Clay arrived in Key West and promptly disappeared. Without Gunner. Curious, Gunner and I followed from a distance. Clay walked into a men’s shop, got fitted, and returned a day later to walk out wearing a new suit, shiny shoes, and a hat. He bought some flowers and walked eight blocks to the Key West cemetery. He zigzagged through the stones for almost half an hour, finally stopping. When he did, he took off his hat, stared down at the stone, and talked. Out loud. After several minutes, he set the flowers down, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He stood holding his hat, hands crossed. Looking brilliant in his new suit.
Gunner and I walked up behind him and stood two rows back. He spoke to me without looking. “Mr. Murphy, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
I wound around the headstones and stood next to him. He pointed. “Celeste.” The stone read “Mary Celeste Pettybone.” He spoke softly, as if he were afraid to wake her. “She died ten years ago. Age of seventy.” He sucked through his teeth and continued, “Came to see me every week. Drove six hours one way.” He wiped his eyes again. “For forty years.”
I just looked at him.
He laughed. “I tried to divorce her, tried to tell her to find another man, even stopped coming up to see her for a while when she’d visit, but . . .” He trailed off. “She never quit. Not on me. Not on us.” He stared out across the stones. “Forty years.” Another shake of his head. “Wrote me letters. Told me ’bout her job at the diner. Cleaning houses. She got hired at a hotel. Good job. Twelve years. Then when the arthritis set in, she . . .”
He stared down. “I wasn’t there when she . . .” He wiped his eyes. “They came and told me in my cell. Said she had died. That’s all.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that, she was gone.” He was quiet a long time. “When I was young and full of vinegar, I used to talk about the day my ship would come in. The day I met her, it did. She was my whole world.” He shook his head. “Life is hard. Harder than I expected. On both sides of the bars.” He knelt down and dusted off her stone. “Celeste, I want to tell you that you’re a good woman. The best even. And I’m sorry. Sorry for . . . not being there when you needed me. And for everything in between. I’m . . .”
Clay fell quiet. He leaned on the stone and lifted himself off his knees. Then he unfolded his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I let him cry. His shoulders shook, suggesting he’d been holding those tears a long time. Finally, he straightened his new suit and donned his hat. He spoke softly. Staring at the earth. He glanced at me and back at the stone.
“Celeste always talked about seeing me in a suit. When I got out. How we’d go to dinner. Dancing. I hope she likes it.” Standing in the sun, Clay wobbled. I caught his arm, and he leaned on me. He coughed. A deep, productive cough. I couldn’t tell if it was returning or leaving. The only thing apparent to me was that whatever had kept Clay alive until this moment, whatever had gotten him through prison and from prison, was gone.
We stood there over an hour.
Having said his goodbyes, we turned and began walking toward the gate. He was a good bit taller than me, so when he spoke his shadow fell across me. “I want to thank you for getting me here, Mr. Murphy.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t a good bit sooner.”
He opened the gate, then stared behind us. A long minute passed. “Me too.” Another suck through his teeth. “But not nearly as much as her.”
Standing in his shadow, I knew I was watching a beautiful love story play out in the air around me.
We walked back to the hotel while Clay leaned on me. More so than usual. A light rain dusted our shoulders. After a couple of blocks, he spoke. “You figured out what you’re going to tell Ms. Summer if and when you can’t find her daughter?”
“No.”
He looked at me but said nothing. His face said plenty.
Summer sat poolside when I returned in the early afternoon. A novel on her knees. Number thirteen. Fumbling with her hands. The sun was falling and the crowds were filling the waterside bars en route to Mallory Square for the sunset ritual. Staring at Summer, two things caught my attention: the book and her bathing suit. A bikini. And it’d been a while since I’d noticed a woman in a bathing suit.
“Nice suit,” I said when she caught me looking. Red-handed. A razor cut on her ankle suggested she’d shaved her legs.
Self-conscious, she fiddled with her straps. “Is it too much? It’s all I could find. They didn’t have a one-piece.” She reached for a towel.
“Not too many people trying to cover up in Key West. Down here more clothes come off than on.” I sat across from her. “Can I ask you something?”
She waited. Sweat had formed on her top lip, and her bare shoulders showed the remaining effects of the oysters the night we’d first met. They were healing, and it struck me again that she hadn’t complained a bit. Not once. “Why do you work so hard to cover up what so many would show the whole world?” I waved my hand across all the shapes and sizes of the pool deck. Most wore suits that were a few sizes too small. Wearing a memory.
She set the towel down. Summer was beautiful. A class all by herself. She just didn’t know it. Or, if she had at one time, something or someone had convinced her it was no longer true. When she spoke, her honesty was disarming. “Being known . . .” She raised her knees and pulled her heels closer to her bottom. “Can be painful.” She folded the towel and eyed all the sunbathers. “Sometimes it’s just easier to be an extra on the stage than the lead.”
I glanced at the book. “Any good?”
She smiled and gestured at four women poolside who were reading the same author. Then she pointed at the men who were with the women. “If all these guys knew how to love a woman the way”—she tapped the cover—“this guy does . . .” She leaned back and shook her head. “The world would be a different place. Although”—she set the book aside—“seems wrong to be lost in make-believe when my daughter is . . .” She turned and eyed the Gulf.
I shook my head. “It’s not good. We’re looking for the proverbial needle.”
“Angel’s tough. She’ll fight.”
I chose not to tell her what my experience told me about such girls. “I know.” I had an idea. It was a long shot, but I pointed to the sidewalk that led to Mallory Square. “Can I buy you a beer?”
She chuckled. “You flirting with me?”
“While I would like that, I was actually thinking we might use you as bait, if you’ll forgive the analogy.”
“What?”
“I want you to walk through the square, looking forlorn. A beer in your hand. A woman scorned. Watch the sun go down.”
She half smiled. “That’s called ‘trolling.’”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I think you’ll be noticed. And honestly, I need you to be.” I weighed my head side to side. “You game?”
She stood and began wrapping the towel around her. “I thought you were asking me to watch the sunset with you.”
I placed my hand on the towel. “Maybe some other time.”
“I can’t go walking up there like this.”
“This is Key West. You’ll fit right in.”
“But I feel naked.”
I laughed. “You sure haven’t left much to the imagination.”
She blushed. “I knew I should have found something else.”
I held her hand. “You’re going to draw attention like a puppy in the park. Every man out there will notice you, and right now we need that.”
“Murph—”
“I’ll be close. I just need you to mildly entertain any guy who begins talking with you and asking you questions. Specifically questions as to whether you’re alone. Don’t be easy, but don’t be quick to brush them off. Be—”
She slid on her sunglasses. “Just what is this going to accomplish?”
“Guys who sell flesh like to be in places where they can spot it.” I pointed to the hotel rooms with a view of the square and the water. “They rent those rooms for th
e sole purpose of people-watching. They’re pros at spotting the available and the unavailable. So let’s go fishing.”
Completing the look, she pulled a ball cap down over her eyes and began walking toward the bar, her hips swaying slightly more than usual. “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.”
She bought herself a beer and walked off barefooted toward the crowds. Sunset was still an hour away, so we had time. Summer sauntered. Walking slowly. Trolling.
She stood at the railing overlooking the water. Leaning. Sipping her beer. Staring out across the waves. Lost in thought while oblivious to every man around her. To her credit, she had all their attention. I’m not sure whether it’s design or happenstance, but women’s bathing suits have a way of crawling up their backsides the more they move around. Most girls will routinely “fix” the situation so they’re not showing their untanned derrieres to the world.
Summer’s suit had inched into such a condition, but for whatever reason she didn’t fix it. She left it alone. Giving everyone a pretty good look. As I walked behind at a relatively safe distance, I wasn’t quite sure if that was for the benefit of the guys who might be watching or for me. I chuckled. You can take the girl off Broadway, but you can’t take Broadway out of the girl. She was quite good in the leading role.
Every man in Mallory Square had noticed Summer by now. A few dabbled in conversation with her, but she feigned disinterest. Adding complexity to the perception of a broken heart.
Thirty minutes later, she bought a second beer and moved closer to the point—where the crowds formed large circles around the street performers waiting on the sun. Consumed in her own thoughts, Summer strayed close enough to the crowd to be noticed while not so close as to be involved in the happiness they were selling. She heard the laughter; she just didn’t join in. A couple of brave men, lathered in suntan oil, swollen with muscle, and draped in gold chains and more chest hair than silverback gorillas, made attempts at small talk. She responded but initiated nothing. Leaving her to watch the sunset alone.
Which she did. Her act was so convincing, I wondered whether it was an act.
Watching her watch the sunset was difficult. I’d done the same thing from much the same location for nearly a year of my life. The ping and pain of the memory returned.
The sun turned crimson, then pink, followed by purple, then deep blue. Then it disappeared. The crowd toasted the curtain call, applauded, and returned to their tables and blenders. Summer lingered. Choosing a bench and sitting alone. Thirty minutes later, a man appeared. Bearded. White hair. Tattered shorts. Straw hat. Flip-flops. Walking a dog. His forearms were rippled, suggesting more muscle beneath his baggy clothing. He allowed the dog to wander close to Summer. She took the bait and petted the dog, who hopped up on the bench next to her. The man laughed but didn’t pressure her. Didn’t pull the dog away. They talked, and two minutes turned into five. Which turned into eight. He was good. Finally, he pulled out a pen and wrote something on her hand, which she tenderly allowed. When finished, he tipped his hat and continued on his way.
Summer glanced at me and returned down the boardwalk to the hotel.
When I turned, Clay stood next to me. I had not known he was there. Leaning against a lamppost. His eyes were trained on the man. I asked without looking at him, “You good?”
He scratched his white beard and followed Summer.
Chapter 35
The man walked south and east around the remainder of the boardwalk, attempting to look casual, but his route was anything but happenstance. He dictated where the dog went. Not the other way around. He also stood and waited in the shadows several times, watching crowds of people. Especially women. Maybe he was guilty of people-watching and nothing more. Maybe he was an introvert.
I knew better. His method was textbook. Near 11:00 p.m., he grabbed some takeout and returned to a weekly efficiency rental on the water where he watched a soccer game with dinner on his lap.
Summer had changed and was waiting on me at the poolside bar. A guy with a guitar stood at a microphone singing ballad covers. Pretty good too. When I sat, relief drained into her face.
She said the guy with the dog had been kind, not pushy, and did finally get around to the “are you alone” question. But he got to it by making a statement about himself rather than asking directly. “I been alone for twenty years,” he said, with the same forlorn look across the water, allowing her to agree with him and offer her understanding. He followed with, “No fun, is it?” She’d shaken her head. He then offered to take her on a moonlit cruise the following night. Said it’d be him and several friends. He had an old sailboat. They would grill fish. Be back around one or so. She had thanked him and said she’d think about it.
I wasn’t sure. Either about him or going through with it. Having watched Summer use herself and her body as bait, I discovered I didn’t like it. I wished I hadn’t done it. She saw me waffling and lifted her hand. “I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon. Or evening. Maybe last minute. After I’ve had time to think about it.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t sold.
When I returned to my room, Clay was standing in the shadows waiting on me. From his vantage point, he could see Summer and Ellie’s rooms. Gunner lay at his feet. He said, “Mr. Murphy?”
I turned and we watched as Summer closed her door.
He continued, “I know that man.” He motioned toward the boardwalk. “The one with the dog.”
“How so?”
He showed me a picture of the man, taken up close. From just a few feet away.
Both the presence and the perspective of the picture meant that Clay had gotten close. “You take this?”
“I’m not quite as old as you think I am.”
The picture had been taken through a crowd of people, slightly tilted, but showed his face and, more importantly, the tattoo on his left arm. Clay expanded the picture. “When I was working on the boat, he brought girls there. Only to. Never from. He used several boats, and he never looked the same twice. His face would change. Costumes and such.”
“You sure?”
He tapped the picture. “He can change his face, but it’s a little tougher to change a tattoo. And—” He paused. “I’ve got some experience with evil men.” He closed the picture and put the phone in his shirt pocket. “He’s evil. A heart black as crude oil.”
I woke two hours before daylight and was standing in the shadows studying his efficiency when his light flashed on. I smelled coffee brewing, and then he appeared. This time there was no dog. He was wearing a striped jogging suit and, oddly enough, no beard. He was bald. And when he turned to walk away, I saw a tattoo crawling up his neck. He moved quickly, more catlike, toward a parking garage, hopped into a turbocharged Carrera, and disappeared north.
His exit left me with one impression. I didn’t know who he was, only that he wasn’t who, or what, he seemed. I dialed Colorado. When he answered, he sounded out of breath. “You’ve been quiet a few days.”
“Not much to report. Check your phone. I just texted you a license tag. Need you to run it. Quickly.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
I was quiet a minute. “I’m worried we’ve missed our window.”
He heard my tone of voice and didn’t need to say more. “Let me run the plate.” He paused a second but didn’t hang up. Purposefully. His voice had softened. Like what he had to say hurt more than the rest. “And, Murph?”
“Yeah.”
“Check out the convent.”
There was more there. “What are you not telling me?”
The line went dead.
I returned to the boardwalk and the efficiency. I found the breaker to his room and cut the power. If he had monitoring electronics, I didn’t want them recording me as I let myself in. The dog met me at the door, sniffed me, and rolled over onto his back. The room was sparse. A suitcase. Clothes neatly folded. No booze. No drugs. Bed made. A sweaty towel hanging in the bathroom, probably from a morni
ng workout. In the closet hung three separate changes of clothes. Each different. One striped suit. Black patent leather shoes. One pair of jeans. Running shoes. White linen shirt. One pair of tattered shorts. Hawaiian shirt. Flip-flops. On the bathroom counter sat three wigs and various types of makeup. A finished crossword puzzle—and the handwriting was excessively neat. Printed.
The kitchen was empty. Nothing in the fridge. No food in the pantry save a bag of dog food. A single leash hung on the wall. Oddly, there was a handwritten grocery list stuck to the fridge door, but he had yet to collect the items. The kitchen ceiling was made up of transparent tiles with fluorescent lights above. A cigar humidor sat on the counter. Fifty or so Cubans. And, curiously, a brass Zippo lighter. The lone kitchen chair sat away from the table. Not really at the table or the counter. Like it had been used but not to sit on.
I judged him to be about five feet ten inches. I glanced up.
I stood on the chair, slid the tile back, and scanned the area above the tiles, where they met the wall. Lying on the framing sat two Sig Sauer handguns and one AR-15. I knew I was pressing my luck, but I quickly slid the pushpin that held the upper pinned to the lower of the AR-15, slid the bolt back, removed it from the upper, pulled out the bolt, removed the small cotter pin that held the firing pin, and slid out the firing pin. Then I reassembled the rifle. I quickly rendered each Sig equally useless. The only way to know I’d altered any of the three was to disassemble them and look for the firing pin or attempt to fire—which no one would do.
I scratched my head. There had to be more to this guy. He was too slick. Too little footprint. Too few electronics. He struck me as more old school. A pad and paper kind of guy. My eyes landed on the shopping list taped to the fridge. Same handwriting. It contained fourteen items. Three of which had been crossed off the list: vanilla, ramen noodles, and soy sauce. That left eleven: butter, olive oil, salsa, milk, curry, cumin, mint, salt and pepper, chocolate cheesecake, cayenne, and angel food cake. None of which was in his kitchen. And yet next to each of the remaining eleven were check marks. Some of the items had two or three checks marks. Some had nine or ten. Chocolate cheesecake had nineteen. Angel food cake had twenty-seven.
The Water Keeper Page 24