A Plunder by Pilgrims (5 page)

Chapter 3

THAT NIGHT, GAGE DREAMED he was lost at sea.  It was a wild and churning sea, a bubbling gray broth with no land in sight.  It was not cold at all, but hot—scalding, as if he'd been dumped into a boiling cauldron.  Clouds as wild as the sea streaked the sky like the hurried brushstrokes of a mad painter.  Thunder rumbled, and hot rain pelted his face.  He struggled to keep his head above the surface, thrashing about, taking in great mouthfuls of warm, salty water.  Something was wrong with his arms—they weren't working the way they should. 

When he got them up in front of his face, he saw that he had no hands.  There were only stumps.

Then something floated into view—a buoy of some kind, two adjoining logs jutting out of the waves.  Kelp tangled around the logs, fastening them together.  He paddled toward them and wrapped his stump-arms around them.  The logs were cold, but strangely soft.  It was only then that he realized what it was.

It was the girl from the beach. 

She was upside down, her bare, lacerated legs sticking out of the water—and that's what he was holding.

Gage finally woke, heart pounding, face drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs like the sea kelp tangled around that girl.

"Christ," he said to the darkness.

* * * * *

A couple days passed.  It rained one of the days, a brief shower, but otherwise remained cool and bright.  Except for checking on Mattie once, his ailing housekeeper who lived in a cottage down the hill that Gage owned, he spent the time reading or doing crosswords at his kitchen table.  In the
Oregonian
, news about the girl's death went from garish, front page headlines, to equally garish headlines on page 8, to not even warranting a mention at all. 

It was the way of things.  Gage had seen it lots of times.  People lost interest quickly.  They lost interest even faster when there was no story to keep them hooked.  She was just a dead girl on the beach.  She could have been anybody, and if she wasn't anybody, then she was a nobody.  It was hard to care about a nobody.  It was like trying to hang a picture on an invisible wall.

Still, the more Gage tried to forget her, the more she crept into his thoughts.  He was still thinking about her when he went for a walk Thursday night, exactly one week since he'd found the body. 

He trudged north along Highway 101, the night air crisp, the moon full and resplendent.  Cars and trucks roared past, headlights piercing the darkness; the big semis and their moving walls of wind forced him to stop and clutch his fedora with one hand and lean on his cane with the other. 

Most of the lodging was farther north, near the outlet stores. Both sides of the highway were lined with little shops that specialized in various things—Christmas knick-knacks, homemade quilts, high-end chocolate, low-end jewelry.  To his right in the hills above the shops were houses like his own, tucked among the Douglas firs, the hemlocks, and the occasional oak trees.  Across the highway and below the shops were two blocks of other houses and then, below them, the beach.

While he walked, he kept going over in his mind what he knew about the girl.  Only the local
Barnacle Bluffs Bugle
kept the story front and center.  He was actually impressed.  Up until six months earlier, the paper had carried nothing but snippets about the latest happenings at the senior center or badly written human interest stories that always seemed to feature someone who'd fought in World War II.  But lately, there'd been real investigative journalism—embezzlement at the casino, backstabbing between local politicians, a major drug traffic exposé that actually scooped the cops. 

It was impressive because it was all the product of a single person, Carmen Hornbridge, who'd become the sole proprietor/editor/writer six months earlier when the original octogenarian owners had finally decided they'd rather play shuffleboard on cruise ships than squabble with local advertisers.  It was even more impressive when he looked at her photo; he didn't expect a blond bombshell to write and publish such hard-hitting journalism.

But people often surprised Gage.  It was one of the things that kept life tolerable.

From reading the articles, Gage learned that they still hadn't identified the girl.  For a few days, the police withheld information while they did an autopsy and then searches based on dental records and fingerprints, but when nothing had turned up, they'd become more forthcoming. 

Her life had been reduced to a series of details.  Shoulder-length blond hair.  Brown eyes.  Most likely nineteen or twenty years of age.  Five feet four inches tall and weighing a hundred and nineteen pounds.  Fair complexion.    Double piercing in both ears, plus a stud on her tongue and her bellybutton.  A ring of dolphin tattoos around her left ankle.  Dressed in Intimissimi black lace panties and a white Hanes tank-top.  They'd posted a sketch of her rather than the actual photo; he guessed they probably didn't want the abundant senior population choking on their lime jello.

At first, they'd withheld the cause of death, but eventually they'd released that information too.  The autopsy determined she'd died by drowning.  Suicide could not be ruled out, but the bruising and cuts indicated some sort of struggle.  The sea had washed away any chance of fingerprints, but there were signs of recent, violent sexual activity.  According to blood tests, she'd also been a heavy user of methamphetamines.

None of it, according to Ms. Hornbridge, had led anywhere.  The police had gotten lots of tips, but they'd all been dead ends.  The theories ram the gamut:

She was a runway from a severe cult out of Utah. 

She'd worked for a secret highbrow Oregon call girl company. 

She was the girlfriend of an Italian mafia hit man who'd traded her for a younger model. 

She'd been abducted by aliens, who performed sexual experiments on her, and then discarded her in the ocean.

Nonsense, all of it.  The truth, Gage knew, was usually more mundane. 

About a quarter mile from his house, one block east of the ocean, was a bar called Tsunami's.  It was hard to see from the highway.  It had a neon Budweiser sign in the window and posters of local events plastered on the door.  The windows were all black, but he could hear the pulsing music from across the street.  The gravel parking lot was packed with dusty cars and motorcycles.  People milled about in the parking lot smoking cigarettes.

He'd been inside exactly three times, all of them on his birthday, each time at his friend Alex's insistence.  All three times, it had been so loud that he couldn't even hear himself speak, much less Alex. 

He didn't know what made him do it, but he decided to cross the street and go inside—hobbling fast during a break in traffic.  Opening the heavy door, it was exactly what he expected:  hot, crowded, and raging with dozens of obnoxious, alcohol-fueled gabfests, everybody shouting to be heard over a jukebox belting out songs at a volume that would have melted butter. 

No wide-eyed tourists here.  This place was for the locals, and it contained everyone from the Native American blackjack dealer fresh off her shift to the pudgy bikers in shiny new leather trying to forget that they worked as accountants during the day.

The joint stank of sweat, peanuts, and beer, and every table was packed.  One of the funny things about Tsunami's was that despite the name, there wasn't the usual sea-themed kitsch so common to the coastal restaurants.  There were scuffed wagon wheel tables, funky lava lamp lighting, and posters of Clark Cable, Marilyn Monroe, and Gandhi.  He pushed his way to the bar, ordered a bourbon on the rocks from a mop-haired bartender, and lucked out when a black guy in a grease-stained mechanic's uniform slugged down the rest of his beer and staggered away, leaving a wooden stool open.

Gage settled on the stool, placing his hat on a countertop that was layered with hundreds of scuffed bumper sticks.  He was shoulder to shoulder with the guys on either side.  When the bartender brought his drink, the guy to his right stared at Gage.

"Hey, I know you," he said.

The voice was familiar.  Gage looked at him.  Sure enough, of all the strange coincidences that could have happened, he'd walked into a real whopper.  It was a doughy fellow with a thick brown mustache—the very cop who'd taken his information on the beach.  The guy was dressed in a ghastly orange sweater that may have once been used as carpet in some seventies lounge.

"No, you don't," Gage said.

The guy squinted, eyes disappearing in his round face.  He pointed a pasty finger.  "Yeah," he said, "you're the guy who found the girl.  The smart alec.  Gage, right?"

"I'd appreciate it if you point your finger somewhere else.  I haven't eaten any dinner."

"Still the smart alec, huh?"

"Some habits die hard."

"Christ."  The guy shook his head, then looked at the bartender.  "Can you believe this guy, Mac?  Thinks he's better than the rest of us."

"My name's not Mac," the bartender said, and left for the other end of the counter with two frothy mugs.

The cop looked at Gage again, and he dropped his voice—not much, but enough to make it seem like he was whispering when he was still practically shouting to be heard over the din.  "They sent around a memo.  Said you used to be a big time private dick in New York."

"Must have been somebody else," Gage said.

"I looked you up.  That was some big time shit you were involved with back then.  Had your name all in lights, huh?  Serial killers.  Russian mafia.  Must have given you a pretty big head.  But now look at you.  You're wife gets knocked off and now you're nothing but a fucking cripple."

Gage looked at him, conscious that a bubble of silence had spread from the two of them.  At least a dozen people were watching.  "Watch your mouth," he said.

"Oh, what are you going to do, hit a cop?"

"You're not a cop.  Not right now, anyway.  And probably not ever."

"Fuck you, pal."

Gage smiled.  "If I was a homosexual, which I'm not, I'm pretty sure I could do better than you.  Even if I
am
a cripple."

It turned out to be more than a little pasty cop with a Napoleon complex could take.  With a guttural roar, he launched himself at Gage.  But his drunkenness, combined with his general ungainliness, meant this amounted to little more than a wobbly stumble in Gage's direction.  In his orange sweater, he made Gage think of a big orange traffic cone. 

Without leaving his stool, Gage delivered a swift forearm to the cop's neck.  The guy dropped like a sack of beans on the peanut-strewn floor.  He coughed and hacked, and finally glared at Gage, red-faced.  He tried to speak but couldn't manage it between the coughs.

The room fell silent.  The jukebox was between songs.  Gage left a five on the table, thanked the bartender, and hobbled for the door.  His knee had stiffened, so his limp was more pronounced.  All eyes followed him.  The thumping of his cane on the hardwood floor was the loudest sound in the room.

  Gage pushed through the crowd into the open air.  The cop, struggling to his feet, cursed at him.  He heard somebody yelling for the cop to settle down, then the door swung shut.

The air had thickened, golden halos ringing the street lamps.  His heart was doing the wild mambo, so loud in his ears he couldn't even hear the cars whizzing up behind him.  He walked as fast as his worthless body would take him, and when he reached the gas station, he was breathing heavy.  The sweat in his eyes blurred the numbers on the payphone as he dialed.

 When the person on the other end said hello, the sound of a sizzling frying pan in the background, Gage said, "It's me.  Can you do me a favor?  I'm investigating a case."

Chapter 4

THE NEXT MORNING, Quinn kept Gage waiting for half an hour before finally buzzing his secretary to send him back.  By then, Gage had downed three cups of coffee that tasted like bean-flavored water, read more than he'd ever wanted about golfing from the wrinkled magazines on the end table in the waiting area, and been given the suspicious eye by at least two dozen cops.

When he entered the office, bright sunlight glared through the cracked-open blinds.  Through watery eyes, he saw the vague shape of a person behind mounds of manila folders and white binders. 

"How can I help you this fine morning, sir?" Quinn said.

It was spoken with forced politeness.  When Gage's eyes adjusted, he saw Quinn's gentlemanly face looking up at him over the tops of thin reading glasses.  In his plain white shirt and a plain blue tie, his right pocket full of pens, pencils, and other items, Quinn had the air the studious professor. 

A computer with two monitors sat a smaller adjacent desk; the screensaver was a bright-eyed yellow lab, the picture bouncing around the screen.

"I've been thinking about that girl on the beach," Gage said.

"I was afraid of that.  Shut the door and take a seat."

Gage took one of the two black plastic seats across from the desk, the kind designed for maximum discomfort.  He rested his cane against the side of the chair, holding one hand on it so it wouldn't slip.  Even after all these years, he was never quite sure what to do with the damn cane. 

Quinn removed his glasses and placed them on a stack of papers, then leaned back in his swivel chair.  He rubbed his eyes.  "I thought we agreed you were going to keep a low profile."

"I'm still going to keep a low profile."

"But you plan on investigating her death?"

Gage shrugged.  "I guess so."

"You
guess
so?  You don't sound very determined there, my friend."

"My determination will depend on how much help you need."

"I thought I made it pretty clear we don't need any help."

"Yes, you did.  I kind of like to make my own decisions, though, you see."

"I looked it up, Gage.  You don't even have a license in the state of Oregon, and your New York license expired three years ago."

"Oh well.  I sometimes forget to return library books too."

They looked at each other, the silence stretching between them like a receding fishing line.  The question was, which one of them was the fish?  The lights on Quinn's phone flashed yellow.  There was boisterous laughter in the waiting area.  Outside, he heard the droning of motorboats on Big Dipper Lake.

Finally, Quinn sighed.  "Gage, we're going to get along much better if you just butt out of all this."

"Yeah," Gage said, nodding, "us not getting along would sadden me.  We seemed to be starting a beautiful friendship."

"Okay, so who's your client?  Somebody's paying your way, right?"  There was a new edge in Quinn's voice.

"I'm doing it pro bono."

"For who?"

"Let's say the girl."

"But Gage, you don't even know her!"

"Yeah.  Nobody does.  That's what bothers me."

Quinn shook his head.  "I don't need this.  We really have it covered."

"Think of me as a gift.  Like a free sample that showed up in the mail."

"I think of you as a fucking pain in the ass, that's what." 

"Well, I can be both.  That's usually how it works."

"You really don't care what you poking around is going to do to our own investigation, do you?  When Nancy Grace and Anderson Cooper and all the other media whack jobs show up in our little town, it's gonna be a nightmare.  I didn't think you wanted all that attention."

"I don't," Gage said.  "That's why I'm going to try to keep a low profile."

"Not in this town, pardner.  There's more gossip here than beachfront."  He sighed, and this time his sigh was deep and lasting and filled with years of built-up petty anguish—the long sigh of the overwhelmed small town police chief.  "Okay, not much I can do to stop you if you're determined to be an idiot.  But why, exactly, are you here?  I take it you didn't come just to announce your intentions?"

"I was thinking you might put me on your payroll."

Quinn stared, dumbfounded.  "You're joking."

"Yeah, I'm joking.  Actually, all I wanted was copies of the autopsy photos."

"No way."

Gage had expected this reaction.  He'd hoped
for voluntary cooperation, of course; it would have made his life easier.  But once Gage had gotten his teeth into something, he wasn't going to let go easily.  In fact, he
never
let it go.  It was really the only reason he always won in the end.  Pure stubbornness could take you far in life.  It didn't make you many friends, but it would take you far. 

"All right," he said, making as if to stand up, "I guess we're done.  I'm going to head on over to the Bugle's office."

Quinn put out his hand.  "Hold on a minute.  What's this about the Bugle?"

"Oh, you know, I figure Miss Hornbridge might have some info to help me.  She seems pretty sharp."

"Hmm."

"Of course," Gage said, "I'll probably have to do a little quid pro quo.  I doubt she'll just tell me anything for free."

"Uh huh," Quinn said.  "And what, pray tell, are you going to share with her?"

Gage shrugged.  "Oh, stuff.  You know, gossip.  Probably not anything fit to print, but I'm sure she'll be interested."

"Like what?"

Gage let the silence lengthen, the tension rising.  Silence could be like stretching a rubber band.  Let it go far enough and the band would get very taught.  That tautness could be quite useful.  Of course, the trick was not to let it stretch so far that it snapped.

"Oh, you know," he said, "some stuff I heard about a particular cop's wife.  Kind of embarrassing stuff, actually.  I heard she did some stripping when she was down in Austin—long time ago, when she was in college.  She was doped up on painkillers back then most of the time. Got busted for illegal possession.  There were rumors she was doing more than stripping.  Probably not true.  But you know, who knows.  She changed her name, then changed it again when she met a nice young cop just out of the academy.  But a good reporter starts sniffing around, who knows what she'll find.  Like you said, there's more gossip in this town than beachfront.  Hate for that stuff to get out.  Makes it hard for a prominent person in a small town, especially somebody who's been thinking about running for mayor."

Quinn's face turned into a clay mould, firming up, hardening.  "That's interesting speculation," he said.

Gage shrugged. 

"I guess you've still got some friends with connections," Quinn said. 

"A few."

Quinn drummed his fingers on the stack of papers.  "So this is the way it's going to be, huh?"

"Doesn't have to be."

"Oh, it seems it does."

His eyes smoldered, revealing a man of intense passions hiding behind his Mister Rogers facade.  He wasn't somebody Gage would want to be alone with in a dark alley.  He also slightly regretted having to play the cards the way he did.  But what could he do?  He wasn't going to play footsie with this guy, hoping to get on his good side. 

Finally, Quinn smiled.  It was obviously a forced smile, but it still broke the tension.  "You're a son of a bitch, Gage."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"All right, you'll get your photos.  One thing, though.  Keep me in the loop if you find out anything, okay?  It sure would be nice to save the taxpayers some money if you manage to ferret out something useful."

"I can probably do that."

"And please, please don't go to the Bugle.  For any reason."  He picked up the phone, muttering to himself.  "I'm too old for this crap . . . Yeah, Alice?  Gage is going to need copies of all the autopsy photos.  Can you call over to the morgue?  Yes.  Yes, that's right."

Gage rose, mouthing the words
thank you
, and limped his way to the door.  But Quinn wasn't quite finished. 

"One last thing, Gage."

Gage turned.  Quinn covered the mouthpiece of the phone.  The intensity in the eyes was gone, and Gage was relieved to see that.  Instead, there was a glint of amusement.

"I heard you had a little scuffle with one of my men at Tsunami's last night," Quinn said.

Gage shook his head.  "You must have heard wrong."

"Hmm.  Maybe so.  But I just want you to know, Henderson's a prick.  I've had problems with him for years, so it probably did him some good being put on his ass."

* * * * *

The first place Gage went, after getting copies of the autopsy photos from the clerk at the county morgue, was
The Barnacle Bluffs Bugle.
  He didn't do this to spite Quinn.  He'd been planning on doing it all along.

The Bugle's
modest headquarters was a one-room walk-up above a saltwater taffy shop, in the old downtown area on the east side of Highway 101.  A third of the stores were vacant, a third were long term tenants, and the other third rotated every year through the usual suspects—antique shops, art galleries, t-shirt stores, and usually a combination of all three. 

The sky was a bold and cloudless blue, the kind of sky that showed up prominently on all the postcards.  He parked his '71 Volkswagen van—he'd picked it up at auction shortly after moving to Barnacle Bluffs, and it was more rust-colored now than the original mustard—across the street.  When he got out of the van, the wind sliced right through his leather jacket, and he pressed his fedora to his head.

After crossing the street, he smelled popcorn and peppermint wafting out of the candy shop.  When he took the green-carpeted stairs, the bottom of the stairwell open to the outside world, those smells were replaced by a faint whiff of mold.

At the top there were two doors, one for an accountant, the other for
The Bugle. 
That accountant's had an "Out to Lunch" sticky note stuck to it even though it was not yet eleven.  He went into
The Bugle's
office without knocking, and there was Carmen Hornbridge in a room that looked like a tornado had ravaged it.  She smiled at him.  It was a smile that would have knocked a scrimmage line of football players on their asses.

"Hi," she said.  "Want to place an ad?"

The room, no more than fifteen feet square, was a hodgepodge of desks, filing cabinets, Apple computers, and so much paper that it made Quinn's office seem sterile in comparison.  With the curtains open, the full glare of the sun spilled into the room.  Framed newspapers adorned most of the walls except for the one behind Carmen herself, which was covered by a giant corkboard; the corkboard itself was buried behind three or four layers of newspaper clippings, sticky notes, and business cards. 

Carmen Hornbridge was seated at the messiest of the three desks, bracketed by two wide monitors.  Her nimble fingers were poised over the keyboard.   

Her powder blue blazer hung over the back of the swivel chair.  The curly blond hair that had been let loose in her editorial page photo was now tied back in a pony tail.  She was dainty, probably not more than a hundred pounds, with smooth skin, liquid green eyes, and childlike features.  Her eyes gave her away, though.  He'd guessed early twenties by her photo, but there was something about the intensity of her gaze and the subtle crow's feet that made him revise her age upwards a bit.  Thirty maybe?  She'd certainly aged well.