Black Jack Point

by Jeff Abbott

  “We each caught a whale, right?” Ben sipped at his soda.

  Claudia watched sleek figures dart and turn beneath the bloody cloud. Within seconds a thick-bodied yellowfin hit her line. She jerked once, setting the hook, and then let the monofilament line spin out as the yellowfin raced away, revving along for a hundred and fifty feet. The tug and play went on for ten minutes, and soon the strength at the other end of the line faded. Claudia reeled her prize in and carefully held the bullet-shaped yellowfin aloft for inspection.

  “A real beauty. You’re gonna outfish me, aren’t you?”

  “The day is young.” Claudia eased the heavy yellowfin into the customized live well in the salon’s corner and cast her line out again.

  But her luck didn’t hold. Her next cast caught a fight-filled bonito that tired after ten minutes. As Claudia reeled the bonito toward the boat a dark shape flashed beneath the faded slick of chum and her line went slack.

  Ben pointed into the murk. “Shark. Grabbed your fish for lunch.”

  Claudia watched a ten-foot silky rocket underneath the boat. Sharks. An odd tickle touched the base of her spine. “I hope he enjoys the lunch I caught him.”

  “Let’s find less crowded waters.” Ben went up to the flying bridge and steered Jupiter away from the shrimpers’ wakes, moving far out past a weather buoy marking seventy-five miles from the Texas coast. They spent the next hour or so hooking king mackerel and ling.

  Ben pulled up a big ling, inspected it, let it go. The fish hit the water and dove down into the hard blue dark. “Best catches I’ve had lately. That kiss worked.”

  “All mine do,” she said. “So I got a question. Why’d you call me, Ben, after all these years?”

  He cast his line again, let it settle. “You aren’t with David anymore.”

  “It’s funny. Now I actually never feel I was with him.”

  “You didn’t love him?”

  “I did. But not the way you’re supposed to.”

  “There’s a recipe?”

  “There’s a minimum requirement. He and I were comfortable together. But comfort wasn’t quite enough.”

  “Did you ever think of me when you were married?”

  “Yes,” she said. “A few times. But if you had shown up on my doorstep all you would have gotten was a friendly hug and a cup of coffee. I took my marriage seriously, Ben.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Ben took her hand. “I never told you this, but you were my first, Claudia.” He grinned. “I had to get you out in the middle of the Gulf to confess that. No danger of anyone overhearing.”

  “I suspected as much, if I remember.”

  “Couldn’t admit it to you. The guy can never be the virgin.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Well, I forgive you, Ben.”

  He leaned over, kissed her, soft and gentle but not tentative. Not the lips of the boy she had kissed at seventeen, not the boy she had given her own virginity to, but a man surer and wiser with his touch. He broke the kiss first, kissed her closed eyelids.

  “Now I’m really glad Stoney didn’t come. Plus his girlfriends are all idiots.”

  She wondered what it would be like to make love on the deck of the boat, out here in the middle of nowhere, the sun their only blanket.

  “I’ll fix us sandwiches, open a nice wine,” he said.

  “You made lunch yesterday. I’ll do it.”

  “Naw. You’re my guest. Just relax. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Claudia nestled deeper in the lounge chair, letting the breeze of the Gulf hum over her. Really happy to be with Ben. And, she thought with a degree of rationality about love she rarely allowed, Ben Vaughn was a known quantity. The kind of guy her family would embrace even though they had adored David. Her mother, who considered being over twenty-five and single a sign of social leprosy, would surgically attach Claudia to Ben to bolster the chances of marriage.

  But do you like Ben or just the idea of Ben? Are you just lonely and he’s familiar, someone you know won’t hurt you?

  Ben brought homemade chicken salad sandwiches on thick sourdough bread, potato chips, and sliced fruit.

  “You slaved over this,” she said.

  “Yeah, opening containers. Stoney’s housekeeper stocks the boat when we take it out. I was thinking maybe we could cruise over into Port Aransas later, eat at the Tarpon Inn if you like.” But Ben didn’t give her a chance to answer the invitation, his gaze going past her, his eyes crinkling.

  “That boat’s in trouble,” he said.

  Along the wave-broken cobalt of the waters Claudia spotted a Bertram sportfisher in the distance, a single man at the bow, waving a red blanket like a flag.

  “Moron,” Ben said. “Seventy-five miles out and he doesn’t bother with enough fuel.”

  “Maybe that’s not the problem.” Claudia waved back at the man. He was now hoisting a baseball cap, bright red.

  “We’ll see.” Ben hurried up to the flying bridge, tried to call the boat on standard Channel 16. No response. Ben whipped the wheel about hard and closed the distance between Jupiter and the drifting boat. Claudia stood on the deck in front of the bridge as Ben steered toward the Bertram.

  Within minutes they pulled close to the sportfisher; its name, Miss Catherine, was written in faded blue script on its stern, with New Orleans LA beneath in smaller letters. Claudia moved up to the bow, smoothing her wind-whipped hair.

  The man standing at the bow of Miss Catherine was in his forties, a little heavy and rosy-cheeked, his skin tanned. He wore dark sunglasses and a baggy white T-shirt with a Tampa Bay Buccaneers logo on the front and faded orange shorts. He gave Claudia a sun-squinted smile full of straight teeth.

  “Hello the boat,” Claudia called. “You in trouble?”

  “My alternator’s busted. Lost power for the engines and the radio.”

  “You’re a ways from New Orleans,” Ben called.

  “Oh, that’s old. I live in Copano now,” the man said. “This is what I get for hauling around my mother. She’s down in the galley yelling a blue streak at me.” He shrugged, tossed the red blanket down. “I’m Danny.”

  “I suppose you need a tow?” Ben sounded polite but unenthusiastic. Copano was ten miles up coast from Port Leo and Claudia knew giving a tow would mean no candlelit dinner in Port Aransas.

  “We’d be happy to take you in,” Claudia said.

  “If I could just borrow your radio, I can summon my tow service.” Danny gave Claudia another apologetic smile. “And maybe my mom can borrow your head.”

  Ben came down from the flying bridge, squeezed along the narrowness between the rail and the cabin on the deck. “Sure, not a problem.” He tossed one end of a docking rope to Danny. “I’m Ben. This is Claudia.”

  “Thank you so much. Y’all are lifesavers. You’ve got a beautiful boat.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said. “You fish today?”

  “Some ling.” Danny shrugged toward the empty reel mount on his boat. “Sharks nabbed the tuna I got.”

  “Yeah, they’ll rob you,” Claudia said.

  Danny gave her an agreeing grin. He slid bumpers over the edge of his boat, finished fastening the rope tethering Jupiter to Miss Catherine, vaulted lightly over both railings, and pulled a Sig Sauer pistol from under his T-shirt, from the band of his baggy shorts.

  The smile stayed in place, the gun aimed at Ben. “Sharks sure do rob, don’t they? Just be calm, and no one gets hurt.”

  Ben paled under his sunburn and took two steps back. “Man, you want cash? I’ve got maybe a hundred in my wallet…”

  “What I want,” Danny said, “is for you to be cool and hush.” He blasted a sharp, two-fingered whistle and two men bolted out onto the deck of Miss Catherine, guns in hand, beading them on Claudia and Ben. Nylon stockings stretched over their faces, contorting their features into doughy lumps.

  “Oh, hell,” Ben said.

  “Let’s just put those guns down,” Claudia said, stern.

  Danny stared at her
. “Don’t we have big balls for a—” he began and Ben charged. Ben barreled into Danny and the Sig barked, splinters erupting from Jupiter’s deck as the two men slammed into the railing.

  The two other men from Miss Catherine jumped aboard Jupiter. Claudia swung at the first one, a thin rail of a guy, surprising him, her fist connecting with his cheek, knocking him down. But the other attacker, built big and brawny, hammered her on the jaw. She hit the deck, landing on her side, and the barrel of an automatic pistol gouged into her temple.

  “Cool it,” the thin one—with what appeared to be electric-red hair underneath his nylon mask—screamed. “Stay still or we see if your brains match your pretty little outfit.”

  Ben was down, too, a gun pressed to the back of his head, eyes wide with shock.

  Don’t tell them I’m a cop, she mouthed, unsure if he could read her lips.

  Ben barely nodded, the big bruiser frisking him with all the gentleness of a wrestler.

  “I got some cash, just take it. Okay?” Ben’s voice steadied. “No need to get rough, okay? No need for trouble.”

  Danny came and knelt by Claudia. “You okay, miss?” In a gentle tone, like he cared.

  “Yeah,” Claudia said.

  The thin kid said, “Love boat’s over, babe.”

  Danny leaned over Ben. “Now where’s our buddy Stoney?”

  “What?” Ben said. “He’s at home.”

  Danny stared down at him. He glanced at the bigger of the two thugs. “Gar, go below. Find Stoney. Don’t kill him.”

  “He’s not aboard. He canceled coming with us,” Claudia said.

  The skinny redhead jabbed his gun barrel into the small of her neck. “Don’t contribute to class discussion unless you’re called upon, sweetness.”

  “Stoney’s not here,” Ben said. “We’re not lying to you.”

  Danny didn’t look at him. They waited. Gar—the big guy—returned. “No one else is aboard, man.”

  “Well,” said Danny. “Then I guess I better come up with a new plan, shouldn’t I?” He leaned down close to Ben and Claudia. “Let’s start with your names, kids. Just who are you and why are you on Stoney Vaughn’s boat?”

  “I’m Stoney’s brother, Ben. This is my friend Claudia.” Ben’s voice remained steady.

  “Ah. A brother. Poetic justice.” Claudia saw Danny lean close to Ben’s face, pivot the gun barrel against Ben’s forehead. “Stoney stole from me. Killed to do it. I want what’s mine, and you’re gonna help me.” He smiled at Ben, smiled at Claudia with a grin that said his mouth wasn’t quite moored to the brain. “A brother is something I can use.”

  8

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Whit drove out to Black Jack Point. The police dig was done, but an officer remained parked near the tented site and another officer—looking bored out of her mind—sat in a patrol car up where the private road met the highway. Maybe to keep the curious or the indiscreet away. She waved Whit through.

  The house reflected the Gilbert fortunes over the years. In the center was the old house, built in the 1820s, fashioned from sturdy oaks, its clear craftsmanship designed to defy the bay’s cruel moments. Over the years prosperity dictated which additions had been made: a room on the east side; a new garage bright with white paint; a work shed, its foundation blanketed with a yellow explosion of wild lantana. Patch built the work shed himself, stone by quarried stone. Whit remembered helping him mix the mortar, the teenage boys who fished off the Point all helping out, a thank-you note to the man who’d let them use his land.

  Lucy sat alone at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of iced tea. Funeral arrangement papers were spread in a fan before her. He saw Patch in her now: the same clear blue eyes, the determined jaw. But Lucy, for all her brass, had a delicacy in her mouth, her chin, her hands, and a gentleness—like Patch’s—that was well concealed. She had not cried again since the bodies were found, showing the steel Whit knew was at her core.

  “I don’t want to shop for a casket again anytime soon,” she said.

  “God forbid.”

  She rattled the ice cubes in her tea. “They won’t be able to fix his face right, will they? He’s all broke, Whit. They broke him.”

  He sat down next to her.

  “Have they arrested someone?”

  “No. But David says he has a suspect.” He took her hand. “I don’t know who.”

  She drank her tea. “The sheriff’s office took Patch’s answering machine, his computer yesterday. I wrote down his messages. I thought maybe there were more people I should call. But what do I say, Whit? He can’t meet you for lunch—he’s been murdered?”

  Whit glanced at the messages: An exterminator was due to spray the house tomorrow—they’d need to cancel that; three notes to return phone calls from Suzanne; the Port Leo library calling about an overdue book. All the daily doodlings of a life moving steadily along its course when fate got mean and reared up and smacked his nose back into his brain.

  Whit called the Port Leo library, asked about the overdue book. Lucy watched him with a frown.

  “Whit, who cares about a book right now?” she said when he hung up.

  “Was he a regular library user?”

  “Lord, no. He didn’t want to look at it unless it swam, batted baseballs, or might kiss him.” She sat back down next to him. “What’s this book he checked out?”

  “Jean Laffite, Pirate King.”

  Lucy shrugged. “I never saw him reading anything but the newspaper and Sports Illustrated.” She paused. “You haven’t talked to Suzanne yet, have you?”

  “No. I told her I’d visit her later, get a statement for the inquest.”

  Lucy tore at her paper napkin under her tea glass. She ripped it into thin shreds. “You said they’ve got a suspect.”

  “You making a bet?”

  “I’m unforgivable,” Lucy said. “Yes.”

  “Who, honey?”

  “Suzanne’s boyfriend, Roy Krantz. He and Patch didn’t get along too well.”

  “You never mentioned that.”

  “They never saw each other more than once a month,” Lucy said. “Fangs shouldn’t be bared that often.”

  “Lucy. This is serious. You point at him, it’s going to be taken pretty seriously. At least by me and probably by David.”

  Lucy’s voice went small. “You don’t want to believe you know a person who could kill two people in cold blood.”

  “But you think Roy could.”

  “Bad vibes fairly explode from him,” Lucy said. “And I know what you think of my vibes. But I’m even being logical. He was in prison once. For drugs. Not a fact Miss Suzanne advertises.”

  “Drugs don’t necessarily involve violent crime,” he said and she frowned. “But why would Roy hurt Patch and Thuy?”

  “Suzanne’s in the will. She gets half of this land, the money in Patch’s accounts. I’m sure it’s a fair amount.”

  “Can’t she say the same about you?”

  “But I don’t have a bad relationship with money like Suzy Q does.” Lucy cleared her throat. “Gambling problems. Patch told me and I’m not supposed to know, but he wanted to be sure I didn’t give her any money, not like I got more than two bucks anyway.”

  “How deep is she in?” he asked.

  “Real deep. Patch said nearly a hundred thousand in debt, Whit.”

  A hundred thousand. The lucky number.

  Lucy kept on. “Suzanne and Roy drive up to Bossier City or fly over to Biloxi every few weeks. Or gamble on the casino boats out of Rockport or Galveston. She’s pissed away her money, and Patch wouldn’t give her two cents to rub together. I told David Power this morning.”

  “And how did David take your suggestion, Lucy?”

  “He furrowed his brow. Very insightful aura. He’s a deep thinker.”

  “Maybe if he’s thinking about wells and water, and even then I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  “I know that Suzanne won’t be happy if she thinks I’m accusing her boyfriend.”r />
  “Clearly.”

  “But don’t I have a responsibility, Whit?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy took his hands in hers. “I should have stayed here to house-sit for him. I’ve done that before. Roy—or anyone—wouldn’t have tried to break in if I was here.”

  “You don’t know that, Lucy.”

  “I’m playing the what ifs. It’s the worst game in the world. It’s like a terminal game. You second-guess yourself to death.” She wiped the back of her hand along her mouth. “If you’re gonna break up with me, this’d be a real bad time.”

  “Why on earth do you think I’d break up with you?”

  “I’m just saying,” Lucy said. “Don’t you break up with me for at least three months.”

  “I don’t want to break up with you.”

  “Because you love me, right?” Lucy stared at him. “I’m not trying to paint you into a corner, Whit. Trust me. I feel a love vibe from you but you’re not saying it, and if you’re feeling it, this’d be a real good time to let me know.”

  “That I love you? Oh, Lucy, sure I love you.”

  “You don’t have a future in greeting cards.”

  “I love you, Lucy. I’m not going anywhere.” There. Said. Not so hard once the words bit into the air.

  “I love you, too, Whit. I do. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. I want you to know that, and this is all going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  “Baby. Yes. It’s okay.” He got up, kissed her. She kissed shy at first and then she kissed him hard, eagerly, her palms pressing against his back. The phone rang; she broke the kiss.

  “Bad timing,” she said. She answered the phone. He could tell by her tone it was a relative or a family friend calling, distant somewhere, who had just heard. Lucy sank into a chair by the phone, started mumbling thanks, a brief explanation of the tragedy. Whit put her tea by her. She patted his hand in thanks, and he went into the study.

  The Glenfiddich bottle he’d poured from last night was still there. He picked up the whiskey and noticed, for the first time, the tag entwined with a thin gold ribbon along the bottle’s neck. Handwritten.

  To celebrate days of old. Stoney.