A Plunder by Pilgrims Read Online Free PDF

a white shirt.  He had thinning gray hair and bushy black eyebrows, his face long and gaunt.  He made Gage think of a slightly heavier version of Mister Rogers.  Still, there was no denying he was a cop.  Gage had seen thousands of cops over the years and they all had the same look about them—a wary earnestness.
    The arbor vitae at the back of Gage's property swayed in the breeze.  The cool air penetrated his thin cotton robe, making him shiver.
    "More questions?" Gage said.
    The man smiled kindly.  He had yellow teeth, and one of his incisors was capped with gold.  "Garrison Gage?" he said.
    "That's right."
    "I'm Percy Quinn.  Chief of Police in Barnacle Bluffs."
    It was a small town, and deaths like the girl on the beach were rare, but he was still surprised that the Chief himself was paying a visit.  "Well, thank heavens," he said.  "You're a few months late, but the kids playing the loud music live just down at the end of the drive."
    Quinn chuckled.  He had that look about him of a patient grandfather.  "Can I have a few minutes of your time?"
    "Why?"
    The man's smile stayed the same, but his eyes changed; it was like watching water freeze.  "Humor me," he said.
    Gage shrugged and stepped back so Quinn could enter.  Standing close, Gage caught the whiff of cigarette smoke, and he could just make out the outline of the revolver holster beneath Quinn's coat.
    Without a word, Gage limped to his table and settled into his chair.  He took a drink from his coffee, which had grown cold; it was black, except for just a splash of Irish cream, just the way he liked it.  A log in the stove crackled.  Quinn stood behind one of the other chairs, hands gripping the walnut frame.  He glanced at the coffee cup as if waiting for Gage to offer.  Gage didn't.
    "I don't want to take much of your time — " Quinn began.
    "Well, that's good," Gage said.
    The man looked a bit pained.  It really was like insulting Mister Rogers.  "I'm hoping we can be friends."
    "Hope can be a dangerous thing."
    "Man, you're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
    "Make what easy?"
    Quinn pulled out the chair.  He turned it around backwards and straddled it.  "You see the news this morning?"
    "I don't have a television," Gage said.
    "No television.  No phone.  You're quite the character."
    "Thank you.  I mean that sincerely." 
    "Look," Quinn said, "this is really just a courtesy call, that's all.  I want you to know that we didn't give your name to the media.  We just told them a homeless man stumbled upon the girl."
    "Well, that's an upgrade for me," Gage said.
    "I thought you'd appreciate it.  You see, I . . . I know who you are, Gage.  I know all that business you were involved with before.  All that work you did with the FBI.  I . . . know what happened back in New York.  I am sorry about your wife.  About what they did to you.  Everything."
    Gage said nothing.  He looked at his crossword.  Ironically, the theme was the ocean.  The clue was broken boat .  Eleven letters, and it ended with a "d."
    "Shipwrecked," Gage said. 
    "Huh?"
    Gage wrote it in.
    "Oh, right," Quinn said.  "My wife's into those too.  Though she's more into that other thing—what's it called?  The thing with numbers."
    "Sudoku," Gage said.
    "Right.  Look, here's the deal.  You kind of slipped into Barnacle Bluffs under the radar.  That's fine.  I can see why you're here.  Lots of folks come here for the same reason.  To get away.  To forget.  Whatever."
    "I just like the view," Gage said.
    "But here's the thing," Quinn went on, "we're a small town.  We might seem big because of all the tourists, especially in the summer, but when you get down to it this place is just a village.  This thing with the girl, it's already all over the news.  A Portland crew showed up here this morning.  It'll be front page in tomorrow's Oregonian .  That's more than enough attention.  We don't need your name getting mixed up in this.  It'll