing?" She paused and when he didn't answer, she continued. "When that sniper tried to kill us today in the cemetery…I've never felt so scared! But also so safe, with you protecting me, taking care of me. I was thinking…what would you say to going away with me? Just us?"

  "What?"

  "We could live anywhere we want. Paris…Buenos Aries…Hong Kong…" Running her leg along his. Her gentle stroking was electric. "You don't need to be a cop, right? Let someone else put their lives in danger for crappy pay. And I can get away from all the parties and craziness, get back to my painting. You and I could have a lot of laughs…"

  Pepper started to picture the alternate path she was offering: Europe, South America. A life of exploration, adventure, relaxation. Unlimited financial means, thanks to the Smith fortune, with his long-lost childhood sweetheart. Lunacy, but very tempting lunacy. What'd his job really matter anyway? What kind of cop was he—unable to follow orders, follow procedures? Spending more time in trouble than out of it. Sure, somebody had to do it, but why him? And for all he knew, tomorrow morning he was going to be fired. "Is that what you really want?" he asked.

  "What I want?" She tilted her head down, thinking. Was silent for a long time. Then she looked right into his eyes. Even more beautiful in the near darkness…the 99% shadows. "I want to be happy for the majority of each day," she whispered. "The majority. And if that's too much to ask, I'm talking to the wrong person. All I know is, I haven't talked this way out loud in so long, so fucking honest, I don't recognize myself."

  Maybe he was the wrong person. She was jet-set, world-class…way out of Pepper's league. Compared to Zula—and why was he now doing that? Zula was beautiful too, but less conventionally. Zula made him feel grounded, home. Maddie brought out the wild teen in his blood and made him second-guess everything about himself since that age.

  And Maddie wanted to be with him, right now. Zula wouldn't even take his calls anymore, so damn her for getting in his head right now!

  Pepper was conscious that he was thoroughly buzzed at the moment—from alcohol and Maddie, perfectly mixed. It was irresistible. He picked up Maddie and she was light, warm, floral. His left hand happened to cup her soft breast. A perfect handful. His right hand cradled her firm ass, sliding smoothly across the silk skirt. She kissed him again as Pepper started walking toward the wooden stairs that led to his Airstream trailer.

  Maddie wasn't making it easy for him to walk. She was kissing him and her hands were under his shirt, running roughly across his ribs, his chest, his nipple. When she happened to press the deep bruise on his left side, he spasmed wildly like he'd been electrocuted. His right hand had somehow worked its way under her skirt and he felt the cool satin of her panties.

  As they reached where Pepper believed the wooden stairs should be waiting in the dark, he got clotheslined in the neck by a thick steel cable. He fell backward, Maddie landing on him, startled. But she was still laughing. Then he heard the cable go thrum!—and a heavy, rushing sound. He grabbed Maddie tight and rolled away to the side, over and over through the high beach grass.

  His trailer just missed them.

  It was skidding and bumping along at a high speed and was actually airborne as it passed them toward the sand, toward the ocean.

  He felt Maddie clutch up at him, let out a drunken giggle. "Hey, a UFO!"

  Sonofabitch.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Justin Case woke to the mother of all hangovers. He was lying on the floor of the cop's trailer. It was dark. His head was spinning and bobbing like it wasn't even attached to his neck. His stomach…it was even worse. He didn't want to even come up with the words to describe it because if he did, it would definitely make him throw up.

  With that thought, Justin threw up.

  He finally got to his knees. Then his feet. Grabbed the table, pulled himself to a semi-erect position. And he really, really couldn't see much. Either it was still nighttime or else he'd fried his eyes.

  He needed to find water. His mouth was constricted and swollen. He experimented and discovered he could move his tongue around from one woolen corner to the other. But his tongue hurt too.

  He let go of the table and almost fell. Flailing, he slipped in his vomit and did fall. His head hit the table and unconsciousness mercifully took him away.

  Justin didn't know how much time had passed when he woke again. He struggled to his feet. Feeling at least as bad as before. His head? With the new bump, and maybe a mild concussion to top off his hangover, it felt like an overripe cantaloupe balanced on a frayed rope. What was that, from some song? He fumbled in his pockets to see if he had his vape pen. A little weed would be a godsend. Settle his damn equilibrium. But no, it was missing.

  So, water. Water would also be a godsend. He found the trailer's little sink, turned the knob and a weak spurt of water filled his cupped hand. Glorious water.

  He struggled his way to the door, gave the handle a twist and pushed, but it didn't budge. He groaned, pushed harder. Nothing. He stumbled to the window and peered out into the slanted glow of faint, faint moonlight.

  The heavy clouds had parted a bit. There was just enough light now so he could see water. All around the trailer—dark, calm water.

  The trailer was slowly floating on the Atlantic Ocean, toward…Ireland?

  Where the fuck was his vape pen?

  Pepper and Maddie were waiting up by the road in the semi-darkness for a patrol car that Marty Lane, the graveyard Dispatch clerk, had promised to send right over, through his fits of laughter.

  It was an awkward wait. Maddie's offer hung in the air between them, but blurred by the alcohol, their tiredness and the bizarre interruption they'd experienced. They were both in a kind of shock.

  Pepper tried a completely new topic. "Maddie, I forgot to ask—who's the other sick man at Eagle's Nest?"

  "Lizzie's uncle? He moved in a few months ago and he's dying of cancer too, like Daddy. She's his only family and of course daddy wouldn't say no to anything she asks for, these days." She hugged herself tighter.

  Pepper got a call back from Marty Lane a while later. A coast guard helicopter had spotted his Airstream floating southward, a mile offshore, in the direction of open water. It was remarkably buoyant. The Coast Guard had sent two boats. They'd found one man inside after cutting straps that trapped the door closed. The man, the big celebrity Justin Case, had been unable to explain to the Coast Guard what had happened. Did Pepper want to arrange a tow?

  "Floated!?!" swore Oliver. They'd returned the forty-six-foot motor yacht right back to its home dock, as the client had firmly instructed, and were back in Croke's room at the Sanddollar Motel. Oliver was staring at the TV early bird news like it had to be a prank. "The goddamn thing's made of metal! He should be on the ocean bottom."

  They studied the news image of the trailer, bobbing gently in a hovering news helicopter's spotlight.

  "If you'd let
me shoot it up, make some holes for water to get in," shrugged Croke. "Woulda sunk like a rock…"

  The video cut back to a dock. Showed a man getting off a Coast Guard boat, towel around his shoulders, sipping a little plastic bottle of water. 'Celebrity Rescued' said the headline below the image.

  "That's not Pepper Ryan," said Croke. "Who the hell's that?"

  So they'd fucked up times two. Oliver swore an oath to himself, the only person he cared about, the only person he trusted. The client had mentioned one more day of jobs and sure, they'd do that, as well as kill the elusive Pepper Ryan. Pocket that final big payday from the client. Then Oliver would get the hell off Cape Cod. Far away from the thick fog of law enforcement officers who were searching for them. The traffic and insanity. And the bad luck. They were starting to appear fucking incompetent…

  "Maybe some help from New York will kinda be good?" asked Croke.

  Help? What was Croke saying? "Croke, you didn't call Queens for help, did you? Because if they find out we've been taking jobs direct from the client, we'll be the next job."

  Croke just stared at him defiantly. Silent. Then finally said, "Whatever. But no more goddamn boats."

  And for once, Oliver agreed with him.

  Chapter Forty

  Pepper Ryan had a patrol car drop Maddie Smith at the Eagle's Nest checkpoint, then him at Angel Cavada's house. Angel was still awake, having just gotten home, and had no problem with Pepper bunking there. But thought it was hilarious that Pepper refused to explain why. Pepper was too pissed. Too fried, wiped, done.

  The next morning, Pepper spilled the story and Angel laughed so hard he got a cramp. Pepper found himself laughing too—what other response made sense? But when Angel recovered, Pepper asked him to keep his ears open for any local rumors about anyone being out in nearby waters last night with a powerful enough boat to tow a goddamn trailer. Which had set off Angel's hilarity and cramping again…

  Angel finally recovered enough to drop him at his truck. Pepper was driving to the station to face Chief Eisenhower when he got a surprise call from Brandon Blacklock. The fund manager from Smith Enterprises was about to get on Acker Smith's private plane on his way to Cape Cod. He had a meeting with Smith and might be willing to talk to Pepper, afterward. No guarantees.

  Pepper tried to change Blacklock's mind but no, he absolutely insisted on talking to Smith first.

  Pepper believed Brandon Blacklock could be the key to his investigations coming together into one clear picture. So instead of making his meeting with the Chief, Pepper took a spare patrol car and headed out to Rogers Folly Road. He parked in a blind spot that local cops had used for years as a speed trap. He ignored calls from the Chief. Sarcastic text messages from Zula. He did call his partner Alfson, who confirmed Blacklock's name had been added to the gate list for Eagle's Nest. The Secret Service had resisted the last minute request but Smith's people had shut them down by threatening to call D.C. Why was Pepper asking about Blacklock, Special Agent Alfson asked, voice heavy with suspicion and distrust?

  It was so good to have a partner.

  Pepper's dad called him with new info about Reverend McDevitt and his thugs. He'd contacted a Fall River detective captain he knew who'd told him the Weepers had built out a hell of a piece of real estate down there in recent years. That most of the cars going in and out were Cadillacs. Business was good for the Church of Peter Weeping. The Fall River police had not been very active at the Weepers' compound recently, other than supporting occasional visits by the state's Department of Children and Families who were following up on complaints about the safety of minors on the property. "But the Weepers' main public activity lately has been in other cities. Ambushing the president at his public appearances, that sort of fun," said his dad. "Or their old favorites, like disrupting soldiers' funerals."

  His dad grumbled a bit about the impossibility of getting more New Albion manpower on the home destruction case. The POTUS visit had sucked all the bandwidth from the small department. But the POTUS was leaving in a few days, on July 8th, and hopefully the Ryan case would jump up to top priority. He trusted the General to make sure that it did.

  "And I had some other bad news," his dad said, a little louder. "I talked to the insurance company. The adjuster's screwing around—said our policy won't cover the demolition unless their investigation concludes it was an accident. He even said they're investigating whether we did it ourselves, for the money!"

  Pepper didn't know what to say, he was stunned into silence. Couldn't they catch just a little freakin' break?

  "But don't worry, the angels are on our side," said his dad, with a forced laugh, then abruptly changed the subject. "Any word yet when's Marcus Dunne's funeral going to be?"

  "Not yet," sighed Pepper. "His body was just released." Another reason for Pepper to be in a shitty mood. He didn't know if he could pay his respects to Trish and her daughter, with her husband's killer still out there…

  A limousine came around the corner, maybe a couple miles an hour over the speed limit. Pepper ended his call with his dad, then hit his rollers and took off after it. Pepper didn't call in his location after they'd stopped on the roadside.

  Pepper walked to the driver's window, showed his badge. Confirmed the driver was Smith's chauffeur and asked him to unlock the back doors.

  But he found the passenger area empty.

  The chauffeur explained he'd gone to Barnstable Municipal Airport to collect a man who never showed up. Mr. Smith's plane had arrived but the man must have taken other ground transportation. Some mix-up, no one at Eagle's Nest could say. Smith's chief of staff—Ms. Concepcion—had told him to come back to the compound. Yes, the missing passenger's name was Blacklock. But the chauffeur's trip had been a waste of time.

  So, it appeared, had been Pepper's plan.

  Where had Blacklock disappeared to?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lizzie Concepcion was worried. And scared. Time was running out for her because Mr. Smith was fading quickly. The billionaire was pale as thin, yellow paper. He was weak. He didn't seem to be able to leave his bed.

  Mr. Smith was still working every morning, trying to stay on top of his global financial empire. Phone calls to Stamford, to London, to Hong Kong. And she would read him his emails as he sat, eyes closed, probably listening.

  But his energy was failing. Lizzie could see it in his eyes this Wednesday morning. And he was in a particularly grumpy mood today because he was experiencing another attack of the pins and needles in his hands and feet.

  When she'd told him that the fund manager Brandon Blacklock hadn't arrived as scheduled, he'd gazed at her like he couldn't remember who Blacklock was.

  "What about that Reverend McDevitt? The news stories?" he asked. "I'm paying him to stir things up, correct?"

  "Yes sir." McDevitt had been rabidly active, had understood what they needed his group to do and had required almost no prompting once the payments had cleared.

  "He's a scumbag," wheezed Mr. Smith.

  "Yes sir. But he's our scumbag. Which may come in handy again before the president's vacation's over."

  Smith laughed. But it devolved into a long coughing fit.

  What would she do, if Mr. Smith suddenly died? It couldn't happen! She thought back to the life she used to live, before Mr. Smith hired her. Her D.C. life. She almost didn't remember who she'd been. The romantic roller coaster of her younger days. Her surprise pregnancy. Then her miscarriage. Followed soon by divorce papers from her husband John, like an aftershock. But nothing hurt like the loss of her baby. It'd almost killed her, and definitely killed who she'd hoped to be.

  She'd only survived by changing everything in her life. No more husband's accusatory stares. No more K Street office vapidity. She'd found new meaning, new purpose, with Mr. Smith.

  And now that Mr. Smith was dying? Of course it scared her, but no one would ever see her fear again.

  Zula Eisenhower was in her pop's office, giving him two Tylenols and a
bottle of water. She'd already taken some herself—sad and pissed off about Pepper Ryan not showing up that morning to face her pop. Not to mention the gossip from the night before about him on the beach with that slut Madeline Smith. And someone tried to drown him in his trailer?

  More freaking chaos—classic Pepper. And somehow, infuriatingly, it all made Zula want him more. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  She knew her pop had been fielding calls from the Secret Service and the ATF. As well as the State Police, the DA, the town manager, and everyone else with a title and a telephone. All reasons why Pop had a heck of a headache going, even before Lieutenant Hurd stepped in and interrupted them.

  "A second, boss?" Hurd asked, raising his eyebrows, which somehow emphasized his big nose even more.

  He looks like an animal, scavenging for food. An anteater?

  Her pop waved Hurd in.

  "Sir, I know you and the Ryans go way back," the lieutenant said, then paused and glanced at Zula. "But is there any way Pepper's on the wrong side of all the trouble that's been happening? I mean, where was he a month ago? Playing music in some bar in Nashville, he says? What if somebody paid him a lot of money to come back and help screw our shit up? Maybe even put the president's life at risk."

  Her pop scowled but waived a dismissive hand. "The Ryans are pretty simple to understand. It's not always pretty, but they're all about duty--to hell with everything else. Even when they can't follow a goddamn order."

  "Okay... But what if he's carrying out a different duty than we think? A duty to someone, you know, on the wrong team? I recommend we suspend Ryan, just to be safe, right? We can sort everything else out later."

  "I'll think about that," her pop promised, and she could tell he even meant it. "In the meanwhile, how're you holding up, Lieutenant? You didn't even have a chance to recover from that bar fight and now you're shouldering a double load coordinating the POTUS traffic details. Not to mention our share of the Westin manhunt and everything else."