“That was Chief Flack. Apparently, the lighthouse keeper saw someone in the parking lot on the night of the murders.” Deck focused up ahead but Olivia could see his wheels spinning a hundred miles a minute. “He thinks it might be one of our suspects.”
Lighthouse keeper Guthrie Smalls waved his flashlight at them from the base of Little Gull, the wind whipping what remained of his hair into a frenzy.
“Come on over.” The old man’s voice thin as a reed, he beckoned them across the rock jetty that gave safe passage over the water below to the slope of the island on the other side. Years ago, the city had erected a steel railing along the path, after a young girl had fallen and cracked her head on the craggy ocean bottom.
Olivia followed close behind Deck, holding tight to the rail and measuring every step in the beam of the light from her cell phone. She tasted the saltwater mist on her mouth, felt the cold ocean spray against her cheeks. Though she considered the bluffs overlooking Little Gull as the spot where she did her best thinking, it had been years since she’d made the trek to the lighthouse itself. When the cold water sloshed over her feet and a sudden gust jostled her off balance, she remembered why. No surprise, Deck had told her to wait in the car. But sitting alone in the dark had seemed much worse with Thomas’s bad man still on the loose and an uneasy feeling she couldn’t name swirling in her stomach.
After hustling up the hillside where the pink ice plants grew wild, Guthrie ushered them into the warmth of the lighthouse and up the narrow stairs to the keeper’s quarters, where a twin-size bed fit snugly alongside a chest of drawers and a wooden desk. He retrieved a pair of binoculars from his bedside before leading them to another winding staircase that deposited them in the tower.
Beyond the glow of the beacon, Olivia couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the ocean began. She stood in awe in front of the panoramic windows, feeling comforted by her insignificance.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Guthrie joined her there, while Deck positioned himself opposite the view, looking back toward the parking lot.
“The chief tells me you saw something out here on the night of the Fourth,” Deck said.
Guthrie heaved a sigh and turned to him, pointing an arthritic finger at the beach. “I don’t get out here as often as I used to, now that the lighthouse is automated. But I always spend the night on the Fourth to watch the fireworks. It was a tradition for my wife and me. After she passed a few years ago, I didn’t have the heart to stop. When I see those sparklers brightening up the sky, it makes me feel close to her again.”
All business, Deck ignored the old man’s reminiscing and produced a notepad from his pocket. “You watched the fireworks that night?”
“Started to. It was a fantastic show. My Rose always loved the way the fireworks colored the water. She’d say it looked like God had spilled paint on the ocean.”
“Something interrupted you?”
“Someone is more like it. A drunken hoodlum down on the shoreline. He pulled into the lot around nine o’clock, radio blaring, just before the show started.” Guthrie’s frown lines deepened as he shook his head. “A man can’t get any peace these days.”
“Did you notice what kind of car he drove?” Will asked.
“Sure did. A real hot rod. One of those Dodge Challengers. Bright red.”
Olivia caught Deck’s eye, wondering if the old man had just confirmed Jonah’s story.
“What happened next?”
“Well, he got out of his car and started stumbling up and down the beach. Lucky it was a full moon that night, so I followed him with the binoculars for a while. He seemed pretty upset, tossing rocks into the water. Just your standard Little Gull Lamenter. That’s what Rose and I would call the guys and gals who came out here broken-hearted and three sheets to the wind. As soon as the show got started, I didn’t pay him much attention. I figured he’d sleep it off on the beach the way most of the Lamenters do in the summer. Then, the fire caught my eye.”
Olivia sucked in a breath, remembering that night. The singed hole in her sweater, the bloodstains. The weight of Peter Fox’s dead body slumped against her.
Deck moved to the westward-facing windows, borrowing Guthrie’s binoculars. “You can see Ocean’s Song from here?”
“Oh, no. Not that fire. That poor sucker set one of those beach trash cans ablaze and sacrificed a few mementos to the flames. That’s about the time I got a real good look at him. When I saw that Jonah Montgomery fella last night on the evening news, I got to wondering if I should tell somebody what I saw. Rose always nagged me about being a busybody, but—”
“You did the right thing.” Deck clapped Guthrie’s shoulder with the same kind of excitement Olivia felt when she made a breakthrough with one of her inmate patients. “Which trash can was it?”
“Probably passed it on your way out to the jetty. But it’s Tuesday. The garbage men came this afternoon, so it’ll be empty now.”
Olivia watched Deck deflate, his smile flat as a punctured tire.
“Cheer up, Detective.” Guthrie flashed a boyish smile. “I figured it might be important. I emptied the can myself before I called the station. Kept the bag downstairs for you, in case you wanted it. Just remember, the tide’s coming in, so you won’t have long.”
Deck donned the work gloves Guthrie had loaned him and gingerly opened the black plastic. Olivia peered over his shoulder, directing Guthrie’s flashlight into the littered bowels of the trash bag. “Just a peek,” Deck reminded her. “We’ll let the techs do the rest.”
But as Deck began poking through the refuse, they both hunkered down, taking their time to carefully separate the items and examine them one by one. Dozens of soda cans and candy wrappers. Two empty bottles of sunscreen and a half-eaten hot dog. Olivia wondered if they’d find anything worthwhile.
Just when her heart started to sink, Olivia saw it, spotlighting it with the beam. “Look.”
A melted bottle of lighter fluid had settled at the bottom of the bag. Deck nudged it with his glove, revealing what lay beneath. A gold watch, still ticking, even with its face cracked and blackened with ash.
Forty-Two
Will stared at the watch. Now that he could see it, he could hear it too. Each tick seemed impossibly loud, filling him with dread. First, Guthrie’s story. Then, the watch, the bottle of lighter fluid. Even if Jonah hadn’t told him the whole story, all the evidence added up to a big fat F on Will’s detective work. Another suspect eliminated.
“Damn,” Will muttered to Olivia. “Jonah was telling the truth.”
“Yoo-hoo.” Guthrie’s voice echoed along the winding stairwell to where they stood. “Are you two still down there?”
“Just finishing up,” Olivia called back to him, as Will cinched the top of the plastic bag into a knot. “We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
Guthrie hobbled down one step at a time, the creaking of the stairs announcing his arrival. “Did you forget about the tide schedule?”
Will glanced at his own watch, a present from his father on the day he’d taken his sworn oath as an officer of the law. It seemed to mock him. “It’s eight fifteen.”
“That can’t be right.” Olivia frowned at him as she spoke, and panic took hold. Will looked closer at the face of the Omega, gaping at the unmoving second hand.
“Oh dear. I thought you’d left.” Guthrie shook his head. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Tide’s been rising. You won’t be able to make it back safely until early morning.”
“What?” Incredulous, Will dropped the bag and ran to the door, peering out at the water sweeping across the jetty. In the moonlight, he could make out the sudden swell of the ocean. Its crests licked up and over the sides, reminding him of the flames that had started this whole mess of a case. He turned back to Olivia, exasperated. “How could you not know this?”
“Me? I knew about the tide. I just… I got caught up in hearing Guthrie’s story. I lost track of time. But you can’t seriously blame me for this. Why didn
’t you realize your watch had stopped? Couldn’t you see the time on your cell phone?”
Will groaned, running his hand through his hair. “I’m not a local. I had no idea the whole jetty would be underwater. That we were on the clock. Are you sure we can’t make it across?”
“Not unless you plan on swimming a few hundred yards in fifty-degree water.”
“She’s right.” Guthrie passed Will the binoculars. “Have a closer look, Detective.”
Will headed back to the door, Olivia on his heels. He looked one more time, already knowing he’d find only roiling black water between Little Gull and the shoreline. Guthrie had taken care of the lighthouse for years. He knew the tides the same way Will knew the shifty eyes of a guilty suspect.
“Don’t fret.” Guthrie joined them outside, where the grassy island sloped down to the water. “Rose and I got stuck out here more times than we could count. We always made the best of it.”
“I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening.” When the corner of Olivia’s mouth turned up at Will, he rolled his eyes at her. “I better text Emily though, so she doesn’t worry. Shouldn’t you call JB? Tell him about Jonah?”
“Are you kidding? You can’t breathe a word about this to him. I’ll never live it down. I can fill him in on Jonah in the morning.”
“What about Graham?” she asked.
Will removed his cell phone from his pocket. Before he unlocked it, he glared at the bright screen as if it had betrayed him, the time writ large across it. The battery, alarmingly low. He scanned his messages, regarding the newest text from Lieutenant Wheeler with the same disdain. He held it up for Olivia to read.
Good ole Uncle Marvin called in a favor with the judge. Bauer posted bail.
Will lay awake, his stomach growling, unsatisfied by the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Guthrie had prepared for them. Thanks to Graham’s fist, his head had started to throb. His work attire—slacks and an untucked button-down—felt about as comfortable as a straitjacket. No matter which direction he shifted, his back ached, the thin carpet like a concrete slab beneath him.
Guthrie lay on the recliner near the desk, covered in one of Rose’s quilts he’d pulled out of the small linen closet. His snoring grew louder and louder, until it eclipsed the roar of the ocean. Then, he gurgled awake, snuffling, before falling back under the spell of the kind of deep sleep that had always eluded Will. Cops sleep best with one eye open, his dad had told him once.
“You awake?” Olivia whispered.
He flipped on his side, toward the twin-sized bed that chivalrous Guthrie had insisted should be claimed by the fairer sex. After tossing and turning for a while, that pancake-flat mattress had started to resemble a little slice of heaven. “What does it look like?”
Her teeth flashed white in the dark. Her laugh all breath, like her voice. “Guthrie said low tide is at four a.m. That’s only a couple more hours.”
“Super.” He turned again, flat on his back, staring up at the pole in the center of the room, a crocheted throw pillow beneath his head. “I’ll just keep counting sheep then. One million one, one million two…”
“It’s not like I’m doing much better up here. This bed isn’t exactly comfortable. It’s one step down from a college dorm room. One step up from a prison bunk.”
“Right. I can see that. You look like you’re suffering.”
Olivia sighed. When the bed creaked, he cast a sidelong glance at her. She patted the empty space she’d cleared for him. “Come on, then. If you’re going to whine about it.”
Will swallowed hard. All the times he’d imagined spending the night with her, it hadn’t gone down like this. With an old man rumbling like a freight train and organic peanut butter on his breath. He dragged himself to his feet, bringing his poor excuse for a pillow with him.
“Fine.” But he definitely wasn’t. His heart pounded in his throat as he pulled back the quilt and carefully climbed in, the bed sagging with his weight. As he lay back, he felt every point of contact between them—elbow, shoulder, foot—like a live wire pressed to his skin.
Olivia rolled onto her side, facing him. She scooted toward the wall, letting Will occupy the empty space, the sheets still warm from her body. “Better?” she asked.
He felt her reach for him, her hand set upon his chest.
“Like sleeping on a cloud.” He covered it with his own, lightly squeezing her fingers. “For the record, I wasn’t whining.”
Forty-Three
The obnoxious squawking of a seagull outside the window forced Olivia to open her eyes. Not that she’d slept a wink since Deck had passed out, slinging his arm across her waist and pulling her right into ground zero, where her back fit so snugly against his chest she could feel the solid thump of his heart. At least Guthrie’s snore had quieted to a soft reverberation.
The small clock on the desk near the recliner read 4:15 a.m. The tide was low enough now that they could cross the jetty safely. She desperately needed a shower, a change of clothes, and a nap before work. But she preferred it here, nestled in Deck’s arms.
Olivia turned onto her back, Deck’s hand sliding across her stomach, and took a moment to study him in the moonlight before she nudged him with her elbow.
Stubble shadowed his jaw, and the bruise under his right eye had begun to darken at the edge. His hair askew, his lashes fluttering, she felt a tenderness she couldn’t explain. Only that she wanted to touch him but suddenly felt too shy to follow through.
“Deck. Wake up.”
He moaned softly.
“It’s low tide.”
Olivia lifted his arm, heavy as driftwood, and freed herself from beneath it. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Stop yelling.” He offered her a lazy grin before hoisting himself up and planting his socked feet on the floor. “I hear you.”
While they quietly retucked and straightened their clothing and slipped on their shoes, Olivia checked her phone. As she feared, it had gone the way of Deck’s and died during the night. At least she’d been able to text Emily first—Stuck at Little Gull with Deck. Tide rising—even if Em’s response, a smiley face emoji with red heart eyes, had been lacking an appropriate amount of sisterly concern.
“Should we let him sleep?” Olivia tiptoed around Guthrie in the dark, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the quilt. She wondered how many nights he’d spent here sardined in that twin bed with Rose. That must be why he preferred the recliner.
The moment Deck nodded at her, he banged his knee against the leg of the desk. He winced, hobbling toward the staircase. Even as Olivia bit back her laughter, Guthrie didn’t stir.
She scribbled a note on the pad in the corner of the desk, thanking him for his hospitality, and followed Deck down to the ground level, where he’d secured the plastic bag containing Jonah’s kindling.
The biting air of early morning nipped at Olivia’s skin, awakening her instantly. The ocean had retreated again, leaving the path across the jetty slick but clear. When they crested the hill, Deck stopped walking and directed Guthrie’s flashlight up ahead of them, across the rocks to the other side. A jolt of panic coursed through Olivia, razing the last of her sleepy cobwebs.
She squinted at the shadowy figures in the parking lot. Spotlighted by the single light pole, their faces began to take shape. She wondered how long they’d been waiting and what awful news had brought them here before the dawn.
Forty-Four
Will gripped the plastic bag in one hand, the railing in the other, the cold steel a tangible reminder he wasn’t dreaming. Even though the sea smoke hung over the water like a gossamer web, and he had the sickening feeling his reality had shifted without him knowing.
He couldn’t move as fast as he wanted, not with the rocky path strewn with kelp and still damp beneath his feet. With Olivia behind him, he took careful steps, glancing over his shoulder to reassure himself. But it worried him seeing JB pacing between the cars, cell phone pressed to his ear, while Emily sto
od watch.
“I’ve been calling you for over an hour.” The hard edge of JB’s voice, the fact that he hadn’t pointed out Will’s complete incompetence with tide tables or inquired about the trash bag beside him, confirmed it.
“Me too.” Emily matched JB’s tone.
“Our cell batteries died overnight,” Olivia told her. “I assumed you knew that would happen.”
Will met his partner’s troubled eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Your cat is missing.”
“That’s why you’re here?” Unease twisted Will’s empty stomach but he refused to give in to it. “Cy does his own thing. You know that. He’ll turn up in a day or two. Probably leave something dead on my tailgate.”
JB didn’t laugh. Instead, he measured his words, and each one cut to the quick. “There’s more. Nora called 911 early this morning. Thomas ran off again.”
“Where are they staying?” Olivia hustled toward the Buick, JB to the Crown Vic. Even Emily had already unlocked her rental. But Will lingered there, feeling one step behind. Like he’d left himself sleeping in the lighthouse.
“At an Airbnb in the woods off Pine Grove Road. We’ve already called in the state police to help organize a search. We’ve got search dogs headed down here on loan from Brookings PD.”
“Search dogs?” The news hit Will like another sucker punch. “Are you positive he left the house? The kid likes to hide.”
JB raised an incredulous eyebrow. Will couldn’t tell if it was the question that surprised him or his own slow-on-the-uptake demeanor. He wasn’t used to playing catch-up. “That cabin is crawling with cops right now. So yeah, positive. He’s not there.”
Finally, the adrenaline kicked him in the ass and cleared his brain fog. He hurried to the trunk, slinging the trash bag inside. “Let’s go, then.”
Will cinched his seat belt while JB floored it down the empty highway toward Pine Grove Road, with Emily and Olivia speeding behind them. As they neared the Airbnb, he shook his head at Will, disappointed. “I can’t believe you pulled a stunt like this in the middle of a quadruple murder case.”
One Child Alive: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with nail-biting suspense (Rockwell and Decker Book 3) Page 18