Gage found himself liking Weld despite himself. "So how long were you with Arne on Wednesday?"
"Oh, from practice after school until very late—midnight maybe. We'd often lose track of time like that, just analyzing plays and chatting. Why? Wait, you don't think Arne's a suspect, do you?"
"I treat everybody like a suspect. I try not to discriminate."
"Me included?"
"Sure."
"Hmm. I'll try not to be offended. In this case, Arne had a few too many beers, so I drove him home. Jeanie met us at the door. So unless he went out after that, I think you can safely cross him off your list. Considering he practically fell asleep in the car on the way home, I think him leaving again is highly doubtful. And my mother can attest to me coming home a few minutes later. She was having a hard time sleeping and was up making herself some tea."
"Your mother lives with you?" Gage asked.
"It's more accurate to say I live with her. I moved in after Dad died. Why? Is she a suspect too?"
"Could be."
Weld nodded. "She's ninety-two, mostly blind, and can't get around without a walker, but … she's deadly at pinochle. Was pinochle involved in this at all?"
"Too early to say."
"All right. Just assuming, for a moment, that my mother isn't guilty. Or Arne. Or me. Do you have any other possible leads? Honestly, it's the other reason I came over here. I was hoping to run into you. I've just got to believe that there's some hope for Jeremiah."
"You call him Jeremiah," Gage noted.
"Certainly. Why shouldn't I? That's what he prefers."
"And yet Arne calls him Jerry."
Weld sighed. "As I said, their relationship is complicated. But do you have any idea who might have done this?"
Gage nodded. "I'm not at liberty to discuss things yet, but there's some possibilities."
"Ah."
"Anything else you know about Jeremiah and Connor could really help. Did Jeremiah mention any other friends? Maybe ones he just knew online?"
"I never knew Connor. And no, I'm afraid I don't know much about Jeremiah's online life. Though I can say that the last few years, he seemed to spend most of his time glued to that computer. Why, do you have reason to believe the person who did this met him—"
"I don't have reason to believe anything yet," Gage said, cutting him off. "I'm just exploring some possibilities."
"I see. Well, if there's anything you need—"
"I'll let you know."
"Right. I was just hoping there was something I might be able to do. I know it was a long shot. I just … I care about that family, Mr. Gage. I hate that this is happening to them. But you know that. You know the boy is innocent too. Now that I know that, it makes me feel better. Zoe, Karen, good night."
He tipped his baseball hat and, while they watched, departed in his truck. The taillights were still visible at the end of the street when Gage turned and raised his eyebrows at Zoe.
"Don't give me that look," Zoe said. "Mr. Weld's the nicest guy in the world. He was my favorite teacher. He used to run a little candy shop out of the back room. I didn't even care that all the money went to the football team." She looked from Karen to Gage and back again. "So are you two, like, an item now?"
Gage glanced at Karen, who, he was delighted to see, was blushing again. Her skin was a bit too dark for a bright stop-sign sort of red, but he still saw plenty of pink.
"Um," Karen said. "Well …"
"We are as far as I'm concerned," he said, rescuing her.
He wasn't sure how she'd take that, but the pleasure in her eyes was unmistakable. He'd been tempted to allow her to suffer in embarrassment a bit longer, just for the fun of it, but he didn't think Zoe would put up with it. She was already getting that nonplussed way about her, when his very presence seemed to irritate her. He would have asked to go inside, because standing in the cold air was making his knee ache, but he didn't want to press his luck.
"Quick question for you and we'll be out of your hair," he said. "You ever heard of the website SpacedOut?"
Her brow furrowed. "Is that one of those science-fictiony-type websites?"
"Exactly."
"I think maybe Jeremiah liked to go there."
"Did he ever talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Nothing about the people he met on there?"
Her eyes turned distant. The wind picked up, stirring the bits of grass on the dunes, launching fine particles of sand in the air. He couldn't see the ocean from where he stood, or hear it because of the wind, but he could smell it, the salty freshness of it, and he could sense it, too, the sprawling immensity just over the rooftop.
"You know," Zoe said, "I do remember him swearing off the Internet a couple months ago."
"Swearing it off?" Karen said.
"Yeah. He said everything just got ruined on the Internet anyway because when something's good, people just find out about it and ruin it. I mentioned Facebook, which was good when it came out, but then all the old people got on there and things just got crappy. No offense, by the way."
"None taken," Karen said. "I'm not old so I know it doesn't apply to me."
"I still can't even find the Facebook," Gage said. "I don't know what section to look for it in the bookstore."
"Anyway," Zoe went on, after a brief eye roll, "I thought that's what he was talking about, more of a general rant thing, but maybe he was talking about one of his sites. I didn't think about it until now. I didn't think it was a big deal."
"Why would you? It still may not be a big deal."
"But it may be?"
Gage shrugged. "So he didn't mention anybody he hung out with on there?"
"No. Why?" Her face turned grave. "You think whoever killed him was somebody from one of those forums?"
"I don't think anything yet," Gage said. "I'm just exploring possibilities. Think hard. You can't remember anyone, other than Connor, he may have mentioned that he met online?"
"No. Like I said before, Jeremiah wasn't much of a talker. And we weren't really that close. I mean, I had other friends, you know? I like Jeremiah, but it wasn't like … like I was going to hang out with him all the time. I kind of wish … well …"
Her voice grew hoarse. Karen reached over and squeezed Zoe's shoulder. Rather than shrug it off, which was what Gage expected, Zoe bowed her head. It was the kind of gesture that Karen did effortlessly but would have come off as forced and awkward if Gage had done it—if he had thought to do it at all, which, knowing himself, he doubted he would have. He admired Karen for it, was even a bit jealous. He didn't lack for empathy, despite the commonly held opinion of him. He simply had a hard time showing it.
"There's always a lot of what-ifs," Karen said. "But if you don't let them go, you'll never be able to move on."
There it was again, Karen brushing up against that dark place that haunted her. Both Gage and Zoe looked at her, waiting for it, and for a few long seconds Gage thought she might actually tell them what it was, but then she gave Zoe's shoulder a soft squeeze and let her hand fall limply to her side.
"Well," Zoe said, "if I think of anything more, I'll let you guys know."
"You have my number?" Karen asked. "You know, since this one here doesn't believe in modern technology."
"Ouch," Gage said.
"Modern technology?" Zoe said. "Try any technology."
"Double ouch," Gage said.
"But no, I don't have it. You want to text me and then I'll have it?"
Karen pulled out her phone and Zoe told her the number. While Karen typed on the little keys, Gage stepped closer to Zoe.
"Everything okay at the Turret House?" Gage asked
Zoe shrugged. "No guests, so not much to do. Kind of worried about the bookstore tomorrow, but since it's only open from noon to five on Sundays, hopefully it won't be too bad."
Gage almost offered to come down and help her, but he suspected that Zoe would only take this to mean he didn't believe she could handle the boo
kstore on her own. "You heard from Alex?"
"Yeah, they called a while ago just to say they were going out for dinner."
"Good for them," Gage said.
"Oh boy," Karen said suddenly.
"What?" Zoe said. "You need my number again?"
But Gage knew, just from Karen's face aglow from the phone's light, that her comment was about more than a wrong phone number. She looked like somebody had just told her she'd won the lottery.
"They message back?" he asked.
She smiled up at him. "They did."
"What did they say?"
"They said, ‘Who are you?'"
"Hmm. Even somebody who had nothing to do with Connor's murder might write that."
"That's not the best part, though," Karen said. "The best part is where the person wrote it."
Now it was Gage's turn to smile. "Let me guess," he said. "The IP address, it's from the college?"
"Not only that," Karen said, "but the person just sent it. Which means—"
"—that they're probably still there," Gage said.
Chapter 16
There weren't a lot of tourists who visited Barnacle Bluffs in November, but there were obviously more than a few, judging by how clogged Highway 101 was as Gage rushed to the college. What were all these people doing here? There were tons of them.
Or maybe not tons. Maybe it just seemed that way, since it was one of the rare times Gage was actually in a hurry since he'd moved to the town.
"You know," Karen said, "that guy's bumper won't move any faster because you're so close to it."
Gage peered through the whirring windshield wipers at the mud-stained Taurus ahead of them. The rain had started again shortly after they left Zoe. "What are you talking about? I've got at least fifty feet."
"Fifty inches maybe," Karen said. "I can read his bumper sticker, and it's in tiny font. It says God Bless the NRA. Maybe you should take it as a sign that rear-ending him might not be a good idea."
"You're such a worrier," Gage said.
"You have a plan?"
"Get to the college and find this person."
"Not much of a plan."
"How many people can there be at the college on Saturday night, especially when the school's been shut down?"
"Good point," she said.
"I also have a backup plan."
"What's that?"
"Tell you about it when we get there."
She smirked. "Tease."
It seemed logical that the college would be mostly abandoned when there was no school for a week, but there were actually still lots of cars in the parking lots—not full by any means, but when it was all added up, several dozen vehicles. As Gage cruised around the campus, he saw that plenty of dorm and office windows were lit.
"Should we go door to door?" she asked.
"Nope," he said. "Now's the time for the backup plan."
It took him a minute, but he found the right area to park the van, in the lot near the front. He killed the engine, listened to it tick in the stillness for a while, watched the campus. Nobody was coming or going. The rain, which had lessened to a mist, streaked the cones of yellow light beneath the streetlamps.
"Okay," Gage said, "I want you to send another message. Write, ‘I left an envelope for you taped to the bottom of the mailbox at the IGA. It explains what I want. Come get it before I change my mind.'"
Karen pulled out her phone and started typing. "You think he'll actually go for it?"
"Would you?"
"Depends on how worried I was."
"Exactly. And the IGA is just down the road. Even if it's a kid here without a car, they could still walk to it."
"So what, we just sit and wait?"
"I can think of something else to do, but not sure now's the time."
"Dirty bastard," she said.
"What? I was thinking you'd teach me how to play Angry Birds."
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"I don't want to know what the kids are calling it these days. Hold on, here's somebody."
A girl in a red trench coat, a wisp of a thing, left the student union and walked briskly across campus to the dorm. She disappeared inside. After that, nothing happened. They waited, the heat seeping out of the car.
"What if somebody leaves and it's not our person?" Karen asked.
"If somebody leaves, we follow them to the IGA. If they don't go to the IGA, we go to the IGA anyway and wait there."
"Not much of a plan, really."
"Well, even great detectives can have off days."
"Somebody told you that you were a great detective?"
"I was thinking of you. I'm pretty sure this plan was your idea."
"Ah. You sure you weren't really in the FBI? You've already got what some of us call post-responsibility realignment down pat. And anyway, I'm not a detective. I'm a special agent. Emphasis on the special."
"I'll say," Gage said. Then, since they were waiting and he knew he had to get around to it eventually, he decided to tell her about what had happened at the police station. "I need to tell you something about Jeremiah. He confessed this morning."
"What? And you're only now getting around to telling me?"
"He didn't mean it. He's protecting someone."
"Who?"
"I'm hoping it's DWR_forever."
"But why is he protecting someone?"
"I have no idea."
"Hmm. Who, exactly, called you a great detective again?"
"Well," Gage said, "I don't know about the detective part, but I distinctly remember you calling me great a couple hours ago."
"Touché."
This word had barely left her lips when they saw a new figure emerge, from the administration building, a tall muscular man in a leather jacket, tan slacks, and a red scarf. Provost Dan MacDonald. He walked quickly and with purpose, head down and hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
"Oh my," Gage said.
"You were hoping it might be him all along, weren't you?" Karen asked.
"He's heading to that Porsche over there."
"You going to follow him?"
"Does it rain in Oregon?"
"I'll take that as a yes."
MacDonald was in the black Porsche and peeling out of the parking lot before Gage even had the key in the ignition. When he was sure the car was well past them, Gage started the van and followed. To avoid being detected, he needed to stay a safe distance back, but he was afraid of getting so far behind that MacDonald would be in and out of the IGA parking lot before Gage even got there. When he crested the hill, he saw the Porsche's red taillights veering left onto the highway.
"He's going the right direction," Karen said.
"Indeed he is," Gage said.
The road was an inky blur. Though it wasn't raining, the moisture in the air was thick enough that Gage had to occasionally turn on the wipers to clear the glass. By this time, traffic had lessened considerably, which meant it was easy to keep the Porsche in sight, though it also meant there wasn't a lot of cover on the highway.
As it approached the IGA, the Porsche appeared to slow, and Gage tensed, thinking this was it, they really had their guy, but then the Porsche sped on without stopping.
"Damn," Gage said.
"Maybe he just got cold feet," Karen said.
"Or maybe he isn't our guy."
"You want to stop anyway?"
Gage considered it. They could stop at the IGA, go back to the college, or just follow MacDonald. He thought about all those photos on the walls of MacDonald's office. He'd assumed at the time that MacDonald had been accompanied by young women, just like the girl working at his front desk, but his companions could have just as easily been men. He decided to keep following, and as he did, he explained his reasons to Karen.
"It seems like a distinct possibility," she said. "But why would he kill Connor?"
"Maybe Connor threatened to expose him?"
"Okay, but it doesn't seem worth killi
ng over. You can give up your career and start over somewhere else."
"That depends on what's being exposed."
She lapsed into silence, her face contemplative in the sweeping lights of the passing cars, and he sensed that she was right there again, on the verge of talking about whatever sharp-edged memory was haunting her past. Instead, she offered only more silence. He had to agree with her, though. No matter how homophobic MacDonald thought his colleagues were, it was hard to believe that such a self-possessed man would result to murder to keep his sex life private. Gage doubted it was all that much of a secret anyway, knowing how college campuses were. If he asked some professors, Gage guessed that more than a few would have an inkling at their provost's sexual leanings.
But what if his sexual leanings were a bit more … perverse? What if he was mixed up with Connor and Jeremiah in a way that, if it came to light, would do more than end his career? The motives for murder were endless and varied. It was hard to tell what would pull a man into the dark places where the urge to kill would take hold.
They drove well past the Barnacle Bluffs city limits and along the winding coast until they reached the fringes of Newport, where big houses were separated by the natural slope of the land and strategically planted pine trees. There the Porsche slowed and turned right onto a long drive with a single house at the end, a modern, three-story Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe with an ocean view. The top floor was already lit, and Gage, driving past, thought he saw the shadow of a person passing one of the windows.
Two driveways down, one of the houses had a For Sale sign planted by the road, and the house was dark, so Gage pulled into the driveway. He killed the engine, cracked the window, and waited to see if anyone would emerge from the house. Cool ocean air flitted into the car.
"What do you plan to do?" Karen asked.
Gage had a queasy feeling about this, a familiar churning in his gut. He checked his Beretta, ensured that the clip was in, the safety on, then put it back in the holster beneath his jacket. He looked at her.
"Wow," she said.
"Just a precaution," he said. "You have the Glock on you?"
"Yes." She patted her side, as if to make sure.
She swallowed. He already knew she was packing; he'd seen her put on the holster back in the hotel room. He'd asked because he'd wanted to see her reaction—and it wasn't good. She looked like someone in the first throes of food poisoning. Carrying a piece was one thing. Being comfortable carrying a piece was another. A person who was armed and was nervous about it was worse than a person who wasn't armed at all. Accidents were more liable to happen when the trigger finger was already twitchy.
The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series) Page 16