CHAPTER ONE
A NARROW SHAFT of afternoon sunlight sliced through the otherwise darkened stateroom. Evan pressed his back into the bulkhead, a thin scrim of sweat sticking the cotton of his shirt to his skin. He flared his nostrils, breathing deeply and deliberately, silently. The portholes were shut, and he felt a small bead of perspiration drop to his forehead from his slightly damp black hair. Somewhere, deeper within his boat, the killer waited, perhaps as yet unaware of Evan’s presence. A single tiny drop of blood glimmered bright red in the gloom, just beyond the threshold. It was way too late to save a life, but he might still catch the killer in the act.
Outside, ripples lapped at the starboard hull as some weekend mariner, oblivious to the drama playing out just yards away, maneuvered his vessel out of the marina, apparently unconcerned by the fact that they were in a no wake zone. An annoyance for another day; a killer was at hand.
Reflected ripples danced lazily across the porthole on the starboard side of the master stateroom. On the port side, the dock lines groaned, and the fenders creaked against the dock. Evan strained his ears, searching for the faintest hint of movement beyond the door. But within his walls, all was still.
Evan’s cell phone weighed against his chest in the pocket of his button-down shirt. He tried to remember if he had silenced it. His green eyes sparked with realization, and the thin white scar that ran from his lower lip to his chin shone more brightly than usual against his deeply-tanned skin as he set his jaw.
Evan’s history with the perpetrator told him that he was waiting just as silently, just as aware of Evan as Evan was of him. Waiting just as patiently; actually, probably more so. The cold killer knew Evan was there, that he was waiting him out, and that he was alone.
It probably didn’t matter whether he’d silenced his ringer; Evan probably wasn’t being as stealthy as he thought he was, anyway. If he had failed to silence it, well then it was what it was. If a call or text came in at just the wrong moment, it would give away his position for sure, but so would fidgeting for his phone in this dim light, with his quarry so close at hand.
He wanted a cigarette and that irritated him, made him even angrier at the killer.
He dismissed thoughts of the cigarettes in his back pants pocket, or the phone in his right breast pocket. He focused instead on the weapon concealed beneath the opposite breast of his jacket. He slipped his fingers around its smooth grip, simultaneously toeing the stateroom door. He knew his boat well, knew that the hinges would utter not the slightest squeak, but still he hesitated. The motion of Evan’s boat on the marina’s calm water was barely perceptible. Out on the bay, motors rumbled, their lower tones carried across the distance under the water’s surface. Other, closer sounds marked time, creaking, ticking, groaning in organic orchestration. Evan waited until these noises peaked, to cover any sound he might make in his approach.
He applied pressure to the door with his toe, gripping his weapon and slowly drawing it from his suit coat. As the door swung wider, the sight it revealed might have stopped a greener detective in his tracks. The brutal violence of the scene would likely elicit some gagging, or at least a gasp, from the average civilian, or a cop with a weaker constitution. But Evan had a strong stomach, and from recent experience he’d known what to expect, had steeled himself against it.
Even so, the severed head, the white gleam of defleshed bone, the string of unraveling entrails assaulted his sensibilities. He wasn’t sure if it was the raw violence of it, or simply the fact that it was on his gleaming hardwood sole.
His revulsion was instantly met by one of his training officer’s slogans, back in the day: lean into it. Lean into the emotions. Evan raised his weapon, its stubby muzzle gleaming bright red like the drops of blood, then rushed through the door, slapping the light switch with his other hand. He swept the room with his weapon in a fast, smooth arc. Halfway through the sweep the killer appeared. Evan froze the second his crosshairs centered on his target.
The killer froze as well, crouched on Evan’s bed, eyes wide with either alarm or defiance. Evan didn’t have time to determine which, nor did he have much interest in knowing. Unlike some cops, he had no fascination with the mind of a killer; he knew only what he had to know to beat one, and to survive doing it. Three mutilated bodies in the space of four weeks. He really didn’t need any additional insight into the killer’s psyche.
There was a singular moment of tensed muscles and intense silence, then Evan triggered his air horn. The silence of the afternoon disintegrated in a painfully loud reverberation. The close quarters magnified the sound to the point that Evan almost regretted his choice of weapon. Or he might have, if the effect hadn’t been so primally satisfying.
Plutes shot straight upwards, as if he had inadvertently tried to cross a geyser at just the wrong moment, his eyes nearly as wide as Evan’s. Then he hit the floor, all four legs already running, and running in four different directions.
His back end spun almost level with his front end, his toenails fighting for purchase on the slick wood sole, as he flew past Evan and through the stateroom door.
“Go ahead and run, you jerk!” Evan yelled after him. “I left a little gift on your pillow, too!”
Half a moment later, he heard the short yowl. Predictably, Plutes had run for his overpriced kitty cubby. It had been just big enough for three overfilled water balloons. Evan allowed a small smile of satisfaction. The cat had disassembled one too many mice on his 600-thread count, organic, brushed Egyptian cotton pillowcases.
* * *
After Plutes’ vanishing act, with the echoes of the air horn still screaming through his head, Evan assembled his sanitation supplies. He wished the cat’s messes disappeared as readily as the cat himself did. But such was not his luck. He’d gone topside to the sun deck for a cigarette, then pulled on a pair of Latex gloves and gotten to work.
He had a strong stomach, but it didn’t make the filth on his pillow any easier to take. It would have been fine on anyone else’s pillow, but Evan’s OCD cleanliness was screaming at him from within.
For the third time that month, he considered just putting the mattress, and the cat, on Craigslist. But he was too broke to get rid of the mattress, and too stubborn to get rid of the cat. He wouldn’t be tormented into doing anything, no matter how pleasant the prospect might be.
On his way back down the dock, he failed to notice the backward glances of two young women who passed him going the other way. The looks weren’t a rare occurrence; Evan was a youthful forty, with a perennial tan, piercing green eyes, and black hair that shone like it was lit from underneath. It wasn’t rare for him to miss the attention, either. He knew women found him attractive; but his lack of both interest and social awareness made that easy for him to forget.
Once back on board his 45-foot, 1986 Chris-Craft Corinthian, he pulled another pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on before plucking the various bits of mouse morsel off the bed linens and dropping them into a trash bag. He peeled the case off his pillow, thanked God for waterproof pillow protectors, and dropped the linens into the washing machine, then set to work scrubbing his beloved hardwood sole with a rag and a bottle of cleaner. By the time he’d finished cleaning up the blood and gore, even God would have needed a can of luminol to find it.
He carried the whole mess down to the dumpster at the end of his dock, and had just leaned against a palm to light a cigarette when Sarah appeared from the back of the Dockside Grill, the restaurant belonging to the Port St. Joe Marina.
Sarah the Muffin Girl, as Evan still thought of her sometimes. He’d gotten to know her a bit better over the last few months, but she still delivered muffins and the Sunday paper to every boat, courtesy of the marina. At a purported seventeen, she was a curious mixture of punk and rockabilly, grit and fragility, and weighed just a couple more pounds than Plutes.
She stopped as she reached Evan, and squinted through the sun at him from beneath per black pixie cut.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Evan blew a mouthful of smoke in the other direction.
“I thought you said you were quitting.” She perched a delicate, tanned hand on her sharp little hip.
“I quit every day,” he said, as he ground out the cigarette then popped the butt into the trash. “Where’ve you been? I was starting to worry about you.”
“Aw. Just some family stuff, plus I’m studying. I’m trying to get into Gulf Coast State.”
“Everything okay with your family?” Evan asked, his radar beeping. Sarah’s family consisted of a bunch of notorious meth cookers and dealers. Sarah had little contact with them.
“Yeah, it’s cool. Just some stuff with my mom,” she answered.
She had turned to look down the dock, and he knew she was evading him. He let it go.
“Gulf Coast State, huh?” The school was a large community college in Panama City. It had a good reputation. “Have you figured out what you want to study yet?”
She scratched at one bony arm that sported an assembly of silver bangles and black hair ties. He had no idea what she tied with them, as her hair wasn’t much longer than his.
“I’m still thinking nursing,” she said, and she almost winced, like she expected him to think that was either funny or stupid.
“Nursing, teaching kindergarten; you seem well-suited for either one.”
She did. She slipped scripture quotes into his newspapers and Tupperware containers of soup onto his sun deck. As incongruous as it might seem, from the mire of dysfunction and felony that was her family had crawled a born nurturer.
“I was thinking that if I become a teacher, I’m kind of stuck in one place, you know? But travel nursing is a thing, and that would be kind of cool,” she said, her shield lowered. “I could sail from one job to the other, like all up and down the Gulf Coast. Travel nurses make a lot more money, too, and I can take time off between jobs if I feel like it.”
“You’ve put some research into this,” Evan said. He felt a twinge, a little tickling in his chest, at the thought of her one day leaving. He didn’t much care for change. “Yeah.” That tensing again, like she thought she might have to dig her heels in.
“Do it. You have to learn to sail first,” he reminded. “And get a seaworthy boat.”
“Yeah, both of those things would probably be helpful,” she agreed.
The marina paid Sarah with a small wage as well as a roof of sorts; she lived on a late seventies Hunter 25 that someone had abandoned. It had no shower and only the bare minimum of a galley, but she got two meals a day at the Dockside Grill, and showered in the clean facilities across from the office, used by a lot of boaters that came through. At her age, Evan would have killed for her situation.
Evan had been through nine foster homes before being adopted by Mike and Frances Caldwell when he was thirteen. At seventeen, his days had been filled with school and surfing, his nights with revising his college entrance essays and selling Mrs. Fields cookies at the Dadeland Mall.
With the hindsight afforded a forty-two-year-old man, Evan thought a low-wage, low-responsibility existence on a small sailboat might have done him more good than trying to shake the residue of the foster system with an education and a high-paying job. He’d veered from his plan and become a cop after graduating instead of a civil attorney, but that was the way things shook out.
“What was your major?” Sarah asked him. “Psychology,” he answered dryly. “Ironically.”
“I saw you and Plutes comin’ in from surfing yesterday,” Sarah said.
“Yeah.”
It was only surfing because Evan called it that. There was no surfing in Port St. Joe, so Evan liked to substitute taking out the runabout. By some perverted twist of fate, it happened that Plutes liked to surf, too. At least the black mamba had some sense. Not that Evan was in any danger of becoming one of those inexplicable cat people or anything. It just made being stuck with the cat a tad more palatable.
“I would have taken you out but you weren’t around.” “You guys have fun?” she asked.
“Marginally,” Evan answered. “I’ve gotta rework the whole backpack set-up. That fatass gives me a crick in my neck.”
“You know what’s really interesting about you?” she asked, squinting at him like a therapist.
“No, but I’m sure that’s a euphemism,” he answered with a curled lip.
“It probably is, but I don’t know what that word means,” she said. “But what’s interesting is that you don’t even realize you like that cat.”
“The mouths of babes and all that,” Evan replied.
She opened her mouth to answer but Evan felt the buzz of his cell phone vibrating against his chest. He pulled it from the pocket of his white button-down shirt and checked the screen. When it told him the call was from George Dinkelman, he considered answering it with his air horn.
“Let me guess,” Sarah said, noticing his change in demeanor, “It’s either the dentist or a crazy ex.”
“I wish,” Evan muttered, “It’s Dinkelman.”
“The shrubbery guy?” Sarah asked, with a grin.
Evan nodded, sighing. His Sunday, his one day off in two weeks, was blown. “I’ll see you later, kid.”
Sarah flashed him a peace sign and her little Tinkerbell smile, and Evan turned and headed back down the pier. The phone buzzed again in his hand. He tapped the little green icon to accept the call that he knew would scuttle whatever plans he may have had for the rest of his Sunday afternoon.
CHAPTER TWO
HALF AN HOUR later, Evan found himself piloting his Pilot through a freshly constructed housing development known as Seaview Cove. The Cove was one of Gulf County’s newer residential areas, and it was about to become the newest neighborhood in Port St. Joe – if, that was, the county commissioners and the PSJ city council had their way.
The tidy little nest of homes lay on a tract of county land that snuggled right up against the city limits. The city wanted the tax revenue the new homes promised, and the county didn’t want to spend the money required to upgrade their infrastructure to properly support the influx of residents.
The speed with which the homes in Seaview Cove had popped up, and the uniformity of their architecture, prompted some of the more seasoned Port St. Joe residents to refer to them as mushrooms. Evan didn’t have any opinion, one way or the other, about the mushrooms, or about the development’s civic oversight, but he had had quite enough of the developer himself.
George Dinkelman was a transplant from…somewhere. Evan never had gotten a straight story about the man’s origin. He spoke with a gruff British accent he certainly hadn’t been born with, and affected several other idiosyncrasies intended to indicate sophistication and superiority. The man’s belly and broad nose could only be described as Shrek-like, and though he stood almost six feet tall, his proportions gave him a squat appearance. Evan wound through roads that had been unnecessarily twisted, apparently to give the development a more organic feel and to offset the unimaginative architecture. After several minutes, the occupied homes with pristinely constructed landscapes gave way to freshly-painted, vacant houses. These were followed by nearly completed structures settled into dirt lots.
As Evan ventured deeper into The Cove, he saw fleets of dusty wheelbarrows laying upside-down in neat lines, locked together with heavy chain. Juvenile palm trees, their root balls tied up in burlap, huddled like aberrant jungle teepees. These, also, had been secured with heavy chains and padlocks.
Evan groaned.
It was trees that had started this whole mess. The developer had ordered several truckloads of exotic trees and bushes to adorn the lots. As soon as they had arrived, someone began stealing them. A few of the trees had even been dug up and stolen after the landscapers had planted them. Dinkelman was convinced the thieves were from Happy Garden, what he described as a bottom-of-the-barrel landscaping company out of Panama City, and insisted Evan send detectives over to stake out their operation. Evan had declined, mainly because Panama City was out of his jurisdiction, but also because he didn’t feel like it.
Dinkelman hired a security guard to do plant patrol, but the maze-like layout of the development made it nearly impossible for one man to secure. Evan had asked his deputies to roll through the development as often as feasible, and had coordinated with the Port St. Joe Police Department to get their help with patrols as well, but the trees continued to sneak off in the night.
Dinkelman had purchased hundreds of cable-lock alarms, which flashed and emitted a siren when triggered. These were intended for display model electronics at retail outlet stores, but Dinkelman had attached one to every tree he considered valuable.
Eventually, one of these alarms triggered at the same time a PSJ patrol was cruising the development. The responding officer caught sight of a young man in a hoody running down the street with something called a Japanese Raisin Tree in a wheelbarrow. The officer gave chase and managed to recover the tree, and the wheelbarrow, but the hoodie got away. Since that incident, only a few smaller bushes had disappeared.
Evan eventually reached the far back end of the development where, after a final curve, the road ended in a cul-de-sac. Here, the bright yellow pine skeletons of several houses patiently waited for their bones to be dressed in a more presentable fashion. George Dinkelman also waited, neither patiently nor fashionably.
Dinkelman certainly had wealth and influence, evidenced by the speed with which he managed to obtain building permits or other favors from city and county officials. And the speed with which he demanded results. Evan imagined it was that wealth and power that allowed him to get away with dressing the way he did. Today, it was rumpled trousers of an unnamed color that Evan could only imagine having been the result of some egregious error at the dye factory. Either that, or haute couture. Above these, he wore a sweater which, Evan deduced, must have been the non-festive, Neanderthallic ancestor from which ugly Christmas sweaters had evolved.
The man leaned, with arms folded over his formidable gut, hands jammed into his armpits, against his silver Mercedes. The scowl he wore pinched his face into creases, pulling his shrubbery-like eyebrows together and thrusting his nose into the world ahead of him as if it were the pick with which he hammered his way through life.
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