scalp. The brass badge on his navy blue coat shimmered in the rain.
"What time did you find her?" he asked.
"What time did I call it in?" Gage said.
"Are you trying to be a smart alec?"
"No, I just don't wear a watch."
More sirens, more headlights appearing up on the bluff. The young cop dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse on her wrist. He looked at them.
"She's dead," he said.
"Well of course," Gage said. "Isn't that what I told you on the phone?"
The heavier one blinked a few times at this, then looked back at Gage. There were more cops barreling down the dune, and two paramedics carrying a stretcher. The heavy cop in front of Gage flipped open a little black notebook. Water speckled the white paper.
"Your name, sir?" he said.
Gage shivered; the water dribbling down his back was ice cold. There was commotion all around them now—the paramedics trying to revive her, the cops conferring. Up on the bluff, a few looky-loos had come of the houses lining the beach and peered down at the spectacle from their decks. The heavy cop slipped the little pen from the side of the notebook. When he noticed Gage hadn't answered, he glanced up with a questioning look.
"Problem?" he said.
"Oh, no," Gage said. It was a lie. He hadn't planned on giving his name, and now he saw how stupid it had been to wait around. An anonymous call would have been fine. But what could he do now? "Gage. Garrison Gage. I live just on the other side of the highway."
"And you've never seen this girl before in your life?"
"No."
"Why do you think she was here?"
"How the hell should I know?"
The cop grimaced. "What's your phone number?"
"I don't have a phone."
"You don't have a phone? "
"No."
The cop sighed. "What about an address, Gary? Do you have one of those?"
"Don't call me Gary."
"Okay. What should I call you?"
"Don't call me anything."
The cop narrowed his already narrow eyes. Gage felt his frustration rise, creeping into him like the coldness in his knee. He'd forgotten what most cops were like. One of the other cops was taking digital pictures of the girl, the flash strobing the body. The paramedics were readying their stretcher for her.
"Are you trying to be a problem?" the cop said.
"No. I'm not trying to be anything at all."
Then he gave the cop his address. He answered the rest of their questions. And when they said he could, he went home.
Chapter 2
A LITTLE AFTER NINE THE NEXT MORNING, someone knocked on his door. Gage was nearly finished with the crossword in the latest Oregonian . The first knocks were tentative, three gentle raps that he could barely hear over the whistling wind. But when Gage ignored these, the next knocks were more forceful.
He put down his pen. Looking beyond his dining room table, piled with enough books and magazines that someone might have mistaken it for a library rummage sale, he saw the wide expanse of the ocean through his bay window, above the rooftops of the houses on the slope below. The clouds had cleared overnight, the sky a bright cobalt blue. It might as well have been summer. But it was a deceiving sky, because he knew from when he'd stepped out to get the paper how cold it had been, how brittle and strong the breeze.
When he'd moved to the coast, he'd disabled the doorbell and put up both No Solicitation and Beware of Dog signs. That had mostly done the trick. But there were always a few people who knocked anyway. Illiterate fools.
He limped to the foyer, the peeling linoleum like ice against his bare feet. The smell of burnt toast hung in the air; he could never get that damn toaster working right. He tied his bathrobe and flung open the door.
"What is it, then?" he said.
He expected a vacuum salesman or a kid hocking magazine subscriptions, a frivolous interruption. Instead a sober-faced man in a gray trench coat stood on his concrete stoop; he wore a narrow blue tie,
"What time did you find her?" he asked.
"What time did I call it in?" Gage said.
"Are you trying to be a smart alec?"
"No, I just don't wear a watch."
More sirens, more headlights appearing up on the bluff. The young cop dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse on her wrist. He looked at them.
"She's dead," he said.
"Well of course," Gage said. "Isn't that what I told you on the phone?"
The heavier one blinked a few times at this, then looked back at Gage. There were more cops barreling down the dune, and two paramedics carrying a stretcher. The heavy cop in front of Gage flipped open a little black notebook. Water speckled the white paper.
"Your name, sir?" he said.
Gage shivered; the water dribbling down his back was ice cold. There was commotion all around them now—the paramedics trying to revive her, the cops conferring. Up on the bluff, a few looky-loos had come of the houses lining the beach and peered down at the spectacle from their decks. The heavy cop slipped the little pen from the side of the notebook. When he noticed Gage hadn't answered, he glanced up with a questioning look.
"Problem?" he said.
"Oh, no," Gage said. It was a lie. He hadn't planned on giving his name, and now he saw how stupid it had been to wait around. An anonymous call would have been fine. But what could he do now? "Gage. Garrison Gage. I live just on the other side of the highway."
"And you've never seen this girl before in your life?"
"No."
"Why do you think she was here?"
"How the hell should I know?"
The cop grimaced. "What's your phone number?"
"I don't have a phone."
"You don't have a phone? "
"No."
The cop sighed. "What about an address, Gary? Do you have one of those?"
"Don't call me Gary."
"Okay. What should I call you?"
"Don't call me anything."
The cop narrowed his already narrow eyes. Gage felt his frustration rise, creeping into him like the coldness in his knee. He'd forgotten what most cops were like. One of the other cops was taking digital pictures of the girl, the flash strobing the body. The paramedics were readying their stretcher for her.
"Are you trying to be a problem?" the cop said.
"No. I'm not trying to be anything at all."
Then he gave the cop his address. He answered the rest of their questions. And when they said he could, he went home.
Chapter 2
A LITTLE AFTER NINE THE NEXT MORNING, someone knocked on his door. Gage was nearly finished with the crossword in the latest Oregonian . The first knocks were tentative, three gentle raps that he could barely hear over the whistling wind. But when Gage ignored these, the next knocks were more forceful.
He put down his pen. Looking beyond his dining room table, piled with enough books and magazines that someone might have mistaken it for a library rummage sale, he saw the wide expanse of the ocean through his bay window, above the rooftops of the houses on the slope below. The clouds had cleared overnight, the sky a bright cobalt blue. It might as well have been summer. But it was a deceiving sky, because he knew from when he'd stepped out to get the paper how cold it had been, how brittle and strong the breeze.
When he'd moved to the coast, he'd disabled the doorbell and put up both No Solicitation and Beware of Dog signs. That had mostly done the trick. But there were always a few people who knocked anyway. Illiterate fools.
He limped to the foyer, the peeling linoleum like ice against his bare feet. The smell of burnt toast hung in the air; he could never get that damn toaster working right. He tied his bathrobe and flung open the door.
"What is it, then?" he said.
He expected a vacuum salesman or a kid hocking magazine subscriptions, a frivolous interruption. Instead a sober-faced man in a gray trench coat stood on his concrete stoop; he wore a narrow blue tie,
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