Gravel crunched in the driveway. The men looked at each other.
“I’ll see who it is,” Colefield volunteered, unbuckling the strap on his sidearm as he headed to the front door.
Peering out the screen door, Colefield smiled. He’d recognize that determined Italian face anywhere. He stayed put for a moment admiring the view, amused at the pissed-off manner in which she fussed with her dark hair. He was certain she was primping for him. Finally, she exited the car and headed toward the porch. A tailored blue suit highlighted her long legs.
Colefield secured his weapon and opened the door.
“Hello, Jason.” Agent Tamara Costa smiled.
She raised her arms as if she expected a hug. Colefield, however, aware of Detective Redden’s presence, didn’t reciprocate. A hurtful expression flashed across her face but didn’t last.
“I’m sorry we missed each other this morning,” Colefield began.
But Costa was staring past him at the disheveled house.
“I got your call that Redden had found the mother and needed help identifying the body.”
When she finished speaking and looked him in the eye, his knees nearly buckled. She still got to him.
“It’s been a long time, Tam.”
“Yes it has, Jason.”
Colefield stared at her for a moment, allowing his memories to fill the gap.
Finally, he said, “So you work for the Feds? How are those pussies treating you?”
“Like my shit don’t stink. How about the river rats down at county?”
“About the same.”
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled.
“How’s married life these days?” The question came out awkwardly. He wanted to take it back. Costa hesitated, needing a moment to gather a reply.
“Mark and I split the sheets three months ago. He wouldn’t leave a job in D. C. when I got transferred to Seattle. So I packed up the cat, wiped a few tears away and left.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“So was the cat.”
She paused a moment. “We haven’t filed divorce papers or anything, but that’s coming. I’m just glad we never had kids.” She shook it off. “How about you? Did you ever marry?”
The comment took him by surprise. He laughed at the thought.
After seeing Colefield’s reaction, it was back to business for Agent Costa.
“Shall we go in?”
Detective Redden brought her up to speed. She wanted to conduct her own interview. In the end, the teenager had gotten her way. Since the stepmother had been in no condition to do it, the girl had volunteered to identify the body at the morgue. It was an iffy call, but Redden wanted a positive ID before they went any further. Costa would handle the females from this point and transport Penny and Anita.
It was decided that Redden and Colefield would check out the tavern in search of Anita’s husband, who could also provide an identification. Costa and Redden exchanged cell numbers and Costa said she would follow them. No telling what trouble they might find if the hubby got out of hand. The man was clearly a wife beater. Often these short fused situations blew up at the slightest provocation. They needed to find out if he knew where his step-son Jeb was. There was also the more important question of whether he killed Timmy. At the very least, he was a person of interest.
As Colefield followed the sedan down the winding road the local tavern came into view. A neighborhood joint which once sported a big neon sign, it no longer resembled the place he remembered from his youth. The current sign hung from a rusted frame on the roof. It had more bullet holes than a WWII fighter plane. It had been used for target practice by generations of kids and drunks alike. Admittedly, Colefield had shot a few BB rounds of his own at it.
At one time, the sign read “Bert’s Tavern” but now most of the “B” and “Tav” had been shot out and so it read “ert’s ern.”
Colefield pulled in behind the detective’s car and parked. In the space beside his pickup was a muddy 4 x 4.
He climbed out and joined the detective at the sedan’s back door. Agent Costa’s car pulled alongside. Leaving Penny and her stepmother inside, Costa joined the two men.
“Anita identified that 4 x 4 as belonging to her bastard husband.” Costa laughed. “And that kid’s a handful. She just told me to fuck myself when she heard me call Child Protective Services about her.”
Colefield hadn’t considered that Penny might soon be chewed up by the foster care system. In many ways he sympathized with the girl. Living under the roof of abusive parents was tough duty. The path she was on would lead to the same self-destruction as the stepmother’s unless she received help soon. He made a mental note to call his friend at CPS to see if he could help smooth that transition and get the teen some counseling. If nothing else, the friend could see about getting her medical attention for the lip piercing, which he was sure was infected. And while they were at it, perhaps some birth control.
“So what’s the plan?”
Colefield glanced over his shoulder. The tavern had a front and rear door and sat at the edge of a cornfield. At this time of year, the field was just a flattened mess of rotting husks and tall grass. Good for rodents to hide in, but little else.
“OK,” Redden began. “We go inside. We play nice. We ask a few pertinent questions. We don’t like what we hear, we slap cuffs on him. Sound reasonable?”
“You think the wife will agree to press charges?” Costa asked.
“Those are long odds,” Colefield said.
“Keep your cool in there. As much as I agree with you about this asshole, we need to do this by the book.” Redden checked his weapon.
“I’ll provide backup for you two cowboys,” Costa said.
“Hold up,” Colefield said, getting an idea. “I want to check something first.”
Since the windows were down it would be a cinch to search the glove box of the 4 x 4. He reached in through the open window and popped the glove box latch. He fished through the junk papers and hand tools, but didn’t spot a weapon. He pulled out the registration, glanced at the name, and looked disturbed.
He rejoined the others at Costa’s car.
Motioning for the girl to roll down the window he leaned inside. “Is your last name Scarbough?”
The girl appeared suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”
“Are you related to a Hank Scarbough?”
“Yeah, sure. He’s my grandfather.”
“The same Scarbough that lives on the island?”
She nodded.
“Did he ever take Timmy hunting?”
“Grandpa would never hurt Timmy.” And with that the girl clammed up.
Colefield glanced at Anita passed out and slobbering in the front seat.
“Stay here with your stepmom. We’re gonna go get your dad. Then we’ll all head downtown together.”
So the grandfather knew the victim even if he claimed to not recognize him. His list of suspects continued to expand. Colefield’s mind made mental links as they opened the tavern door.
The inside of the bar looked as trashed as the sign. Between bar fights and general neglect, the place had taken its fair share of abuse over the years. Faded posters plastered along the walls hid large holes in the sheetrock. A fixture of fluorescents had burnt out over the bar. Upholstery was torn and tables and chairs were nicked and broken. At the bar men in dirty work clothes nursed their beers, their eyes glued to the big screen TV mounted on the wall. The men didn’t seem to notice the three strangers that had just entered their watering hole but several of the women noticed Agent Costa. It was in their DNA to spot potential interlopers. Costa hung back by the front door. The Oregon vs. Oregon State game was on, which explained why everyone was intently watching the TV.
Colefield scanned the crowd while Redden spoke to an employee. The barmaid pointed out their target – a large man sitting at a table in back stacked with empties. His pals, two middle-aged redwoods in greasy overalls, sat hunched over the table alongside the man, throwing back pints as fast as the skinny barmaid could deliver them.
The men headed toward the back while Costa took a central position, but they had waited too long. The man in question had a sixth sense like many criminals do. He jumped up with a full beer, lobbed it at Colefield and bolted out the emergency exit.
His companions rose from the table puffed up like roosters and blocked the door. Hearing the commotion, some men at the bar were jumping to their feet.
Costa didn’t hesitate. The situation was escalating by the second. She pulled her gun and displayed her badge. “Everybody calm down. This is police business.”
The two hulks moved forward, their intent clear. Colefield knew the look. To them a fight trumped a college game on TV any day. Head down he charged toward the exit door.
His head and shoulder collided with the first man’s gut. Something he’d done hundreds of times before with favorable results. But this farmer was a walking, talking Peterbuilt who barely flinched when he slammed against him. The guy’s feet certainly didn’t buckle like Colefield had anticipated. His big buddy just grinned like Colefield had gone and made a really bad decision.
The man leaned over and wrapped his grizzly bear arms around Colefield’s torso, throwing him over a table as easily as tossing a bale of hay into the bed of a pickup truck.
Redden and Costa stepped forward and ended the fun. Redden calmly drew his Glock, pointing it in the big guy’s face. Costa swept the crowd by the bar.
The big men froze. “We’re just funnin’ here.”
Redden glanced over at Colefield who was on his feet, brushing a decade’s worth of dust off his pant legs.
The men kept their distance. Using his weapon as motivation, Redden waved them clear of the exit. The men sheepishly shuffled aside like chorus girls. As Costa backed out the front door, Redden and Colefield made their exit through the back.
The light outside was blinding. Colefield squinted across the field at miles of open corn stalks. Penny’s dad was nowhere to be found out back. They ran toward the parking lot just as Costa screamed: “Stop! Police!”
With gun drawn Costa aimed across the parking lot. The girl’s father and the teenager were already in the cab of the 4 X 4. Before shots were fired, the truck sped off, rifling the officers with bits of debris and gravel.
Redden rubbed dirt from his eyes. “What a shit show!” Turning to Costa, he yelled. “Call for backup!”
Costa nodded, holstered her weapon, and pulled out a cell phone.
Colefield and Redden ran for the sedan, pulling to a stop at the flat rear tire. Someone had stuck a knife blade in the sidewall, tearing a gash clean through. They also spotted a fresh cigarette butt smoldering on the ground beside the rear door, traces of purple lipstick on the filter. Colefield stomped the cigarette out with his toe. The men looked at each other. Was she or her dad responsible for this?
“Looks like I got this one!” Colefield scooped up the girl’s knit cap lying on the ground where it had fallen off and hustled toward his pickup with Detective Redden a step behind.
“Stay with the mom!” Colefield shouted to Costa as he spun out of the lot.
* * *
On the narrow twisting road up ahead, Colefield spotted the tailgate of the 4 X 4 barreling through the blind turns. The truck was heading to the south side of the island. Colefield ground gears trying to close the gap.
“Damnit! They’re losing us! This tub go any faster?” Detective Redden braced his hand against the dash staring out the windshield as pavement whizzed by.
“It’s past its prime, but it can still haul ass.”
“Prove it.”
“Do you think the girl went willingly?” Colefield asked
“Hard to know. Would you choose to go with your drunken dad who may have killed your stepbrother, or prefer to identify his mutilated remains and then go into the foster care system?”
“I should have disabled the car.” Colefield wagged his head in disgust.
Colefield struggled to make out the 4 X 4 as it swerved back and forth through a series of tight corners. As the teen’s head turned to look out the rear window, the man grabbed a fist-full of her hair and pulled her back around.
A sharp bend in the road appeared, flanked by tall trees. Colefield couldn’t see beyond the corner. The speedometer was still climbing when he hit the brakes. A large group of cyclists suddenly appeared around the bend, peddling in the center of his lane. The 4 X 4 had blazed by them, causing several to swerve in all directions. One rider careened into a ditch and crashed head over heels. He cranked the wheel hard veering onto the opposite shoulder to miss the others by mere inches. He kept his focus on the speedometer and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, leaving the screaming cyclists in the dust.
Several turns later they came upon a large open field off to the north with rows of rotten pumpkins as far as you could see. There was a shortcut across the field and in its day, the old pickup would have traversed it without any trouble. So when the 4 X 4 veered off the paved road into the muddy field Colefield followed.
“Hold on!” he shouted as they bounced up and down on the springy seat as the truck swerved off the road in hot pursuit.
The old pickup truck followed the same deep ruts but didn’t have enough clearance to avoid the smashed pumpkins. It began sinking into the soft dirt, losing precious time. The tires sank deeper and deeper until the truck’s axles packed with mud became anchors. The motor overheated.
He floored it, as the front end plowed the earth and nosedived into a hollow crevice that turned out to be an irrigation ditch covered in flattened corn stalks.
Colefield’s chest slammed against the steering wheel so hard that something cracked. Redden banged his shoulder against the door leaving a dent behind. He let out a cry and clutched his shoulder, wincing in pain.
Colefield gasped a few shallow breaths and then shut off the ignition switch. He looked across the cab at the detective.
Redden just shook his head.
Colefield climbed out to survey the damage.
Wheels were buried in mud up to the frame. He limped over to the front of the truck and glanced underneath. The steering mechanism had snapped. A piece of broken tie rod hung down from the undercarriage.
Detective Redden looked ashen as he climbed out and clutched his shoulder. He hobbled over to Colefield and stared off toward the field where the 4 X 4 had rejoined the road and disappeared from sight.
Redden was pushing buttons on his cell phone with his good arm. “We lost them, Costa. They are headed East on Reeder Road.”
Colefield was pissed. A hissing sound underneath the hood increased as steam began to roll out and fill the sky. A radiator hose, he figured. He started to pop the hood open and immediately gave up when the pain in his ribs made him involuntarily clutch himself.
“I caved in my ribs and my truck.”
“I can beat that,” Detective Redden said. “I think my shoulder’s broken.”