A Killing Tide (9 page)

She backed up a step. "What's that?"

"The lab techs found a possible DNA sample on the boat this morning. I'll need yours to rule you and your brother out."

She thought rapidly. Anyone would tell her that she was crazy to comply without consulting a lawyer, but she doubted she could find one on such short notice. The only lawyer she knew in town was the one her parents had used as executor of their will, and he'd retired years ago. Not that he would know anything about criminal law anyway.

She could call Phil, the lawyer she'd been dating for the last couple of years in San Francisco, but that would take a day or two—Phil wasn't known for returning calls he considered a low priority. And ever since she'd told him she wasn't ready to commit to marriage, she'd definitely been a low priority.

"I can go get a court order compelling you to give me a sample, or we can get this over with right now," Chapman said, apparently reading her thoughts.

She hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged.

He moved closer and held up the swab. "Open up." She complied, and he ran the swab expertly along the inside of her cheek.

His hand paused, the swab resting lightly on her lower lip, and she looked up, right into his heated gaze.

She could hear his heightened breathing, sense the strong, steady beat of his heart. His shoulders blocked out the light coming from the window behind him, creating a zone of intimacy around them.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her breath hitched.
Bad sign.

They both took a cautious half-step back.

His expression curiously grim, he put the swab inside the tube, sealing it and replacing it in the pocket inside his jacket.

She slowly released the breath she'd been holding and picked up her glass, taking a sip of it. Her hands were shaking. "When can I get access to the
Anna Marie?"
she asked, trying for a normal tone of voice. "I need to get her dry-docked."

"Soon. I'm almost done processing her for evidence." He drank a couple of sips out of his glass, probably out of politeness, then set it down on the counter. Walking over to the table, he picked up the envelope of photos. "You might want to think about the fact that someone who has killed once usually doesn't have a problem with killing again."

She cocked her head. "Does that mean you think someone other than Gary did this?"

"Anything is possible," he conceded. "And one of those possibilities is that you could be in danger. Why don't you let me tag along, help you find your brother?"

She tsked. "That was smooth, but I'm not quite that gullible. Or that rattled."

He merely shook his head. "Then I'll be on my way. Thanks for the coffee and…everything," he said, smiling slightly. "Where do you buy your coffee, by the way?"

"My partner mails it to me from California."

"Figures." He gave Zeke a hand command and turned to leave, then stopped. "Do you keep a space heater on board the
Anna Marie?"

She barely kept herself from reacting. "No, why?"

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask—it's not important."

After the two of them left, Kaz stood for a moment in the silence of her suddenly empty kitchen, waiting for her system to level out. Okay, she needed to reassess. She'd been ambushed by the strength of her response to him. But it was just a little unwelcome chemistry, that's all. She could handle it. Handling men on a personal level had never been her strong suit, as Phil was always quick to point out. But she'd deal with Chapman.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. And maybe, just maybe if she repeated that to herself enough times, she'd start to believe it.

She had no illusions that she'd seen the last of Chapman—he'd probably made it only as far as her curb and would hound her every move. Or simply sic his dog on her.

He'd been more accurate than he knew. She
did
have a good idea of where Gary had probably gone to ground. Well, at least, the general area. And she knew whom to ask—if he had a phone, she already would've called him.

After he'd ducked out of her view the night before, Chuck must've stood at the back edge of the crowd, watching. She'd recognized him in the photo and was still a little surprised he'd allowed himself to be seen. Someone had had a hand on his shoulder—a hand that bore a ring she'd know anywhere. The gold, embossed signet of Astoria High School, Class of '88. Gary had been there, watching from a distance.

How long did she have before Chapman showed the photos to Lucy, who'd have no trouble identifying that blurred image? Or before he asked Lucy about the space heater, which she knew that Gary regularly stored in his truck and used in the wheelhouse on long drag-fishing trips?

An hour, maybe two.

Picking up Chapman's glass, Kaz downed the other half of the protein shake. She could use the boost, and right now, a few metal shavings were the least of her worries.

~~~~

Chapter 6

After stopping for gas, Kaz drove west on Marine Drive, then veered off along the north shore of Young's Bay. The tide was out, exposing deeply carved, milk chocolate-tinted ridges of mud at the bay's edge. Tufts of bright green grass and burnt-orange reeds topped each ridge, and where water had drained away, silvery lines etched the shiny surface of the mud. The lines deepened into gullies that eventually dumped into the section of the bay where calm water could still be found, reflecting the gray sky above. As Kaz drove, she spotted at least a dozen great blue herons wading in the shallows. Eagles, plentiful in the winter months, fished from the ends of old logs and rotted piers.

She kept an eye on her rearview mirror, hoping to spot anyone tailing her. A mile back, she could've sworn she'd glimpsed Clint Jackson in a patrol car. All Gary needed, at this point, was for her to lead the cops right to him. There was no one behind her now, though.

Chapman remained her biggest worry. She thought she'd lost him, but maybe not. She could kick herself for not noticing what make and model of car he drove.

Crossing the Wallooskee River, she drove through farm country until the highway started winding into the foothills toward its ultimate destination, the old logging town of Mist. After another ten minutes, she came to the Elk Preserve.

People who wanted a lot of privacy and very few visitors had homes near the preserve, well hidden in the forest. The foothills of the Coast Range had been logged at least twice in the last century, and some of the more recently clear-cut areas resembled pastures full of nothing but dead stumps—stump farms, the locals called them. The older cuts, which had happened before logging companies had been obliged to replant, had grown stands of mixed, native forest as nature had intended.

Chuck Branson had eighty acres of older forest, up a now-defunct logging road on the southeast edge of the preserve. He'd moved out there after Desert Storm, buying the land out of the money he'd earned fishing in Alaska. For the first two years, he'd lived in an army tent while he, Gary, and Ken had built his cabin from the trees on his land. The sign at the entrance to his property read, if i don't know you, you shouldn't be here
.

He meant it.

His gate was chained shut with the kind of padlock that would take C-4 to breach, so Kaz parked her SUV in front of it and climbed over.

The woods glistened in the morning light, and a tiny winter wren warbled shrilly from a nearby bush. Up ahead, a doe and her yearling browsed. As Kaz passed by, they watched curiously but didn't bolt into the brush.

Sounds traveled oddly in the woods, muffled on level ground, yet amplified up ravines through the trees and underbrush. From his front porch, Chuck could hear a twig snap a thousand feet away. He wasn't fond of surprises—it hadn't been serendipity that had led him to build his cabin at the top of the ravine. And he had, Kaz was certain, been tracking her since she'd crossed onto his property.

Although she hadn't heard him, the hairs on the back of her neck had already been standing up when Chuck suddenly materialized beside her, halting her before she was even halfway to his cabin.

His Chicago Cubs sweatshirt had seen better days, and was matched by worn, baggy army fatigues and battered combat boots. In his left hand, he balanced the gleaming stock of a shotgun so that its barrel leaned against his shoulder. Chuck had always had chiseled, blunt features, and he rarely made the effort to soften them by smiling. His pale brown hair, shaved close to his skull, heightened the sense of danger that he exuded.

"War games?" she asked lightly, nodding at his weapon.

"Patrolling the perimeter."

"Why? Worried that someone will find out Gary's here?"

He took his time answering, pulling out a hand-rolled cigarette and lighting it. "That's none of your business," he said gently.

"He's my brother."

Chuck shrugged. "He doesn't want your help."

"Tough." She lifted her chin, ignoring the hurt his comment caused. "He's got it anyway."

Chuck didn't respond, waiting with an eerie kind of stillness he'd perfected in the military.

"I saw you at the fire last night," she persisted, hoping to get an explanation of the message he'd been trying to send.

He drew on his cigarette, then removed a bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue with two blunt fingertips. "You could've been hurt, going onto the boat like that."

She shrugged. "I'm still in one piece. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for Ken."

"He was a good man, but he made mistakes."

"Are you saying that Ken was killed because he was in some kind of trouble?" But Chuck merely shook his head. She hugged herself, trying to shake off her unease. "Where did you go after you left the tavern last night? I wanted to talk to you."

He looked amused. "Checking on my alibi, Kaz?"

She ignored that. "What were you and Gary arguing about?"

"I believe we told you to butt out." He took another drag on the cigarette, then looked off into the distance. "Had a date with the lovely barmaid Sandra."

Kaz hadn't noticed Sandra in Chapman's photos, and she certainly hadn't heard Sandra and Chuck were an item. Chuck didn't form attachments easily—Gary and Ken being the only exceptions she knew of. That made his explanation improbable at best.

"Lucy told me Gary argued with Ken before I got to the tavern. Do you know anything about that?"

"It was nothing."

"Not according to Lucy. She says Gary was pretty angry." Kaz waited, but he didn't comment further. Her frustration ratcheted higher. "Chuck, I have to talk to Gary."

"He'll contact you when he needs to."

"So you
do
know where he is."

"Didn't say that."

"Oh, for…quit being such a damn spook!" she snapped.

He smiled slightly, a hint of affection showing in his hazel eyes. "But I'm so good at it."

Well, he was right about that. Her breath expelled on a half laugh, but she quickly sobered. "Look. I get that you're loyal to Gary—that you feel you owe him. But have you considered that you might not be doing him a favor this time? If I'm going to help him, I need to find out what he knows."

"You know better than to think Gary had anything to do with Ken's death."

"Of course I don't," she quickly assured him, "but the cops are on a mission to pin this on Gary."

This bit of news had Chuck frowning. "Then Gary would be right to lay low, in my opinion."

"Is that what he's doing—laying low?"

"Not necessarily."

She controlled the urge to scream. "The cops won't give up, you know that. This is too big—Sykes can make a name for himself by bringing down Ken's murderer. Show that he's dedicated to keeping the community safe."

Chuck fieldstripped his cigarette, rubbing the bits of tobacco between his thumb and index finger, his expression contemplative. "Gary doesn't need or want your help," he said finally. "He wants you to stay out of it. You could be in danger."

Angry, she made a chopping motion with one hand. "That's not important right now."

"Yes, it is." Chuck suddenly focused his intense gaze on her, and she had to work hard not to show her uneasiness. Sometimes he seemed to look right into her soul, as if he knew things about her even she didn't know.

She'd never understood Chuck, not even back in high school. He was a ghost, a shadow on the perimeter of her life, always waiting, always watching. "So you've talked to Gary," she tried one more time.

"I talk to Gary all the time, you know that."

"Since the fire last night," she clarified impatiently.

"I didn't mean to imply that."

She threw up her hands. "Fine. At least tell me that he's all right, that he's not in danger."

"He's fine. Gary can take care of himself."

His answer gave her some measure of relief. Taking a shot in the dark, she asked, "Do you know how many days of supplies he had with him? What area he headed into?"

Chuck gazed at her, his expression giving away nothing. "If he wants to get seriously lost up there, you won't find him.
I
couldn't even find him."

That much was true. Gary had training in wilderness survival and evasion. And he knew the foothills of the Coast Range intimately.

She paced the small clearing in which they were standing, earning herself a scolding from a stellar jay in a nearby alder tree. "The new fire chief thinks Gary killed Ken and then set the fire to hide the crime."

"That's ridiculous, and you know it." Chuck shifted the butt of the shotgun to the soft cushion of leaves at his feet. "Gary renounced violence after the war. He wouldn't hurt anyone, not even a cockroach. He was protecting Ken six months ago when he punched out Svensen."

"Well regardless, Gary's the prime suspect. I've
got
to talk to him, find out what he knows, and figure out a way to prove he didn't do it." She continued to pace, feeling like she was jumping out of her skin. Perhaps she'd needed to back off on the caffeine.

"There are a lot of cockroaches in this town."

She halted, staring at Chuck, chilled. "What did you say?"

Chuck rubbed the barrel of his shotgun with an index finger, his expression hard. "They need to be wiped out before things can get better."

She'd always tried hard, since Chuck was Gary's friend, not to ask herself what he was capable of. He'd been a Ranger, like Gary and Ken, and the three of them had been tight ever since the war. But the rumor was that Chuck had also contracted out to the CIA as a sniper. "What—precisely—are you trying to say?"

"Never mind. Go home, that's all. Lock your doors, don't get involved. Gary won't appreciate it if you do."

She shivered uncontrollably. What was going on in Astoria? Had her hometown changed that much in her absence?

She inhaled the crisp, clean mountain air, drawing it deep into her lungs, but it did nothing to allay her anxiety. "At least tell Gary to get in touch with me."

Chuck looked noncommittal.

"Please."

He hesitated, then nodded. "We'll see." He grasped her arm in an almost courtly manner and turned her downhill, toward the gate. "I'll walk you back." He waited politely while she decided whether to acquiesce—an illusion, since he was leaving her no choice. Then he escorted her off his property, melting into the woods once she was safely on the other side of the gate.

Kaz climbed into the SUV and jammed the keys in the ignition. Then she leaned back, staring blindly at the dense green wall of vegetation in front of her. Nothing, she realized, was as it seemed. It was as if everything she'd thought was real was simply part of a well-constructed façade, created by friends to protect her from a harsh reality they'd decided she couldn't handle.

She shook her head, starting the SUV. She was wasting time.

She backed up, then on a sudden hunch, turned uphill past Chuck's place toward one of the area's more primitive campgrounds. Towering, old growth firs with trunks almost the size of redwoods shaded the small area, their canopies shutting out any light that would've allowed undergrowth to flourish. The forest floor was littered with pine needles and old, fallen rotting logs, cleared here and there to provide level spaces in which campers could pitch their tents.

Parking on the side of the road, Kaz glanced around to ensure that the campground was empty, then got out of the SUV. After orienting herself, she stepped a few yards into the woods on the north edge of the property, to where an ancient Douglas fir had fallen and was now functioning as a nurse log to newer trees and ferns.

She knelt in the decaying woodland debris behind the log and studied the space beneath it. As she'd suspected, there were faint signs of recent digging. Removing some small branches and twigs that had been used to camouflage the entry, she used her hands to scoop soft dirt and rotted bits of bark out of the way. There was a small cave, not much more than an indentation in the ground, which would easily be mistaken by most campers as some animal's den. Except that it wasn't—it was one of the many hidden locations Gary used to store supplies up in the hills, in case he needed to disappear into the backcountry for a few days. He'd made a habit of maintaining his "stashes", as he called them, ever since Iraq. She'd always thought his behavior excessively paranoid, but now she was simply glad he'd planned ahead.

Feeling with one hand along the cool dirt walls all the way to the back, she prayed that a fox or a raccoon hadn't decided to take up residence. The cavity was empty—of both animals and supplies.

She sat back on her heels, dusting off her hands. So Gary really was on the run, as she'd feared. Why? Chuck obviously believed in his innocence, as did she. So why would he run? To avoid being jailed on the parole violation? She didn't think so. More likely, he'd stand his ground with Sykes, daring him to take action. No, something more was at stake. Either he was running because he was guilty, or because he was regrouping before going after the killer himself. Both possibilities scared the crap out of her.

She stood and studied the surrounding woods. They were silent, too silent. The birds had stopped singing, and no small critters rustled in the brush, foraging for their meal. The back of her neck tingled in warning.

Was someone watching her? It couldn't be Gary. If it were, the animals wouldn't have taken cover—they knew he wouldn't harm them. Animals had a sixth sense that way.

Breathing shallowly, she stood where she was, casually scanning the vegetation around her, straining for a whiff of scent, for anything that would identify the intruder. But after a few long moments, the birds came out of hiding, and Kaz's sense of someone watching her faded away. She let out the breath she'd been holding. Maybe the intruder had been of the four-legged variety. Or maybe she'd been overreacting.

She glanced around one more time, still harboring the faint hope that Gary might be nearby. But she knew any effort to find him would be fruitless. Chuck was right—Gary was too good to leave behind any trail, even if she knew which direction he was headed in. Frustrated, she returned to the SUV.

Once she was on the highway, she reviewed the events of the night before. To be guilty of killing Ken and setting the fire, Gary would've had to leave the tavern and head directly to the marina. After all, she hadn't been more than forty-five minutes behind him. And Ken had to have been on the boat already—there wasn't enough elapsed time for them to meet elsewhere, go to the boat, and argue—all before Ken was killed and she'd witnessed the first explosion of fire.

So why had Ken been on the boat? What had he been up to? It all came back to that. She had to find out where he'd been and what he'd been involved in. It was her only hope of figuring out why Gary had run, or of proving his innocence.

As she passed the Elk Preserve, a nondescript, dark green sedan passed her going in the other direction, and she glanced over, recognizing Michael Chapman behind the wheel. Seconds later, shots rang out, and her window exploded.

~~~~

Chapter 7

Kaz ducked, raising both hands to protect her face from flying shards of glass. The SUV veered immediately toward the ditch. Yanking the wheel back, she felt the back wheels slip, then find purchase on the shoulder as the vehicle barely missed plunging into the marsh that bordered the road.

She held on as she careened around a sharp curve, then she brought the SUV to a skidding stop. Cutting the engine, she sat in the sudden silence and shook.

Tires screeched behind her. She heard a door slam, then running footsteps. Fumbling with the door handle, she jumped out just as Chapman reached her.

He gripped her shoulders hard. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She dragged in air, trying not to hyperventilate.

Evidently unconvinced, he checked her over for injuries.

She batted at his hands. "I'm
fine
—he missed me."

Chapman turned loose of her, a muscle working in his jaw. He carefully searched the surrounding fields, then asked in a calmer voice, "Which direction did the shots come from?"

"Inside the preserve, I think." She pointed across the road.

He reached inside the cab of the vehicle, brushing the glass to the floor, then placed both hands on her waist and lifted her back inside. Ignoring her sputtering protest, he shut the door. "
Guard
," he told Zeke, then headed in the direction she'd indicated.

He jogged toward the preserve, his heart still pounding. For a split second, he'd thought she'd been killed. He forced himself to slow to a walk, to gulp in deep breaths.

Opening the gate to the preserve, he stepped inside. Closing his eyes, he listened for the sounds of someone's retreat—the faint crackle of dried grass, the snap of a twig. All he heard were the birds chirping and the wind rustling the dead stalks of grass. The shooter was long gone.

The tension in his shoulders eased, and he began his search.

About fifty yards down, just inside the fence line, he found what he was looking for—a small area of trampled grass. The son of a bitch had followed her out to Branson's, then patiently waited, hidden in the tall reeds, for her to drive back by. At the right moment, he'd simply aimed and taken his shot. And come damn close to killing her.

Dropping to one knee, Michael studied the ground. The shooter had been careful—no spent shell casings, no cigarette butts or candy wrappers. No evidence. A professional, then.

Michael stood and looked at the surrounding grass. He could just make out, from a bent reed here and there, a trail through the meadow toward the back of the preserve. No doubt the shooter had parked on the far side of the preserve, so that he could escape undetected. Michael wanted to follow his trail, to see if he could find any evidence that could be used at a later date, but he'd already left Kaz alone for too long. He'd come back later, and he'd find something, even if it was only a partial footprint.

No one was that good.

#

By the time she spotted Chapman walking up the road, Kaz had already spent a good ten minutes chastising herself for not insisting that she accompany him.

The look on his face, when he saw her still standing next to the SUV, petting Zeke, was one of extreme irritation. "Don't you ever listen? I told you to stay in the car
."

"Why? Whoever it was, they're long gone." Her point was reasonable but didn't seem to have much impact. "Look, it was probably some idiot hunter. The preserve has problems with poachers—"

She huffed as he moved her aside and leaned inside her car. After a few seconds, he took out a pocketknife and used its blade to pry something out of the ceiling.

He examined it closely, then pulled out a plastic baggy and dropped it in. "I'd guess fifty-caliber." He held the bullet up for her to see. "Know any hunters who go around shooting elk with a sniper rifle? I don't."

Her knees turned to rubber, and she braced a hand against the side of the SUV. Drawing a breath, she opted for humor. "Well, at least he was a lousy shot, so that leaves out all the people I know."

Chapman's expression turned thoughtful. "Not necessarily. Maybe he wasn't trying to hit you, even though he came damn close. Maybe this time was a warning."

She hugged herself. "But I don't have anything to do with this. And if he thinks this will permanently scare me off—"

Chapman snorted. "Anyone who knows you wouldn't be likely to make that mistake." He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it. "This incident is an example of
exactly
why I told you to leave the investigating to the authorities. Civilians always get hurt when they get in the way."

She ignored the comment, changing the subject. "So what are you doing out here? Following me? Don't you have something more important to do, like gathering evidence off the
Anna Marie
so that I can get her dry-docked?"

"No thanks to you, I was able to deduce that Chuck Branson is one of your brother's best friends and is, in fact, the second man you were talking to in the tavern. So, as part of the ongoing investigation
,
I thought I'd see if he knows where your brother is." Chapman's tone turned sardonic. "I gather I'm not entirely off base, seeing as how you're within a mile of his place."

She shrugged. "Chuck won't tell you anything. Not if he wouldn't tell me."