by Blake Dixon
“Holy shit.” Kane grinned. “You want to fly to Saigon with me, sweetheart?”
“I’m not even mad at you for calling me that,” she said. “This time.”
“I’ll think of something better.”
Jude smiled and leaned back in his chair. Maybe this debriefing wouldn’t take as long as he’d thought.
Chapter Fifty
There was a tentative knock at his office door. Jude sighed, stood and walked around the desk to open it. “Yes?”
“Sorry. I know I was just in here a minute ago.” Clover smiled. “Uh, Dale said he thought we’d ordered a box of yellow slip bobbers last week, and a customer wants one, but we can’t find the box.”
“We did. It’s in the back room,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks, Jude.”
“No problem.”
She scurried away, and he emerged from the office behind the counter, turned right and went into the back room. The bobbers in question were on a top shelf, still sealed and bearing the shipping label. He reached up and grabbed the box, almost smiling a little.
At least they weren’t setting the place on fire.
Even though the Noakes case had wrapped up slightly earlier than expected, he’d kept the bait shop closed through the end of the week like he mentioned. Just until the most visible evidence from his unexpected adventure healed. This was day three of being open for business, and his young employees had finally stopped asking questions.
They were getting better at the job, too. Except when they couldn’t find things that were right in front of them.
He carried the box of bobbers to the checkout counter, setting them down in front of a friendly-looking older man who stood on the other side. “These for you, sir?” he said.
“I believe they are. Yellow slips?”
“You got it.”
“I’ll take three, then.” The man watched as Jude fished a box cutter from under the counter, slit the seal and popped the flaps open. “Y’all aren’t new in town, are you?” the man said. “I generally hear when somebody new moves down in Stone’s Throw.”
“Not new. Just keep to myself, mostly.” Jude put three bobbers on the counter. “Anything else for you, sir?”
“Tub of nightcrawlers. I’ll grab ’em on the way out.” The old man stuck a hand out. “Name’s Lloyd Downey,” he said.
He managed not to hesitate too long. “Jude Wyland,” he said, shaking the offered hand.
“You a native Virginian, son?”
“Born and bred.”
“Good to hear. Damned good.” Lloyd Downey released his hand and produced a thick, battered leather wallet, the kind that seemed to come standard with well-aged gentlemen everywhere. “What do I owe you for the bits and dangles?”
Jude punched the order into the register and eyed Clover and Dale, who were hunched over Clover’s phone whispering about something. “Three bobbers, one tub. That’ll be three-fifty even.”
“Fair price. Glad to know you’re not out here in Harry’s old shop, ripping folks off.” A wink conveyed the joke as he counted out four one-dollar bills as battered as his wallet.
Jude made change and tucked the bright yellow plastic balls in a paper bag. “Don’t forget your nightcrawlers, Mr. Downey.”
The man tapped his temple. “Memory ain’t shot yet,’ he said with a grin. “Say, Jude, you ought to come down to the town barbecue this weekend. Hopper Park. Grab yourself a plate and get to know some folks.”
“I might do that,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Starts at two o’clock on Saturday. See you there.”
With a wave over his shoulder, Lloyd Downey headed out of the shop. He didn’t forget his nightcrawlers.
The bells over the door jingled as it closed. Jude waited a beat, and then regarded his employees — who were both staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. “What?” he said. “I can be polite sometimes. And I do know how the cash register works, even if I’m paying you to handle it for me.” He tipped a mock-stern look at them.
“Oh! It’s not that. Even though it was a little weird, seeing you talk to people.” Clover started toward him with a considering stare. “I was just reading this news story on Facebook, and … well, look.” She turned her phone screen toward him.
The headline read CIA Deputy Director Slain in Apparent Ritualized Murder.
There was a photo of Raymond Rubin directly below the headline.
Damn. He hadn’t even considered the problem with the media. He’d known about the murder since yesterday when Natalie Moore called him, demanding to know if he had any idea who might’ve gone after Rubin when he got out on bail, when it looked like the charges against him wouldn’t stick. Who might have murdered him in a uniquely gruesome manner — by shoving a gun up his ass and pulling the trigger. One detail he was sure hadn’t made it into the news stories.
He had a pretty good idea who, and he was sure Natalie did too. But he wasn’t saying.
Kane deserved that one.
“What about it?” he finally said to Clover.
She waggled the phone. “This is the guy,” she said. “The deputy director of the CIA came in here to talk to you, and then you closed up shop and disappeared for a week.”
“You sure that’s the guy?” he said.
“Of course I’m sure! And then when you called and said you were really a CIA agent. I thought you were joking, but … are you? A CIA agent, I mean.”
“No.” It was true. He’d turned in the damned badge after the debriefing, despite Natalie’s offer to keep him active. There were still too many politics in the CIA for his liking. Still, he’d felt better, more like a whole person, while he was out there saving lives — though he could’ve done without the beatings and gunshot wounds.
He could probably stand to take on a few more private investigations. Get himself back out there in the field. Maybe live a little.
“Come on,” Clover said. “Seriously, what was he doing here?”
Jude smirked. “Just looking for some advice,” he said. “He was thinking about taking up bass fishing, and he wanted to know the best lures to use out on the bay.”
She crossed her arms. “That man did not want to go fishing.”
“Sure he did. Unfortunately for him, the fish weren’t biting.”
“But—”
Jude coughed deliberately. “Those shelves aren’t going to stock themselves,” he said.
“All right. I’m going.” She smiled and tucked the phone in her pocket. “Someday I’m going to figure you out, though. You’re a real man of mystery, right here in Stone’s Throw.”
“Good luck with that.”
Clover headed off to rejoin Dale, and Jude went back to his office. He expected another knock at any minute. At least these two kept him on his toes — and he needed the practice. It was time to stop wallowing and put the past to bed.
He’d given a little girl a future, and earned the right to have one himself.
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