The Gray and Guilty Sea

by Scott William Carter

  The ground beneath him changed, became hard and smooth. He looked down and saw concrete partially buried in the dirt—an old path. Following it, he saw it wind into the trees, toward where the golf course must have been. He heard the voice again. He unzipped his jacket, reaching for his Beretta. He wanted to know that it was close, that it was ready.

  There was a metallic click off to his right, then a sharp prick in his neck.

  Then darkness.

  Chapter 24

  Gage was drowning. Water pounded him from all sides, so much water, wave after wave crashing over him, tossing him about like a rag doll. The cold—it hardened his muscles, turned them to ice, made it hard to move. Salt water burned in his eyes and choked in his throat. He thrashed and kicked and flailed, trying to find the surface, trying to find air. It was a colorless world, a patchwork of gray fabric, some dark, some light, tightening around him, pressing against him like a shroud. He was driftwood. He was garbage, tossed aside. No one wanted him. Someone had dumped him here.

  Finally, he burst into open air, gasping. The ocean was the color of oil, and he struggled to keep his head above the surface, riding the swells up and down like the sea foam sprinkling the surface. Black clouds hovered over him, close enough to touch.

  He heard someone else break the surface, and spinning around, saw him—a man, gagging, spitting out water, the back of his head as shiny as a seal's. He went under again, popped up, went under. He was going to drown unless Gage did something. Gage paddled toward him—first up, like climbing a mountain, then sliding downward as the ocean sank. He grabbed the man's jacket, dug his fingers into the leather, spun him around.

  The man had no face.

  * * *

  "Wake up, good fellow."

  A voice in the darkness. He'd heard the voice before—a refined voice, a gentleman's voice.

  "Come on now, Garrison. Time really is of the essence."

  His head throbbed, a pulsing from within, a thousand tiny fists punching the inside of his skull. His eyes felt like they'd turned to wax. His mouth felt like steel wool. He became conscious of something cold, damp, and hard pressing against his left cheek—a grittiness to it, pebbles against his skin, dirt on his lips. He smelled piss and mold. Heard the ticking of water. Something else. Something shuffled not far from him. Something moved.

  He groaned.

  "Easy now," the man said. "It does take a while for the tranquilizer to wear off."

  He opened his eyes. Concrete. A sheen of muck. Streaks of moss. He swept his arm underneath him and propped himself up, joints cracking. He blinked away the fog in his eyes, focusing on the shape standing across the room. Someone was in a doorway, behind bars, someone so short Gage at first thought it was a child. When his vision cleared, he saw that it wasn't a child at all.

  It was a man in a wheelchair.

  "Surprised to see me, Mr. Gage?" he said.

  The shrunken figure of Winston Hamlin stared at him from his place on the other side of an iron gate, the bars orange with rust. His tan trench coat draped his spindly body like a flag on a flagpole, hiding all but the wheels of his wheelchair, making it appear as if he was crouching like an old tiger. Droplets of water sprinkled his green wool hat and long pointed beard, but his thick glasses were clear and his eyes were bright. He rested his gloved left hand on the long, thin barrel of the tranquilizer gun in his lap. His right hand pointed Gage's Berretta through a gap in the bars.

  "It's a nice piece," Hamlin said. "I imagine it's seen a fair amount of action back in New York. You've kept it in excellent condition, despite its disuse these past few years."

  Gage brought his knees up, got them under him, managed to rise. A million needles pierced his knee. It was all he could do to keep from screaming. The bones there felt like a bag of gravel. Where was his cane? He didn't see it.

  "Oh, yes, the cane," Hamlin said, as if reading his mind. "It's so hard to be dependent on something like that, isn't it? Believe me, I know. But unlike you, I don't let it limit me. I'm quite resourceful, you know. It may never have occurred to you that a man in a wheelchair could be hiding in the trees, but then, I took the dirt path down from the Inn—a fair bit easier than the way you came, though the path is barricaded to detour nosy guests. Of course, since I'd been expecting you, I made sure to bring this tranquilizer gun. One must be prepared. And my son was quite helpful moving you in here—he's much stronger than he looks. That's another lesson for you, Gage. It's never good to go it alone. Look at you now. All alone and with no options."

  "Where—where is he?" Gage said, his voice groggy.

  "Nathan? Oh, we'll get to that in a moment."

  A light bulb hung from a chain next to Winston, the shadows from the bars striping the slick floor. The room made him think of a World War II Army barracks he'd visited as a child on the Washington coast, a cave of concrete hardly wider than the span of his arms. He teetered on his feet, head woozy, trying to focus. There was a shuffling from behind him again, like a scurrying rat. He craned his head to see what it was.

  He almost didn't see them. He saw a gray wall, the pale yellow light speckling its beveled, slick surface. He saw a barred window with cracked glass, the bars no more than four inches apart, the shapes of trees outside like cloaked monks, the sky between them purple-black as the daylight gave its last gasp. It was only when one of them moved that he saw them, two girls crouched in the corner, spindly arms and legs tangled and pressed so tightly together that his mind saw one person at first, a deformed monster of white flesh and cavernous eyes. They melded into the corner like moths.

  "I see you've met the other guests?" Hamlin said behind him. "Girls, this is Garrison Gage. He's a detective of sorts. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes, but obviously not as talented."

  One was utterly naked, her knees tucked up against her tiny breasts, her ribs like a crude accordion fashioned from flesh and bones. She looked at him through a greasy tangle of blonde hair, the place where her eyes should have been as dark as the hollows of a skull. The other girl wore red lace panties, the brightest color in the room, like a splash of blood on a monochrome print, and a sports bra that may have once been white but now was smeared with mud. Her short black hair stuck to her head in chunks, like wet leaves. Bruises and needle marks marred their arms. They could have been fifteen or twenty-five or anywhere in between.

  The naked one, the blonde, held a long serrated knife, the hilt pressed against her hollowed belly, the point aimed directly at Gage.

  "How long . . . have I been sleeping?" Gage asked, without turning to look at Hamlin.

  "Oh, what does it matter?" Hamlin said. "Look at me now. We have something important to do and little time to do it."

  The world was tilting on its axis. He remembered an old client of his, a physicist by trade, once telling him that if it weren't for gravity, we'd all be flung out into space at a thousand miles per hour—a billion human rockets blasting for the stars. And nobody really knew why gravity existed. They knew what it did and how it did it, but not the why. It just existed. He felt like that, like at any moment he was going to be hurled out into space.

  Hamlin was smiling. It was a cold and toothless smile. With his clay fingers, he readjusted his grip on the Beretta. The end of the barrel looked huge to Gage, like an open mouth.

  "I want you to listen very carefully," Hamlin said. "You're going to do something for me, and you're going to do it in the next . . ." He looked at the gold-plated watch on his right hand. "In the next four minutes and nineteen seconds. If you don't do it, then someone precious to you is going to die. If you do it, then this person lives. It's quite simple. Do you understand?"

  Gage felt like he did the few times in his life when he'd allowed himself to have one too many beers, his head shrouded in fog, his thoughts like sparrows darting through his mind. He had to think. He had to get a grip on himself. He bore down, using the full weight of his will, forcing his mind to clear.

  "Who is it?"

  "I think you k
now."

  "Another girl?"

  "Yes. But more than that to you."

  Then Gage knew, and the full terror of it descended on him like a winter storm, chilling his heart and clearing the mist in his mind all at once. It was Zoe. It had to be Zoe. There was a reason she had been missing, and it had nothing to do with her state of mind.

  "You're lying," he said, even as he knew that Hamlin wasn't.

  "She was quite an easy catch," Hamlin said. "My son found her wandering the beach alone, obviously crying. It was such an easy thing to take her. She didn't even know. A rag soaked with chloroform was all it took."

  "I don't believe it."

  Hamlin sighed, then looked at his watch again. "Three minutes twenty-nine seconds. We can fritter away the last moments of her life, or you can listen to what I want you to do. What will it be?"

  "Where is she?"

  "Not far, not far."

  "Let her go," Gage said. "She doesn't have any part in this."

  "Ah, but the same can be said for you, my dear Garrison. The same can be said for you. You had no part in this either, but that didn't stop you from thrusting yourself into the middle of things. If you'd just kept to yourself, none of this would have happened. That girl, when she got out, it was a careless mistake. My son, he can sometimes be careless. But no one would have thought twice about some girl washing up on the beach, some girl that no one cared about, unless you started asking questions. I knew right away that eventually I'd have to clean up after Nathan again, as I often do." He glanced at his watch. "Two minutes, forty-six seconds. Ready to listen now?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Oh, it's quite simple really. I want you to wrestle the knife away from that girl. Then I want you to kill them both."

  He said it the way a man might tell a dim-witted underling to restock the supply cabinet. Put the reams of paper there, by the manila folders, and make sure you lock up when you're finished. It made the threat all the more believable. Hamlin was not a man who was used to having people disobey him. One of the girls behind him whined like a wounded cat.

  "You're crazy," Gage said.

  "If you don't," Hamlin said, "then the consequences will be quite severe, I assure you. You see, my son is expecting a call in the next . . . two minutes and twenty-one seconds. If he doesn't get that call from me, then he will do as I have instructed him to do, and sadly, a few days from now another poor girl will wash up on the beach. People will just assume she committed suicide, of course, so distraught was she about her grandmother's death."

  "Why are you doing this?

  "Why? What a foolish question, Garrison. There are things we do for our loved ones that we would never do for others. My son—he is all that matters to me."

  "You have a funny way of showing your love."

  Hamlin sneered. "Spare me your judgment. One minute, fifty-eight seconds."

  "You blame yourself," Gage said. "I know. I've been there."

  "My dear Garrison, do you think I have a choice? Once I discovered my son's unfortunate addiction, I could have either turned him in or . . . enabled him. I know what I am. I'm not proud of it. But I have my son. That's more than you can say for your wife . . . one minute, thirty-six seconds."

  "What about Bob Pence? You enable him, too?"

  "That was my son's doing. They had a . . . special relationship. One minute, thirty seconds."

  "Hamlin. Don't do this."

  "I have no choice."

  "We always have a choice."

  "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I don't mean what I say. He will carry out my instructions. He is a very good boy, despite his problem."

  "And what if I don't? You shoot me?"

  "Of course. I'll shoot all three of you. But I'd prefer to frame you for all the murders first, in a way that's quite convincing. You will not survive, Garrison. But Zoe can."

  "You'll kill her anyway."

  Hamlin shook his head. "No. I am a man of my word. You may find me despicable—frankly, I find myself despicable—but I have never been a liar . . . exactly one minute left now. I hope you've said your goodbyes. She was such a talented girl."

  There was no point in arguing with him. He was a madman, and he was the father of another madman. Gage's mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this. Zoe was obviously up on some bluff nearby, ready to be pushed into the ocean just as Abby had been. Hamlin had a cell phone on him, and Gage had to get to it. But how? If he even took a step in that direction, Hamlin would shoot him dead.

  "Forty-six seconds," Hamlin warned.

  He turned toward the girls. They jerked backwards, melding even more into the stone, moaning pitifully. The knife trembled in the girl's hand. A plan sprang up in Gage's mind, one that would give him a chance, a tiny sliver of a chance, and it depended on everything going just right.

  He advanced a step. One of the girls screamed. Hamlin chuckled. Gage focused on the knife. It all depended on that knife, on getting it out of the girl's hands as swiftly as possible, on doing what needed to be done without hesitation.

  Gage lunged. Both girls screamed. There was a flailing of arms, a swinging of elbows; he took it in the jaw, eyes blurring, but then he had her by the wrist. He pried the knife loose with the other hand. Both girls were shrieking, the noise deafening in the enclosed space, and he'd counted on that. Noise could cover lots of things. His back was to Hamlin. There was no hesitating—he sliced the knife across flesh.

  His own.

  His palm opened up, a pulsing slash of red. The girls jerked and spasmed like they'd been struck by lightning. He pressed his palm against the girl's chest, right between her breasts. Their eyes met, and he hoped she'd understand, that there was still enough of her in there to figure it out. It's a play, darling. Play your part. She stopped spasming, going still, her eyes vacant. Was it shock or was she really in control?

  The other girl screamed, obviously not comprehending what was happening. Gage moved slightly, as if he was going for the other girl, making sure to give Hamlin a clear view of the girl's blood-stained chest.

  Hamlin applauded.

  It was the moment Gage had been waiting for, some sign, however small, that Hamlin was not pointing the Beretta at him. If he was applauding, he'd put the gun down, and that was the one thing Gage needed to have a chance. Now it all depended on his body cooperating.

  Gage's wounded hand throbbed. His heart roared in his ears. He turned, one swift movement toward the door.

  Hamlin's eyes widened, his clapping hands freezing. The Beretta lay in his lap, just as Gage had hoped.

  Gage propelled himself forward, pushing through the agony, ignoring the white hot pain flaring up from his knee.

  Hamlin went for the Beretta.

  Gage closed the distance. He managed one running step and it took a lifetime. People lived and died in the time it took him to take a step. Hamlin fumbled the weapon, not much, just a slight bobble, but it allowed Gage to take another step.

  Now Hamlin was bringing the Beretta up. Gage wasn't going to make it. It wasn't even going to be close. In the span of a second, Hamlin would have the gun up and discharging, a bullet streaking through the air, long before Gage could take another step. He had to throw the knife. He knew that. He'd known that all along, which was why he'd been retracting his throwing arm in the same movement. It was all about getting close enough. Another step. Increasing his chances of getting it through the bars. Of striking Hamlin in the throat. Of bringing his captor down before the gun could fire.

  His arm was moving.

  He was leaning.

  The Berretta aimed at him.

  Gage threw the knife.

  Chapter 25

  There were things in Gage's life that he would always remember with absolute clarity. He would always remember the look on his mother's face the day he told her he was dropping out of the FBI, the way the wrinkles around her eyes revealed her disappointment. He would always remember the sound of his father's voice when he ca
lled to tell Gage the news, the hitch between the words "Mom" and "cancer." He would always remember, like a photograph seared into his mind, Janet's limp hand draped over the side of the bathtub, a puddle on the white tiled floor beneath her fingers. Most memories receded into the gray mists of his past, indistinguishable from another. But not these. These could have happened ten years earlier or ten seconds, it made no difference.

  The knife sailing through the air was like that, instantly imprinted on his consciousness for the rest of his days. Later, he would not be able to say a lot about much of what happened in that room, but he would never forget the knife. Amber light glinted on the metal blade. The hilt propelled away like a receding torpedo, the bottom as black as coal.

  He could not have aimed any better; it streaked right between the bars like a football through the middle of the goalposts, a perfect shot.

  A shot discharged, a deafening boom in the coffin of a room, followed immediately by shattering glass. One of the bars had deflected the bullet.

  The knife found its mark. Hamlin dropped the gun and grabbed his neck as if he was choking himself, blood streaming around his fingers. He toppled forward, his head slamming into the bars and ringing them like a bell.

  Gage was still moving, lunging for the bars. Time was short. Had he lost his chance already? Had the kid already dropped Zoe into that deep dark sea? His only hope was that Hamlin had padded the deadline. Either that, or it was all a lie, a ploy to get Gage to do what he wanted.

  Crunched against the bars, Hamlin spasmed and convulsed, even his useless legs twitching. He coughed and spat up blood; there was blood everywhere, on his trench coat, his arms, the concrete floor. Gage, on his knees, fumbled inside Hamlin's trench coat for the keys. He had to get the keys. That was the first thing, the keys.

  But they weren't there. Precious seconds ticked away. He searched the trench coat pockets, his own hand leaving smears of blood. He searched the pockets of the man's trousers and he found the cell phone, which he grabbed, but no keys. Hamlin's body stilled, the dying body coming to rest. Gage searched the pockets of Hamlin's dress shirt. Nothing. Zoe was going to die if he didn't find them.