Triangulation, p.27
Triangulation, page 27
part #2 of Borealis Investigations Series
But the intensity of those emotions—well, Shaw couldn’t explain that part. He couldn’t explain why he had shouted at Jadon; he couldn’t explain why he had felt like he was coming apart in the hospital stairwell; he couldn’t explain why the image of the knife going into Pari had sent him spiraling.
He would have still been spiraling, Shaw knew, if not for North: calming Shaw in the stairwell, forcing him into action, giving him a series of manageable tasks. Those things had put the ground back under Shaw’s feet. They had made it possible for Shaw to joke again, smile, tease North even though he was worried about Pari and about the case. North had made those things possible. Again. The way he had all those years ago, when he had come storming into that dingy gray bubble of life where Shaw was slowly suffocating.
“That’s the access road,” Shaw said, his voice rough. Clearing his throat, he added, “Not far now.”
“I wish I’d brought a gun.”
“We won’t need one.”
“Be sure they put that on my tombstone.”
“Oh, you won’t have a tombstone. I’m going to cremate you.”
North’s spine straightened. The Beamer rolled over an uneven patch, bouncing them in their seats, and only then did North say, “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, you’re going to be cremated. Well, I was going to talk to Tucker—I mean, that doesn’t matter anymore. But now that you’re single, I figure, you need somebody that will take care of that stuff for you.”
“Tuck and I aren’t divorced.”
“Not legally.”
“We separated—Christ, a day ago? Two days ago?”
“But it was a long time coming.”
“And you’re already making my funeral arrangements?”
“No.”
“But you just said—”
“You’re not having a funeral. You’re having a celebration of life. It’ll be a good dinner for all your family and friends—you don’t have very many, so it won’t be expensive—and then everyone will sit around drinking and telling funny stories about you. There are a lot of those, so we’ll have to buy extra booze.”
“You are so fucking weird sometimes.”
“Thanks. Hard right up ahead; apparently the turnoff is overgrown, so the Beamer might be in for a rough spot.”
Sure enough, the Beamer’s tires struggled to get through the dense, matted undergrowth. For a few moments, the engine whined and the tires spun, shredding leaves and pulling the smell of rubber and chlorophyll into the car. Then the tires touched packed dirt, and the car lunged forward. North had to swerve to stay on the old road.
“What if you die first?” North said. “Am I going to have to do a celebration of life for you? Because I was thinking about taking everybody to a Cardinals game, and we’d eat a bunch of heavily processed pork products and drink a lot of beer and there’d probably be so many fucking nitrates and nitrites that you’d be spinning in your grave. Oh, yeah. And you’re getting buried. No fucking cremation for you.”
“That’s silly.”
“No. Fair’s fair. Unless you’re thinking about marrying Jadon just so I don’t get to plan your funeral.”
“No, Jadon’s not even a part of it. You’re not planning my funeral. That’s all.”
“No way. You don’t get to concoct this bullshit celebration of life thing and tell me I’m going to spend eternity in an urn and all the rest of that nonsense and then say I don’t get to decide what you’re going to have.”
“It’s not about being fair,” Shaw said, checking a line of instructions on his phone against the shifting landscape. His conversation with North was shifting to the back of his head as he directed more and more attention to finding the next turnoff. “I just know that you’d never let me die first.”
It took several moments before Shaw noticed the raw texture of the silence that filled the car. He glanced over to see what had happened and was surprised to see North’s face devoid of color. Only his ice-rim eyes showed life, like a man who has been dealt a mortal wound and still hasn’t realized it.
“What?” Shaw said.
North opened his mouth; the Beamer thumped over a branch, rocking them in their seats. Whatever North might have said, he seemed to reconsider it, shaking his head and sealing his lips. Shaw wanted to ask what had just happened, but then he caught a glimpse of gravel and pointed.
“Just over there, according to these instructions.”
They turned, and less than forty yards ahead sat the tri-colored truck and an ancient Airstream, its aluminum dull and pitted and scraped from decades of hard use. North eased the Beamer to a stop and killed the engine.
Everything inside Shaw had suddenly flipped to high alert, and he was trying to figure out why. The truck was here; that was a good sign that Donny was home. But the Airstream’s windows were closed. The curtains were pulled. The door was shut. On a hot August day—today was August 1st, Shaw thought with dreamy clarity—the Airstream would act like an oven, collecting the sun’s heat and concentrating it, cooking on the inside. So why was Donny Yates sealed up inside? Shaw had an instantaneous vision of Yates dead, his corpse stewing in the long, slow heat of the day, and he had to swallow and wipe his mouth.
“Stay here,” North said, popping open the door. Swampy heat rushed into the car, bearing with it the smell of a sun-warmed forest: baking green leaves; animal scat; dust stirring on the gravel.
Shaw grabbed the latch and got out of the car. For a moment, he could see the Meramec below them, a muddy-brown swipe that glistened where the sun caught the currents. Adrenaline rushed through Shaw, along with the heightened warning that came from inside him, telling him something was wrong.
“Maybe I should put you in obedience school,” North muttered as they approached the truck, keeping its frame between them and the Airstream. The curtains hung still inside the trailer: no sign came that anything lived or breathed inside.
Shaw yanked on the truck’s handle, and the door creaked open. He searched the glove compartment and found a flashlight—dead—pennies, a dried-out antibacterial wipe, a toothbrush black with machine grease, and the instruction manual to an original Nintendo Gameboy. He eased his weight up onto the running board; the truck groaned, the suspension shifting under Shaw’s weight. North’s hand, even hotter than the August day, landed flat on Shaw’s back, steadying him.
“I could give you a trombone,” North whispered. “Or a tuba. You’re just too damn quiet. What if I tied a bell around your neck?”
Shaw, balancing halfway inside the truck, adjusted his position long enough to throw North the finger. Then he scrambled forward, reaching for a piece of paper folded and resting on the dash. He snagged it, shoved it in his pocket, and glanced around. Nothing else that caught his eye. Nothing that looked like it might provide an answer. With North’s hand on his back generating a sweaty patch the size of New Jersey, Shaw eased out of the truck, hopped onto the ground, and slowly shut the door.
The click as the door shut sounded enormous, and for a moment, Shaw stared at North in horror. Then Shaw realized that the sound hadn’t come from closing the door. It had come from the gravel driveway—a fallen branch snapping under a tire—and a car was racing up the stretch toward them. It slewed into a turn just before it hit the Beamer, coming to a stop so that the two vehicles formed a vee. Then the doors opened, and Taylor and Waggener got out.
They wore tactical vests and had guns out. They were shouting mixed commands: “Down, down, down!” “Come out with your hands up!” “You’re surrounded!” “On the ground, now!”
More vehicles were pouring up the cramped access road. Uniformed officers jogged up the gravel shoulder.
North dragged Shaw to the ground, whispering frantically, “Get down, get down; this is exactly the kind of chance to make exactly the kind of mistake they want to make—”
He was still whispering, flattening Shaw to the earth with his own weight, when the first shot was fired. Pinned to the ground, Shaw had a good view of the Airstream’s front door from beneath the truck’s frame. He was looking straight at it as the door swung open, the barrels of a shotgun emerged. Someone fired. The clap of the gunshot wiped out whatever else North was saying—exactly the kind of mistake they want to make—and North’s arms tightened around Shaw.
Gunfire exploded around Shaw and North. It seemed to go on forever. Shaw felt strangely calm; sweat slicked his face and neck, and North, wrapped around him, felt like the Human Torch. But he was calm. North flinched with every shot, his arms tightening, constricting, until his chin was buried in Shaw’s neck. It took Shaw a few moments to realize that North wasn’t flinching—he was trying to scoot forward, trying to move his and Shaw’s bodies along the ground and under the relative safety of the truck’s heavy frame. Shaw began scooting too, to help him. The gunshots continued to echo around them; the smell of old motor oil and rust mixed with North’s Irish Spring soap and sweat.
And then it was over. The Airstream looked like Swiss cheese, and the haze of spent gunpowder drifted in the sudden, uncanny silence. Shaw’s ears were ringing. His shoulder ached where North’s chin still dug into him. He watched as the police penetrated the trailer, clearing it quickly and then vanishing again like smoke. And he watched, from under the truck, as Detective Philip Taylor approached the trailer, studied something through the doorway, and then glanced back at Waggener. He said only a single word, and his tone was one of confirmation: “Yates.”
Chapter 28
WAGGENER AND TAYLOR isolated Shaw and North. Shaw sat on a mossy shelf of rock at the base of two ancient oaks, his knees drawn up to his chest, and tried to think. First Waggener put him through a series of questions. Then Taylor. Shaw tried asking some of his own. Waggener ignored him. Taylor threatened to toss him in a holding cell if he didn’t shut up. North must have tried to get answers too because at one point Shaw could hear him shouting about drugs in the trailer.
Hours ticked past, dusk dousing the points of sunlight on the river, swallowing the canopy and the clearing until forensics had to set up halogen lights. That reminded Shaw of the night they had found Shep’s body. A wind had come up, and it wicked heat away from Shaw’s body as it dried his sweat, leaving him shivering on the mossy stone.
Jadon emerged out of one of the halogen lights like a shadow snipped out of the night. He squatted next to Shaw, his hands on his knees. Then he shrugged out of his jacket and held it up. “Are you going to bite my head off if I put this around your shoulders?”
“I’m sorry I was an asshole.”
“You weren’t an asshole. You were scared and upset.” He shook the jacket again in offer, and Shaw nodded.
“It’s August,” Shaw said, clutching the jacket around him. “It’s still hot, even at night. I shouldn’t be shivering like this.”
Jadon just nodded. “Can I sit next to you?”
“I’m really sorry I was such an asshole.”
Laughing, Jadon lowered himself onto the mossy rock shelf, kicking out his long, muscular legs. One of his hands came up, and his strong fingers massaged Shaw’s shoulder. “I sent North home. I hope that’s ok.”
“And he went?”
“Well, it was either leave or let Taylor throw him in the back of a squad car. I got here just in time; North has a way of putting a guy’s back up, and Taylor looked like he wanted to sweat him just for the hell of it. I guess North figured he’d be better off leaving and letting everybody cool down.”
“Oh.”
“So I’m going to drive you home.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t know they were following you, in case you’re wondering. I didn’t even think about it. They were so dismissive of the case, so dismissive of the attack on your friend, that I really thought they were going to phone in the rest of the investigation.”
“It’s ok. I’m fine, really.”
“They’re letting your friend go. They’re dropping the charges.”
“What? But Donny—” Shaw shook his head. “That’s great news. I’m glad. But just because Donny came out shooting, that doesn’t mean he killed Shep.”
“Those fibers they found on Shep’s body? The ones that didn’t match the trunk of Chuck’s car? They’ve got a preliminary match on them. The upholstery in the Airstream. They found two kilos of cocaine and a lot of pills in the Airstream too. Opioids, of course. And based on the position of Shep’s body—remember, the lividity was wrong for the way he was positioned when they found him—they think his body might have been wedged behind some rocks down the hill. There’s something that might be blood down there. A lot of it, actually. They think Shep came here, to Donny’s trailer, and picked up those fibers. They argued. Shep tried to leave; Donny killed him and stashed the body until he could figure out what to do with it.”
Shaw nodded slowly. “And why’d they lock onto Donny in the first place?”
“I understand there was an argument. Donny threatened to kill Shep. Then there’s the fact that they have a history that, frankly, almost makes homicide justifiable. Donny has a history of violence as a teenager, and he’s spent time in and out of prison as an adult. Substance abuse. He was traveling back and forth to Arkansas; it seems likely he was supplying Shep, and Shep was selling to Chuck. Maybe to the kids at Iris, too. We’ll have to look into that. Most likely scenario is that Shep and Donny argued about the drugs—or the money—and Donny killed Shep.”
“So the money stolen from Iris, the forged life insurance policy, the will—those are what?”
“Those are life, baby. Shep was a piece of shit, it sounds like. He had lots of problems, but he also had a lot of money, and people will do crazy things for money.”
Shaw’s mind felt like it was moving again, but still sluggishly. The only thing that seemed clear was that Taylor and Waggener hadn’t been following Shaw on a hunch. They had brought uniformed officers. They had come prepared for a shootout. And what had North said? An opportunity for them to make exactly the kind of mistake they wanted to make. Something like that. He tried to remember the sequence of events, but it all became blurred. Had Donny fired first? Shaw could visualize the barrels of the shotgun emerging from the trailer. He wasn’t sure what had happened next.
One thing Shaw was certain about: Taylor and Waggener hadn’t followed Shaw and North because they cared about the case—they had made it perfectly clear they were happy to hang it around Chuck’s neck. But Taylor and Waggener had wanted something. They had wanted to know about Shaw’s visit to the Slasher. So maybe they had followed him for some other reason, hoping Shaw and North would lead them to someone else. And then, when they saw Donny, maybe they had thought it was the perfect opportunity for a shootout. For a mistake, as North had put it. And then someone would be dead. Maybe three people would be dead. Two caught in the crossfire. Or maybe Shaw and North, once dead, would have weapons placed in their hands. Is that how it was supposed to have gone down?
Maybe.
“Let’s get you home,” Jadon said, and Shaw nodded and let him help him to his feet.
When they reached the Borealis office, the night had thickened to a purple that was almost oblivion. Shaw gave Jadon his keys and let Jadon lead him up the front staircase, the one that went to the living room. He let Jadon peel off the jacket that Jadon had wrapped around his shoulders, and he let Jadon steer him into the bedroom. He let Jadon tease the sweatband off his head, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“You look like a real basketball player with this on,” Jadon said.
“Thanks.”
“From the nineties, I mean.”
Shaw tried to smile and came up empty.
“I should go,” Jadon said.
“No.” Shaw shivered. “Please don’t. I . . . I want you to stay.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please. That was awful this afternoon, and I don’t want to be alone.” What he wanted was the smell of ancient motor oil, Irish Spring, and sweat. What he wanted was the weight of North’s body pressing him to the ground, keeping him safe. He wanted to go back to a time before he had seen gunfire turn the Airway’s aluminum skin into something that resembled a cheese grater while a man died inside. And because Shaw wanted those things more than he wanted anything else, he broke his promise to himself. Taking Jadon’s hand, he settled it at his neck, curling the fingers into a loose grip, and then he met Jadon’s eyes. In Shaw’s mind, they were the tinge of fresh snowfall. “Please, Daddy.”
Jadon groaned, and the sound of desire seemed so ludicrous to Shaw—Jadon was younger than Shaw by a year, although he looked like it might have been three or four—that Shaw had to fight to keep a smile off his face. Jadon tightened his hand. His thumb found the hollow of Shaw’s throat, applying just enough pressure that swallowing became uncomfortable. With his other hand, he forced Shaw’s head back, staring down at him. Eyes like wet sand met Shaw’s, but Shaw half-closed his lids and glimpsed ice.
“I don’t know,” Jadon rumbled, walking Shaw backward toward the bed. His free hand slid under the jersey; his nails slid along Shaw’s stomach like glass. Shaw gasped. Everything seemed extra sensitive tonight; he tried to swallow again, and again he felt the painful pressure of Jadon’s grip. It made him dizzy. It made him hard. “You’re tired. You’ve had a long day.”
“No,” Shaw managed to stutter, but that was all.
“No, you’re not tired?” Those sharp, cool nails slid low across Shaw’s belly. Shaw imagined the rough pads of North’s fingers, and he whined. “Or, no, you haven’t had a long day?”
Shaw wasn’t even sure what Jadon was talking about anymore. His mind was somewhere else, lost in the whirl of black particles at the end of his vision. He opened his mouth, knowing that Jadon wanted an answer of some kind, and then Jadon’s nails scraped across the scar low on Shaw’s abdomen. Shaw cried out, a broken sound, and tried to rut up against Jadon. In his mind, he could see the cool amusement that would have glimmered in North’s eyes, the slow heat of arousal as North traced the scar. If North had ever touched him like that, even once, there would have been no coming back from it. Shaw thrust up hard with his pelvis, trying to reach Jadon. Cooing at him, Jadon shifted his touch, flattening his hand low on Shaw’s belly, keeping him a few inches away.
