by Doc Macomber
The men couldn’t get away from their depressed partner fast enough.
Chapter 29
The next few days Colefield went on daily river patrols. He wrote tickets for expired tags, cited an obnoxious fisherman for not having the proper life jacket, and went through the motions. But he was detached, removed, and his mood was troubled. Penny had recovered enough to leave the hospital and he had appeared at a private hearing regarding her potential placement, courtesy of a counselor at the Outside In, a nonprofit agency for troubled youths, where he now volunteered.
The good news was Penny would recover physically. While hospitalized they had run pregnancy, HIV and Hep tests. She was in the clear on those and the report also noted that her skin was free of tattoos or other permanent marks. Except the ones made from the rat bites... Colefield would never forget the chasms in her legs.
Her memory of the events leading up to her discovery was ragged and telling. Colefield knew all about PTSD. If watching your father be gut shot in front of you by your brother wouldn’t do it, being locked in a pitch black pit filled with rats certainly would. Colefield also knew a thing or two about guilt. The old “it should have been me” premise. Colefield had said that a thousand times with reference to his brother’s arm being crushed under the tree. Penny might well feel the same way after watching her father, a man she had little respect for, step in front of her without ever wavering to save her life. The judge made a note to try to get her to a counselor Colefield recommended. After shaking hands with Penny’s new foster parents, he walked away filled with doubt and hope.
Friday night, he gave in and went out with his colleagues for a beer at the Sextant. He was nervous to see Jill but it was time to confront the past.
To his surprise, Jill was not working that night. He’d worked himself up for the big moment, and all the wind was taken out of his sails when she was not behind the bar like he’d counted on. Two of her regular waitresses refused to serve him so word had gotten out. “Jason Colefield is an Asshole!”
Weaver and Bart bookended Colefield at a long table in the back of the restaurant. They toughed it out for nearly ten minutes before one of the waitresses broke ranks and served the table a round of beers. Colefield picked up his glass and studied it carefully to see if one of Jill’s comrades had dropped in a pubic hair or something worse.
After he was pretty sure the contents were safe, he took a sip of beer but it was warmer than he liked and had a suspicious tart aftertaste, so he left the glass on the table and hung out while the other deputies drank theirs.
“Don’t see Jill here,” Bart said, after polishing off his drink. “You bummed, Red?”
“I had mentally geared up for it,” Colefield acknowledged.
Weaver cracked his knuckles. “You got to get back in the saddle.”
“Weaver’s right, Red, you’ve been a moody prick lately.”
“Well that won’t happen in this bar any time soon. These waitresses hate me.”
“Too bad Tony isn’t here. He could cull a winner out of the herd for you,” Weaver added helpfully.
Colefield stood up, pulled out a twenty and tossed it down on the table. “The next round’s on me!”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You didn’t finish your beer.” Weaver eyed his glass.
“I got something I gotta do.” Gotta feed the cat, trim my toenails, take a nap…
Weaver reached over and replaced his empty glass with Colefield’s full one.
“Later, dude!” Bart said.
Colefield headed toward the exit. He was feet from the door when Jill walked in strutting a new hair style and a new dress – a sexy jade number that looked stunning with her long tanned legs.
Their eyes locked. Jill’s face flattened as she passed him by.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she stopped and turned back around. “Next time, deputy, try using a cell phone instead of a pair of binoculars.” She turned her back on him and disappeared into the crowd.
Colefield stopped. “OK.” he shouted back. Of course he wanted to see her again, whatever it took.
He made a move to go after her, but reconsidered. She’d entered enemy territory and he knew nothing good would come of a discussion tonight. The chance encounter had left him feeling hopeful.
Back at the River Patrol Headquarters, he sat in his old pickup in the deserted parking lot and stared at the dark river. He had a luxurious free condo downtown he could escape to, but he preferred the comfort of the cab of his old truck. He thought about sleeping there but that would be pushing what was tolerated. If the Lieutenant found him the following morning asleep inside his cab for certain the man would call in the shrinks.
He checked his cell phone for messages but there were none. This, too, shouldn’t have bothered him but it did. He needed to hear from somebody, anybody, just to break him out of this deep funk that he’d fallen into. He pulled out his car keys and tried the ignition. The engine turned over but didn’t fire. He tried it again, and then again. The engine turned over. That was all.
He found a flashlight behind the seat, climbed out, popped the hood and shined the beam down on the engine compartment. It was apparent soon enough what the problem was.
The wire from the ignition coil to the distributor was missing. One of the deputies had taken it as a joke apparently. Ha, ha…
He stomped down toward the office figuring the wire was probably lying on his desk in plain sight. Alan, the mechanic, had probably taken it because he’d been giving Colefield some shit lately about the way he had lost his humor. Alan didn’t like it when someone lost their sense of humor. It was contagious, he said, and had to be fought against at all costs.
He went inside the building, turned on the lights, checked his desk, but didn’t see the coil wire lying around anywhere. He checked the shop, nothing there either. Odd… The guys were really testing his patience this time.
Maybe they had set it in his tire wheel well. They had done that before, several years ago. He started to close the outside door to the building when a sloshing sound down by the boat ramp caught his attention.
He stared toward the river. Something shiny down in the water caught the light. The blast of light was swallowed by darkness. The night lights on the dock were on a timer that would strobe on and off every few minutes.
He walked down the ramp to the waterline. A small dinghy was tied to the dock, slapping about in the rough waves. He checked the bow for a registration number. It was Jeb Scarbough’s ride. That explained the missing coil wire…
Cautiously, he stepped back. The cold breeze picked up. He was taking no chances this time. He quickly pulled out his pocket knife and sliced through the boat’s fuel line. He put his knife away. He still had his Glock in a concealed shoulder holster; he took it out. That gave him some comfort as he set off to find the kid.
Without a light, he couldn’t see but a few feet ahead of him. Shadows moved about in his mind like crabs scurrying along a dock. He checked the nearby boathouse, keeping low, his gun hand raised and shaking slightly. Best he could, he tried to steady his shooting hand. Certain the boathouse was empty he moved on, checked other areas where the boy might hide, but found nothing. He searched the Fire Department’s storage and tanker. Again, nothing.
As the overheads flashed on again he hugged the buildings and searched the shadows, until a loud explosion echoed from the parking lot.
Orange flames licked the night sky. His mind whirled. His pickup truck! A raging fire had already begun to consume the cab and flames poured out the open driver’s side window.
Fighting back the heat, he yanked open the driver’s side door and swatted at the fire with his jacket. There was a jerry can resting on the passenger floorboard with a burning rag shoved in the top. Fuel had been dumped all over the seat and floorboards. Any moment the whole truck would explode. He had to move fast.
Colefield stepped back and shielded his face from the sear
ing flames. There was a hose connected to an outside faucet nearby where the men washed off their muddy boots before entering the office.
He ran toward it, turned on the water, and rushed back over and began hosing down the cab, which was a total loss, but at least he’d saved the rest of the old girl.
An outboard motor fired up down at the dock. He turned just as the boat disappeared into the night.
Even in the moonless night, he was sure he could make out the jack-o-lantern smile of Jeb Scarbough….
And then the outboard sputtered, coughed, and conked out several hundred yards from shore. He could just make out the small dinghy floating down river with the boy frantically pulling on the starter rope.
He threw the hose to the ground and took off running.
Chapter 30
About an eighth-mile from the River Patrol office, the dinghy floated ashore along a sandy river bank. In the distance he made out the white and red Sea Scout buildings. As he ran, the icy breeze gusting over the churning water, moist with fine debris, stung his cheeks. His eyes were still burning from the smoke. Colefield caught a glimpse of the kid baling from the boat and running overland toward the vacated buildings. He’d been here before, the memory painfully fresh in his mind.
He fumbled for his phone and tried Bart and then Weaver. Pick up… Pick up…
No answer. Had they seen his number and pressed Ignore? How could he blame them? He’d been an antisocial dick lately. He was taking no chances; he dialed again and requested police backup. Just play it by the book…
Winded from running, Colefield held up and rested momentarily taking in the view the misty yellow light cast on the stark wooden buildings. Three flood lights lit the entire compound. A small prison surrounded by water. He counted the small boats tied to the dock. No slip was empty. He was here. Somewhere in the midst of these buildings was a teenage murderer – the question, where?
His hands turned sweaty as he clutched his weapon. The kid had unwittingly tried to destroy the only thing that gave him comfort. Sure, it was just a pickup truck, but it was more than that. It was part of his history. Strong. Sturdy. Reliable. If the kid thought he could destroy that, he had another thing coming.
He approached the first building, tried the door. Locked. He moved on to the second and found it unlocked. His heart pounded. He yanked it open and jumped back. The door banged on its hinges. He crouched low and moved inside, swept his gun from side to side, the flashlight beam just above it, shining back and forth. Just a sliver of light entered through the windows near the ceiling, not enough to really see into the shadowy space. There was an old Tollycraft that sat still in the water and several rusting 55-gallon drums stacked against the walls. No sign of the kid though. He moved on to the next building.
The door there was unlocked but stuck in its frame. Old wood, even older hinges. He pried on it, but the door was not budging. He moved on to the fourth building.
That door was nailed closed. So he inspected alongside the buildings and moved to the opposite side of the dock. Only three buildings left.
The first two were a bust. There was only one remaining. What was Jeb planning this time?
His breathing was out of control, his heart racing. He tried to calm the rage he was feeling inside, but nothing worked. Memories of Timmy’s chewed fingernails and destroyed face competed with the sight of Penny’s mangled legs. How could Jeb’s love for his mother transform him into someone who enjoyed torture and death?
The last door was hanging off its hinges. Concealing his body the best he could he shot forward and shined his light back and forth along the floor and walls. Primed to even the smallest sounds, he listened to the old building creak, the decrepit boards dry and rotten. A breeze blew in from somewhere and startled him.
He didn’t dare step forward; he didn’t trust the wood below his feet. The kid was in here. Inside this creaking black cavern the kid had the upper hand.
Suddenly, a whooshing sound came from above. He tried to dodge the rusted hoist that swung down out of the rafters and managed to avoid it, but the sudden motion caused the planking to give way underfoot. His right foot busted through a hole up to the knee. He was still on his feet, but had dropped his Glock which skidded across several boards before it came to rest out of reach.
He tried pulling himself free but his leg was caught on the lip of the broken oak. The pain was excruciating. Fight through it. Screaming like a banshee he jerked himself free.
Just as he was stable on his feet, the kid jumped from the rafters and landed feet first on his shoulders. They crashed to the floor. The kid was strong and fierce. He clawed and fought to reach Colefield’s weapon.
Just in the nick of time, Colefield kicked his toe out and clipped the Glock handle and sent the barrel spinning out of the boy’s reach. The kid clawed his eyes and dove for the gun.
Colefield fell back and landed on a broken two-by-four. As he struggled to get up the kid picked up the handgun and pointed it at Colefield.
Jeb grinned. “You’ve been in the papers a lot lately.”
“Pretty clever, stashing Penny at my place.” Colefield wrapped his hand around the broken two-by-four behind him. “Could have gone badly for me if somebody had found her later.”
“I would have made sure that a clue would have appeared that helped with that.”
“Why kill your sister?”
“Timmy wouldn’t listen. He told Penny about the hiker I killed. She put two and two together.”
“So she was going to be the end?” Colefield asked. “The final letter.”
“Until you fucked it up by finding her alive.” Jeb was getting fired up.
“Was the girl scout one of yours too?” Colefield figured he might want to brag a bit. He’d been holding it inside for a long time.
“I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t looking for anyone. I was cruising up the river on my mom’s anniversary when I saw the girl. I wasn’t planning on killing anyone else. I thought the first scout might have been enough for me.”
“The boy at the coast?” Colefield wanted to keep him talking.
“Yeah,” he said and spit some blood. “I’d written the message there, but the water washed it away.”
Colefield remembered that only a “C” remained…
“Anyway she was camped along the river by the train tracks. I saw her from my boat. Told me she was a runaway and gonna ride the rails to Mexico.”
“Where’d the shirt come from?” Colefield gauged the distance between them.
“It was a sign, man. She was wearing it. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“She was sent to me that day. Nobody knew her or cared about her, but I did.”
“You have a funny way of showing it. Everybody you care about seems to end up dead.”
Jeb’s face flattened. “Then I guess I care about you.” He raised the gun, “See you later, Deputy.”
Colefield swung the wood like a heavy club at the kid’s torso. He landed a direct hit, knocking the air out of him as he fell to his knees. Yet, Jeb managed to hold onto the gun and stagger to his feet. Colefield threw the club at him, hitting him in the shoulder. This time the impact launched him backwards, gasping for air, dangerously close to the water’s edge, teetering to remain on his feet.
The boy squeezed off a shot but the bullet went flying upward, into the rafters, splintering and raining down debris. Loose boards and rubble showered down as Jeb lost his footing and stumbled backward into the water.
Half blind and crippled he still tried to save the boy. Stretching out over the water Colefield attempted to grab Jeb’s shirt collar as the he floundered about in the icy river. Kicking away from Colefield he moved into the current, only to get snagged onto something below the river’s surface. Gagging, unable to keep his head above water the “dolphin” pulled him down. The boy clung on for his last breath, still fighting to free himself before he wa
s flung into the main current. His pale arm sank slowly down into the jaws of the Columbia.
It happened within seconds.
Colefield didn’t want it to end this way. He crawled over to the edge and stared into the void where the unforgiving river had sucked Jeb down.
* * *
By the time the fire department arrived, the smoldering interior and seared paint fumes were all that remained of the cab of his truck. Bart and Weaver came trotting down the street following the police sirens looking dumbstruck.
Colefield, bleeding and hobbling from the ordeal with the kid, just stood back and stared at the pickup. His clothes were soaking wet, his face streaked with perspiration and dirt. The cab resembled a burnt marshmallow after a raging campfire.
“Christ, what the hell happened?” Bart asked.
“Scarbough…”
“The kid did this?” Bart asked. “Where is he?”
Colefield didn’t reply.
Weaver was stooped over catching his breath, breathing heavily after the run. “Why didn’t the little shit torch it up while you were at the bar?”
Colefield thought it over. “Because he wanted me to see it burn.”
Weaver puffed out between breaths. “He’s really upped the ante now…”
“I think he’s dead,” Colefield said.
“Dead? Where?” Bart asked.
“He fell in at the Sea Scout building. Let’s grab the sled.”
“Christ, Colefield!” The two deputies exchanged knowing looks. “We didn’t know you were in trouble.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. There wasn’t time for you to help. It was over in minutes.”
The fire department gave the old truck a final once over and then called it a night. The shift commander walked over to speak with Colefield.
“Know who did this?”
“Yep.”
“Fill me in.”
“Later – I’ve got a body to find.”