Fish in the Hole 1
“WHAT DO you mean you’ve been there for half an hour already?”
Ellery’s voice took on that tinny timbre that often meant either a) he was panicking about Jackson a lot , or b) his own day had gone batshit insane and he was taking out his stress on Jackson because, well, Jackson usually deserved it.
In this case, Jackson surmised, it was probably both.
“I mean we made good time,” Jackson downplayed, but he was scowling at Cody as he said it.
Cody grinned back unrepentantly and stroked the enormous head of Preacher, the dog who had been training far from Napa when he’d found the original three bodies, and who had returned by helicopter at Toby’s request to work with Jackson and Cody. Preston, Preacher’s handler, had seemed absolutely unflappable, but after watching him work with Preacher for a few minutes—and then interact with the helicopter pilot who had landed his craft in a big stretch of flatland near the picnic area and who also seemed to be Preston’s significant other—Jackson surmised Preston was probably neurodivergent more than he was unflappable.
But while his affect remained unruffled, that did not mean Preston wasn’t “flapped” at the idea that the bodies of three adolescent boys had been found nearby, and that they would be searching the two nearby mine caps to see if others had been dumped.
“Preacher prefers rescue work,” Preston had said, the intensity of his voice sounding angry , although his expression remained neutral. “Nobody likes finding cadavers. It’s sad , and just because he’s a dog doesn’t mean he won’t get depressed.”
Jackson had held his hand out to the dog to sniff, and Preston had all but growled at him. “He is working .”
“Yes,” said the helicopter pilot, who had the dark hair and brows and the fine facial sculpting of a native islander, probably Hawai’i. He walked with a slight limp but didn’t seem self-conscious in the least. “Yes, Preston, he is working, but so are these two men. They need Preacher to trust them, which means you need to trust that Preacher needs to smell their hands in greeting.”
Preston emitted a hurt sound, while Jackson and Cody—after a glance at each other to confirm that what was going down was what they thought was going down—both held their hands out for the dog to sniff. And—with a surreptitious glance at his handler—to lick, because Preacher seemed like that kind of dog.
“Kids, Damien,” he said, sounding heartbroken. “And Preacher has to find more.”
“I know, baby,” Damien said softly. “C’mere.”
Damien had engulfed Preston in a hard, soul-nurturing hug then, and Cody sighed a little.
“You want one of those?” Jackson asked with a smile.
Cody shrugged. “Need to find the right donor. I think that one’s taken.”
And that’s when Jackson’s pocket had buzzed. He’d walked a few feet away and huddled in his windbreaker to have the conversation, but that didn’t mean Cody wasn’t listening. Shamelessly.
“Good time?” Ellery asked in disbelief. “You only left two hours ago! What does ‘good time’ mean?”
Jackson grunted. “It means keep an eye out for my eyebrows and parts of my stomach when you hit Mokelumne Hill,” he said honestly. “And I think I have a cramp in my shoulder from yanking on the Oh Shit bar.”
“Praise Jesus,” Cody said with a smile.
“Oh shit,” Jackson replied reflexively, because who didn’t like a good “fear for your life” joke?
“You and Cody appear to be getting along okay,” Ellery said, sounding irritated.
“Jealous?”
“That you’re in the field with a wildly handsome man who seems to think you’re awesome? No. Not at all. Doesn’t faze me a bit.”
Cody’s bark of laughter carried to the phone, and Ellery said, “Am I on speaker?”
“Yes, Ellery—the copter is still winding down, and it’s windy and rainy here. You’re on speaker. Sorry. Cody is laughing because he wouldn’t shag me on a dare. Now I love you, but we’re about to start heading for the first mine cap on our path here as we work around the property, and our dog handler is, well, un happy that we’re looking for corpses and not rescuing kids, so we need to get this shitshow on the road. What can I do for you?”
Ellery grunted. “I’m about to let the FBI track your phone,” he said, and Jackson fought the temptation to sit down in the middle of the mud and overgrown grass of the field and kick his heels.
“I fucking beg your fucking pardon?” Every instinct of hatred for organized law enforcement colored his voice, and he realized he was somewhat reassured. He’d been afraid he was getting… conventional or something.
“You heard me,” Ellery replied, steel in his voice. “We’re dropping off Gerald Manning and his partner, Laura Crowder, to come assist you on the search. We get three guys to sit out in front of the property surfing their phones unless they hear suspicious activity.”
“Suspicious activity?” Jackson repeated, feeling dumb. “Like what?”
The insouciance in Ellery’s voice, even over the speaker phone, was telling. “Loud words, disagreements, gunshots….”
“No,” Jackson told him, angry they were even having this discussion. “Absolutely not—”
“Mother’s here with me,” Ellery said, all pleasantness. “Would you like to tell her the same?”
“It’s not necessary—”
“What if there are kids in there, Jackson,” Ellery said. “You knew this was the plan when you left the house this morning.”
Jackson scrubbed at his face with his hand. “It was a stupid plan, and I should be beaten for even letting you think of it.”
“Well, same. Manning can track your phone now.”
“Can he clone it, Ellery?” Jackson asked. “Because….”
He didn’t have to finish that thought to remind Ellery that their phones had the personal numbers of some people who didn’t need to be found.
“No,” Ellery said. “He gave me his word. I’m going to take it.”
“That’s great ,” Jackson snapped. “Oh, Jackson, what if your new partner doesn’t kill you and wants to shag your ass, and by the way, I just met a strange man who may or may not betray people we gave our word to !” Oh God. So many people. They’d promised .
“Is this Jackson Rivers?” The new voice on the phone had him exchanging puzzled glances with Cody, who approached to listen with even less shame.
“And this is?” Jackson’s feathers were on permanent ruffle.
“This is Gerald Manning, Special Agent in Charge. I’m leading the investigation into the missing minors and—”
Jackson hung up.
Cody stared at him in surprise as Jackson actively struggled not to chuck his phone across the vast muddy field.
“What was that for?”
The phone rang again, and Jackson punched the Answer key. “You’re in charge of shit,” he said. “Absolute jack shit. Do you understand me? Ellery, can you hear me? Take his phone and throw it out the window!”
“Apologies!” came the almost frantic answer. “I’m sorry, I phrased that wrong—”
“You sure as shit did. You absolutely do not have my permission to track my phone.”
The voice—mature, assured, and obviously used to giving orders—softened. “All I want to do is be able to find you on the field so you don’t have to return to the picnic area in the middle of your search. I’ll sign whatever Mr. Cramer gives me to sign that guarantees your privacy in this matter.”
“Make sure there’s a work order for new phones included for everybody I know so they are never put in this position again,” Jackson snarled.
“Yikes,” Gerald Manning muttered. “Okay. Absolutely understood. I promise you, Mr. Rivers, all I am interested in is being able to find you in the field.”
Jackson blew out a breath. “Fine. What’s your ETA?”
“About two hours,” Manning told him.
“Pansies,” Cody muttered.
“Put Ellery on the phone.” Jackson ordered, and Cody raised his eyebrows.
“Wow.”
“Don’t even start,” Jackson told Cody, right before Ellery’s voice came across.
“You almost made that nice man cry.”
“Ellery….”
“Yes, yes, I know, Jackson. But… but think of it like this. Even if people we care about are compromised, do we know a single person who wouldn’t think this is worth it?”
Jackson grunted. “No,” he said after a minute. “I just hate—”
“I know you do, baby,” Ellery soothed. “You hate to be in the position where people might be exposed. But….” Something in Ellery’s voice shifted. “I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but we’re in the middle of a big one.”
Jackson gave a somewhat fractured laugh. “Yeah, I know. Weird, right?”
“Very.” Ellery’s dry tone helped to ground Jackson a little. “So you understand. No meeting up at the picnic spot. Mother, Galen, Jade, and I are all going in, wired for sound, and the FBI is our backup. Your job is to look for more”—his voice dropped—“proof.” He paused. Then quietly, he added, “Jackson, do you remember how Lacey went?”
Jackson’s blood ran cold. He and Ellery had been crouched behind an aluminum-sided airplane hangar while Lacey had monologued about how the men he’d destroyed were too weak, that was it, that was the problem. They were so weak that the mind games and tortures he’d inflicted on them had twisted them beyond humanity, but with a little more work, he could do it, he could make the perfect soldier.
And that was when Ellery had taken the gun he’d only recently learned how to use and had blown a hole through the thin wall in an effort to shut that motherfucker up.
And Lacey had returned fire.
Jackson had killed Lacey to defend Ellery, who had been lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Yes,” he said, feeling queasy and awful and scared with that one word.
“We’re both smarter than that now,” Ellery said. “I wouldn’t lose my temper this time. I wouldn’t take that shot. Do you understand?”
Jackson grunted. “Yes, I understand,” he muttered, “and no, I won’t take the motherfucking shot.”
“Good,” Ellery said. “June. Flowers. Sunshine. A fitted suit. Everybody who loves us. Remember the endgame, Detective.”
“Will do, Counselor. What does Manning look like, by the way?”
“Five feet, eight inches, one ninety—”
“Hey!”
“I beg your pardon—one seventy, uhm….”
“Bald,” Manning filled in dryly. “I’m very bald.”
“G-man suit?” Jackson asked.
“Jeans, those boot things you wear when you’re hiking a lot, and some sort of… insulated blue fleece vest over a maroon hoodie.”
Some of Jackson’s temper dissipated. “He doesn’t sound completely stupid,” he said bluntly. “Manning, ping me when you’re on the ground.”
“Will do.”
Jackson signed off and turned toward Preston and Preacher. Preston was busy telling Preacher what a good boy he was and letting him sniff what looked like a hotdog. Preacher grinned, tongue lolling, and Damien, the pilot, approached with packs from the plane.
“You both can help carry water,” he said, and while his voice rose politely, Jackson knew it wasn’t really a question.
“Of course.” Jackson had a canvas satchel hanging from his side with a soft-sided water bottle, trail mix, and beef jerky, and he’d equipped Cody with the same. He understood, though, that while he and Cody might be good with three liters of water apiece, the dog was doing most of the heavy lifting. He took the pack from Damien and started rearranging the contents, adding his own to the emergency foil blankets and thin wool pullovers that he found there, in addition to protein bars and another two liters of water. “Does the dog wear the sweaters?”
Damien grinned at him. “You laugh, but those are fine alpaca. If you layer those between a T-shirt and an outer layer, like fleece, they can help insulate your body in some pretty brutal temps. A sweater much like that saved my life a few years back. We put them in all the packs now when the weather’s inclement. It’s like a lucky charm.”
Jackson nodded. “Can’t argue with what works,” he said. Then, soberly, “I know Toby didn’t give you much time to do this. I appreciate your service and Preston’s—and Preacher’s.”
Damien nodded. “My flight partner and I haul a lot of celebrities, so we can afford to help when it’s needed. I’m just glad I was home today so I could be the one to fly Preston here.” He gave the big blond man a sympathetic glance. “He and Preacher really hope they find somebody alive this time.”
Jackson nodded. “I wouldn’t argue. I checked out the map, although I don’t know the terrain. Do we have time before the dog tires to check out the first dump site, or should we skip straight to the others.”
“There’s a rough path between them,” Damien said, “and if I understand it right, somebody is going to try to find you out here in the field. It would be best if we stuck to the path to help your backup.”
“Fair,” Jackson said, mostly because he didn’t want to drag this nice man into the backwash from the giant chip on his shoulder. He glanced around the area, seeing copses of trees growing in clusters, giant clumps of grass that were nearly waist high, and an uneven walking surface across the field that would only get worse when they hit the various clusters of trees. Then he studied the clouds, hovering pewter and angry over their heads.
“Think it’s gonna rain?” he asked so he could know how bad this would suck.
“We brought ponchos,” Damien said, probably meaning that was a yes.
“Think there’s snakes out there?” Cody asked, and Jackson sent him a sharp glance because this was a new wrinkle.
“Count on it,” Damien told him. “We let Preston and Preacher go first. Preacher hits off snakes—he’ll be able to tell us we’re coming up on one, and Preston wears steel-toed boots. We’ll be fine.”
Damien strode back to Preston for another one of those soul-affirming hugs, and Cody muttered, “Yeah, sure, we’ll be fine. This is rattlesnake country, but it’s fine .”
More of Jackson’s irritation slipped off his shoulders. He missed Henry—much like he was going to miss his eyebrows, which he was positive had been left back on Mokelumne Hill—but Cody had his own merits.
He settled his pack, turned his face to the gray drizzle, and closed his eyes for a moment. Time to push on through.
IT TOOK them less than an hour of tramping down the overgrown path, and while the threatened rain never really delivered, the whipping March winds were not fucking around. The hiking kept them warm, but every so often they would clear a copse of trees and the wind would hit and hit hard.
The second time he heard Cody gasp and swear, Jackson pulled a rust-colored knit hat from the pocket of his fleece and handed it over.
“How’s your jacket equipped with a… is this crochet?” Cody demanded.
“Ellery’s sister made it for me,” Jackson said, a little surprised himself. “His family’s big on Hanukkah gifts and Christmas gifts—it’s weird. Anyway, Ellery gave me the jacket for Christmas, so I got the matching hat for Hanukkah—” He shook his head as they worked to keep up with Preston and Preacher while Damien took up the rear. “Whatever. It’ll keep your ears warm.”
Cody grunted—probably while he was putting on the hat—and Jackson concentrated on the dog. Preston hadn’t given the command to search yet, but he’d assured Jackson that if there was something dead out there when they were simply hiking the woods, Preacher would definitely hit on it. He hit, Preston explained, by going down to his belly while staring at the direction the dead smell came from, and after Preston rewarded him, he would give the command to search, and Preacher would keep looking.
“I read somewhere,” Jackson told him, “that dogs like this are often rewarded with playing and comfort objects. Not Preacher?”
Damien’s snort of laughter was reassuring. “Most of Preston’s other dogs use play as a reward,” he said. “But Preacher’s old-school. That dog don’t get out of bed if there’s not a hotdog in it for him.”
Preston’s mouth flattened, but not like he was mad at Damien. “Between hotdogs and Colonel, I almost doubted my calling for a year ,” he muttered before turning toward the first mine cap and soldiering on.
“Colonel?” Jackson asked Damien.
“The only dog that has ever flunked Preston’s training,” Damien said, keeping his voice down. “Although I’m pretty sure it’s because he fell in love.”
As they’d hiked, Damien had regaled them with the story of a German shepherd who had been supposed to hit on drugs, but who had somehow confused one of the other pilots in their private search and rescue and transport outfit with cocaine.
“Spencer was going to kill us because we kept asking him why he smelled like cocaine,” Damien had chortled, “but it turned out, the dog was just in love .”
Jackson and Cody had laughed at that, the good story making the trip go faster. Cody had started to talk about his tiny dog, Poppy, and how for such a little thing it was as loyal as they came, until Jackson had realized he was getting cold.
Now as the wind picked up even more, Jackson turned to Damien—obviously the communicator of the couple—and asked, “I got only a sketchy look at the map. How much farther—”
“Preacher, scent !” Preston called, and Jackson turned toward where the trees opened up.
It looked almost like a volcano with a cap of dried lava, except it was green and soft, about the size of a volleyball court, and Jackson noted some stakes driven in that probably made that a reality. The depression the mine cap left was only about six inches deep, and there were picnic tables and even a spigot up closer to the next copse of trees.
Jackson and Cody glanced around the small clearing for a moment, and then Jackson spotted the series of boulders off to the side.
“Is that it?” he asked.
Damien nodded soberly. “Yes. It’s not a pit, really. At least not the part we know we can access now . The boulders hide a sort of… ramp. The ramp goes underground, and you can see that underneath the cap, there’s still tunnels left by the mines.” He shuddered. “Small places are not Preston’s friends, but Preacher was hitting so hard.” He didn’t appear the tiniest bit sheepish when he said, “Man, we really hate to hear that dog cry.”
“Well, he’s a good dog,” Cody said, as though that sealed the deal. “Good dogs get treats, not crying.”
Damien grinned at him. “You are just too precious for this life, aren’t you?”
Jackson grunted. “Do not say things like this around me,” he ordered. “You have no idea what sort of grief you could open us up for. Cody, you and me gotta go check out that tiny enclosed space with the dog.”
“If I whine a lot, can I get out of it?” Cody asked dubiously.
“No,” Jackson told him, voice stern. “Because you have thumbs and you can hold a flashlight.”
“ I can get bit by a snake too,” Cody muttered, “but I don’t see that as a plus.”
“That’s ’cause it’s not,” Damien offered helpfully, and Jackson may have kept walking, but he made a mental note to buy that fellow smartass a beer.
“THIS IS bigger than I thought it would be,” Cody said, and to his credit, the whining over the mine had eased up, and what was left as they aimed their beams over the roughhewn walls of the pit was pure professional curiosity. “Preston, where were the bodies originally found?”
“Here,” Preston gestured, and as they progressed, first through a narrow passageway and then through a small chamber, he aimed his beam toward Preacher, who was circling a recently cleared area, complete with crime scene tape, sniffing unhappily.
With a final circle, he gave a dejected little flop, and Preston told him he was a good boy, he had found the dead things, but they’d just been taken. Then he gave Preacher a piece of hotdog.
Everybody had their price, Jackson figured, and hotdogs were at least honest.
Then, after Preacher took the rub to the ears and the hotdog, and a few minutes sniffing Damien’s crotch (Damien bore it with good will—apparently he was used to being Preacher’s reward for a job well done), Preston took a gander around the cave and issued the command again.
Jackson cocked his head, staring, and as Preacher began another odyssey of smells, Preston said, “They discovered some tunnels back behind this main compartment after our original find. We haven’t been back here, and I thought we’d see if Preacher could find any other… interesting things.”
Jackson and Cody exchanged glances, surprised, and—mindful of the uneven floor of the mine, which could pose a hazard for the most sure-footed hiker—they both turned their attention to the giant dog.
Preacher took the new command to seek like Cody had taken the challenge to get them to the search site “as fast as you can.” Not only was the dog dedicated to his task, it gave him great joy. He began snuffling in corners, and then he stood in the middle of the main chamber and turned around three times, as though orienting himself like a compass.
Then, keeping his nose in the air, he trotted in the direction of the other passages.
“Sure,” Cody said, his voice determined. “It’s only claustrophobia and a lifetime of nightmares. Let’s follow the dog!”
With that, they reshouldered their packs and soldiered on.
“SO,” GERALD Manning said carefully as Ellery piloted his Lexus down Sunrise Boulevard, leaving Rancho Cordova in their rearview. “What doesn’t he want us to track?”
“None of your fucking business,” said Ellery’s mother from the back seat, and Ellery couldn’t see Manning’s expression, but he did catch the man’s quick, terrified glance behind his shoulder.
“What she said,” Ellery told him mildly.
He felt Manning’s regard and didn’t know what to do with it. When Manning had insisted that someone from his crew would catch up with Cody and Jackson in the field, Ellery had chosen Manning because he felt as though Manning, at least, could be trusted. But Manning had seemed to hold him and Jackson with a sort of curiosity that made Ellery itchy.
“My mother,” Ellery said, prevaricating with all his considerable skill, “has many contacts in the DOJ for her job. Jackson and I have utilized a few of those, and we simply wish for them to remain anonymous, thank you. My mother’s work is important enough that we don’t want her friends to be bothered.”
Manning appeared to be mollified, and Ellery thanked the God he only seemed to believe in when he and Jackson were in serious danger.
“You could have just said that,” he muttered, sounding hurt.
“You could have backed the hell off,” Ellery snapped, not caring about his feelings. “I get that we had to appeal to the state’s attorney general to make this legitimate and to get help, but Jackson and I have been working this case for….” He faltered.
“This is two days, dear,” his mother said.
“My God,” Ellery muttered and then found his fury. “Our friend got hurt—got shot —and told everybody who would listen that the woman who shot him was wearing a Moms for Clean Living windbreaker. He described her to the police minutes after surgery, and we filled them in with what we knew. And yesterday? Jackson and Cody found imprisoned children by following the breadcrumbs. And in the meantime, while our friends in the department are pushing to investigate, do you know what they’re getting?”
He’d spoken to Andre Christie and Adele Fetzer that morning.
“Nothing?” Manning hazarded.
“Not a goddamned thing. They can’t even get an okay to make an inquiry, because Moms for Clean Living put a cross on their logo, and suddenly to mess with these ogres in twinsets is to put their immortal souls at risk. The departments’ hands are tied . Their pensions were threatened, and that sounds like a small thing to you, but if someone’s been on the streets for thirty-five years, having their retirement money threatened is like putting a gun to their head.” Adele Fetzer’s fury had been hard to miss. “And these are good cops, sir. The best . They would have gone AWOL and come here anyway, because everybody on our list—that phone list you’re all hopped up about getting your paws on, by the way—owes me or Jackson in some way, and they’ve got our backs. So suddenly you’re on board our little law-and-order train. In Jackson’s words, fucking bully for you. You’re here because cowards stood in the way of better soldiers, and there’s no changing that.”