Sunset Key

by Blake Crouch

  “So much good wine to drink, so little time. We’d like to taste everything side by side, so bring six glasses.”

  “You aren’t trying to get me drunk, are you?” Letty teased, bumping her shoulder into Fitch’s arm.

  “Now why would I need to do that?”

  They sat at an intimate table in a corner, surrounded by windows.

  In the candlelight, Fitch looked even younger.

  Letty dropped her handbag on the floor between her chair and the wall.

  Angie brought the wine in three trips, carrying the empty bottle in one hand and a crystal decanter in the other.

  All of the Bordeaux was astonishing. With wine like this in the world, Letty didn’t know how she could ever go back to seven-dollar bottles of Merlot from the supermarket.

  They started with a plate of plain white truffles.

  Then foie gras.

  Then scallops.

  Angie kept bringing more courses. Because Letty was drinking out of three glasses, she had difficulty gauging her intake. She tried to pace herself with small sips, but it was simply the best wine she’d ever tasted.

  Over the cheese course, Fitch said, “It occurs to me there will be many evenings to come when I long to return to this meal.”

  Letty reached across the table and took hold of his hand.

  “Let’s try to stay in the moment, huh?”

  “Sound advice.”

  “So, Johnny. What is your passion?”

  “My passion?”

  “For a man who has achieved all the material wants.”

  “Experience.” His eyes began to tear. “I want to experience everything.”

  Angie came over to the table. “How was everything?”

  “I’m speechless,” Fitch said.

  He rose out of his seat and embraced the chef. Letty heard him whisper, “I can’t thank you enough for this. You’re an artist, and the memory of this meal will sustain me for years to come.”

  “It was my pleasure, Johnny. Dessert will be up in fifteen.”

  “We’re done here, and we can handle getting dessert for ourselves. Someone will clean up. You’ve been cooking all day. Why don’t you take off?”

  “No, let me finish out the service.”

  “Angie.” Fitch took hold of her arm. “I insist. Pete’s waiting in the yacht to take you back.”

  For a moment, Letty thought Angie might resist. Instead, she embraced Fitch again, said, “You take care of yourself, Johnny.”

  Fitch watched her cross to the front door.

  As she opened it, she called out, “Dessert dishes and silverware are on the counter beside the oven! Goodnight, Johnny!”

  “’Night, Angie!”

  The door slammed after her, and for a moment, the house stood absolutely silent.

  Fitch sat down.

  He said, “How strange to know you’ve just seen a friend for the last time.”

  He sipped his wine.

  Letty looked out the window.

  The moon was rising out of the sea. In its light, she could see the profile of a suited man walking down a path toward the shore.

  “It begins to go so fast,” Fitch said.

  “What?”

  “Time. You cling to every second. Savor everything. Wish you’d lived all your days like this. Excuse me.”

  He rose from his seat. Letty watched him shuffle across to the other side of the room and disappear through a door, which he closed after him.

  She lifted her purse into her lap and tore it open. Her fingers moved with sufficient clumsiness to convince her she’d gotten herself drunk. She grasped the spray bottle. Fitch still had some wine left in two of his glasses. Reaching across the table, she put five squirts into the one on the left.

  The door Fitch had gone through creaked open.

  He emerged cradling a bottle in one arm and carrying two glasses in the other.

  He was grinning.

  From across the room, he held up the bottle, said, “The jewel of our evening. Come on over here, sugar.”

  Fitch sat down on a leather sofa.

  Letty still hadn’t moved, her mind scrambling.

  I missed my chance. I missed my chance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fitch waved her over. “Sit with me!”

  Letty glanced at her watch as she stood. Seven-oh-five.

  Fifty-five minutes until her rendezvous with Javier at the east end of the island.

  She grabbed one of her wineglasses and Fitch’s.

  He was already tugging the cork out of the bottle as she walked over.

  Letty said, “Here you go and leave, and I was just on the verge of making a beautiful toast.” She tried to hand Fitch his wineglass.

  “We’ll toast with this instead,” he said, showing her the bottle—Macallan 1926.

  “Oh, I’m not too much of a scotch girl.”

  “I understand, but this is really something. You couldn’t not love this.”

  “Now I’m losing my nerve.”

  She thought she registered a flash of something behind his eyes—rage? But they quickly softened. Fitch put the bottle down and accepted his glass and stood.

  Letty had no idea of what to say.

  She looked up at Fitch and smiled, her mind blank.

  It came to her in an instant—a toast she’d overheard at a wedding she’d crashed two years ago. Back then, she’d spent her Saturdays stealing presents from brides and grooms. She’d developed something akin to an X-ray sense for determining the most expensive gifts based solely on wrapping paper.

  She raised her glass.

  “Johnny.”

  “Selena.”

  “May a flock of blessings light upon thy back.”

  “Ah, Shakespeare. Lovely.”

  Letty watched as he polished off the last two ounces of his wine. They sat on the sofa. Fitch opened the scotch and poured them each two fingers into heavy tumblers.

  He put his arm around Letty. She cuddled in close. He went on for a minute about the rarity of this spirit they were about to imbibe. He was drunk, beginning to ramble. She finally sipped the scotch. It was good. Better than any whiskey she’d ever tasted, but she hadn’t lied. She just wasn’t a scotch girl.

  After awhile, he said, “Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for my family, Selena. Everything.”

  Sitting with Fitch on the sofa, it hit her again. That old, familiar enemy. Regret. Guilt. Her conscience. Truth was, she liked Fitch. If for no other reason than he was facing a lifetime behind bars with grace. Making the most of his final hours of freedom. She tried to remind herself of all the people Fitch had hurt. And it wasn’t like he’d be hanging this painting she was about to steal on the walls of his prison cell.

  But the arguments rang hollow. Insincere.

  After a while, she felt his head dip toward hers.

  He was saying something about his family, about how everything had always been for them. His eyes were wet. He didn’t sound drunk so much as sleepy.

  Letty set her glass on the coffee table and eased Fitch’s out of his grasp.

  “What’re you doing?” he slurred.

  Letty stood and took him by the hand. She pulled him up off the couch.

  “Come with me,” she whispered.

  “My drink.” His eyes were heavy.

  “You can always finish your drink.” She pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t you want me, Johnny?” She kissed him with passion this time—open-mouthed and long. Hoped it would give him enough of a charge to make it into bed.

  She led him through the living room.

  “Where’s your room?” she whispered, even though sh
e knew from the blueprints that it was very likely the large master suite on this level. He pointed toward the opening to a hallway just behind the spiral staircase.

  They stumbled down a wide corridor. The walls were covered with photos of Fitch’s family. One in particular caught Letty’s eye as she passed by. It had been taken out on the deck of this house fifteen, maybe twenty, years ago—a much younger Fitch standing with three teenage boys. All shirtless and tanned. Mrs. Fitch in a bathing suit. The sea empty, huge and glittering behind them.

  Letty dragged Fitch through the doorway of his bedroom and shut the door behind them. The suite was sprawling. There was a flat-screen television mounted to the wall across from the bed. A bookcase. A small desk, where she spotted a laptop, cell phone and empty wineglass. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dock. French doors opened onto the deck. She couldn’t see the moon from here, but she could see its light falling on the sea.

  “Go lie down,” she said.

  Fitch staggered toward the bed.

  Letty took her time pulling the curtains.

  Fitch mumbled, “You’re so…beautiful.”

  “That’s what my daddy used to tell me.” She could feel the rush of adrenaline cutting through her intoxication. “I just need to step into your bathroom for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be right out. You get comfortable.”

  He said, “We don’t have to do anything. Unless you want to.” The words came too soft, too muddled.

  Letty walked into the bathroom. She shut the door, hit the light.

  It was bigger than most apartments she’d lived in. Leaning over the sink, she studied her pupils in the mirror. They were black and huge. She sat down on the toilet and took a deep breath. All the things she needed to do in the next forty-five minutes pressed down on her. She took herself through all the steps. Pictured it happening perfectly.

  Five minutes passed.

  She went to the door.

  Pulled it open as softly as she could manage and slipped back into Fitch’s room.

  The wood-paneled walls now glowed with a soft warmth from candles on the bedside tables. They smelled like vanilla. The hardwood creaked as she crossed to the foot of Fitch’s bed.

  The old man lay on his back with his arms and legs spread out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants pulled down to his knees. It was as far as he’d gotten. He snored quietly, his chest rising and falling.

  He looked tragic.

  “Bye, Johnny,” Letty whispered.

  Then she moaned several times.

  Full-voiced and throaty.

  Hoping that would keep Fitch’s men away from his room for the time being.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The bedroom door opened smoothly, without a sound. She moved in bare feet down the corridor. All of the doors she passed were cracked. The rooms, dark. Where the hallway opened into the main living area, she stopped. The spiral staircase was straight ahead, but hushed voices crept around a blind corner. It sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. For a moment, she stood listening. Two men. They were eating, probably picking through the leftovers.

  Letty went quietly up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

  Near the top, she caught a view down into the kitchen. It was James and some other black-suited man with long hair who she hadn’t seen before. They stood at the counter, dipping crackers into the foie gras.

  She came to the second floor. A long hallway, empty and dark, branched off from either side of the spiral staircase. The blueprints had indicated that this level housed four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a study. Letty kept climbing, using the iron railing as a guide. The noise of the men in the kitchen fell farther and farther away. By the time she reached the final step, she couldn’t even hear them.

  Letty stepped into the cupola of the house.

  Because three of the walls consisted entirely of windows, the moonlight poured inside like a floodlight.

  Letty ripped off the wig. She ran her hands carefully through her hair until her fingers found the razor blade.

  Padding over to the desk, she turned on a lamp.

  Her watch read 7:45.

  She stared up at the wall above the desk.

  What the hell?

  She’d been expecting to see the Van Gogh—a skeleton smoking a cigarette. What hung on the wall was an acrylic of a horse. Maudlin colors. Proportions all wrong. She was no art critic, but she felt certain this painting was very badly done.

  Leaning in close, she read the artist’s signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.

  Margaret Fitch.

  Letty sat down in the leather chair behind the desk. Her head felt dizzy and untethered. Had Javier told her the wrong place to look? Had she somehow misunderstood him? No, this was Fitch’s office. In fact, there should be a plastic tube taped beneath the desktop. She reached under, groping in the darkness. All she felt was the underside of the middle drawer.

  Assumptions.

  Somewhere, she’d made a false one.

  The blueprints had identified the cupola as an office, but maybe Fitch’s was actually down on the second floor.

  That had to be it.

  She spun the swivel chair around and started to rise.

  Took in a hard, fast breath instead.

  A shadow stood at the top of the spiral staircase, watching her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For a long minute, Letty couldn’t move.

  Her heart banged in her chest like a mental patient in a rubber room.

  “Dear old Mom did that one,” Fitch said, “God rest her soul.” He pointed to the painting of the horse behind his desk. “She gave it to me for Christmas fifteen years ago. I hated it at the time, and with good reason. Let’s be honest. It’s hideous. So I kept it in a closet, except for when she visited. Then I’d have to swap out my Van Gogh for that monstrosity. Make sure she noticed it proudly displayed in my office.”

  “Johnny…”

  “And then she died, and I got sentimental. I sold Skull with Burning Cigarette and put My Horse, Bella on that wall permanently. It’s been there for five years, and every time I look at it, I think of my mother. I’ve even come to appreciate certain aspects of it.”

  Fitch took a step forward into the splay of light emanating from the desk lamp. He looked clear-eyed. He held a large-caliber revolver in his right hand. His glass of Macallan in the other.

  “There are similarities between you and Van Gogh, Letisha. Both fiery redheads, with a nasty predilection for self-injury. Suffering from what the psychoanalysts would best describe as daddy issues. And perhaps most pityingly, both masters of a trade you would never be appreciated for. At least, not in life.

  “You look confused, Letty.” Fitch smiled. “Yes, I know your real name. I like it more than your alias, if you want to know the truth. Although I did prefer you as a redhead.”

  He sipped his scotch.

  “Did you call the police?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I’m going to see my fair share of law enforcement for the rest of my life, don’t you think? The notion that you’d try to steal from me? Come onto my island and steal from me? You brazen girl.”

  “Johnny.” Letty thought she might be just drunk enough to scare up some real emotion. She had disarmed her fair share of men in the past with a few tears.

  “Oh, don’t cry, Letty.”

  “I’m sorry, Johnny. I tried to take advantage of you, and—”

  “No, no, no. I should be the one apologizing to you.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. Something in the tone of his voice suggested a piece of knowledge she wasn’t privy to.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, starting to get up.

  “No, you just stay right there,
please.”

  She settled back into the chair.

  “My life,” Fitch said, “has been so rich. So…fragrant. I went to Yale undergrad. Harvard business. I was a Rhodes scholar. Earned a PhD in economics from Stanford. I lived in Europe. The Middle East. Argentina. I rose as fast through the ranks of PowerTech as anyone in the history of the company.”

  Fitch edged closer, his hair trembling in the breeze stirred up by a pair of ceiling fans.

  “By thirty-five, I was the youngest CEO of a global energy company in the world. I had a family I loved. Mistresses on six continents. I was responsible for twenty-four thousand employees. I brokered multibillion-dollar deals. Destroyed both domestic and foreign competitors. I’ve fucked in the Lincoln bedroom under three separate presidencies. I’ve been adored. Demonized. Admired. Copied. I’ve played hard. Made men and ruined men. Had the finest of everything. More money than God. More sex than Sinatra. Trust me when I say I go to federal prison for the rest of my life a happy man. If the masses knew how much pure fun it is to have this kind of power and wealth, they’d kill me or themselves.”

  He walked to one of the windows and stared out across the moonlit sea.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Letty Dobesh. In another life…who knows? But I didn’t allow you to come into my home for sex. I’ve had plenty of that.” He held up his tumbler. “And I don’t really even care about this forty-thousand-dollar bottle of single malt. On the last night of a man’s life, before he reports to prison for a twenty-six-year stint that will likely kill him, he has to ask himself, What do I do with these last precious moments? Do I revisit the things in life that most made me happy? Or use this last gasp of freedom to have a truly new experience?”

  Letty eyed the staircase.

  If she hadn’t been drunk, she could’ve probably reached the steps before Fitch turned and fired. But he was holding a beast of a gun. A .44 Magnum or worse. Taking a bullet from something of that caliber would finish her.

  “What does this have to do with me?” she asked.

  Fitch turned and faced her.

  “Sugar, there’s one thing I’ve never done. I was too old for the draft in nineteen-sixty-nine. I’ve never been to war, which means I’ve never had the experience of taking a life.”