A Plunder by Pilgrims (7 page)

"Well, think quickly, okay?  Maybe if you thought a little about that girl on the beach, and imagined it being Zoe, it would help."

He took her hand and squeezed it back.  He didn't want to tell her, but he'd already done exactly that.

* * * * *

When Zoe came back, they visited with Mattie another hour, then Gage asked if Zoe wanted him to drive her home—since the hospital wanted to keep Mattie overnight.  Zoe told him she had a friend who worked as an orderly and she'd catch a ride with him later.  She'd said it with a fair amount of bite, as if she knew what Gage and Mattie had discussed.  Gage imagined many years of such biting remarks from Zoe and left the hospital more depressed than when he'd entered it.

Back in his van, he glimpsed the lake through the openings in the firs and the spruces, as smooth and blue as painted concrete.  The cool breeze whistled through the gaps in his windows.  Even a half mile away from the ocean, there was less salt in the wind; the air was fresher.

He pulled out the manila folder under his seat, the one containing the autopsy photos.  Flipping through them, there were about a dozen in all, computer printouts on glossy white paper.  Somehow seeing her in the stark fluorescent lighting of the morgue was even more gruesome than seeing her on the beach that first time.  She was so pale and white, and her surroundings so monochrome and sterile, that the bruises and cuts on her body leapt off the page.  Who would do such a thing?  It was the question that always flitted through Gage's mind when he witnessed such cruelty, but he never let himself dwell on it.  He'd learned early on that it was madness to do so.  He'd seen too much evil in the world to try to make sense of it. 

Evil was like Mattie's cancer—a foreign invasion into an otherwise healthy body.  Why was it there?  There was no why.  It just was, and the only thing to do was to destroy it before it destroyed you.  At least, that's all Gage could do.  He'd leave it to the social workers and the psychiatrists and the politicians to look for evil's cause.  Maybe some good would come from that sort of thing, but he doubted it.

Because he was dealing with a Jane Doe, Gage knew there were lots of potential places to begin.  It was like having a map without a destination.  You could start walking in any direction and hope that where you were supposed to go would occur to you along the way.

He lingered on the photo of her ankle, the one that showed her ring of dolphin tattoos.  It was the sort of tattoo a girl who loved the ocean might get.  It was also the kind of tattoo a girl might get when she'd moved to the coast.  There were also all the piercings.  He knew there was no guarantee that she'd gotten any of it done in Barnacle Bluffs, but it was a place to begin.

There was only one tattoo and piercing shop in Barnacle Bluffs,
TP Piercings and Body Art,
in the strip mall across from the casino.  It looked out of place squeezed between a Starbucks and an office supply store.  The windows were so covered with colorful designs—fairies, elves, unicorns, and every other fantastical creature imaginable—that he couldn't see inside.  At the far end of the strip mall, windsocks fluttered in the wind.  Across the road, beyond the blocky orange buildings of the casino, the ocean filled the horizon. 

The glass door chimed when he walked inside.  The shop was clean, bright, and organized, and he started to think that maybe it wasn't  so out of place in the strip mall.  With the polished granite counter and green marble floor, it looked like what he would have expected inside the office supply store.   The front section of the store was cordoned off by portable dividers, the kind so common in corporate America; matted pictures of designs similar to the ones in the windows hung on the gray felt.  Thick white binders packed the metal bookshelves next to the door.

A kid who might have been fourteen wandered around one of the dividers.  He was dressed in black jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt that showed off the tattoos that covered his arms from wrist to shoulder. 

"Hey, man," he said.  "Here for a tat?"

"I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions."

The kid frowned.  "Aw, man, I'm not buying nothing today, so if you're a salesman — "

"It's nothing like that."  Gage held up the manila folder.  "I have a picture of a tattoo, and I was wondering if you might tell me if you did it."

The kid hesitated.  "You somebody's dad?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's happened before," the kid said.  "Girl comes in and gets a tat, then Dad shows up wanting to punch the guy who did it.  But if they've got ID, how are we supposed to know it's fake?"

"No," Gage said, "it's not like that at all."  He hesitated, wondering what to tell him, then decided that the truth was probably best.  Gage had found over the years that unless there was a good reason to lie, then the truth was always preferable.  He never knew when it would lead to unexpected discoveries.  "You know that girl they found on the beach?"

The kid looked taken aback.  "Um, yeah."

"She had a ring of dolphin tattooed around her left ankle."

"Really?  So you a cop?"

"Think of me as a concerned citizen."

"Huh.  Like a good Samaritan or something?"

"Sure.  I don't know about the good part, though."  He extended his hand.  "Name's Garrison."

The kid shook it.  "Tim Paige," he said.

"The owner?"

"That's right."

"You do a good business?"

"Oh, yeah.  We get a lot of folks wander over from the casino.  We really try to make it nice and welcoming for all the women over with their girlfriends.  Peggy, my sister, she's real good at that sort of thing.  You know, putting them at ease and stuff."

"Let me show you something."  Gage opened the folder and pulled out the one showing the tattoo.  The kid looked at it only a moment before shaking his head.

"Nah, not mine."

"You're that sure?"

He nodded, and motioned for Gage to follow him.  "Come around back here where the light's better.  I'm the only one who does tats, so it's me or nobody."

They rounded behind the office dividers, where there were two reclining, dentist-type chairs, three drawing easels, and loads of inks and needle equipment and under banks of fluorescent lighting.  Gage detected a hint of the tangy, sweet odor of marijuana.  So much for the whole Office Depot facade.  Tim took the photo from Gage and clipped it to one of the drawing easels, then flicked on the attached light.  He leaned in for a closer look, then wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, yeah," he said, "this ain't mine.  I never forget a tattoo.  Faces, not so much.  This one, it was probably done by somebody not in business long."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because it stinks."

"Oh."

He laughed.  "I shouldn't be so hard on it, but I'm kinda a tat snob.  You know, like a wine snob?  This one's got no flair, no style.  It's small, but that's no excuse.  Doubt it was even taken from flash—just probably made up on the spot.  Look at how blocky it is.  They didn't even use the right size needle.  It was probably done by somebody real new, cause if they kept up like this, I doubt they'd be in business long.  It wouldn't just be a dad wanting to punch 'em."

"She didn't do it herself, did she?"

"Oh no.  Highly doubt that.  It's done with professional equipment, I can tell you that much.  Just badly."

"Do you think it's very old?"

The kid looked at the picture a little longer.  "It's hard to say without seeing it in the flesh, but I don't think so.  It doesn't have much fade or stretching.  She was also pretty young, so how old could it be?"

Gage placed the photo back in the folder, then pulled out a close-up of the girl's face.  Her eyes were closed at least, but it was still gruesome enough that the kid swallowed hard.

"Sure you've never seen her?" Gage said.

"I don't think so."

"You don't
think
so?"

"I told you, I'm not as good with faces.  I mean, I could have seen her in a club or something.  It's hard to say.  But I don't think so."

Gage watched the kid closely.  No dilating eyes.  No hesitation in the voice.  "Do you do many ocean-themed tattoos?  You know, dolphins, sharks, mermaids, that sort of thing?"

He nodded.  "Some.  Not as many as you might think."

"Mostly kids?"

"Depends on how you define kids.  Almost everybody who gets a tat is under thirty, at least around here."  He pointed at the picture of the girl.  "That kid, though, I'd say she hadn't lived on the coast long."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's funny," Tim said.  "You'd think it would be the locals who'd get sea-related tats, but it's almost never that way.  I think it's cause the kids who grow up around here don't always want to be reminded of it so much.  I don't blame them, cause I grew up around here.  You get past the beach, it's pretty much nowhereville.  It's the tourists and the people who just moved here that usually get dolphins and sharks and mermaids and stuff."

Gage slipped the photo of the girl back in the folder.  "Are there any other tattoo artists in Barnacle Bluffs?"

"Nope.  There's others up and down the coast, though.  I'd try Sandy Cove, if I were you."

"Why is that?"

He shrugged.  "They've got two tat shops up there and both do a pretty good business, Zander's and Ink and Exile.  Most tattoo artists apprentice for a couple years—I did myself in LA—before going it alone.  I know those two have a fair amount of turnover with apprentices.  None of the longtime pros around here would have done such a crappy job, and I know most of 'em.  Small world, you know."

"Yeah," Gage said.

"And if they remember her, ask if you can see their release forms.  Not all the tat shops do that, but most of the good ones do."

 "Good idea.  Well, thanks for your help.  Okay if I swing back if I have other questions?"

"Oh, sure," Tim said.  "Always glad to do my part.  Real sad, her washing up on beach like that.  You think she was killed?"

"Probably."

The kid shook his head, and started for the front of the store.  "You know, I just can't imagine a person who would do a thing like that.  I like
everybody,
you know.  I mean, even if I disagree with them, I really like people, doesn't matter the background.  Mormons, skinheads, yuppies with their kids, I get along with everybody.  I just don't know why anybody would want to hurt . . . "

His voice drifted off when they rounded the corner.  At some point while they were in the back, a homeless man had wandered into the store—or what Gage
guessed
was a homeless man based on his appearance.  He looked like he'd gone to a Jerry Garcia look-a-like convention ten years back and spent the last decade sleeping outdoors.  His face was lost within a wooly cloud of gray hair and beard and behind tinted glasses so large they could have once been portholes in a submarine.  He wore a blue rain slicker, gray sweatpants with patches in the knees, and heavy black boots covered with duct tape—all coated with years of grime and grease and who knew what else.

He teetered on his feet like a man on a boat in rough seas.  Outside, visible through the window, was a rusty red bike attached to a homemade wooden trailer, both loaded up with bulging shopping bags and cardboard boxes.

"Ya got any cans?" he said.  He was missing a few front teeth, and the teeth he did have were as yellow as old wax.  Even across the room, his breath reeked of alcohol—it hit them like a swarm of flies.