Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  The man chuckled, stepping close. "Oh, you wanna buy us off too? You see how that worked out for your buddy over there? No, our client is one rich bastard and we're getting 'fuck you" money. And it's you who's fucked…"

  Pepper saw a fist's blur, then felt a shooting pain as his head snapped back against the metal pole. He was sliding into a hole so fast, so far, that his mind went black like a broken light bulb.

  Zula Eisenhower was with Pepper's dad at Aunt Anney's Kitchen, praying for any word from Pepper. He was supposed to have been back at the station an hour ago. After Hurd, everyone was thinking Pepper was next. If he was safe, he'd have been in touch. They both knew, without any further info, that Pepper was in deep trouble.

  Zula and Gerry Ryan had fled the station and the predatory herd of reporters in Zula's Jeep. They'd ordered food but hadn't taken more than a couple bites each. Zula was systematically calling everyone she could think of, trying to locate Pepper.

  "It's gotta be bad. He'd answer his phone if he could," said Gerry Ryan, uselessly. His face was heavy with worry and fatigue. His eyes were frantic.

  "Sometimes it's him, sometimes it's his damn phone."

  "Well, I've got a signal. And I've got a terrible feeling…I keep expecting to get the call they just found Pepper's body, all chopped up—"

  Gerry Ryan cut off himself when an old lady in a red felt hat at the table behind Zula turned and gave him a stern glare. His grisly talk was overshadowing the ladies' supper conversation…

  "I'll tell you, that sucks," said the old lady in the red felt hat. "The Nine's is open, but it's too loud. There's no reason." Another pointed glare back over her shoulder at Chief Ryan. "And we can drive to Mahans, but that sucks too. Last time I had the chicken and they didn't put cheese on it. Eleven bucks. Worst sandwich I ever had."

  Zula tried to concentrate on her phone's contact list, scrolling through names uselessly. Nobody made Zula madder than Pepper, but nobody got her going more, either. As a kid, Zula had made her pop take her to every one of Pepper's high school hockey games. Then drove up with her pop to see Pepper play for Harvard. Nobody took him down--he was like a crazy, dumb warrior with a mullet. Sure he had the scoring touch of a quadriplegic. But he'd never quit. But this time I know he needs help.

  In the booth behind them, the other lady was sniffing now to emphasize her displeasure. "I never finish a meal at Mahans. It's a sin."

  "Well, that's why God created doggie bags. But eleven bucks and the fries were cold. Sucked."

  Zula had spilled some raspberry jelly onto the white laminate tabletop and when she wiped it with her napkin it just spread, making the mess worse. The tabletop even seemed to be absorbing the stain. Goddamn it. "Pepper has a good head on his shoulders," she said to Gerry Ryan. "He gets into trouble easily, but he's even better at getting out of it." So where the hell are you Pepper?

  Gerry Ryan had stopped pretending to eat too. "I shouldn't have let him take the badge again. I should have twisted your dad's arm. But Pepper wouldn't have listened. He's a chip off my damn block, and paying the price for it. But I can't lose him too…"

  Tears came to Zula's eyes. Pepper couldn't be dead. "I never even told him how I feel," she said, with more than a little anger in her voice. Did she just say that out loud?

  Pepper's dad took her hand across the table, gave it a squeeze. But said nothing.

  Now Zula was anxious, scared and embarrassed. She decided there was no way she was going to eat any more. "Let's go. I've gotta get back to the station. Or anywhere but here."

  Then Zula's phone rang.

  It was Angel Cavada. "I think I've got a lead on Pepper," he said. "Just maybe. Somebody might be holding him, down by the shore."

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The first thing that came to Pepper Ryan's mind, when he eventually regained consciousness, was no more riling up William Devane. Pepper's vision was choppy gray, sliding painfully to black, then slowly unfolding back to color. He had a brain-splintering headache. And he was still handcuffed to the pole.

  The Devane guy was sitting in a folding chair, over near the door. Reading some book. Pepper had the impression they were both waiting for Oliver to get back. And that his return would be bad news for Pepper.

  The man had said their client was some rich bastard. That statement solidified Pepper's instinct, his suspicion—Smith! Pepper had never been close to actually proving it. And now it was too late to do anything to stop whatever he was planning. Were Oliver and Devane (as Pepper now thought of him) going to be carrying out a plan by Smith to kill the president? What'd it matter now, what more he knew? He was cuffed up, busted up, done.

  No way to keep going, right?

  Pepper tried to get fired up. Mad. He felt a feeble burst of anger swell up, then be swallowed by his pain. But he wasn't dead yet. So, what could he do to fight on?

  His hands were still cuffed behind his back, around a metal pole. Obviously, step one was to get the handcuffs off. That'd be as simple as picking the lock. Pepper had heard it was fairly easy to do if you have two little pieces of metal. Which of course he didn't. The only way he was getting those cuffs off would be with his abductors' key.

  So what about the pole? By leaning back he could see it extended up about six feet and had a sign at the top. He couldn't read it from that angle--probably said something like No Handcuffing To This Pole. Twisting his neck, which almost caused him to lose consciousness again, he saw the pole was seated in a metal sleeve built into the concrete floor. Very sturdy. It was held in the sleeve by a heavy duty metal screw with a thick head that his wrist scratched against when his hands sagged to the floor.

  Could he undo the screw?

  He could try. Or he could sit here and wait for them to kill him.

  Pepper arranged himself for maximum leverage over the screw. Wait--lefty loosey, correct? So which way was left in this position?

  He thought it through, slowly. It'd be the opposite of if it was on his side of the pole. So what felt like righty tighty would actually be the correct way to loosen the screw. Right?

  He twisted himself again to find a better angle and was able to arrange a thumb and forefinger around the screw. How much torque would he need? He gave it his best possible squeeze. Tried to give it a twist in the direction he hoped would loosen it.

  Nothing. Didn't budge. His fingers held for a second, then slid across the unmoving screw. He felt pain in his fingers where his skin snagging on the screw. Sonovabitch. But Oliver could reappear any time and whatever they'd do to him would hurt a lot more.

  So right back to it. Fumble, squeeze, twist, slide, pain.

  Again. And again. Pepper counted each attempt as if to convince himself that the bigger the number, the more progress he was making. Just don't quit again. Time to prove everyone wrong, including himself.

  He could feel the wet chill as his fingers began to bleed. This made the effort seem even more like a waste of time. The blood made the screw slick, so the twist went straight to slide and straight to pain. Less likely he'd actually turn the screw.

  Then Pepper got the bright idea to pull up the back of his shirt and slip it over the screw. It seemed to soak up some of the blood and gave him a bit better purchase. Squeeze, twist, slide. The pain was constant now, not just a punch line at the end of every failed attempt.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Pepper lost count of his efforts to move the damn screw somewhere north of forty tries. And he kept laboring long after that. He didn't want to rest because he doubted he'd start again, it just hurt too much.

  The William Devane guy was still sitting in a folding chair over by the door, engrossed in some book. Then he suddenly stopped, looked over at Pepper. "You're awake!" the man said, chuckling. "That was my money punch..."

  "Yeah, nice K.O." Pepper tried to smile and keep the guy settled where he was so he wouldn't glimpse Pepper's bloody struggle behind his back. "What's the book?"

  The man looked delighted. "I hoped you'd ask, P
epper Ryan. 'Cause it's called Salt!" And the man laughed and laughed like it was the funniest coincidence ever. "Oh, man…Pepper, it's called Salt… Anyways, you think it's just about the history of salt, but it's really about money and fertility and smuggling…" The man launched into a long, scattered recap of the book. It was almost more painful than the punch.

  Pepper kept working on the screw behind his back. Still twisting fruitlessly. Still bleeding.

  After summarizing and editorializing for more than five minutes, the man ran out of steam. "So that's where I'm at so far." The man grunted, heaved himself to his feet. "But let's check you over."

  Crap. "Hey, that book sounds good. Did you know, ah, the first millionaire in America was a Cape Cod salt maker?" lied Pepper.

  Devane paused. "Oh, yeah?"

  "But he died from salt poisoning. He must be in that book."

  The man went back and picked up the book, flipped the pages in a disgruntled way. "I read all that part, about Cape Cod. I don't remember any millionaire."

  "Oh, yeah, yeah. His name was Barnstable. They named the town nearby after him, you know it? Any serious book about salt must have mentioned him a bunch. Check the index."

  Devane flipped to the book's front, then jumped to the index at the back. But of course didn't find any Barnstable listed there. He was getting more irritated. He tossed the book back on his lawn chair.

  "I think I remember that guy, I'll find it," Devane promised. "But I gotta piss, so sit tight." He chuckled, headed toward the door.

  And then Pepper was alone with the dead bodies and the screw.

  Oliver was annoyed. The client hadn't answered when he called on the blue phone. Oliver leaned against the stolen car, parked on a residential street just outside downtown New Albion. Full cell signal. Waited five minutes, called again.

  No answer.

  Oliver called again every five minutes, getting madder and madder.

  On the fifth try, the garbled voice answered. Sounding robotic but also…tired?

  "Good news," said Oliver. "We have Ryan. But it took extra overhead and extra risk. So the price to kill him's gone up."

  Garbled swear words. Garbled anger.

  "The payment to this account—" Oliver recited his own offshore bank account number "needs to be…quadrupled." Fuck him—the extra was for making Oliver sit there like a putz, redialing… Long silence from the client. Long enough for Oliver to wonder, was he wrong about their client's identity and wealth? And the likelihood of being asked to do the one final, mega assignment?

  Then…laughter. "Quadruple, just the one payment? Does your partner know?"

  Oliver kept silent, sat on his anger. Waited. Thought about the F.U. money.

  "Okay," said the client finally. "I'll call when it's wired, then you kill Ryan. Immediately. Or I'll have you killed."

  Oliver slapped his leg in victory. Hung up and smiled.

  Five minutes later, the client called back to confirm the money had transferred. Which Oliver was able to verify for himself on an app on his own phone, then transfer it all to a different account in the Bahamas.

  "You still there?" demanded the client. "When you're done, sit tight in that boat shed for an hour, then call me. I have one final contract to offer that'll make everything so far look like pocket change."

  "Whoa, sounds great!" said Oliver, and hung up.

  Then he tucked the special blue phone under his car's front tire and drove back and forth over it until it was an expensive, secure clump of plastic splinters.

  Angel Cavada's intel was razor thin.

  Pepper had asked Angel to put out the word a couple of days earlier about any boats in the gray area between owned and stolen, in connection with Marcus Dunne's death. Anything borrowed, or loaned, or wink wink nudge nudged. Angel had now called that entire network again, a ton of people, hoping for any scraps of info that might lead to Pepper's location. After sorting through a lot of irrelevant gossip and rumors, Angel finally thought he had a lead, validated through a few different sources. Might be completely jack shit, but he was telling Zula just in case…

  A large motor cruiser had been moored at a rental property for the past week, at a private dock that was usually empty. The house was the property occupied by the Weepers church group. A night kayaker had seen the motor cruiser—around fifty feet with powerful twin engines, a real beast— returning to its dock the night Pepper's trailer had been dragged into the ocean. The big cruiser had come in hot, almost taken out the dock.

  Also, a neighbor to the Weepers property—and pretty pissed about it—had been watching them with binoculars, hoping they'd do something the neighbor could report to the law and hopefully get their hateful asses run out of town. A couple hours ago, she'd seen two people come from the boathouse next to the dock where the big motor cruiser was docked. The people were having some kind of confrontation. Maybe even a bit of a fight. One had pretty much dragged the other onto the big boat and below deck then things became quiet again. So, Angel had wondered, was Pepper being held there?

  Pepper's dad was getting red in the face from the news and he was shaking from some mix of anger and fear. "I have to check it out," he said firmly. "It's the only tip we've got, even if it might be a big nothing…but if Pepper's in danger…"

  "No, absolutely! I'll drive," promised Zula. Her stomach had tightened like a fist, squeezing her spine. Pepper might already be dead! Or could be, any minute…

  The tip was probably even too thin to justify police backup. But they did call Zula's pop as the Jeep sped toward the Weepers' rental property.

  "You two stay put," commanded her pop, predictably. "I'll send a car to check it out."

  But Gerry Ryan was still red-faced, still shaking. "Don, I can't wait, my boy might be in there. We're here and every minute might count!"

  "Gerry—"

  Pepper's dad clicked off. Despite the heavy stress evident on his face, he grinned at Zula. "Pepper would laugh." Then he tried to get Zula to stay in the car but she refused. Who knew how many people were on the boat? How many were armed?

  Zula unlocked the toolbox in the rear of her Jeep and took out her twelve gauge shotgun. "End of discussion," she said.

  "Where the hell'd you get that?" asked Gerry Ryan.

  "From you. On my sixteenth birthday and don't pretend you forgot."

  They walked swiftly but alertly around the house's side to the back lawn. Saw no one. As they approached the private dock they could see a boathouse on one side of the dock and on the other side a huge Sundancer cabin cruiser, close to fifty feet long, with enormous twin engines. No one was in sight.

  They went to the boat first. Zula peeked through a tiny opening in the blinds. She could see what must be a stateroom: a thin sliver of bed, and part of a person's body outlined through a blanket.

  She whispered to Gerry Ryan what she'd seen.

  "Fuck this," said Gerry Ryan. He stepped onto the boat. Zula pulled herself up the side of the boat too as a man came from the cabin doorway. The man and Gerry Ryan saw each other at the same moment—it was Reverend McDevitt! His black hair was smoothed up and to the side, like a burnt, squashed beehive.

  "Freeze, police!" shouted Gerry Ryan. He pointed his big Smith & Wesson at the man.

  After a brief moment, McDevitt darted back below deck.

  "I said freeze!"

  Then the top of McDevitt's beehive head reappeared, and just the tip of a handgun, like he was gearing up for a fight. From McDevitt's blind spot behind the hatch, Zula stepped up and loudly racked the 12 gauge shotgun and pointed it at the back of McDevitt's head—just a foot away.

  "Hear that, asshole?" she asked.

  This time the reverend did freeze. Gerry Ryan took McDevitt's weapon and quickly had him flat on the boat's deck.

  Zula was already headed below, shotgun in front of her, to free Pepper. But she didn't find Pepper. She found a teenage girl, cheek with a purpling bruise, in bed. Tears running down her cheeks. Looked kinda numb but also k
inda panicked by the shouting.

  A few used condoms and wrappers littered the floor.

  "She was here of her own consent!" yelled the reverend from on deck. "Her own consent! And you—"

  "Sweetie, how old are you?" Zula asked.

  The girl didn't want to answer. Zula could see her eyes moving as she thought furiously, weighing the situation.

  "How old, sweetie?"

  "I'm sixteen."

  "Sixteen?"

  "Almost—fifteen and a half."

  Zula called her dad, briefly explained they hadn't found Pepper but had interrupted the sexual assault of a minor. She asked him to send it all. EMTs and backup to process the scene so that the Reverend McDevitt could be prosecuted for statutory rape. And to request assistance from the Rape Crisis Center in Hyannis and the state DCF.

  Back on deck, McDevitt was getting his bluster back. "You're trespassing, and you've assaulted me, in front of a witness!" he yelled at Gerry Ryan. "This is an illegal arrest! I'm going to… Anyway, you can't arrest me! You're no cop anymore, Ryan, I already took care of that!"

  No, you didn't, he'll always be a cop.

  Pepper's dad just smiled, pulled his wallet. Showed the shield pinned there. "County deputy. Nothing fancy, but enough to take you into custody. You have the right to remain silent…" he said, as he pulled his cuffs.

  And they sounded like the sharp grinding of metal jaws as Gerry Ryan squeezed them tight on McDevitt's hairy wrists, looped through a metal railing.

  Gerry Ryan and Zula ran to the boat shed, hoping that Pepper was there instead. Zula turned the doorknob and Gerry Ryan kicked it wide open. He moved inside, gun up, screaming 'police'!

  But the shed was empty.

  Zula was crushed—Angel's tip hadn't gotten them any closer to saving Pepper.

  Alfson was with Hanley in the Eagle's Nest guest house's command post, reviewing logistics for the POTUS's planned dinner that evening on the Smith yacht. He was trying to push to the back of his mind the call he'd gotten from Zula Eisenhower telling him that Pepper had disappeared—had he seen him? He hadn't. Alfson instantly pictured Lieutenant Hurd, all chopped up. And Arnold Keser, in the clambake pit. But Alfson's duty prevented him from running off to look for Pepper. Hopefully, the maverick was somewhere innocent—holed up with a bottle or a girl or both, some crazy story—and would turn up any moment.