by Jeff Abbott
‘Not cowardice. Prudence. Learn the difference.’ In the dark, Gooch cracked his knuckles. ‘I still vote we find out who’s behind this and destroy them.’
‘And by destroy you mean call the papers and the cops and put them away forever.’
‘I mean making sure they can never threaten anyone again. By means fair or foul.’
‘I can’t support anything illegal, for God’s sakes. I’m a judge.’
‘Whitman. Please. The court of Gooch is eminently fair. These people put themselves at risk when they threatened you. You would have been entirely within your rights if you’d had a gun and shot the bastard. Self-defense. Think of this as extended, ongoing self-defense.’
‘No.’
‘I remind you that you could have chosen to run to the police. You did not. You came to me. Do you expect me to sit with thumb in ass while my friend is threatened? You knew I would take action.’
‘I just don’t want anyone killed, Gooch, for God’s sakes.’
‘You sell me short every time. Whitman. I never said I would kill anyone.’
‘You never said you wouldn’t.’
‘You can hardly open up a can of certified, high-octane whoop-ass on these people and then start setting boundaries.’ Gooch stood and stretched. ‘I’ll sleep under the stars, even if they’re playing hide-and-seek tonight.’
‘I have my own ideas on how to move forward,’ Whit said. ‘But I want to think them through.’
‘Then we’ll talk in the morning.’ Gooch pulled a sleeping bag from a kit on deck and unrolled it, stretched out his big body on it without getting inside. ‘Good night, Your Honor.’
‘Good night.’ A pause. ‘Thanks, Gooch. I mean, really, thanks.’
Gooch turned his face in the direction of the sleeping porpoises. ‘You’re welcome.’
Whit went below to the guest stateroom and climbed into a berth. The draining of adrenaline throughout his body hit him hard. His head dropped onto the pillow, and his last waking thought was he had come as close to death tonight as he ever had and did he even want this stupid justice of the peace job anymore?
Or did he even deserve the job?
The Honorable Whit Mosley fell asleep before he could decide.
Heather Farrell stood in the dark curve of Little Mischief Beach. She knew Sam hated surprises – he was such a careful thinker – but money was money and they could use another five thousand. New Orleans was expensive. Sam never worried two seconds over cash, but Heather had searched in trash bins for half-eaten sandwiches, burgers doubling as housefly helipads, and fries cold and clotted with grease. Only she had the money sense. No amount of money lasted forever, and five thousand bucks was worth waiting on the cold dark beach in the middle of the night.
Heather eased down on the sand, holding her flashlight. In the dark of the beach she would be hard to find. Just like she and Sam would be. Once they got to New Orleans, they could rent a cheap room near the Quarter under invented names and nab some weed and lay in bed and smoke, spend whole days making love, stopping only to wander among the tourists, devour crawfish and boudin, and drink icy Jax beer.
It was funny. She wouldn’t have touched a younger guy back in Lubbock, but travel broadened a girl. Sam was different than the pimpled boys. Confident, and funny, and making love he did not act or feel like a kid but a full-grown man. Sweet and kind. And smart, he had it all worked out where his mother and grandmother would have to let him go and have his life. He had convinced Heather his outlandish plan would work just fine.
Shoes crunched against the crushed shells along the lip of the beach. Her thumb moved to the toggle on the flashlight. Hand over the money, she nearly growled, as a joke, like she was robbing the guy. But then she thought he might not appreciate humor. He didn’t smile much.
Funny the way people were, the way you could never guess about them, what lay under a skin -
‘Heather?’ a voice called softly behind her. She wasn’t afraid, she knew he was coming, and she stood and dusted damp sand off her jeans. She clicked on her flashlight, the cone of light illuminating her worn sneakers.
‘Hey.’ A soft hiss of a laugh. ‘You can turn that off.’
‘Let’s get out of here. I could use some coffee.’
‘No, this won’t take long.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Do you have the money?’
‘Yes. Five thousand dollars, as we agreed, and you and Sam Hubble leave town.’
The guy was so stupid. He had no idea she and Sam were planning on leaving town anyway, and here he was bribing her to do exactly what she wanted.
‘It’s going to screw over his grandmother in the middle of this election,’ Heather said in her tough-chick voice. ‘You sure that’s what you want?’
‘I want,’ the man said. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’
‘And I’ll miss you, too. You never looked down on me.’
‘Of course not.’ A pause, the only sound her breathing and the soft swish of the waves. ‘I like you. Heather.’
A coyness tinged his voice, and she wondered if numerous unsavory strings were attached to this sum of money. On the road a car passed, loud jazz blasting from the windows, and the man held himself perfectly still until the car was gone.
‘The police,’ he said. ‘They questioned you pretty thoroughly about finding Pete Hubble’s body.’
‘Yeah. But they didn’t bug me too bad. I could handle them.’
‘Did you really not see anything? Hear anything when you went on Pete’s boat?’
Suddenly her stomach roiled and a prickle rose along her arms, her legs, the small of her back. She just wanted the money, and she wanted off this dark beach. A whirl of what was going to be – a narrow little room in New Orleans, street curbs reeking of beer, blowing sugar off a hot beignet onto Sam’s face for fun, zydeco drifting from a hundred open bar doors, her pockets heavy with money, Sam’s breath cool against her ear after loving – flashed through her mind. Her throat ached.
‘There was nothing to hear. I mean, Pete was already dead. He killed himself.’
‘Yes. But the police doubt you.’
She blinked. ‘No, they don’t.’
‘They know you lied to them.’
‘I didn’t lie. He was dead when I got there.’
‘And you saw nothing suspicious? Heard nothing suspicious?’
‘Nothing to see, nothing to hear,’ she said, more annoyed than afraid.
‘Just between you and me, were you going to make a movie for him?’ She heard a creeping breathlessness in his tone.
‘What?’ she said. ‘No.’
‘Too bad. I would’ve liked to have seen him fucking you.’
Heather blanched. ‘Just give me my money.’
‘Yes, Darling,’ he said, and the knife swung up hard, burying itself in her stomach, deep. His hand slammed over her mouth. Heather’s eyes widened in agony and disbelief, and blood bubbled out of her, from the wound and surging past her lips.
Sam, oh Jesus, Sam help me, and then she tried to scream for her mother and then the knife was gone and she didn’t even feel the flick across her throat but she slid into a strange darkness quite different from night.
The Blade held her close against him, smelling peanut butter crackers on her breath, feeling her death shuddering through him, then ended the embrace. Heather Farrell fell bonelessly onto the sand. Blood soaked his clothes, but after all, that was very easily remedied.
He wiped the knife on Heather’s jeans. He pulled a large folded square of plastic from the back of his pants. It was warm from resting against his butt, like the knife had been. Carefully he rolled the body onto the plastic sheet and wrapped her in the shower-curtain shroud. He carried her toward the far end of the beach.
The fishing skiff bobbed in the shallow waves. He dumped the body into the boat, grabbed a small shovel and a plastic bucket, and dug up the blood-sodden sand. He motored the skiff into deeper water and aimed the prow across the heart of
St Leo Bay.
He trembled. He really had nothing against her, didn’t really want her the way he desired his Darlings, but now it was done and a shaky rush of triumph dried his mouth. Again, he was okay. Again, no one had seen. Again. For all the times he felt dumb as a stump, lost among other people, this he could do and do it okay.
The Blade steered the skiff out into the night, deep into the bay. He spotted a rather grand fishing trawler anchored in the middle, halfway between Port Leo and Santa Margarita Island, but its lights were down and he gave it a wide berth. The clouds lay heavy and low over the sky, like a second shroud, blocking out the clear stars, and he moved unseen on the waters.
28
At nine Thursday morning Claudia, supercharged by a large chocolate croissant from an art district bakery and a double espresso stronger than Gulf crude, waited to interview Jabez Jones about the Marcy Ballew case. David stood in the small bare study, hands on trim hips, inspecting the photos of Jabez body-slamming a thick-barreled antagonist during his pro wrestling days. David’s uniform needed pressing, and she wondered if he wore it as a silent you-fled-domestic-bliss rebuke.
‘I’m pretty sure all this wrestling’s faked,’ David said.
Delford had called her last night, asking her to work with David, per his request.
Are you pissed at me or what? she had asked. Why are you putting me through the wringer? First you cut me from the Hubble case. Now you’re inflicting my ex on me.
I’m just expecting you to work with the man. It’s a whole hour out of your day, Claudia. Just do it.
She wondered if the pay was better in Rockport or Port Aransas than Port Leo.
Jabez Jones entered, filling khaki shorts and a crisp T-shirt that read BE STRONG – I SAMUEL 4:9. His thighs looked like wooden blocks and a light sheen of sweat coated his face. Morning workout or morning prayer? she wondered. He mopped at his face with a hand towel.
‘Hello, Deputy Power.’ He shook David’s hand warmly and nodded toward Claudia. ‘Detective Salazar, we’re blessed again with your presence. Carrot juice? Smoothie? We probably even have coffee, although I’m not fond of polluting my temple with stimulants.’
His temple. But Jabez’s expression remained perfectly serious.
‘No, thanks,’ Claudia said. David shook his head.
‘Well, I could use a protein shake,’ Jabez said. ‘Why don’t y’all come with me and we can talk in the kitchen?’
They followed him to a kitchen where a young woman sliced cantaloupe with the precision of a jeweler. She gave Jabez a come-hither grin, but her smile froze when she saw Claudia and David.
Claudia thought: Where do I know you from? The girl’s slender, doe-eyed face looked vaguely familiar. She moved with a complete awareness of her small body, setting down the knife with a shrug of short-snug hip, turning from the counter and leaning against it slightly to bring her breasts to full tilt against her shirt.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Rachel, would you mind excusing us?’ Jabez said.
‘Just a moment.’ Claudia sidestepped around Jabez. She held up the picture of Marcy Ballew. ‘Have you seen this young woman?’
Rachel glanced at Jabez, who shrugged. She studied the flyer. Claudia remembered her then, the girl from the volleyball game when she and Whit had interviewed Jabez before.
‘No. I’ve never seen her,’ Rachel said.
‘Thanks,’ Claudia said. Jabez nodded, so Rachel left. Claudia noticed David watching her exit. It was probably inspiring to a newly single guy, and she thought, Quit it, quit looking at her.
Jabez startled her. ‘May I see the picture of who you’re looking for?’
‘Yes.’ She handed it to Jabez.
‘Her name is Marcy. We think she was in this area recently,’ David said.
Jabez handed Claudia back the photo after a blink’s worth of looking. ‘I don’t know her.’
‘Her mother told us that she was a big fan of your wrestling career and your new show,’ Claudia said.
The Adam’s apple rose slightly in his oak of a throat. ‘A fan? Well, I’m sorry I don’t know her, then, and sorry I can’t be of further help to you.’
Claudia smiled. ‘I don’t know about Deputy Power, but I think I will take one of those shakes you offered, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I skipped breakfast. Then we can ask you a few other quick questions.’
Jabez’s smile was as tight as his shirt. ‘Certainly. Melon or strawberry? I load them with vitamin mix and wheat germ as well.’
It would nullify the chocolate and the espresso. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ David said. ‘Fruit tears up my stomach real bad.’
Jabez turned to fix the beverages.
‘Do you take in runaways here?’ she asked.
Jabez pushed aside the cantaloupe that Rachel had been slicing and began to peel a banana. He peeled a second one and upended both in a blender. Then he began to wash and slice several strawberries. ‘People come to our camp for succor, for comfort. I believe they are safer with us than on the road, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know much about what all you do here.’
‘We pray, we minister.’ He dumped the cut berries in with the bananas, poured in some milk and ice, and thumbed on the blender. Claudia waited until the pureeing stopped.
‘This girl’s ID turned up alongside a road two miles outside Port Leo.’
‘She didn’t come here.’ He sprinkled wheat germ and shaved carrots and some other powder Claudia hoped wasn’t strychnine into frosted glasses and poured the blended froth over them. He rummaged in the industrial-size fridge and held up an egg to her with a raised eyebrow. She shook her head and he cracked the raw egg into his frosted glass. She heard David gulp. Jabez garnished her glass with a slice of cantaloupe and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ The drink tasted sweet on her tongue but had the texture of cement mix. Jabez gestured for them to follow him.
They went into an adjoining living room-cum-training center. If Jesus preached poverty, Jabez wasn’t listening. A state-of-the-art Nautilus machine towered in the corner. Expensive contemporary furniture – Danish, and out of character with the Victorian exterior of the home – adorned the room. A wide-screen television dominated one corner. Photos of Jabez’s glory days in the wrestling ring covered the wall. In one he held aloft a weighted championship belt and snarled at the screaming audience of modern-day gladiator junkies.
One small cross hung on the wall, fitted in between a pair of ringside wrestling photos. No pictures of Jesus the gentle shepherd.
‘We’d like to show her picture to your followers,’ David said.
‘They don’t follow me. They follow Jesus. Followers makes it sound like a cult.’
‘Well,’ David said pleasantly. ‘No offense meant.’
‘You start a new church, offer seekers new answers to old questions, find success with it, and then people question you.’
‘You glorify the body, though,’ Claudia said.
He flexed the muscles in one arm. ‘We consider our bodies temples to the Lord, since we are sculpted in His image. Our own bodies are reflected in the Body of Christ that the church forms.’ He ran a hand over the muscle in his arm like it was sacred velvet, a priest admiring his vestments.
‘You certainly have a lot of young women here,’ she said.
‘I’m sure there are many young women at your own church.’
Claudia smiled. ‘But they don’t live with Father O’Hearn or Father Aguilar.’
‘I don’t sleep with these young women, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘You just focus on having female disciples? That it?’ David asked.
His gaze hardened. ‘The way I bring God to them appeals to them, just as a prayer book appeals to an Episcopalian or bowing toward Mecca appeals to a Muslim.’
‘You’re sure the Ballew girl didn’t make her way here?’ David asked.
‘You are the only connection we’ve yet found between this girl and Port Leo,’ David said bluntly.
Jabez drained his shake in such a pronounced swallow it reminded Claudia of a python downing a rat. ‘You have no cause to bother us.’
‘This girl had no reason to be in Encina County that we know of except for you.’ Claudia set down her drink on a glass-topped table. ‘I’m sorry, but I feel like you’re not being completely honest with us.’
‘I’ve given you no reason for doubt.’
‘I wonder,’ she said, hoping to shake the tree. ‘You have this missing girl who might have come here to see you. You’re seen arguing with Pete Hubble on his boat, and he is now dead. I suppose it might be coincidence. I suppose it might not.’
David shot her a questioning look with the barest shrug of his shoulders.
Jabez crossed his buffed arms. ‘I don’t get easily intimidated. Jesus is on my side, in my heart, in my brain. I can withstand Satan. Comparatively, you’re not that frightening.’
‘Satan can’t get a search warrant, Reverend. And Satan can’t put every aspect of your operation under a microscope. How do you think your television flock would react to news of you being investigated?’ Claudia asked.
‘On what charge? I’ve cooperated fully.’ He laughed. ‘I might expect this of a provincial buffoon like Delford Spires, but I always marked you as fairer and more intelligent, Ms Salazar.’
Claudia shook her head. ‘So why do I believe I’m going to have to lean on you very hard to get the truth?’
He smiled beatifically. ‘Lean away. I have a great PR firm in Austin. They’ve already laid out a plan for any crisis. Arrest, investigation, scandal – not that it’s likely.’
She let the silence hang. ‘Fine. Anything else, Deputy Power?’
David shook his head, a numb look on his face. ‘Loved the shake,’ Claudia said.
‘Go with God,’ Jabez said. She wanted to slap the sure smirk off his face.
They got into David’s cruiser and shut the doors. David didn’t start the car.
