Page 12 of The Last Grift
“Motherfucker!” Deter yelled, scrambling to grab the boat.
Against his better judgment, Casey jumped into action. He skidded down the pebbled beach alongside the concrete ramp, grabbing one side of the gunnel while Deter grabbed the other.
The boat was already more than halfway into the water, and one of the trailer wheels had rolled off the ramp and was jammed between the slab and the barnacle-covered rocks.
At least Deter knew what he was doing; Casey didn’t have to give him any instructions while they muscled the aluminum craft back onto the trailer. But Casey hadn’t dressed that morning for a dunk in the ocean and was soaking wet.
The waves were coming in fast, pushing against Casey’s legs and then trying to suck him into the water as they retreated. Deter slipped and almost went under but managed to catch the side of the boat. Thank fuck because Casey would have had to rescue the man.
With one final heave followed by a cinching of the straps, the boat was secure on the trailer again.
“It’s going to take both of us to lift the trailer back onto the ramp,” Casey informed Deter.
Without responding, Deter sloshed around the bottom ofthe ramp, and together, with a little assistance from another large wave, they were able to lift the trailer up and onto the ramp again.
“That’s it,” Casey said, thumping the side of the boat.
Banging his fist against the bed of the pickup, Deter yelled, “Gun it, Richie! If you fuck up my boat, I’m gonna be pissed.”
Nice.
Richie, who’d been hanging halfway out the driver’s side window watching the whole thing, nodded, ducked back inside the cab, and revved the engine. The truck surged forward, pulling the streaming trailer out of the water.
“You two are lucky I showed up,” Casey said to Deter. “You could have lost your boat, or worse.”
He stepped over to Richie’s open window and leaned on his elbows against the door frame, trying to pretend he wasn’t freezing. “I’m not going to cite you this time. Consider nearly losing the boat a warning. It could have been your truck.”
Out of habit, Casey scanned the interior of the double cab. The back was strewn with fishing gear, haphazardly stacked on the bench seat. The front was cluttered too. The dashboard had several paper maps laying on it, likely local hunting or fishing spots, and the middle console held two go-cups and a handful of pens. He didn’t have to see the pens up close to know they had the Twana County Sheriff’s Office logo printed on them. Personally, Casey thought it a waste of county funds, but the TCSO had apparently ordered enough of them for every voting citizen who wanted one. And more.
Deter ignored Casey’s comment and didn’t bother with a “thank you.” He stomped around the front of the truck and climbed into the passenger side. The door shut with a slam and Casey jumped out of the way when Richie mashed his foot down on the gas pedal again, and the truck rumbled off. A hand shot out the passenger side window, middle fingerraised.
“You’re welcome, asshole,” Casey muttered, sloshing back to the Forest Service vehicle, where Bowie stood on the bench seat and barked a good riddance directed at Richie and Deter. “Good dog,” Casey said as he climbed in. “At least those two idiots won’t turn into a search and rescue.” Bowie spun in a circle, his tail brushing across Casey’s face. “Not today, anyway,” he added.
Before Richie and Deter disappeared from view, Casey noted the sameWe’re Watching Yousticker on Richie’s bumper that the Perkinses had on their truck. Maybe Deter had pressured Richie into it. Richie was mostly harmless, Casey thought, but suggestible. Which meant that, like his friend Gordon MacDonald, Richie often ended up in trouble that wasn’t his own.
Bowie whined, wiggled, and dragged his doggy tongue across Casey’s forehead and eyebrow.
“Gross, knock it off.” Casey laughed and pushed the dog away. “I know you want another walk, but we need to stop at home first. I have to change into dry clothes and eat something.”
With another put-upon sigh, the dog slumped down with his head on his paws as Casey started the engine. Just another day in his life working for the underpaid and understaffed Washington State Forest Service.
He passed by the closed campground entrance on the way out of the park and made a mental note to drive through that evening. The change in the weather and the seasonal closure would not stop the stupidly determined from sneaking into the park and risking staying overnight.
Maybe that should be his new bumper sticker:Stupidly Determined.
SEVEN
GABRIEL
Tuesday
“Huh,”Gabriel muttered, taking in a one-story pastel green building perched near the side of the road whose hand-painted sign declared it as Norskland General Store, Heartstone Island’s Grocery. It was one of three similarly styled buildings that seemed to be the commercial center of the island—at least during the offseason.
A bright red vertical flag with Coffee spelled out in huge letters flapped in the wind.
“Yes, thank fuck.”
One of the buildings housed a place called The Pizza Joint, and the other looked to be a bookstore slash souvenir shop. Both businesses had closed-until-spring notices hanging in their windows.
