That was his life. Sometimes he'd visit Alex at the bookstore, maybe even pick up a couple of Subway sandwiches and have lunch with him. There was the occasional case, of course, but those were few and far between, mostly by his choice. He didn't need to work, either for money or personal satisfaction. The insurance money from Janet's death would take care of him indefinitely as long as he lived frugally, and he knew no other way to live. And personal satisfaction? He'd left the man who needed that back in New York.
So it was with some surprise that none of his old routines worked. Or perhaps worked wasn't the right word. They didn't fit. There were too many other routines that were now missing. There was no teenage girl to rouse out of bed in the morning, to make breakfast for, or to take to school when she invariably missed the bus—which both of them knew she did on purpose. When she returned, there was no afternoon chat about the stupidity of the American educational system, the small-minded teachers, the classmates who had no other aspirations than getting drunk or laid on a Friday night. No peaceful evenings with him reading the New Yorker in his recliner and her doing her homework at the kitchen table. No arguments about getting a phone, a TV, or, his personal favorite, some kind of life for himself.
He'd been aware of these other routines, of course, but he'd thought that he'd simply expand or add in others to replace them, that the rest of his life, which had contracted to make space for Zoe, would expand again in her absence. But now he found that those other routines, the ones involving Zoe, hadn't merely been additions. They'd changed his other routines too. Each piece of his life had been woven inextricably around the other parts of his life like a tight-knit sweater. Remove a few stray threads and the whole thing might unravel.
Little by little, Gage was unraveling. He could feel it. Whether squinting at a crossword or hobbling along the beach, she was almost always in his thoughts, and not in a way others had been, even Janet. He worried about Zoe. While he worried about others, too, it was not the same kind of worry. This was the kind of worry that made him walk out of the grocery store and halfway home before he realized he hadn't bought anything. It was the kind of worry that had him writing the wrong words in the crossword puzzle boxes, even if they didn't fit. It was the kind of worry that made him edgy and depressed and aware of his loneliness in a way that didn't feel comfortable anymore.
He took more walks, to the point where his bad knee throbbed painfully all night long. He hung out at Books and Oddities so much that Alex asked him if he wanted a part-time job. He even played poker a few nights at the casino, something he'd had no interest in since his college days. He drank more bourbon. Nothing worked.
The only thing that gave him a momentary reprieve from his anxiousness was when Zoe visited, which she did more frequently than she probably should have. Once or twice a week, at least, she swung by to say hello in her patched-up Toyota Corolla, to check on him, to see how he was getting along. While this made him feel better in the short term, he felt her absence even more keenly after she left. He wished he could talk to her daily, even for a few minutes. He was so desperate, he even contemplated getting a phone.
A month passed this way. Then another. The sporadic sunny day was replaced with the sporadic overcast day. The rest of the time it rained. It rained all the way into November. It was raining on a Thursday morning when he was sitting in his recliner reading the Atlantic, a light rain—hardly more than a gray mist outside his windows, but still a rain—coming down when there was a tapping on his front door.
He hobbled to the front door, his right knee seizing up on him, and peered through the peephole. A woman in jeans and a gray sweatshirt stood on his stoop. It was always difficult to see much through the aged, opaque glass, but he caught a glimpse of olive skin and raven hair and eyes the color of emeralds at the bottom of a pond. There was something familiar about her. When he opened the door, he remembered from where.
"Karen Pantelli," he said.
"Hello, Garrison," she said.
A cool breeze ruffled her short hair; the hair was so wispy and fine that it wouldn't have taken much to ruffle it. The rest of her body was just as wispy, slight of build, small-boned. In the baggy gray sweatshirt, plain and without any logos at all, she could have been mistaken for a boy at first glance—but only at first glance, and only from a distance. Her face was definitely feminine, strikingly feminine, with high cheekbones and full, rich lips. She stood with her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Her tennis shoes, which might have once been white, were gray and worn, coated with sand.
A tan Honda Civic was parked on the far side of the gravel parking lot—or at least it seemed beige at first glance. After studying it a moment, he saw that it might have been white, just caked with three or four layers of dirt and dust.
"Are you on a case?" Gage asked.
"Not this time. I'm on vacation."
"The FBI lets you take vacations?"
Most people would have smiled at this, or at least grinned momentarily, but Karen Pantelli wasn't really one for smiling. However, what she lacked in the language of smiling, she made up for in the extensive vocabulary just in her eyes. They glimmered in amusement, so fast he would have missed it if he'd glanced away, like a tiny ripple in a still lake.
"I would have called first," she said, "but you don't have a phone."
"So people tell me."
"I hope it's okay …"
"Oh, sure. I was just working on my cuticles. You want to come in?"
She nodded. He let her into his house. Fortunately, the place wasn't too much of a disaster, some mail on the kitchen counter, some recently folded clothes on the couch, a little dust here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary for a bachelor. He was even decently presentable himself, dressed in a navy blue polo shirt and faded jeans. He was barefoot, but then it was his house and he hadn't been expecting company.
She stood in the foyer, looking small and uncertain, hands clasped in front of her.
"Last time you were here," he said, "I pulled a gun on you."
"It's okay," she said. "I didn't take it personally."
"Well, that's good. I probably would have. Want some coffee?"
She nodded. While he set to work, she leaned against the counter, watching him. She may not have pulled a gun on him, but those eyes of hers were just about as unnerving as twin riflescopes. The first time he'd met her, after Angela was murdered in Barnacle Bluffs by the God's Wrath cult, he remembered thinking how many suspects must have broken down in the interrogation room under the spell of those eyes. Her partner, a big black man with the height and wingspan of a professional basketball player, might have been the more physically intimidating of the two, but he had nothing on her eyes.
Gage poured the coffee grounds into the filter. Even the smell of the beans, the sharp snap of it, was enough to give him a jolt. "You come all the way to Barnacle Bluffs just for a vacation?"
"No, I'm on a road trip."
"Oh yeah? Where'd you start?"
"Florida."
"Wow, coast to coast. How long have you been—"
"A month."
"A month! The FBI's vacation policy is certainly generous these days."
She nodded again, and this time her eyes took on a distant cast. She looked down. He was almost glad for the reprieve, her gaze was so intense. While he finished getting the coffee started and retrieved some mugs from the cabinet, she traced lazy circles with her finger on one of the white counter tiles. Just when the silence was getting uncomfortable, she started to talk, and it was like the floodgates opened.
"At first, I just wanted to spend some time in Miami," she said, her voice soft and flat, like the tape recording of someone reading turned low. "A couple days in the sun. That sort of thing. Then I thought I might drive over to Atlanta and visit my sister. And after visiting with her, I planned on driving home to Philadelphia, but when I got in the car I started driving west instead. Taking my time. You know, seeing some things. Mount Rushmore. The Grand Cany
on. Yellowstone. Even a few days in Disneyland. Then I ended up here. It wasn't really planned."
"You do all that in a rental car?"
"No, I bought the Civic in Atlanta. Was in the market for one anyway. Gets me around."
She turned the mug in small circles on the countertop. A shaft of morning light from the kitchen window reflected off the white porcelain mug and painted a slash of light on the counter. He could tell there was a lot more she wanted to say, but whatever it was, she wasn't saying it now.
"You in town just one day?" Gage asked.
"A couple of days," she said.
"Oh."
"Maybe longer."
"I see."
"I was thinking … maybe we could, you know, see the sights."
"The sights?"
"The things to see on the Oregon coast. Touristy stuff. If you have time. I mean, I don't want to impose."
"I'm not much of a tour guide," Gage said.
"Okay. It was just an idea."
"It's a good idea. I'm just the wrong guy for it."
"Okay."
More turning of the mug. He filled it with coffee. She took a sip, then turned the mug some more. He caught the muted rumble, outside and down the hill, of an eighteen-wheeler chugging its way up Highway 101. What was he doing? This was a beautiful woman, and he was trying to scare her off? The light wasn't just shining on her coffee mug. It was also shining on the cut of her cheekbone, the sharp angle of it. He was struck with the impulse to reach out and trace his finger along that cheekbone. He imagined her skin felt like slightly polished oak, smooth but still a bit rough, waiting for a few more passes with the sander. She glanced up and saw him looking.
"Well, I should probably go," she said.
"Oh."
"Miles to go, places to see."
"Right."
"Figured I'd head up to the Astoria Column. You ever been there?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Heard it's quite a sight. They say it's the best view of the Columbia River."
"I've heard that too."
She held his gaze for a few seconds. In his mind, he jumped in and asked if she wanted to go to lunch. Or dinner. Something. Was he really going to just let her leave like this? Her eyes did this little dancing jig, searching left and right, trying to tease out his thoughts, but he didn't even know his own thoughts. He didn't know what he was doing at all.
"Thanks for the coffee," she said, smiling halfheartedly.
"Sure."
He saw her to the door, doing his best not to hobble. Whenever he tried not to hobble, it only seemed to make things worse, giving him a herky-jerky Frankenstein lurch. She reached for his door. Trying to be a gentleman, he reached ahead of her. This brought them much closer together, an intimate level of closeness. He saw tiny freckles on her nose. He saw pebbles of gold in her green eyes. He saw tiny creases in her bottom lip, like wrinkles in red silk.
Their faces were only inches apart. He smiled. He expected a smile in return, a way to break the tension, but instead he suddenly found her lips pressed against his lips, her cold nose pressed against his skin, her hands cupping both sides of his face. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough to set his heart racing, to taste the coffee on her lips, to catch a whiff of the jasmine perfume she was wearing. It was long enough to obliterate all his thoughts.
She pulled away even faster than she'd leaned in, eyes wide, the cool demeanor gone.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"No."
"I shouldn't have done that."
"It's okay. Really."
"I don't know what I was thinking. I can't—I can't believe I did that."
"Karen—"
"It's not like me. I'm sorry. I'm not myself."
She started out the door. He caught her arm. She looked at him, and the woman looking back was not some hardened FBI agent, somebody who'd seen more than her share of life's cruelties, but a naive little girl as fragile as a glass doll. Now that she was looking at him, words failed him. He'd acted on impulse, believing he couldn't let her bolt out of there, but now he didn't know what to say.
They were looking at each other like that when he heard the crunch of gravel at the bottom of his drive, tires spinning, a V-8 engine groaning as it dropped into first. He and Karen stepped away from each other. A blue police cruiser rounded the corner, the sun glaring on the front windshield. The car skidded to a stop and Percy Quinn hopped out, dressed in a blue argyle sweater and charcoal gray slacks. He looked as if he was ready to teach a Sunday-school class rather than run a police department.
"One of these days," Gage said, "I'm going to have to put a security gate at the bottom of my—"
"No time for jokes," Quinn said. "You need to come with me now."
"What?"
"The college. There's been a murder."
The revolution of the earth must have stopped, because there was no other way to explain the terrible lurch in Gage's stomach. "Zoe," he said.
"No. But she found him, and she's asking for you."
"Found who?"
"I'll tell you in the car."
"Who's dead, Chief!"
"A boy named Connor Fleicher."
An image of the boy with the Star Trek buttons and the long black bangs flashed through Gage's mind. Jeremiah's friend. "Do they know who—?"
"No. But Gage, it was a small revolver to the chest. Could have been a .38. And Jerry—Jeremiah—he's missing."
"Oh no."
For the first time, Quinn noted Karen's presence and did a double take. "You," he said. "My God, the FBI moves fast."
"I'm on vacation," Karen said.
"Lucky for you," Quinn said. "Gage, let's go."
"All right. Let me grab my shoes."
He turned into the house, and this time it was Karen who grabbed his arm. He expected a heartfelt good-bye, maybe another apology, and the look of desperation in her eyes seemed to foreshadow just such a remark—which was why he was so surprised by what she actually said.
"Can I come?"
Chapter 6
Sunlight glared on the open highway, lancing off the windshields of the cars that pulled to the side to let them pass. A chalky blue sky stretched overhead, the clouds vaporous and thin, and the ocean, glimpsed between the buildings and in the open stretches, was a mirror image of the sky receding to a dark blue band along the horizon. Gage picked up fragments from the steady stream of voices on Quinn's hand radio, but from the backseat and with the radio's volume turned low, he couldn't make out the words, just the breathless excitement of it all.
A dozen police cruisers, two ambulances, and a fire truck already packed the street and the lawn outside the tan monstrosity of an apartment building. None of the lights were flashing. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, a wide berth fifty feet around, and three uniformed cops kept an already sizable crowd at bay.
Quinn doubled-parked behind another cruiser. Getting out of the car, cane in hand, Gage noted that the digital clock on the dashboard showed that it was just after ten. Even with the sun showing its face this morning, the dome of Douglas firs surrounding the campus gave the air a cool enough bite that he felt it even through his leather jacket.
"When did this happen?" he asked Quinn.
"I don't know yet," Quinn said. "I got the call five minutes before I stopped at your place. Sometime last night."
"Why isn't the whole campus on lockdown?"
"Just the building is. There hasn't been any sign of a shooter."
Gage wasn't impressed. There shouldn't be a crowd at all. A couple of reporters—a young Asian man and a middle-age woman who bore a striking resemblance to Martha Stewart—shouted questions at Quinn, but he headed straight for the building as if pulled by a magnet. A uniformed cop lifted the tape, and the three of them ducked underneath. There were no TV trucks yet, but Gage guessed that by noon at the latest, if not eleven, both the Portland and Eugene stations would be present. A shooting at a school, whatever the
kind, was catnip to the press.
The wet grass squished beneath the soles of Gage's black leather shoes. He was careful where he placed his cane. Karen trailed just behind Gage and Quinn. When Quinn had agreed to let her accompany them, he said it was under the condition that as long as she wasn't acting as a representative of the FBI, she needed to keep her mouth shut. She hadn't said a word since they left Gage's place.
A female police officer in a baseball cap opened the door when they approached the building. She whispered something to Quinn and he nodded. Their shoes squeaked on the tiled entryway. A menagerie of posters greeted them, so many posters that only a few spots of the carpeted blue wall could be seen. Gage heard muffled crying from the hall to his right, and when he looked, he saw two cops leaning into one of the rooms in the middle. The rest of the doors were closed. The narrow hall, the whiff of disinfectant, and the flat, fluorescent lighting gave the building the ambience of an old hospital.
"Officers are going door to door," Quinn said, "checking with the kids and making sure they're okay. Come on, it's on the third floor."
Quinn and Karen double-stepped their way up, prompting Gage to forgo the cane to keep pace. Big mistake. The first flight was painful on Gage's knee, the second flight excruciating torture. The third floor was much like the first, but there were a lot more cops, six of them lining the hall. A couple of male paramedics pushed an empty gurney past them. Gage saw Zoe sitting on a folding chair in the hall, face buried in her hands, her legs pulled up under her baggy black T-shirt. Two detectives in gray trench coats crouched on either side of her.
The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series) Page 4