When It Rains: Accidental Roots 8 Read online

  When It Rains

  Accidental Roots 8

  Elle Keaton

  Dirty Dog Press

  E-books are not transferrable.

  They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as doing so is an infringement

  on the copyright of the work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and

  incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons,

  living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is

  entirely coincidental.

  Dirty Dog Press

  Seattle, WA 98118

  When It Rains (Accidental Roots 8)

  Copyright 2019 by Elle Keaton

  Edited by Alicia Z. Ramos

  ISBN:

  Cover created by Cate Ashwood

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced in any manner without written permission,

  except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and articles.

  www.ElleKeaton.com

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  facebook.com/groups/HighwaytoElle.com

  bookbub.com/profile/Elle-Keaton.com

  Twitter @piratequeenrdz1

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  Created with Vellum

  When It Rains is heart-fully, passionately and happily-ever-after-ly, dedicated to the readers who made it possible for me to continue writing.

  Thank you,

  Elle

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elle Keaton

  1

  Carsten

  Five years ago

  * * *

  A seagull called from somewhere overhead. This morning’s fog was thick enough he couldn’t see the bird, but he could imagine it, winging high over the cabin far from the open sea. Seagulls were scavengers, not anything interesting, but a vivid memory surfaced of watching hundreds of them swooping and flying above a landfill, fighting for food scraps, the victors lording it over the others atop the mountains of refuse, screaming in triumph much like the solo bird above his head.

  The wind picked up, blowing his hair around his face and into his mouth, where it stuck to his chapped lips before he brushed it off. It was long enough to braid or tie back; in defiance he did neither. What he was defying, he couldn’t put his finger on, but wearing his hair down and not restrained was freedom. He hated his hair; the rare times he’d been in public, strangers had pointed at him, claiming they were jealous of it—how wonderful to have such beautiful hair—but for him it was a curse, bringing unwanted attention despite also providing something to hide behind when he needed to. Real defiance would be shaving his head.

  The phone call had come late the night before. He’d been in the middle of watching an old movie from the 1980s. Recently he’d had a few more freedoms, as if Garrett no longer cared what he knew about the world outside, but there was no internet for him to surf, only an ancient VCR hooked to the TV. He wasn’t supposed to answer the phone—as far as he could recall, it had never rung before—but Garrett had been late returning from his business trip. Very late. The phone had rung into the silence of the cabin, stopped for a minute or so, and then begun again. He stared at it like it was a venomous snake or rabid dog. Finally he picked it up.

  “Hello, is this Garrett Cook’s residence?”

  “Yes.” He supposed it was; he had no way of knowing otherwise.

  “Are you his next of kin?”

  The person on the other end was no one who knew Garrett personally, or they wouldn’t have believed him when he agreed he was Garrett’s next of kin.

  “I’m calling from St. Joseph’s Hospital in Skagit. Mr. Cook has been in an accident. Can you come to the hospital?”

  He’d almost laughed, but the caller had been serious.

  “No, I’m sorry. Garrett had the only car. We’re pretty far away, I think.”

  The person was quiet for a moment. He could hear hospital sounds in the background, beeping, low voices.

  The person came back on the line. “Mr. Cook’s condition is extremely critical. It’s likely he won’t make it through the night. If you want to see him, there may not be another chance.”

  Garrett hadn’t been afraid to leave him alone occasionally, because the closest town was miles away through rugged terrain and the closest neighbor probably had the same kind of secrets as Garrett.

  “Thank you, I’ll try to get there.”

  For the first time in years, he’d slept through the night without waking.

  * * *

  Before going to sleep, he’d called the only number he knew by heart. It was disconnected, as it had been the last time he’d tried. He wasn’t sure what led him to try again. Making sure he was absolutely alone in the world, he supposed. He was.

  The cabin was isolated but well appointed, as Garrett had liked his comforts. If he was careful, he had food for a couple of weeks. He had choices: Wait for a while to see what would happen, see who would show up—someone would, eventually—or hike out and hope for the best. He dressed and found a small backpack and a wad of cash Garrett had thought was hidden well. He tucked jeans and the plain white T-shirts Garrett provided him in the bag. Nothing else.

  Nerves and reality were beginning to set in. He knew if he didn’t leave now, he might never find the courage to. In an odd way he was safe here. Walking through the small log cabin one last time, he grabbed Garrett’s—now his—ancient SLR camera. Garrett didn’t like—hadn’t liked—taking pictures of him recently, not since he’d filled out a little in the past year. He had always wondered who else Garrett had taken pictures of, before he came along.

  As stupid as it was, in some ways (in a lot of ways) staying put felt like the better choice—safer, anyway. On the other hand, he realized as he stood outside listening to the lone seagull call through the mist, he never wanted to go back inside that place.

  He knew about conditions like Stockholm syndrome and how abusers manipulated their victims into liking, and even protecting, them. Garrett had tried a lot of those kinds of tactics in the beginning. He could’ve told him it was pointless to manipulate someone who was utterly alone. The other side of the coin was, at least Garrett fed him, wore a condom when he wanted sex, and didn’t like bruises on his pale skin. He’d only tried to escape once, a couple of years ago. The punishment had made it not worth the effort.

  He shut the door behind him. He would’ve locked it, but he didn’t have a key. Slinging the backpack up onto his shoulder, he started to make his way up the long gravel drive that led to a slightly wider gravel road a mile or so away. Eventually he’d find a town or hitch a ride.

  All at once, the gull’s cry wasn’t the only sound he heard. The crunch o
f tires far up the drive but definitely coming closer reached his ears. Had Garrett survived after all? His stomach twisted, almost making him sick. He stopped walking to listen. Had the phone call been merely a fever dream or hallucination? Being alone all the time … maybe he’d dreamed the conversation with the nice person from the hospital.

  If he hadn’t been outside, he wouldn’t have heard the truck coming. Coming to his senses, he raced to hide behind a huge cedar tree a little back from the driveway. If Garrett was still alive … he didn’t know what he would do. He cowered behind the tree, shivering against the cold mountain air, praying it wasn’t Garrett. By the time he realized he should’ve run back inside, it was too late.

  * * *

  As he watched from his hidden vantage point, an old pickup truck came into view. Two men were in the cab. He didn’t recognize either of them.

  The men climbed out, dressed in worn camo gear and heavy boots. They met at the back of the truck, opened the gate, and each grabbed a bright red plastic container out of the bed. Quickly and efficiently, they poured gasoline around the foundation of the cabin and on the porch, then splashed more liquid on the old gray siding before laying out a length of rope. They soaked that in gasoline as well, before one of them lit it.

  They were eerily quiet the entire time. He only heard the wind and the rustle of pine needles under their heavy boots. There was no conversation, no chatting, no wondering if maybe they should check and see if someone was inside. Once the fire was blazing, the men returned to the truck, turned it around, and disappeared up the driveway.

  * * *

  Once the truck was gone, the only sounds were the snap and pop of flames as they hungrily consumed the cabin, burning high and hot. At one point he worried the surrounding evergreens might catch fire, but Garrett had been paranoid about forest fire; the closest trees were fifty feet from the cabin. A wall collapsed inward, sending sparks flying into the air, followed by the roof; the remaining walls were consumed in minutes.

  Finally the last of the small building crumpled into an indistinguishable pile of rubble with him as the only witness, the only human for miles as far as he knew. Looking around, he took in the trees and shrubs; the sound of the fire cooling, popping every once in a while when it found a new source of fuel. In the distance he heard a bird call.

  “The hell,” he muttered to no one.

  The newly minted Carsten Quinn pulled himself together. He was free, really free—reborn like the phoenix. Maybe the men hadn’t known about Carsten, or maybe they hadn’t cared. If they had known about him, now they believed he was dead in the fire, along with all the other evidence of Garrett’s secret life.

  * * *

  A few miles down the road, a battered Volkswagen bus slowed and stopped alongside Carsten as he walked. It was the only vehicle other than the pickup he’d seen that day or that week.

  “Hey man, you headed anywhere special?” the scruffy passenger asked, leaning through the rolled-down window. The bus was a rust bucket held together by actual duct tape and Grateful Dead stickers. The two guys inside didn’t ask a bunch of questions; they just made room for Carsten on the bench seat in back, turned the music up, and drove him all the way to Skagit—a bumpy, three-hour drive.

  As they drove, he thought hard about whether or not he should go to the hospital and see if Garrett was really dead. Did it matter? He’d probably have to answer a bunch of questions.

  Before he decided, the younger-looking guys spoke over the currently muted vocals of Jerry Garcia. “You looking for work? A buddy has a gig down at the pier tomorrow—you’d be perfect. AJ won’t do it, but he’s taking me.”

  The driver, AJ, glanced at his friend. “Maybe he doesn’t want to stand around half naked in the freezing cold and get his picture taken, Ben. I can’t believe you talked me into coming down here. We had a sweet spot right by the river, nobody bugging us.” He shook his shaggy blond head.

  “I don’t know …” The idea of being in front of a camera, even if it was legit, made him twitchy. The idea of being anywhere but the cabin made him twitchy. Garrett had kept him isolated for the most part. On the other hand, if he could make some quick cash, it would keep him from blowing through what he had.

  The passenger, Ben, turned in his seat to face him. He started to speak, but the van pulled up to a stoplight and AJ took the opportunity to give him a warning look.

  “Don’t bug the guy. If he wants to, he’ll say yes; if not, he’ll say no.”

  “I was gonna ask if he had a place to crash,” Ben retorted.

  AJ shook his head, focusing on the road again. “You never listen. One of these days you’re going to ask the wrong person, and we’re gonna end up with a serial killer in the basement.”

  “I think you have a wrong idea about how serial killers work. Are you a serial killer?” Ben asked Carsten.

  “Uh, no, not that I know of?” Could this day get any weirder? Could his life get any weirder? He should be freaking out, but their banter kept him grounded.

  “See? Not a serial killer.” Ben punched AJ in the shoulder, and the steering wheel jerked.

  AJ muttered, “You definitely have the wrong idea about serial killers.” He caught Carsten’s eyes in the rearview mirror and grinned. “He’s stupid, but I like him.”

  “Asshole,” Ben mumbled, but there was no heat behind the word.

  * * *

  Carsten crashed in their “basement” that night—which he should have realized before was the pullout bed of the van. AJ and Ben slept “upstairs” in the pop-up. He never made it to the hospital. Maybe he knew he was never going to attempt to see if Garrett had lived through the night. He slid into being Carsten Quinn with frightening ease; no one asked him for ID the next day. He was paid cash to stand around in the rain and have his picture taken with a bunch of other guys, trying to look like he was edgy and knew how to ride a skateboard.

  AJ had dropped them off in the morning. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Ben hopped out next to Carsten, sliding the door shut behind him.

  “You ready?”

  Carsten shrugged. “I guess. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  “You’ll be fine. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

  Ben started walking toward the group of guys waiting by the pier. “Hey Troy,” he called out. One of the waiting guys separated from the group to meet them as they drew closer. “This is my buddy Carsten.”

  2

  Beto

  Two years ago

  * * *

  You really know how to put the “fun” in “funeral.’”

  “Jesucristo, be quiet.” Beto didn’t say the words out loud, because there wasn’t actually anyone talking to him.

  Funerals were never fun. Even when, as in Jerry’s case, the person had been well liked and their death was expected. Maybe that made it worse. Beto didn’t know; he avoided funerals for the most part.

  He stood slightly aside from the other mourners. He didn’t feel like exchanging platitudes such as “Isn’t it a beautiful day; Jerry would’ve loved it.” Yes, Jerry would’ve loved it if he’d been around to see the day, not have his body laid to rest during it. Jerry would’ve been nudging Beto, whispering asides about his sister’s choice of dress or reminding him that it was his turn to do the paperwork for the case they were working on or asking “Have you heard this joke?” and then proceeding to tell it whether Beto had heard it or not. The funeral would’ve been a lot more fun if Jerry were alive.

  A few days earlier, for the first time in months, it had rained. The panic many LA drivers had when the smallest drops began to hit the dusty streets was past, and spots of color had appeared on the sycamores, maples, olives, liquidambars, flowering plums, myrtles, oleanders, and oaks dotting LA—those that hadn’t been killed by the bore beetle infestation, anyway.

  The shade of a sycamore kept the heat of the day off his shoulders. Beto shifted where he stood, trying to make himself comfortable
while listening to the graveside service.

  “It was nice of you to come. What a lovely day.” Jerry’s older sister, Nancy, came to stand next to him while the rest of the family waited for the pallbearers to lower the coffin to the ground.

  He gritted his teeth against the things he wanted to say, instead nodding and muttering, “Of course.” Of course he was sure Jerry would’ve preferred to actually see the blue sky and experience the sunshine, not be in a box.

  “There’s a celebration of life at our parents’ after; we’d love to see you.”

  If a person could bleed out from the slice of a virtual knife, Beto would be on the ground begging for his life. His stomach twisted in pain at her words, meant kindly but so cutting. It wasn’t her fault.

  “I’ll try” were the only words he managed.

  Nancy nodded and then picked her way across the grass to her family—Jerry’s family.

  The breeze picked up, taking the edge off the heat of the day. A flock of birds overhead swirled and flew out toward the sparkling ocean. Beto wished he were anywhere else.

  * * *

  Beto didn’t drink much, but on his way to the Ketterings’ family home he stopped at the Wine and Liquor Depot and picked up a bottle of bourbon. He’d go, give his regrets, raise a glass, and go home. Bing bang boom.