Jericho's Razor (21 page)

“How long have you lived here?” She asked.

“Almost eleven years now. I bounced around for a while before settling here.”

“Do you ever miss Montana?” she asked.

“Are you serious?”

“I don't mean the associations you have with it. Just the state. I've been through it before, and it's beautiful up there. It must have been magic for a boy growing up. Wilderness. Adventure. I only ask because you don't seem to be totally acclimated here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in an abandoned building. Your best friend is a stray dog. You buy most of what you need online. The only place you really frequent is Tanner's bar, and the only person you have had a serious relationship with is Katrina Masters.

Jagger once again looked toward her purse. Besides her gun, I wondered what was in there. Maybe Dramamine.

“You've been waiting for something like this to happen, haven't you?” she asked. “That's why you've never truly settled in anywhere. You've been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I didn't expect it to come from Eli.”

“What was he like when he was a kid?”

I took a pull from my beer and considered it.

“Funny”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you wouldn't think it was true now, with what he turned into. But he used to be the class clown. I remember how Peter would be giving his sermons at our ranch, and Eli would be mimicking him perfectly. From a safe distance, of course. But he was our comic relief. Sometimes I think the only reason I didn't go nuts growing up was because Eli was there to pull some stupid gag on me like leaving a dead snake in my dresser or filling my boots with shaving cream.”

“You want to know why he's doing it, don't you? You want to know what happened to make him act like this?”

I nodded.

“There isn't always an answer, Sands. Sometimes people just do what they do because the idea hits them and they can't think of a reason not to.”

“That's pretty bleak.”

“It is what it is,” Jagger said. “Anyway, I've been a cop too long to waste time looking for a grand scheme behind everything.” She finished her beer and grabbed another from the cooler. “You come out here much?”

“Sometimes. When I need to get away and clear my head.”

“What are your thoughts right now?”

I took a breath, stretched out, and watched streams of lights pass over the bridge.

“‘I was just thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, I drank what?'”

Jagger smiled. “
Real Genius
.”

I tipped my beer her way. “Wow. I'm impressed. Not many people know that movie.”

“I don't have much of a life. Movies have always been my thing. And I used to have a huge crush on Val Kilmer. I've even seen Willow.”

“Yikes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Jagger smiled and turned to face me. “Go ahead, writer boy. Quiz me.”

“Okay ... ‘The lice hate the sugar.'”

“Seriously, dude? You're asking a cop if she knows
Super Troopers
? I thought you were going to make this interesting.”

“‘You gotta play this game with fear and arrogance.'”

“
Bull Durham
.”

“‘I don't believe in God …'”

“‘… but I'm afraid of him.'
The Usual Suspects
. One of my favorites.”

“Mine too. ‘What's a Nubian?'” I said.

“
Chasing Amy
.”

“‘So it's sorta social. Demented and sad, but social.'”

“
The Breakfast Club
. Don't even think you're going to stump me with a John Hughes movie.”

I smiled. “I concede. You know your movies.”

We sat back and finished our beers. Every so often a barge would pass close to the boat and rustle the water. My boat would sway hard from port to starboard, seesawing in the wake. Every time we shifted hard on the current, Jagger grabbed the stern line.

“You really don't like boats, do you?” I asked.

“Not so much.”

Jagger set down her beer and leaned over. Our faces were inches apart. “Why did you ask me if there was anything between Eddie and me at the bookstore?”

I shrugged. “I'm a writer. I'm nosy.”

“Maybe. But that's not why you asked.”

She was right. Tanner made a point to keep telling me that I had to forget about Kat and find someone else. I hadn't even considered it. Until, much to my nature, I picked the worst possible time take his advice.

“So what's the plan?” she asked. “Were you going to stay out here all night?”

“Yep.”

“It's getting cold. Going to be even colder in a few hours.”

“I have a heater in the cabin.”

Jagger nodded like she was deciding something. I had no idea what, but realized I was feeling the familiar anticipation of being with an attractive woman, alone, in the dark. We sat in silence, hearing each other breathe, feeling the weight of all that was unsaid.

“The helicopter could have kept tabs on me just fine,” I said.

“Yeah. They have an infrared camera on board. People look like glowing blobs. It lets them see if somebody is hiding in bushes or under a car. It's pretty cool.”

“And even if they couldn't, my bike is parked in the marina. You could have put a car on it.”

“There actually is a car watching it.”

“So whoever got stuck with that crappy job would have spotted me if I tried to swim to shore.”

“Right again. Especially after your switcheroo act last night. I know the cops out there. They're good.”

“So … why are you really here, Alyssa?”

She smiled and set down her beer. “Exactly how well does that heater work?”

For the first time in years, I woke up to a woman next to me who wasn't Katrina. The first time with Alyssa had been slow and awkward, both of us nervous and a little buzzed, not quite sure if what we were doing was such a good idea. The second round was much easier. The third was spectacular.

Alyssa was already awake, propped up on an elbow and staring at me.

“Do you realize you talk in your sleep?”

“I've been told. It's gotten me in trouble a few times.”

“I'll bet.”

“Did I say anything interesting?”

“Nothing coherent.” She was smiling, and I wasn't totally sure I believed her. My tendency to say things that get me into trouble is not exclusive to being awake.

“Let me guess. It's been a while since anyone besides Katrina?”

“Are you that good a detective, or am I just that obvious?”

“Maybe a little of both. So, how do I compare?”

“You really like to throw things out there, don't you?”

“Yep.”

“And you realize that I see this question for the trap that it is?”

Alyssa said nothing. She just waited.

“It's different. Not any better or worse. Just different.”

“That's a very safe answer.”

“It's also the best one you're going to get.”

Alyssa traced the scar on my abdomen, courtesy of Peter's knife. Six inches long, jagged, and runs like an angry fault line up and down my side.

The boat suddenly rocked from something moving in the channel. Probably another barge. Or maybe her ride, wondering what happened to her. I'm sure the helicopter with its infrared camera got a hell of a show. By now, the entire police force had to be buzzing.

“I hear you thinking, Jericho. You're wondering if I would stick my neck out like this for a one-night stand. Am I right?”

I smiled, noticing that she was now calling me by my first name. “Pretty close, yeah.”

“I don't know what this is. I'm certain that right now is the worst possible time to be starting anything. For both of us. But life is too short. What has been happening should remind us of that. And I know that whatever this is, I don't want to ignore it.”

“Me neither.”

I pulled anchor and motored into the dock. There was a police car in the lot. Two officers sat inside eating breakfast wraps and drinking coffee. They pretended not to stare as I walked Alyssa to her car.

“Busted,” I said.

“Yeah. I feel like a teenager trying to sneak inside the house after an all-nighter.”

“Your partner is going to be pissed.”

“I can handle Eddie. I have to get downtown and check in with him before going home. It'll be a good time to set things straight.”

“Good luck with that. Just do me a favor and give me a heads-up if he decides to come shoot me.”

We kissed with the cops watching us, a long, drawn-out affair that accelerated my heart rate like a shot of adrenaline. It was not a “thanks for a good time” kiss, but a promise of things to come. Assuming I was not dead in two more days. Alyssa drove away, and I walked to my bike. I fired it up and the cop on the driver side leaned out the window.

“So, buddy. How does she ride?”

I flipped him the bird.

“What the fuck? I was talking about the Triumph.”

“Sure you were.”

I rode up the river. The wind hit me with icy-sharp needles, but I pushed into it, letting the bike run, losing myself in the purr of the engine. Ninety-five miles per hour on the interstate, weaving through cars and semis like a black-and-chrome rocket, passing so quickly that no one could be sure I was ever really there.

After an hour, I doubled back toward town. The roads felt like the set of a postapocalyptic movie, deserted and quiet. Early morning sunlight bathed downtown.

It was the morning of day two, and I needed a plan to flush Eli from hiding. I was through waiting. Through being bait.

I turned onto Main Street with determination, ready to impact the plot.

Until I spotted the beat-up Camaro parked behind my building.

Chapter Seventeen

The car was just as the man under the viaduct had described. Faded yellow paint. Patches of Bondo on the front fender. The car I had spent all night searching for was now parked on my street. I climbed off my bike and walked toward the Camaro, halfway expecting it to vanish like a mirage the moment I tried to touch it. But it remained. I scanned the street. Eli had walked into our net at the bookstore. I was sure that he was somewhere close by right now, watching, curious to see how I would react to so bold a move. A description of this car was all over the news and riding with every squad car in the state, yet Eli had driven it through the heart of downtown and parked it. Illegally.

I tried the driver-side door, and it swung open with a groaning creak of tired metal and rust. There were discarded cans of Mountain Dew and fast-food wrappers on the floor of the passenger side. A map of Illinois was hastily folded and stuffed in the visor. I reached in and grabbed a baseball hat that I immediately recognized. It was a Los Angeles Dodgers cap. Eli had been a fan of the team growing up, and he wore the hat proudly around the compound, despite Peter's condemnations. The old man cursed professional sports as the devil's playground. He viewed all professional athletes as wicked individuals who made fortunes by fornicating and using drugs and beating their wives and girlfriends. The hat had earned Eli more than one slap across the face from our father, but he hardly ever took it off.