[Indigo Brothers 01.0] Indigo Fire

by Vickie McKeehan

  “I’m with you there.” Mitch maneuvered his dad’s pickup past the string of reporters and pulled into the side driveway behind his mother’s faded red Subaru station wagon parked under the carport.

  Jackson got out on his side, grabbed his bag from the bed of the truck and stood there watching one of the journalists make a mad dash toward him.

  “I’m Weston Hunt from Orlando,” the on-air personality began.

  Even though Jackson recognized the reporter from decades of commentary, he didn’t let the man get his question out. “I have nothing to say yet. I haven’t even had time to see firsthand what we’re up against.”

  “I don’t have anything to say either,” Mitch tossed out. “Just give us some time to get a handle on what’s happened and we’ll appear on camera during your live broadcast tomorrow. We’ll make it a press conference. Deal?”

  That seemed to appease the newscaster. “A presser? Sure. Okay. Deal. What time do you think that might be?”

  Determined to keep his cool, Jackson chose to make his case by glowering at Weston. “We don’t know yet, okay? Look, we haven’t even had a chance to sit down with our parents yet. When we’re able to assess all our options, we’ll let you in on our plan. How’s that?”

  Weston nodded, handed off a business card. “Fine. So you think the police are doing everything they can to find your sister and her family?”

  Jackson’s temper ramped up. “Now see, I have no idea. We don’t know much more than you guys do. So making a statement under those conditions would seem rather foolish on my part, don’t you think?”

  It was either his tone or the lethal glare that sent the longtime correspondent scurrying back across the street to his van.

  “Way to go, big brother,” Mitch sang out. “You up to giving a press conference? Those guys can be brutal when they want to be.”

  Jackson glanced back across the street at the media. “I’m not gonna hide from ’em or run dashing into the house every time they drive by if that’s what you mean. When it comes time, the whole family will stand together as a unit just as Livvy would expect us to do.”

  Having said what was on his mind, he took the time to study the little two-story frame house that belonged to his parents. Somehow they’d managed to raise four kids in a shotgun-type cottage the size of a hamster cage. The original foursquare had started out a mere one thousand square feet. But over time the carpenter had made sure it grew to a roomy fourteen total. The living room always seemed to be stuffed with furniture while the three small bedrooms were always packed to the brim with kids.

  Jackson recalled the fights between siblings over every square inch of available space. He also remembered the day his father got fed up with all the squabbles and agreed to add a sunroom-type enclosed porch onto the back, next to the kitchen. It sounded like heaven to Jackson.

  As the oldest boy, he dug in and fought for his right to claim that spot for his own. The day he’d won, he celebrated his newfound freedom by cranking up the CD player he’d bought with his own money and declared the room off limits to all who dared to enter. He was twelve at the time, Olivia fourteen. The fact that he’d won the rights to the barebones interior meant he had his own digs, even if he had to put up with basic drywall and whatever leftover paint they had on hand. Which was probably the reason Livvy had passed on entering the fray. As the only girl, she’d already nailed down special treatment anyway—a room of her own without having to share with anyone.

  Jackson hadn’t cared about the sunroom’s décor or lack thereof. He made do with a hand-me-down twin bed from a cousin and an old dresser his aunt donated to the cause. To cover the barren walls, he saved his allowance and bought Pearl Jam posters and world maps to use for wall art.

  Since settling into his nirvana-like digs, the two oldest Indigo kids could proudly boast they had their own rooms, while the grade-schoolers, Mitch and Garret, still languished in shared living quarters.

  Score one for being born ahead of his other brothers.

  Now, Jackson gazed at the bungalow’s paint job. The house had weathered eight hurricanes, losing the entire roof only once in 1992, when Hurricane Andrew ripped through town carrying winds in excess of a hundred and seventy miles an hour. In 2005, Dennis caused the carport to give way. It collapsed on top of his mother’s old Chevy. All that didn’t take into account how many tropical storms had blown through the region and left them having to rebuild some part of the house. Like the time his dad had commandeered his three able-bodied sons to add on a balcony to the top floor. The addition had been his mother’s birthday present. Owning an older home meant the house always seemed to need a repair job of one sort or another.

  Last Christmas, as a gift to his parents, he’d hired someone to give the native heart pine a fresh coat of creamy white. The shutters still bore the pastel blue his mother favored giving the family home its Caribbean zing along with a dose of Jamaican gingerbread lace and a touch of Victorian arts and crafts. He liked to think that only Lenore Indigo could make it all come together and work like it did.

  He hadn’t taken two steps when his mom burst out the front door and bounded down the porch steps. The sight of her running to give him a hug reminded him how she’d reacted on his first visit back home after a year in New York. She’d given him what amounted to a hero’s welcome, complete with banner. The only thing missing at the time was a marching band. The whole thing had been a gesture that embarrassed him at the time. But that was Lenore Indigo. She had a habit of putting everything she had into making a small thing an event, especially when it came to one of her kids. At five-three and fair-haired, Jackson had always thought of her as an indomitable pixie.

  “You made it,” Lenore sighed, taking her son’s face in both hands and kissing both cheeks. “I’m so glad you could come home. I can’t wait to have all three of my sons here to help look for Livvy.”

  “Don’t cry,” Jackson pleaded. On instinct, he wrapped her up in his arms. When he scanned the yard he zeroed in on his dad who watched from the railing. It wasn’t difficult to remember his parents had been sweethearts since high school. His heart broke to realize how vulnerable they were now. It triggered a promise. “We’re home now. We’ll find them.”

  Lenore dabbed at her eyes. “Just when I get my boys here, my girl’s gone along with my grandbabies. You know as well as I do that there’s no way Livvy would ever take off with the kids like this. Walker wouldn’t leave his health food store closed for three whole days unless something drastic had taken place.”

  Tanner Indigo stepped off the porch, his usual trademark stoic attitude wiped from his face, replaced by worry and lack of sleep. “Mark my words, Walker had something to do with this.”

  Jackson exchanged a look with Mitch, their coffee-colored eyes simmering with a newfound concern. But it was Jackson who moved the four of them along inside. “Let’s table this discussion until we get out of the watchful eyes of the media. I don’t think giving the reporters a show right now is a very wise move on our part.”

  One by one they trailed into the house. Jackson followed and waited until his father had shut the front door. “Why do you say Walker was involved in this? Was he abusive toward Livvy?”

  Tanner gazed at his son. “Because his business was in serious trouble. The Vitamin Hut was bleeding debt.”

  Jackson chewed the inside of his jaw. “But Royce Buchanan is one of the richest men on the Key. Why wouldn’t he bail Walker out like he has all the other times?”

  Mitch spoke up. “Maybe Walker’s old man finally got fed up and reached his loan limit.”

  “Then we need to find out for sure. Tell me where to stow my gear. Same place as last spring?”

  “I’m not sharing a room with Jackson or Garret,” Mitch declared in protest.

  Tanner pointed a finger at his sons. “You’ll both bunk where I put you. Jackson Lee, you’ll take your old room out back. No argument. Mitchell Taylor, you’ll sleep where you did last night. Garret gets O
livia’s old room. Are we happy little campers now?” Tanner barked.

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson and Mitch replied in unison.

  Jackson left it at that and made his way toward the back of the house, past the kitchen. He decided this living arrangement would take some getting used to. How long would it take for a thirty-one-year-old man to get used to taking orders from his father again? Holidays were one thing, but an indefinite stay might mean a move into a hotel.

  He dumped the two suitcases he’d brought on the same futon he’d slept on for five days last April and took out his cell phone. He was about to send a text message to his coworker and sometimes bedmate, Rachel Tarleton, when he looked up and saw Mitch standing in the doorway.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Mitch announced.

  Jackson paused in mid-text and decided to table the idea of connecting with Rachel. For now, it seemed like too much effort for very little gain. Mainly because she’d never been big on dealing with family issues, mostly hers, certainly not his. For over two years Rachel had made one excuse after another not to accompany him back to Florida, not even to meet his parents. During Thanksgiving and Christmas, she’d go her way and he would go his. That said all anyone needed to know about the on-again-off-again relationship.

  Jackson gazed at his brother. “I doubt you know what I’m thinking.”

  Mitch plopped down almost on top of the luggage. “Sure I do. Right about now you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to deal with sharing space again with Mom and Dad over the long haul. But we have bigger problems than letting Dad get under our skin.”

  “I know that,” Jackson muttered, irritation laced in his tone. “Believe me, if I could have figured out how not to disappoint Mom, I would’ve had you drop me at the hotel on the way here. But it’s best if we stay close, keep Mom happy and make this place our war room.”

  “Agreed. What do you think about what Dad said? Could Walker’s financial difficulties be the reason they took off?”

  Jackson dropped down on the mattress. “Honestly, I’m not buying that. How bad could the finances have been when they had Royce Buchanan to go to if things got tight at the Vitamin Hut? With Royce’s wealth do you really think he’d ever let his son flounder in debt?”

  “Maybe he squandered whatever Royce gave him.”

  “Now that I believe. But I’m not ready to make Walker the bad guy yet. Let’s get Dad to finish dissing on what he knows and decide how much is fact or fiction. Then we go find Sinclair and have a little chat with him. By that time Garret’s plane should be touching down at the airfield.”

  Over his mother’s sweet iced tea and bowls of shrimp gumbo, Jackson crumbled his cornbread over the soup and listened to his father go on about Walker.

  “That son of a bitch always did look out for himself first, the kids second, and Livvy was way down on his list at third. That attitude never did sit well with me. You wait and see. This will turn out to be some scam Walker’s involved in that somehow bit him in the ass and burst back on Livvy.”

  Dubious, Jackson scratched his chin, puzzled. “What specifically?”

  “I’ll give you an example. Several weeks back, Livvy told me about some guy named Connelly showing up at the store trying to get money out of Walker. When she pressed him for details, Walker clammed up, refused to share with her what was going on.”

  “Dad, there could be a hundred reasons why…”

  Tanner cut him off. “I trust my gut more than I trust a hundred other reasons. Walker takes too much after his daddy. I’ve known Royce back in his salad days when he’d do anything to fatten his bank account, anything at all. Walker’s not that much different.”

  Jackson leaned back in his chair, drained his glass of tea. “What do you think, Mom? Are you in agreement with Dad’s take? Was Walker that secretive? Did he refuse to share those kinds of details with Livvy? She never mentioned that to me.”

  Lenore put down her spoon. “It’s no secret your father’s never liked Walker much, downright resented him for a lot of reasons. And there’s no denying the recent money problems the two were having. I thought it was because they poured all their savings into the Vitamin Hut. Starting a business puts a strain on finances and a marriage. I know at one time Walker went out of his way to make Livvy happy. He’d have done anything in the world for her. But lately, that had changed. Is the marriage perfect? Is Walker the perfect husband? No. Livvy admitted there’d been some problems there. They’d argued a lot since starting the health food store. But anyone knows that’s normal when you have a start-up. Things are likely slow to take off until you get your feet firmly planted. Those first few months were lean times. But Livvy told me that the last couple months, the store had been doing much better.”

  Jackson frowned. “But what about their marriage? It sounds like you both knew there were bad times. Was it doing better than before?”

  “No, not really.” Lenore picked up her tea with a shaky hand, took a sip and pointed a finger toward Tanner. “Just because you don’t like Walker very much doesn’t mean he’s taken off and done something bad.”

  Jackson watched as his mother’s hand began to tremble more, so much that the glass almost slipped out of her fingers. He reached over and took it from her, set it down on the table as Lenore dabbed at her eyes, now filled with tears.

  She began to sob. “Our grandbabies were supposed to spend the night with us last night. Blake and Ally always made coming over on Friday nights special for us. They made us promise we’d make brownies and watch movies. I’d already checked out WALL-E at the library, which they hadn’t seen before.”

  The trio of men in the room wasn’t sure how to handle the waterworks. Mitch nodded his head for Jackson to do something and Jackson did the same to his father. Finally it was Tanner who got up to pat his wife on the back, not knowing what else to do.

  Lenore brushed off the attention and waved him off. “Oh, I’m okay. I just want them found safe and sound.”

  After several more minutes, Lenore was able to get herself under control and cleared her throat. “So what do we do next? Your father already got Jimmy Don Bates to make us up some posters. People we’ve known for forty years have started plastering them all over town. So what now? Are we supposed to just sit around and wait and do nothing?”

  Jackson reached over, took his mom’s hand, squeezed her fingers. “Mitch and I don’t intend to sit around and wait. After lunch we’ll go see Sinclair, try to corner him to give us an update on what’s going on with the investigation. Next, we’ll try to track down this Connelly guy and see what happens from there.”

  “In the meantime you guys keep driving around town looking for Livvy’s car,” Mitch suggested, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He stood up to put his dishes in the sink as he’d been taught to do from childhood. “By that time, Garret’s plane will be here.”

  Jackson nodded and repeated what Mitch had done with his bowl and utensils. He took one last slug of tea, draining the glass before he turned to face everyone. “After seventy-two hours, we deserve some kind of official update from law enforcement. That means after Mitch and I talk to Sinclair, we’ll call or text you with what our next course of action will be.”

  “Fair enough,” Tanner said. “But one of us has to go talk to Royce. And it won’t be me.”

  “Your father’s afraid he’ll lose his cool and punch him in the face,” Lenore explained. “Those two have almost come to blows many times through the years.”

  Mitch slapped his brother on the back. “Then we’ll send in Jackson. He’s Royce’s favorite.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Jackson drawled. “I thought I was the one taking point with Sinclair.”

  “Hey, Sinclair still carries a grudge toward me after I egged his car for hassling me and my friends one day after school,” Mitch admitted. “Come to think of it, maybe I should wait in the car. He’d probably be more likely to cooperate without me there.”

  Jackson’s eyes sparkl
ed with newfound amusement. “Not a chance. This little meeting was your idea. Besides, we’re grown men now. Screw the past.”

  Chapter Two

  Indigo Key had a police force of five—four uniformed officers that reported to a bear of a man named Jessup Sinclair.

  The wrinkles on Sinclair’s face showed almost seventy decades worth of living. He’d been police chief in these parts since Hurricane Andrew whipped through Florida in 1992 and blew away entire neighborhoods. A plainspoken guy who wasn’t always politically correct in how he did things, he’d gotten his start handing out tickets at the Florida Highway Patrol. After retiring from there, he’d settled into Indigo Key in hopes of watching sunsets and spending his time with a rod and reel in his hands.

  But that had all changed one day in January 1992 when a prisoner escaped from Big Pine Road Prison fifteen miles from where Jessup had gone fishing for mangrove snapper. He’d no sooner thrown his line in the waters of Sugar Bay when he noticed a man lurking nearby wearing the unmistakable blue prison garb with the white stripe running down the pants leg.

  Jessup had simply taken out his cell phone and called the cops. While waiting for them to show up, he’d removed his Beretta pistol from his backpack, the one he always carried with him, and watched as the prisoner made his way over to where he stood on the shoreline. By the time the local police force arrived, Jessup had the prisoner restrained using nylon fishing tape to bind the man’s hands and feet.

  The incident had gained Jessup instant notoriety and respect from the community. That spring, an election year, the town had voted him in as their police chief.

  Those he served described him best as a fair-minded guy, determined to keep the town free of riffraff. Since there wasn’t much crime to speak of in little Indigo Key, most people gave him a thumbs-up for a job well done.

  When Jackson and Mitch strode into his office, Jessup showed a willingness to gab, mainly because he’d been forced to turn the Buchanan case over to the state police almost from the get-go. Jessup wasn’t happy about that turn of events. As he talked, his bitterness was evident in every word.