River City

by Doc Macomber

  The same old youthful feelings stirred, but were quickly replaced by his torn feelings for Jill. Was he going to throw that away? After she cooled off, Jill might come back around. Wasn’t she just testing his resolve? What were the odds of being dumped by a woman who he could see spending his future with, only to be pursued by another who arrived from his past?

  He put them at a million-to-one that Tam would show up and get assigned to the same case. Or that he would have a run-in with old man Scarbough. Or that Jill would jettison him because of a ski trip. Maybe old Harv had been right. Maybe it was karma.

  Off his port bow the patrol boat neared the houseboat community along the western end of Marine Drive. Colefield eased back on the throttle and glanced toward shore at the colorful homes linked together like a string of mismatched beads.

  Just ahead he could see the sweeping bend where the converging waters of the Willamette and the Columbia rivers met. It was an epic vista of which he never tired. The current grew swift there. It churned and rolled with mysterious whitecaps boiling to the surface like a great cauldron in the comingling waters.

  Bart stuck his head inside the cabin. “Are we heading to the eastside of the island first?”

  “Thought I’d backtrack. See if we missed anything Friday.”

  The river made a sort of “Y” shape as it converged. The Columbia continued to bend north while the Willamette joined in from the south. Colefield eased back the throttle, made a course change to the south, and crossed the current at an angle to avoid chopping through the rough whitecaps. On deck, Costa jumped back as the bow dipped down in a rolling wave. She nearly made it before the frigid water crashed over and sprayed down.

  She made a dash for the dry cabin. Once inside she brushed water from the front of her windbreaker.

  “That couldn’t be avoided.” Colefield was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Pay back for last night, right?”

  Chuckling, Colefield increased throttle to power through the last of the stiff current. From there they traveled a short jaunt upriver on the Willamette, leaving the mighty Columbia in their wake. Weaver pointed out the opening to the Multnomah Channel. No more than a few boat lengths wide and just a mere finger of water, the channel would steer them to Sauvie Island.

  He kept to the center, following the markers before they entered the narrow strait, passing several boat repair yards and more houseboats scattered along the riverbank. In the distance, the Sauvie Island Bridge emerged, its rusted arches outlined on the horizon.

  “I like the Scout Master theory. But it will be hell on the organization if that turns out to be the case.”

  “Were any Boy Scouts on the island last week?” Costa asked. “I haven’t been able to reach anyone at the local office.”

  “I don’t know. It’s easy enough to knock on their door. They’re right downtown near the Federal Building. I think Scarbough is long retired from that.”

  “He isn’t – I checked that much out.”

  Colefield turned and focused on the helm. His mind was churning.

  Costa continued. “We need to interview the kid’s stepbrother and sister, the father and stepfather, the grandparents and the boy’s friends. Hopefully we can round a few of them up today.”

  “We can try. Aside from the grandfather, everybody else is in the wind. The mother was incapacitated by alcohol and didn’t even know the kid was staying with her, and the rest of the family hasn’t been located.” Colefield paused. “You were serious last night?”

  “About what?”

  “The case. We’re teaming up on this?”

  “We’ll make a formidable team.”

  Colefield raised an eyebrow. “This case is already shaping up to be one big clusterfuck. I think you just want someone besides you the FBI can blame when it all goes to shit.”

  Chapter 13

  The patrol boat killed its engine and glided toward land. Bart hopped out and waded ashore. Costa tossed him the bowline. Bart tied it off and then held the boat steady while the rest of the passengers climbed out.

  Colefield followed Costa along the riverbank. The two deputies stayed behind and began to search in opposite directions.

  Fifty feet from the shore, Colefield pointed out where he’d found the cigar butt. Costa wasn’t impressed. She had her own opinions about the killer.

  “I’ve got my killer pegged as a non-smoker.”

  Colefield looked at her. “Hank Scarbough smokes.”

  “Scarbough has no motive.”

  “None that we know of yet.”

  “OK. If not the old man, how about Dave, his son? He fit your profile?”

  “My bet is on another Scout leader. Could even be a church figure who attends school functions.”

  For the better part of a half-hour the officers studied the muddy bank looking for tangible evidence that the boy had come ashore there. They found empty beer cans, fishing tackle, plastic water bottles, potato chip wrappers, plastic bags and more trash. Bart found a dead carp lodged in the weeds. But in the end, nothing conclusive or helpful was discovered.

  They packed up and moved upriver and did it all over again with the same result.

  Colefield said it was time to motor to the Eastside of the island and search Anita’s place for signs the family had returned. They agreed it made the most sense since dispatch hadn’t been able to send a patrol car out that morning. Everyone was tied up with an injury accident on the St. Helens Highway.

  Colefield reported in and told dispatch their whereabouts and where they were headed. After the crew was back aboard, the patrol boat eased into the swift water and made its way north along the narrow Channel.

  “Do you still own a boat, Jason?”

  “I did for a while. Then I sort of lost interest. I sold the Misspent Youth to a young couple just starting out in boating.”

  “Do you miss it?” Costa searched his face. He wondered if she was referring to the boat or the many happy hours they had spent sailing it together.

  “Sometimes.” Colefield smiled. “Montgomery moors a Boston Whaler at the marina. When it is running, I borrow it. For now it takes care of my wanderlust.”

  As the boat rounded the Point, Colefield nodded toward shore. There was a large farmhouse with several outbuildings, a few pieces of farm equipment and a red barn surrounded by miles of plowed fields. The property was bordered by woods, mostly oak and elm trees.

  He shouted over the engine. “Scarbough’s place.”

  “Let’s come back here after we search the mother’s house,” Costa said.

  Colefield nodded and spun the wheel.

  He remembered those fields well. Back when he used to tear across them on his dirt bike. Back then the fields seemed endless and symbolized freedom. Staring at them now he felt no stirring of those feelings. Perhaps his ability to see freedom in an open field had faded with his “misspent youth”.

  A foggy mist began to form over the island as the boat chopped over the water.

  Inside the cabin, Costa appeared to be crossing items off in her notebook. Colefield checked the GPS and depth sounder, focusing on the reduced visibility and keeping an eye out for debris in the water. While keeping watch for other boaters, Weaver and Bart were conversing in low voices on deck about college sports.

  As the patrol boat made a small course change Colefield remembered that up ahead the river entered a water fowl hunting area. With at least four hunter’s blinds along the riverbank and two wooded areas, it was popular with hunters who liked to burrow in and use the trees for cover.

  Just ahead a flock of ducks glided over the treetops and descended toward a calm section of the river. As they landed, gunshots shattered the silence.

  Instinctively, Colefield cranked the wheel one-eighty, making a sweeping pass to see where the shots were coming from. Everyone aboard took cover until Colefield pointed out a string of decoys floating near the riverbank. A boy and his father, both holding shotguns, stepped out of a hunter’s blind to
examine their kill in the water.

  Colefield flipped on his siren and flashing lights to get their attention. He held the microphone to his mouth. “Stand down! We’re making a pass!”

  Costa looked at Colefield and then back at her notebook.

  Colefield turned off the siren and lights and motored by. The boy and his father waved sheepishly. The father waded down into the shallow water to retrieve one of the mallards the pair had shot.

  The fog thickened. Visibility lessened. Colefield glanced at the screen of the radar and didn’t see any obstructions heading his direction. He remained on course.

  “I don’t remember there being fog in Portland.” Costa stood and looked out the windshield.

  “Did you forget about the rain too?” Colefield reflected on how selective memory could be. You recall conversations clearly that might have been only in your head. One’s sworn truth could be a lie or something you wanted to be true so hard you actually believed it happened.

  Costa broke into his head. “Want to wager no one’s home?”

  “I’d say the odds are 50/50.” Colefield turned serious. “Why don’t you head out on the bow with the deputies? We’re getting close. I’m going to kill the engine and glide in.”

  Costa perked up. “Finally – it’s show time!” She closed her notebook and headed out.

  Colefield’s expression turned serious. He palmed the notebook, backed off on the throttle and pointed the nose of the boat toward land. Moss hung from the oaks lining the bank, scratching the dodger of the wheelhouse as they slowed and neared shore. According to his calculations, the house was just around the next bend where the trees grew denser and the riverbank narrowed. Bracing the notebook on the wheel, he pressed it open. It revealed page after page of letter combinations using the letters CUL, as well as sayings using the letters in combination with the infinity symbol. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find, but something more substantive than word games. He tossed it back down as silence swallowed the sound of the sputtering engine as it breathed the last of its fuel.

  They glided silently toward the small private dock. The boat that had been there the day before was gone. Colefield’s mind quickly ran the list of those capable of driving the boat. He concluded that the entire Scarbough clan and most of the residents of the island could have commandeered the skiff.

  The deputies and Costa jumped ashore. Colefield gave them a moment to spread out and surround the house while he secured the lines.

  Like before, the blinds were drawn at the rear of the house. The same old rusty swing set sat frozen in time. Bart and Weaver stepped over broken toys scattered about the back yard while Costa took cover behind an old pump house on the far side of the property. The deputies were flanked on opposite corners facing the back door with guns drawn. Colefield crept to the front of the house to check the driveway for vehicles.

  As he started to peer around the corner he heard sounds of a scuffle. He stepped back and raised his Glock, pointing it toward the sound. He had his finger near the trigger as he peered around the corner.

  Down the driveway a fight was underway. A seagull was struggling to release his dinner from the grip of an enormous river rat. The ducks Penny had discarded the day before were a prize worth fighting over to the island wildlife.

  He lowered his weapon and waived Costa over.

  “Nothing parked in the driveway but a couple of dead ducks,” Colefield whispered. “I’m heading around back to start the sweep. You secure the front door in case someone makes a run for it?”

  The deputies were waiting for Colefield when he approached them in back. “Costa’s got the front covered. You ready?”

  The men nodded. Colefield cautiously stepped up on the back porch and reached for the knob. The door was partially open already. He gave it a quick shove. Bart and Weaver stormed inside while Colefield took up the rear right behind the men.

  The deputies cleared each room. The house appeared unoccupied. Colefield went over to the front door and opened it, signaling to Costa that it was safe to come inside.

  “How can you raise kids in a place like this?” Weaver commented, glancing around at the filth.

  “Have they been back?” Costa holstered her weapon and looked at Colefield.

  “Doesn’t look like it.” He hated that the girl was not here. He had hoped for the best but it looked like any chance of finding her quickly was long gone.

  Bart checked out the kitchen, staring at the crusted dishes and dried blood in the sink. He seemed to be counting the bread scraps down on the floor.

  “Bart, check the cupboards and refrigerator for weapons. This is the only room Detective Redden and I didn’t search.”

  Colefield heard the refrigerator door open as he headed outside. After a long moment, Bart ran by him out the front door and stooped over, gagging.

  “Nothing in the frig except a putrid quart of curdled milk and some rotting food.” He spit on the ground, shaking the stink from his sinuses.

  Weaver and Colefield exited the house just in time to see the seagull win the tug of war and take flight with what was left of one of the bloated carcass.

  “This island creeps me out on so many levels.” Weaver stared as the rat tore into the second bird.

  Colefield closed the front door.

  “Think it’s gonna eat the whole thing?” Bart asked.

  “Not before I retrieve some buckshot from it.” Colefield pulled his buck knife and approached the rat holding onto his prize until the last moment before scurrying out of sight. Colefield held his breath as he dug the blade around in the meat, retrieving several pieces of shot. He bagged the evidence, cleaned his knife on the grass and rose to his feet.

  “Fuck the duck.” Costa headed toward the boat. “Let’s go visit Hank Scarbough. I got a feeling he might know where to find everyone.”

  “You heard the lady, deputies. Climb aboard.”

  Chapter 14

  The large yellow farmhouse on the Point looked even more substantial as the patrol boat pulled up to its private dock. The property was bordered by cottonwoods and willows. Beyond that, vast acres of plowed fields looked like a mirage in the mist that finally seemed to be lifting on the western side of the island.

  The deputies climbed out onto the dock followed by Costa. Colefield grabbed his binoculars from the helm and then joined the others ashore.

  “Hold up a minute,” Colefield said. He held the binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the area. Up by the main house a newer model white pickup truck and an old brown Buick sat in the drive. One of the outbuildings had its double doors open with farm equipment sitting inside. Next to it sat a big red barn with doors closed and padlocked. Beside it sat a semi-tractor trailer. Along the far edge of the property someone was using a John Deere tractor to mow tall grass along the shoulder of the private road leading to the estate. Colefield didn’t recognize the driver but it was a boy, early teens with flaming red hair like his own. He looked back toward the others. “I don’t see the dogs. You see them, Bart?”

  The others stared out over the property. Bart pointed to the right side of the house. “Over there in the yard!”

  Colefield turned in the general direction and adjusted the binoculars, zeroing in on the dogs.

  The tractor made a short pass across the field and headed back toward the house. The deputies followed the tractor over to an outbuilding. The redheaded kid glanced over, ignored them and drove the tractor inside and parked it. Afterward, he stepped back through the metal doors and pulled them closed. Colefield thought he caught a glimpse of the same yellow 4 x 4 he’d been chasing the day before parked inside. Before he could question the kid about it, the front door of the house opened. Scarbough was escorting a conservatively dressed Latina carrying a medical bag. They spoke briefly on the front porch before the woman climbed inside the old Buick parked in the drive and drove off. From the side yard, Scarbough’s dogs began barking at the officers. It alerted the old farmer and he turned to see
what the commotion was about. Spying the deputies snooping around the outbuildings, he pulled the front door closed and headed down the stoop toward them.

  Before Scarbough reached the officers, the dogs ran up to greet him. He gave them a brisk petting before heading down to see what the deputies wanted, his dogs at his side.

  Scarbough ordered the dogs to heel. Then he faced the officers and scratched his chin.

  “Deputies. Ma’am,” he said. “What is it you all want now?”

  The redheaded boy started to leave.

  “Hold up there, son,” Colefield said. “Mr. Scarbough, we have a few questions for you. You’ve met Deputy Ryan and Agent Costa. This is Deputy Weaver. He’s also with the River Patrol.”

  “Hello again, Miss Costa.” They all shook hands. Then he turned and signaled that it was okay for the boy to join them. The boy walked over and stood to the right of Scarbough, as erect as a pine tree. “This is my grandson, Jeb. Jeb these are the officers I was telling you about.”

  Jeb shook everyone’s hand like a perfect gentleman. The boy had an iron grip and similar Irish features like Scarbough.

  “You aren’t here to tour my farm,” Scarbough continued. “So, what can I do for you?”

  Colefield studied the man’s steely expression. “Sir on Friday, you indicated that you didn’t know the dead boy. That’s not completely true, is it?”

  Scarbough thought about his response. He glanced over at his grandson and then back at the officers. “No. I reckon you’re right. You can speak in front of my grandson. He knows about Timmy.”

  “Why did you withhold information?”

  “Until I got the call from the ME’s Office, I wasn’t certain it was my step-grandson. When I tried to speak to her earlier in the day, Anita was higher than a kite and not making much sense. She swore her boy was fine. I figured it was best if I tried to track down my son to put him on the trail but I didn’t know his whereabouts either. She kept going on about these ducks. So I thought I’d sit on it overnight. Then Ms. Costa called me and said my daughter-in-law needed my help.”