Page 23 of The Last Grift
Eventually, he spotted some tracks in the gravel that were not the Jeep’s. Additionally, the chain and padlock that kept unauthorized visitors off the pier had been moved out of position. Casey knew this because he set them the same way every time he left.
Maybe he was paranoid, maybe he just knew most people were shitty.
“Probably just Elton stopping by,” he told Bowie, continuing to scan the graveled area. Bowie didn’t seem to think anything was amiss as he gleefully lifted one leg to pee on the chain-link fencing.
The last thing Casey needed was a break-in. It wasn’t as if the sheriff and his deputies—or the menace known as the Twana County Community Watch, TC Watch for the locals, which was really a volunteer militia— would investigate anything to do with a Lundin. They probably wouldn’t have responded to the one at headquarters except for the pesky fact it had happened on government property. Hell, they might not bother to respond if it happened again. Casey and Sheriff Rizzi weren’t even frenemies.
Casey would not have been surprised to learn it had been the sheriff, or one of his minions, who’d done the breaking in. At the time, he’d briefly considered Calvin or Dwayne Perkins,but they were more the bulls-in-a-china-shop types. Subtle was not their game.
Sliding his key into the padlock, he twisted it and was rewarded with a snick as the lock opened. Seconds later, he and Bowie were on the other side of the gate and it was locked behind them again. Casey strode and Bowie bounded to the end of the pier where theBarbarawas berthed.
Home sweet home
Casey climbed aboard the sailboat, using a railing to keep from slipping. At thirty-five feet long, theBarbarahad a lot of living space for a single guy, and Casey utilized every bit of it. Below were two bedrooms, a galley and sitting area along with the stateroom, although he used one of those rooms for storage.
He plunked his backpack down on one of the bench seats and stripped out of his damp jacket and muddy boots. Then, hanging up his coat, he stashed his muddy footwear by the causeway that led to the deck and stashed his hard drive in the drawer with his keys. Everything had its place and there was a place for everything.
“Hold it,” he said to Bowie. Quickly, he grabbed the spare towel he used to dry the dog off. When that task was done, he tossed the dog a treat that was deftly caught in midair. “You didn’t even chew that,” Casey said with a chuckle. “But good boy. Good work today.”
Was he unusually jumpy tonight from the earlier encounter with Calvin and Dwayne and the jerk at the campground? For now, he was going to assume the tire tracks were Elton’s and not worry about them.
For whatever reason, the old man had his own key to the gate and checked on one of the sailboats fairly regularly. Casey knew Elton didn’t own the boat, he “just kept an eye on it.” But as Elton aged, less and less of the needed maintenance had been taken care of.
Rummaging through his cupboards, Casey found a can of chicken and rice soup. He opened it, dumped the contents into a saucepan, and set it to warm on the two-burner stove. While his dinner was heating up, Casey retrieved his cell phone from his backpack. It wouldn’t hurt to give Elton a call, and he needed to send the video he’d taken of the Perkinses to the head office in Olympia. He should have done it earlier.
“I’ll talk to Elton tomorrow,” he grumbled when he saw the time. Bowie thumped his tail in agreement from where he was curled up on his bed.
And before any of the other tasks, Casey set up his weekly call-time with his brother.
TWELVE
GORDON
Tuesday Evening
“Shit, shit, shit,”Gordon repeated for the twentieth time in so many minutes.
His heart hammered wildly against his ribs, like a bird trying to escape the inside of a house. It made it almost impossible for him to draw a breath, and his head was oddly light and heavy at the same time. The worst though was the hot, piercing pain in his left arm. His vision blurred. Tears, or lack of oxygen?
If he couldn’t get a breath, he’d pass out.
What happened? He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting—needing—the images to go away, to never have been seen. Seeing Dwayne like that was, maybe, worse than getting shot. Dwayne lying on his back, his dead eyes staring up at the ceiling of the shed, was burned into Gordon’s brain.
The truck swerved over the rumble strip. Gordon blinked, jerking his eyelids wide again.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered again as he wrenched thesteering wheel the other direction with his right hand. In his panic, he overcorrected and ended up in the oncoming lane of traffic. “Fuck me,” he said as he swerved to the correct side of the road.
Thankfully, there was no one else out this time of night. With his shitty luck, though, a deputy would be out on patrol and pull him over for driving erratically. That could not happen. He could not go back to jail. He would die there, never see the light of day again. As little as Gordon was sure about the way the world worked, he knew for certain that jail equaled death. And he kind of thought that’s what Sheriff Rizzi wanted. But why? What had Gordon ever done to him? Nothing. He wasn’t perfect, sure, but he’d never crossed the sheriff.
“What am I going to do?” he asked himself. He wished he could magically make the panic and pain subside. Make what had happened up The Valley a dream, or maybe like a nightmare, not real.
Butithad happened—fuck, he couldn’t even think the word—and Gordon knew better than anyone that he was the one who’d take the fall and go back to jail. It wouldn’t be the county jail this time, either. They’d take him to one of the state prisons. He’d never be let out again, just like Mickie.
The general store and the marina flashed past, and the temptation to head toward Elton’s was hard to resist. Elton would know what to do. Elton was a wise old man. But he couldn’t stop. Gordon just needed a minute to—fuck, he didn’t know what he needed. His brain was sluggish and not working right.
Gordon couldn’t involve Elton. If he dragged him into this… He couldn’t finish the thought. What was happening? All he’d ever wanted was to live his simple life. Work a bit. Mess around with rally cars. Fix up his ten acres and build that little cabin he wanted. To live in peace. To try and rebuild his life. But life, it seemed, was not having it.
The truck’s lights illuminated the sign for Smitty’s RV Park. Gordon slowed and almost flipped his turn indicator on when realization hit him, cold as ice. He couldn’t go home either. They knew where he lived. Someone had seen him.
