The Night Is Deep (A Liam Dempsey Thriller Book 2) (13 page)

“It’s okay.” Liam studied his friend. Owen looked beaten, strained, but there was something else underlying his words. Possibly a sense of relief that Liam was leaving despite what he said? Liam noticed the same strangeness as Owen met his gaze and looked away again.

“You came when I called you like the true friend you are. I know you didn’t talk to the press; I know you wouldn’t do that to us.”

“Thanks.” Liam held out his hand and Owen moved past it, embracing him with a rough hug before letting him go.

“Thank you.”

A black cloud of disappointment and grief overcame him as he headed for the door, grabbing his overnight bag on the way. He fumed against the sensation of failure as he left the large house, the rain picking at him like a flock of enraged birds. He hadn’t done anything that he wouldn’t have if he were in charge of the case himself.

Perring and Sanders were on the wrong trail, he could feel it.

And he had a feeling Owen wasn’t telling him something. Possibly something crucial.

Walking away from the case wasn’t only a stinging nettle of frustration, but it also came with disillusionment. Why was he really here? To help his friend or keep his toes in the water of police work as Perring had said? Dani’s words came back to him.
You need to stay for Owen or for you?
He resented what both women were insinuating, but the evident truth that echoed within him as he started his truck was undeniable. He’d never put his own aspirations above what the actual goal in every case was: to find the wrong and right it.
Until now,
the niggling voice said in the back of his mind.

“Shut it,” he murmured as he turned the truck around and drove down the driveway. Rain battered the cab as he pulled onto the street and gave Owen’s house a last look in his rearview mirror.

CHAPTER 12

Gage Rowe watched the ghost standing at the end of his dock in the cascading rain.

Of course it wasn’t a ghost. He didn’t believe in such things. Even with the rumors surrounding the property he’d bought earlier that year, rumors of the prior house that had been swallowed by the lake in an unprecedented seismic event, the stories were just that, stories. His feet had been grounded solidly his entire life. He’d gone to church with his parents but never experienced a divine visitation or vision. He’d witnessed a woman die in a traffic accident but could claim no sensation of her spirit passing him on its way to the beyond. He’d even attended a séance once in college, a stupid gathering of mystics his own age that thought they could summon the dead to speak with them and reveal secrets from the afterlife, but there had been no communication with anything otherworldly. Only a bunch of drunk college students sitting around in a circle surrounded by candles humming some nonsense words under their collective breath. No, to Gage the supernatural wasn’t super at all. To him it didn’t exist.

But he couldn’t deny the lance of ice that slid through his stomach at the sight of the figure standing motionless down on the dock. He’d been cleaning in his office, trying to finally organize business-expense receipts for all three of his restaurants for the year. Candice had threatened to do it herself if it wasn’t taken care of by the time she and the kids returned from the long weekend at her mother’s, and he didn’t want her rummaging around through his office. He loved the woman but she was prone to throw out anything that didn’t scream importance. So when he decided to take a break and make a sandwich in the midafternoon, his stomach grumbling the entire way down the stairs, he hadn’t noticed the ghost standing on the dock. It was only after pacing to the picture window overlooking the lake and chewing his food that he stopped and stared, the sourdough turning to a soggy mixture on his tongue.

Now he shifted position, trying to see more of the person through the rain, because it was a person. He or she was substantial and didn’t fade in or out of reality as he moved from window to window to gain a better view.

“What the fuck?” he said to himself, watching the unmoving figure. He—though he couldn’t be sure it was a man—stood with his back to him, completely dressed in black from the boots all the way up to some sort of knitted cap pulled down tight over his head. Simply staring out over the turmoil that Superior had become during the morning hours.

Gage went to the south end of the house and looked out the second floor window that gave a more expansive view of the shoreline. No boat was pulled onto the shining rocks. When he walked to the front door to check the driveway for a car, nothing but layers of dancing rain met him. Cursing under his breath, he moved back to the picture window and froze.

The figure was gone.

His eyes widened and he blinked, sure that the person had simply knelt down or was perhaps sitting in Gage’s boat that bobbed beside the dock. He hurried across the kitchen and looked out into the south yard, knowing the intruder would’ve had to have run up the beach and onto the lawn to have disappeared that fast. Intruder. Now the person was no longer a ghost but a threat to him. He chided himself. It was probably a neighbor’s friend. Most likely having wandered through the woods onto his property, probably drunk as a skunk.

Gage stopped at the rear patio door and opened it. Water ran in a steady stream out of the gutter at the end of the covered porch and a gust of chilly wind took a swipe at him as he stepped onto the stoop, scanning the lawn for movement.

Nothing.

“Hello?” His voice died against the onslaught of rain, and all at once he had the overwhelming urge to return to the warmth and safety of the house, to lock the door behind him. Maybe he’d even load his shotgun and stand it in the living room while he had a cup of coffee.

The rope tying the boat to the dock let out a pained creak as a large wave washed into shore. Regardless of the intruder (
stop calling him that
), he needed to check the knots on the boat. He’d let his son Paul secure the craft last time they’d come in from fishing and he hadn’t been down to the lake since. If Paul hadn’t tied the knots tight enough the waves might loosen them and his twenty-foot Lund would be a useless piece of battered aluminum by tomorrow morning.

Gage gave the yard a last glance, then stepped inside the house to don his shoes and a jacket. He considered locking the house behind him but brushed the thought off.
You’re being silly. Go down to the dock and secure the boat. Maybe you’ll run into whoever it was down there and you can either run them off or direct them back to wherever they came from.
If all else failed, he could call the local law enforcement in Stony Bay.

The wind shoved him first away from the lake and then toward it like a panicked child tugging at his clothes, unsure of which way to run. The gray waters below the steep hill were nearly black. For a moment he wondered how it would feel to sink beneath them, to have the cold depths close over his head. What would be waiting down in the dark? Surely there would be secrets there both benign and malignant. Every dark place kept its secrets.

He shook himself from his musings, another cold battering of fear rising within him like the waves at the foot of the hill. As he made his way down the wide stairway built into the drop to the lake, the large rocks in the bay beyond the land seemed to rise and fall as well. It felt like they were watching him with a sentience both calculating and unkind.

Gage jogged across the stretch of beach sand he’d had hauled in, his shoes sinking with each step, and hopped onto the dock’s decking. The boat surged upward again and he could see now that the closest rope was partially untied. Another few hoists from the lake and the front end of the craft would be free. He’d have to teach Paul the running bowline knot again. As he approached the craft he noticed several shining objects lying close to the end of the dock. His pace slowed and he walked carefully forward, noticing how slick the decking had become. When he neared the end of the dock he stopped short and blinked.

Numerous large fishhooks had been attached to some type of thin cable that had been wrapped around a few planks of the decking. Their wicked-looking shapes were like violent question marks tipped with curved barbs.

“What the hell?” he said to the lake. He was about to kneel down and try to retrieve one of the hooks when he heard something behind him.

He tried to turn, but he slipped on the soaked surface, his tennis shoes going in different directions. A strong hand gripped his jacket, steadying him, and he placed his hand on the arm attached to it before bringing his eyes up to the person’s face.

A surge of electricity blasted through his throat as the stun gun crackled beneath his jaw. The last thing he saw was the sky opening into a wreathing halo of white fire that ate everything away into darkness.

CHAPTER 13

Liam sat in his truck, staring at the address on his phone.

He’d turned the windshield wipers off after pulling beneath the canopy of the gas station to fill the truck’s tank. Now, parked in the station’s lot, the windshield was a solid sheet of water that obscured everything beyond the glass.

He’d told himself that he would simply turn south once the gas had been pumped. He’d repeated the fact as he paid for several sticks of beef jerky and a bottled water inside the store. He’d even drawn his phone out to call Dani and tell her he was coming home. But instead of punching her number and putting the phone to his ear, he accessed the county auditor’s website. It was only a matter of minutes until he found the property listed under Gage Rowe’s name. The parcel abutting Superior was fairly large by the looks of the aerial photo, and as he scrolled downward on the map, he saw that the closest town was to the south by the name of Stony Bay.

Liam shut the phone off and hit the wipers once. The glass cleared enough for him to glimpse the road heading north, the blacktop gleaming and jumping with the falling rain. A pair of fading taillights rounded a bend further up past the gas station and winked out behind a row of trees.

“Fuck it,” Liam said, and put the truck into gear turning the wheel right, away from home.

As each mile marker passed he ignored the abhorrently smug assertions of the voice in his head about his current motives, and instead focused on the information about Erickson’s murder. He’d been tortured and then forced to drink an acid that would’ve taken some time to kill him, causing unfathomable pain in the process. Was there a type of symbolism associated with the violent death? The burns and the acid were definitely related, but why? Burns. Burning. Fire. Immolation from within.

“A reference to hell?” he said aloud. The wipers shushed him. Who had hated Erickson so much that they would sentence him to that type of punishment before death? But of course that was why Liam was traveling north along the edge of the great lake instead of south, wasn’t it? Gage Rowe was a friend, possibly a client of Erickson’s. And who better to question about the beating Dickson Jenner had received than the man who participated in it?

“You’re going to get yourself thrown in jail,” he said. “Rowe is going to give you nothing and then he’s going to call Perring and she’s going to have you arrested. Yep.” He gazed out at the unending wash of leaden water that seemed to blend with the sky above. Thick stands of pine trees spread to either side of the road when it curved away from Superior, the green growth blemished only by the sporadic explosion of a red oak or the shimmering yellow leaves of a birch, its white branches like thin bones stripped of flesh. Before long Liam piloted the truck around a broad curve and the town of Stony Bay greeted him. It was picturesque and charming in the way small towns could be. Images of Tallston’s quaint businesses and high bluffs began to overlay Stony Bay’s streets and buildings and he had to breathe deeply and focus on the road as he passed through the little village, ignoring the tremor that threatened to dominate his hands.

The main street became the highway again and soon he was immersed in the woods once more. It was only minutes before he slowed the truck, glancing at his phone for assurance that he was at the correct drive. A mailbox appeared at the border of the road and he squinted, trying to make a name out on its side but there were only numbers inlaid on the metal. Liam swung into the driveway and idled up its length, a canopy of leaves closing over the top of the truck like a patchwork tunnel.

A house slowly took shape through the burning foliage. It was a modern two-story rambler with a multiple-hipped roofline. A long porch ran across its front and a flawless lawn stretched around the newly constructed home and down to the lake. The view was incredible even with the haze of rain that refused to abate.

He coasted to a stop before the front door, noting the glimmer of several lights behind the panes. He zipped his jacket all the way up and stepped into the weather, his hair matting to his skull instantly. He ran up the steps and shook himself off before touching the glowing doorbell button. He waited. He jabbed the button again and leaned to the side, looking through the frosted glass that lined the doorway. No movement from inside the house. No footsteps coming to meet his call.

Liam stood for another moment in place, then walked the length of the porch to the far right side, glancing in windows as he went. The end of the porch turned and dropped away into a set of stairs leading to a covered patio. He hesitated before climbing down, glancing back the way he’d come as he neared a sliding door on the side of the house. Rain drummed on the roof above him as he approached the entrance, hoping that one of the Rowes wouldn’t be stepping out as he lifted a fist to knock on the glass.

He froze.

The sliding door was open several inches.

Liam’s hand went to the small of his back and grasped the Sig. He kept it holstered as he leaned his head toward the gap in the door, listening. Turning, he glanced down the hill toward the lake finding the long dock and the fishing boat floating at an odd angle away from it. The rear was the only section tied, its front pointing away from shore and rising high with each wave that washed in. His eyes slid to the end of the dock and the spread-eagled form lying there.

He pulled the handgun free.

Liam crouched and turned in a half-circle, heart already double-timing. The rain obscured the woods to the south. He shot a glance into the house once more, then raced down the hill toward the beach.

His feet nearly slipped from under him twice, moisture flooding his eyes. The only sounds were the hammering waves and the white noise of rain. He flew down the short set of stairs to the beach and crossed the sand to the dock.

A wave broke the boat completely free and it floated toward shore. Liam kept the gun leveled on the form at the dock’s end, throwing a glance over his shoulder every other step. He slowed as he came even with what was on the planking and his stomach shriveled with revulsion.

Gage Rowe lay on his back, glassy eyes staring up at the weeping clouds. Large, shining fishhooks were embedded in each of his ears and attached to the dock with wire. Dozens more pierced the muscle of his arms and legs, binding him against the agony that would accompany any movement. But the worst was his mouth. The largest fishhooks curved over his lower teeth and out the bottom of his jaw. Wires ran from them down to his belt and were fastened there, keeping his mouth open in a constant scream. Water pooled around his lolling tongue, mingling with the blood that seeped slowly from the wounds. The man had drowned from the falling rain.

On his pale cheek a ragged three had been carved into the flesh.

A loud screech and a bang jerked Liam’s head up from the horror before him and he raised the pistol, almost firing at the fishing boat being tossed against the rocks farther down the beach. He lowered the gun, arms thrumming with adrenaline and fear. Rowe’s ears had nearly been torn from his skull from where he’d struggled to rise away from the onslaught of suffocating water. Liam put a hand out and steadied himself on a dock support, his beef jerky rising in the back of his throat.

Over the sound of the waves and thumping of the boat came a grinding whine.

He turned toward it, squinting down the southern border of the half-moon bay. There was nothing visible, but the sound continued, cycling through a quick mechanical hum.

A boat motor trying to start.

Liam ran down the dock and leapt into the sand, his feet finding purchase on the rock wall that lined the bank. He flew up it, scrambling with his hands and feet until he was on solid ground again. He rushed into the forest lining the yard, rain like stinging nettles on his face and eyes. The undergrowth was thick at first, holding him back as he raced beneath the higher trees, but then it lessened, fading to browning reed grass that slithered past his soaked pant legs.

The boat motor wound up again, its cry coming from straight ahead. It coughed once and then fell silent. He ducked beneath a pine bough and ran up and over a rocky outcropping, dropping several feet on the other side. Water splashed up around his shoes, freezing his feet inside. The boat motor made a grinding sound again and it was closer. Much closer.

Liam slowed, gathering his bearings as he wiped his eyes free of water. He blinked, taking in the brightening behind a row of pines that towered above him. Between their trunks he could see the undulations of Superior as well as something else.

The front of a boat.

He eased forward, gun straight out before him, feet making no noise on the wet pine needles. He crested a band of rock and stepped behind the first pine tree, glancing around its side.

The boat was there, bobbing in the waves a dozen yards offshore. A figure dressed entirely in black stood at its helm, pressing a control that caused the whining of the twin outboards attached to the stern. Liam watched the figure’s head turn toward the motors and saw that he wore a black cowl that hid his features.

Liam breathed deeply, then stepped out from behind the tree, hurrying between the other pines and out into the open.

“Police! Hands in the air!” he yelled, training the sights on the figure’s chest.

The figure didn’t hesitate. He swung a pistol upward and fired.

A hot hissing filled Liam’s right ear as the bullet sung past him. He squeezed the Sig’s trigger and the gun snapped up in his hands. The figure’s jacket jumped with the impact and he fell backward, a single hand scrabbling at the boat’s steering wheel before dropping away.

Quiet. Only the waves on the shoreline.

The boat clunking up and down in the water.

Liam held his stance, waiting, muscles aching as his vision doubled with moisture and he blinked it away. After nearly a minute he took a step forward, his foot crushing a pile of shells against some rocks.

The pistol came over the boat’s gunwale and barked twice.

Liam dove backward, pebbles kicking up near his feet in a shrapnel spray. His hand found a tree trunk and he swung behind it, kneeling and aiming around its opposite side. The figure rose above the gunwale and fired again. Something snapped against Liam’s throat and he felt a hot wetness shower his face. He slid back behind the safety of the tree.

He’d been shot in the throat. He was going to die.

Even as he slid his shaking fingers beneath his jaw to feel the damage, the image of Kelly’s throat exploding with his bullet flooded his mind, hand clutching her pregnant belly as she fell. How ironic. To be killed the same way he had ended her life.

His hand met sticky pulp and something fibrous. When he held it up before his eyes he saw that his fingers were covered in pinesap and shredded bark. No blood.

Another shot rang out and the ground beside him kicked up as the sound of the motors turning over came again.

There was a pop that wasn’t gunfire and the outboards roared to life.

Liam rolled away from the safety of the tree and rose to one knee. The boat was surging away from shore, the figure standing with one hand on the wheel, the other aiming the gun at him. Liam pulled the trigger twice and the boat’s windshield shattered. The pilot lurched to the side, the boat following in an aerobatic roll that nearly capsized it. Liam walked out from the woods, firing a round with each step as the boat sped away. One of the outboard’s engine cowlings detonated into a shower of plastic, and sparks flew from a steel handhold near the helm. The driver threw a last shot his way that cut the air several feet to his left but he barely noticed. If his count was right, he had one shell left.

He steadied the pistol.

Squeezed the trigger.

The gun jumped, the slide locking open.

The figure staggered, arching his back, but maintained a grip on the steering wheel.
What the hell? That should’ve dropped him.
The motors screamed as the boat planed out and skipped away over the tops of the waves, its form shrinking, then fading altogether in the drifting rain.

Liam drew out his cell phone and tried to turn it on but the screen remained dark. The rain must’ve soaked it through his pants pocket.

“Fuck!” He scrambled up the bank and ran through the woods, sticks slicing at his jacket, brambles digging furrows in his exposed skin. He burst into the Rowes’ yard and ran straight for the house. Throwing the sliding door all the way open, he skidded on the tile inside the entry, eyes raking the room until he spotted the cordless phone on the kitchen counter. He punched 911 and listened as the call was answered.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“My name is Liam Dempsey and I’m a police consultant. A man by the name of Gage Rowe has been murdered and I’ve been involved in a shooting with his attacker. I’m calling from his residence north of Stony Bay.”

“Okay sir, I’ve dispatched state police to your location, they’re only a few minutes away. Are you injured in any way?”

“No, I don’t think so. But listen to me. You need to patch me through to the nearest coast guard station. The assailant escaped by boat and they need to intercept him.”

“Okay sir, just stay calm. I’ll notify the authorities in your area of the situation.”

“No, you don’t understand! You need to get a plane and some boats out right now and start searching the water south of my location. The assailant could be going anywhere and we need to stop him before he disappears.”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

“Goddammit!” He hung up and groped in a nearby drawer, pawing two more open before finding a tattered phone book that might’ve been years out of date. He flicked through it until he found the police station’s number and dialed it. A moment later a male voice answered.

“Duluth Police.”

“Hello, this is Liam Dempsey, I’ve been working with Detectives Perring and Sanders over the last few days. I need you to connect me with one of them.”

“Uh, Mr. Dempsey, this is officer Charlie Cross. I was at the, uh, scene this morning.”