A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  Tatyana took a sip from her wine. "It seems like a very different kind of life than one where you are chasing criminals. Much more ... relaxed."

  "I didn't chase a whole lot of criminals anyway," Alex said. "For the bulk of my FBI career, I taught at the Academy. But how about you, Dr. Brunner? You must have an interesting story about what led you into medicine, especially way out here on the Oregon coast. You're from Russia, right?"

  "Ukraine," Tatyana said. "Though I lived just outside Simferopol in Crimea, quite near Russia, and Russian was the main language spoken."

  "Oh, Crimea," Eve said, "such terrible things have happened there recently. So much violence."

  "Yes," Tatyana said. "There have always been terrible things in Crimea. It is not like here. It is not peaceful."

  "You have lots of family there?" Miranda asked.

  Tatyana touched the CK necklace hanging around her neck, the diamonds glinting orange and gold. "Some," she said. "I left a long time ago, though."

  She did not elaborate, and the tone of her voice led Gage to believe she had no wish to do so, at least not now. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable, all of them alone with their thoughts and the clinking of the silverware, before Miranda asked Gage how he became a private investigator. Gage tried to beg off, but since there were three people in the room who had not heard the story, and seemed eager for it, he couldn't hold them at bay for long—especially when Alex, well versed in Gage's past, started to tell the story himself. So Gage told them all about his early beginnings in Montana, his washout at the FBI academy, and how he eventually ended up working for his uncle's private investigation firm in New York before a misunderstanding prompted Gage to hang his own shingle. When they inevitably asked him what kind of misunderstanding, he told them his uncle misunderstood that Gage wouldn't just do what he was told without questioning it.

  "Well, that hasn't changed," Alex said.

  "Actually," Zoe said, "I find it hard to believe Garrison ever did what he was told."

  "And your move to Oregon?" Tatyana asked.

  Everyone fell silent, most of them taking a sudden interest in their water glasses. Tatyana glanced around nervously.

  "I'm sorry," she said, "did I say something that—"

  "It's all right," Gage said. "I moved out here after my wife was murdered."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. I did not—"

  "No, no, it's okay."

  And, strangely, it was okay, or at least okay enough that Gage could actually tell the story without feeling like he needed to punch someone in the face. Maybe it was Tatyana's presence, the general feeling of welcome in the group, or just the passage of time, but Gage had little problem telling everyone how his wife had died in a mafia revenge hit gone wrong and how this had prompted him to retire to the Oregon coast. When Gage eventually ran out of steam—not because his emotions got the best of him, but because he got tired of hearing himself speak—Alex picked up the slack, regaling them with the story of the young dead woman who had washed up on the beach a couple years ago, and how this had pulled Gage back into his chosen line of work.

  He didn't even mind so much when Zoe, as his own story drew to a close, asked Zachary why he became a cop.

  "Oh, I don't know," he said. His attempt to look ambivalent about the question clearly failed; the attention from Zoe lit up his eyes and made him straighten in his chair. "I just ... it seemed like the thing to do when I was in high school."

  "You grew up in Barnacle Bluffs?" Zoe asked.

  "Just down the road in Newport. I was born there."

  Alex raised his glass. "An Oregon native. I'll drink to that. I think you're the only one in the room."

  "Did you have family who were cops?" Zoe asked. "Or close friends or something?"

  "No," Zachary said, "nothing like that. My dad is a dentist."

  "So you just, what, woke up one day and decided to join the police force?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Huh."

  They all nodded, turning their attention to their food and their wine. Zoe smiled at Zachary reassuringly, but there was clearly disappointment in her eyes, and he could see the disappointment there. Everybody could. He glanced around the room. Miranda started to ask about the city of Portland when Zachary suddenly blurted out one word loud enough that most of them flinched.

  "Superman!"

  They all froze, forks hovering near mouths, water glasses held aloft. He swallowed.

  "I mean, he's kind of—kind of why I became a cop," he said. "The comic book, I mean. I read a lot of Superman as a kid. I collected them. Actually, my dad collected comics. I just read them. Superman was my favorite. I had—had posters all over my wall. Green Lantern, Hulk—but mostly Superman. He was just so, you know, good. I wanted to be like him. Fight crime, save the world. I couldn't have the powers or anything, but I thought ... well, being a cop ..."

  His voice trailed off, as if it had begun to dawn on him how far he had gone exposing his inner psyche to the group. Any other time, any other place, and such an admission might have provoked some teasing from Gage, but Zachary had been so earnest, no nakedly honest, that it was hard not to at least admire the boldness. He even found himself liking the kid, despite his every effort to prevent the feeling from taking hold.

  Zachary slunk into his chair, avoiding their eyes. "Kind of silly, I know."

  "No," Zoe said, "it's not silly at all."

  "I don't read them anymore. I mean, I have them in boxes. But I don't read them. Not much, anyway. I just ..."

  He probably would have gone on like that, bumbling forward in an effort to recover from his embarrassment, if Zoe hadn't reached over and touched his forearm reassuringly. It was probably a subconscious gesture, but it was full of such simple, honest intimacy, the kind of gesture that said a lot more than words ever could, that Gage felt a profound gratefulness that Zoe was the kind of person she was, the kind of person he knew he could never really be. He also sat in awe, touched with a poignancy that bordered on the bittersweet, of her journey these past few years from a troubled teenager on the brink of disaster to a young headstrong woman on the cusp of a great life. She'd transformed more in a few months than he had in his entire life.

  Zachary looked at her with his own grateful expression, obviously both aware and thankful of her efforts to rescue him. They were in their own little bubble, everyone watching like a mesmerized movie audience, until Zoe seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled her hand back, glancing away like a shy little girl. Shy. That was a word that Gage never would have used to describe Zoe before today. It would have been easy enough to embarrass them, and Gage did feel a bit tempted. How much endless ribbing had he endured from Zoe?

  "Well," Gage said, "I was always partial to Spider-Man myself. I grant you that Superman is more powerful, but Peter Parker is a much more relatable human being than Clark Kent. He's got normal problems like he rest of us."

  He said this without a trace of sarcasm, hoping it would be received the same way. To his delight, it was, though not without a few astonished expressions from those around the table. In any case, after a few silent beats, the comment opened the conversational flood gates, and soon they were all arguing about the ideal superhero. In addition to Spider-Man and Superman, the merits of Wonder Woman, Flash, Batman, and others were hotly debated. Some, like Alex, asserted that a team approach like the Justice League or the Fantastic Four were more akin to a police department's work, but Gage and Tatyana countered that the larger the group, the more bureaucracy would prevent them from responding quickly in a crisis, and that ultimately people wanted to follow one person's story.

  Like all such discussions, the central topic was eventually lost in a myriad of tangents and quibbling over details. The purpose wasn't to win the argument, after all; the conversation was merely a mechanism that allowed everyone to feel connected and involved. Usually Gage hated this kind of talking for talking's sake, but this time he didn't mind. In fact, at one point during the d
iscussion, when they were all talking over one another, the energy high, the spirit open and good-natured, he found himself looking at all the beaming faces and realizing something on a deep level that he had never truly realized before.

  He was home.

  This place, these people—Gage had never felt more at home in his life. At least not since Janet died, and that had been a very different kind of home, a special intimacy that was more about his bond with that one person than it was a feeling of belonging. That's what this was. He felt as if he belonged, with these people, in this place, at this particular point in time. Sure, some of the people were new to the fold, but it didn't matter. They were part of the fabric of this place, too, and their addition to the group did not detract from its appeal but instead add variety and interest. Even Zachary. Gage may have still felt a mild unease at his presence, but he belonged as well. He was making Zoe happy, after all.

  Gage felt the sort of deep, inner contentment that was always so elusive to him, even when he'd been married to the love of his life. Always on edge. Always restless. Always wondering when the next shoe would drop. That's how he'd lived his life, both back then and after. This was different. This was living in the moment, with no expectations. For once, he wasn't waiting for everything to go to hell.

  Naturally, that's when it did.

  If there had been a knock, Gage had not heard it. Their conversation had reached a loud crescendo, loud enough that they might have missed a knock had there been one. Gage simply looked up and there they were: Chief Quinn, Brisbane, Trenton, and two uniformed police officers he did not know by name, standing grimly in the entryway. It took a second or two for everyone to notice them, but when they did, the conversation shriveled and died.

  The silence—a terrible and pervasive silence that was somehow more deafening than their conversation had been—lasted only a few seconds. Gage knew, by who they were staring at, what they were going to say, but it did not make hearing it any easier.

  "Miranda," Quinn said, "you're under arrest for the murder of Marcus Koura."

  Chapter 8

  By the time everyone recovered from the shock, Miranda was already in handcuffs. Like a pair of gray buzzards, Brisbane and Trenton swooped down on her and yanked her to her feet, not bothering to hide their glee as they twisted her arms behind her back and slapped the cuffs on her. It was the metallic clink that finally brought everybody to life—everybody except Miranda, who stared blankly like some kind of zombie—and within seconds Gage, Alex, and Zoe were all protesting, the room a cacophony of noise. Zachary sank a few inches lower in his seat. Tatyana and Eve, dumbstruck, watched it all. When Trenton jerked Miranda toward the door, Gage couldn't contain himself. He rose so fast that his chair banged to the hardwood.

  Quinn held up a hand. "Hold on there, Gage. Let's not do something stupid."

  "You're lecturing me about stupid?" Gage shot back. "You better have a warrant or there's going to be a hell of a lawsuit—"

  "Calm down, pal. We don't need a warrant. We have enough probable cause as it is."

  "Based on what? You just changed your mind?"

  "Based on the body that washed up about an hour ago at Sitka Beach."

  "What?"

  "Omar ID'd him as Marcus Koura. He was all wrapped up in what was left of the sails. Been in the water a couple weeks at least, so the body's not in good shape, but he's still recognizable. Found by some kids staying at the Northwest Artist Colony and they'd already taken all kinds of pictures with their phones, so I imagine it's already lighting up the Internet."

  "That doesn't mean he was murdered!" Gage said. "It could have been an accident. He could have fallen—"

  "Right into a gunshot?"

  "What?"

  "You heard me," Quinn said. "Took a slug right in the heart. And there was no bullet hole in the sails, meaning someone wrapped him up afterwards and tossed him overboard. It also looks like somebody originally tied something to his ankles, an anchor maybe, but it slipped free." He nodded sadly to Eve and Tatyana. "I'm sorry, ladies. I hate to bring this kind of talk to the dinner table. Just couldn't be helped."

  Trenton, leering at Gage, clutched Miranda's arm as he might a flagpole he'd used to stake out his territory. "Still want to try to stop us? I'd love to slap some handcuffs on you, too. Maybe you can share a cell."

  Focusing on Quinn, Gage said, "Come on, Chief. Are the handcuffs really necessary here? I mean, look at her. My hat weights more than she does."

  "There was a murder with a firearm," Quinn said. "We're playing this one by the book."

  "Chief—"

  "Don't push it, Gage. You want to jeopardize her chances of getting out on bail? I can still put in a good word with the judge."

  "Just take it easy on her, will you?"

  "We are going easy on her."

  With that, Quinn signaled to Brisbane and Trenton to escort Miranda to the door. Gage fought the impulse to intervene, knowing it would do no good. Miranda, finally rousing from her near-catatonic state, shot Gage a helpless look so full of desperation and fear that he wished he could think of something to comfort her. Nothing came to him. What could he say? He tried to look sympathetic, but the doubt was there, too. Marcus Koura had been shot, wrapped in a sail, and dumped overboard. While there may have been a justifiable reason for it, right now he could not see it. He also could not see how this little waif of a creature could ever shoot anyone, but the facts were what they were. When his boat came ashore, she was on it and he wasn't.

  He followed the police outside, the rest of the group shuffling along behind him in stupefied silence. The sky, devoid of any sunlight, or any sign of the moon or stars, stretched dark and unblemished overhead like the underside of a black vinyl umbrella. Cold gusts of wind leapt over the house and rippled their clothes, stirred the fir trees and the grassy dunes. Trenton lowered her into the back of a police cruiser, a pitiful little shape, and he caught one fleeting glimpse of the whites of her eyes before the door shut and the reflection in the glass showed the front of the Turret House all aglow—as well as a man standing off to Gage's right.

  He looked and there was Omar Koura. His face was cast in shadows, so it was impossible to know if he'd watched the whole ordeal with smug satisfaction, but based on his crossed arms and general upright posture, Gage guessed the answer was yes.

  After the police pulled away, Omar approached Gage. He dipped his hand inside his jacket and Gage tensed, reaching for his Beretta.

  "Do not worry," Omar said. "I do not wish to fight you again."

  "Well, that's a relief."

  "Only to show you something. A picture. You must see this. You must see this to understand my rage."

  Slowly, with great care, Omar pulled a phone out of his jacket. He clicked a button and the screen illuminated. In the darkness, it was so starkly bright that it took a moment for Gage to discern the image itself, but once he saw it there was no mistaking what it was. A body. A body wrapped in what must have been the ragged sails that once belonged to the sailboat Charity Case, but from the distance where the shot had been taken it looked more like a shroud—a shroud of tattered sails. A number of people gathered around the body, most of them in police uniform, but Omar had still managed to get a clear shot.

  "There lies my brother," Omar said. "That woman, she put him there. She put him there, and now she must pay the price."

  * * *

  Saturday morning—after very little sleep, and more than few calls to some lawyers—Gage showed up at the Barnacle Bluffs Police Station at ten to seven. The squat, nondescript building was on the far side of Big Dipper Lake, sheltered by a ring of Douglas firs, and Gage could just glimpse the smooth blue water down the hill and through the gaps in the trees. The sky was gray, the light dusky. It was a Saturday, and if he'd come a few hours later, Gage knew he would have heard the buzz of motorboats and jet skis, but for now there was just the morning breeze through the fir needles and the chirping of the birds.

  Quinn wasn't
there, and nobody would let him see Miranda without Quinn's authorization, so Gage waited in the van, shivering, until the Chief showed up at quarter to eight. He drove a black F-150 with mud caked to the side panels and a bumper sticker that read Watch out for sneaker waves! Gage got out of the van and met him at the door, leaning hard on his cane. His right knee felt like exposed bones patched together with duct tape, and his left knee wasn't all that much better.

  "Do you know what this cool weather does to me?" he said.

  "Well, good morning to you, too, Gage."

  "It's murder on my bones, that's what. And you kept me waiting for an hour."

  "I don't seem to recall agreeing to meet."

  "I want her out. Now."

  "You know that's not how it's done with a serious felony charge. There will be an arraignment, and that's where bail—"

  "This is not a normal situation and you know it. You don't even know who she really is!"

  Quinn sighed and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair—hair that still glistened as if he'd just stepped out of a morning shower. "Can I at least get my coffee before we talk about this?"

  "She can stay at the Turret House. She's not going anywhere."

  "You can have a cup, too. I won't even charge you."

  "The kind of coffee you guys make?" Gage said. "You should be paying me to drink it."

  "There's the Garrison I know. Come on."

  He followed Quinn inside. Brisbane and Trenton lurked behind the desk, eyeing him warily. Gage was not at all surprised that they were in on a Saturday; an arrest like Miranda's was big news in a town like Barnacle Bluffs and nobody wanted to miss any of the action. Zachary was there, too, peering over the top of one of the cubicles as if he didn't want Gage to see him. Most of the other cops in the room steadfastly ignored him, a sort of mild passive aggressiveness that he was used to by now. He'd never made their lives easier, after all.