to find its way into the trash.
Charlie Deems sat on the back porch of a farmhouse in Clackamas County smoking a cigarette and watching the grass sway back and forth. It was the most exciting thing that happened at the farm, but that was okay with Charlie. Two years of living in a cell the size of a broom closet, locked down twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours, had taught him how to deal with idle time.
Out past the high grass was a stand of cottonwoods. Past the cottonwoods were low rolling hills behind which the sun was starting to set. Charlie felt content. His plans were moving forward slowly, but steadily. He was living rent-free and, except for a steady diet of pizza and Big Macs, he didn't have much to complain about.
As soon as Charlie was released from the Oregon State Penitentiary, but before he contacted Raoul, he reestablished contact with people who worked for Otero. Raoul had changed some of his ways of doing business, but for the most part the cocaine flowed along the same river it was traveling when Deems was working the waterways. For instance, there was a certain rest stop on the interstate where trucks from Mexico stopped on their way to Seattle. While the drivers relieved themselves, shadowy figures relieved the drivers of a part of their cargo that never showed on the manifest, then faded into the night. This evening, one of his babysitters had told him that several arrests had been made at that rest stop and a large amount of cocaine had been confiscated. Charlie's steak dinner reflected the DA's appreciation.
Charlie took another drag on his cigarette. He smiled as he pictured the confusion Raoul would experience as each piece of his organization crumbled. Soon the cops would catch the fish who was more afraid of prison than Raoul. Someone would wear a wire and Raoul's own words would weave themselves into the rope that would hang him. Then the grand jury would start to meet. It would take a while, but Charlie could wait.
What he could not wait for was the day he would testify against Abigail Griffen. He wanted to look her in the eye as his testimony brought her down. For two years, the bitch had been at the center of every one of his sexual fantasies. If he had a dollar for every time he had raped or tortured her in his dreams, he would be living in a villa on the French Riviera. And while he would certainly enjoy a chance to visit with Ms.
Griffen personally, he felt greater satisfaction at the thought of Abbie pacing back and forth in the same concrete cell where he had spent interminable hours that crept by so slowly that sometimes he felt he could actually see the progress of each second.
Maybe Charlie would write to Abbie. He would send her postcards from faraway places to let her know that he was thinking of her always. He imagined Abbie's beauty fading, her dark skin turning pale from lack of sunlight, her body withering. But even more satisfying would be the destruction of the bitch's spirit. She, who was so proud, would weep interminably or stare with dead eyes at the never-changing scene outside her cell. The thought brought a smile to Charlie's lips.
He glanced at his watch and stood up. It was almost 7 P. M., time forJeopardy t, his favorite game show. He ground out his butt on the porch railing and flicked it into the grass. Free pizza, peace and quiet and all the games shows he could watch. Life was good.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Tracy parked her car in front of the Griffen cabin shortly after ten on Sunday morning. She got out while Barry reached into the back seat to retrieve his camera. It was cool for early September and Tracy was glad she'd brought a sweatshirt.
'I'm going to have a look around,' Barry said. 'I've gone over the crime-scene photos the Seneca County deputies shot and I've read the police reports. I thought I'd retrace Mrs. Griffen's steps.
I doubt I'll find anything this long after the incident, but you never know.'
'Go ahead. I'm going down to the beach.'
Tracy saw the shed as soon as she rounded the corner of the cabin. It was tall and square and constructed from graying timber. The door was partly open. From where Tracy was standing, she could see a rake and a volleyball resting on a volleyball net, but no dynamite. She walked over and opened the door the whole way. There was an empty space that would have been big enough for a box of dynamite, but there was no box.
She saw some rusted gardening tools and a barbecue grill. Tracy repositioned the door as it had been. She put her hands in her pockets, hunched her shoulders against the bracing sea air and walked down the path.
A flight of wooden steps led from the top of the bluff to the beach.
Tracy sat down on the top step and let the wind play havoc with her long blond hair. High waves curled onto the beach, crashing against the sand with a sound that shut out the world.
Tracy scanned the beach slowly, focusing on the low dunes and the gulls cruising the blue-green water, and thought about Barry Frame.
It had been a while since she'd had anything that could be classified as a relationship, but it wasn't anything she regretted.
Tracy had decided long ago that being alone was preferable to being with someone she did not really care about. She missed sex sometimes, but having sex just to have sex never appealed to her.
Tracy wanted love, or at least affection, from a partner. What she really missed was intimacy. Of course, sex with the right guy could be pretty good, too.
Tracy liked Barry's openness, his casual independence and his easy humor. And she thought he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. She also thought he was damn good-looking.
Tracy had imagined what he would look like naked on more than one occasion. She also wondered what he would be like in bed and had a feeling she would enjoy finding out. 'Look what I've got.'
Tracy turned around. Barry was smiling and flipping the volleyball Tracy had seen in the shed from hand to hand.
'Are you finished?' she asked.
'All done.'
'Find anything?'
'Except for a vial of exotic poison, a Chinese dagger and a series of hieroglyphics written in blood, I struck out. Let's go down to the beach.'
Tracy stood up and they walked down the steps. When they reached the bottom, she ran ahead and Barry heaved the ball as if it was a football.
Tracy caught it easily and returned it with a fancy overhand spin serve.
'Whoa!' Barrysaid. 'Very impressive. All you need are those weird shades and you're ready for ESPN.'
'You can't grow up in California and not play beach volleyball.'
'I love it here,' Barry said, tossing the ball back to Tracy underhand.
'When I retire, I'm gonna get a house at the beach.'
'If I had a beach house,' Tracy said as she served the ball back to Barry, 'I'd want it to be just like this place, so I could see the ocean. I'd have a huge picture window.'
Barry tried an overhand serve but the ball sailed over Tracy's head and bounced toward the water. They both raced toward it.
'You know the best thing?' Barry asked as they met over the ball at the water's edge. Tracy shook her head.
'Storms.' Barry bent down and picked up the volleyball.
'Have you ever watched a storm when the waves are monstrous and the rain comes down in sheets? It's incredible. When it's dark, you build yourself a fire and drink some wine and watch the whitecaps through the rain.'
'I had no idea you were such a romantic,' Tracy kidded.
Barry stopped smiling. 'I can be under the right circumstances,' he said softly.
Tracy looked at him, shielding her eyes because the sun was perched on his shoulder. Barry dropped the ball. Tracy was surprised, but pleased, when Barry took her in his arms and kissed her. His lips tasted salty and it felt good being held. She rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair.
'Not a bad kiss for a lawyer,' he murmured. 'Of course, it could be beginner's luck.'
'What makes you think I'm a beginner?' Tracy asked with a smile. Then she grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled Barry's head back, planted a wet kiss on his forehead and dumped him in the sand.
'That was just like a lawyer.' Barry laughed as he pulled himself to his feet.
'Don't forget the volleyball.'
Barry held it in one hand and draped his arm around Tracy's shoulder.
