The Shop

by J. Carson Black

  Maddy stared into the middle distance, her eyes filling with tears. “Now everyone will know.”

  Jolie held out a box of tissues. Maddy waved it away, visibly panicked. “I need to call my kids. I need to tell them before they find out some other way.”

  “Just a few more questions,” Jolie said soothingly, “and we can wrap this up. You want something to drink?”

  Maddy Akers nodded. Her pretty face showed the strain. “Coffee? With some cream?”

  Jolie went back to the coffee machine and poured her a cup. She reached for the packets of cream in the jar by the coffeemaker, then thought better of it and pulled out her own stash of Shamrock half-and-half. She felt for Maddy. She understood what Maddy was going through, as few others could.

  A cop’s suicide, and the anguish of the wife he left behind.

  In this one way, they were sisters.

  10 LANDRY

  A baby boomer, Landry grew up with television. He had two brothers and a sister who fought over what to watch. They were raised together in a fifth-wheel trailer, living on or near the back side of horse racing tracks all over the west. Not a lot to do in downtimes, so his siblings fought over the TV remote. To Landry, it was just so much white noise, but he’d grown accustomed to the space it filled up.

  After Kristal was born, he became more particular about what they watched as a family—the History Channel or Discovery mostly.

  Today, the TV was turned to National Geographic while Landry went through the tabloids.

  He knew a lot more about Brienne Cross now. She was unknown until she appeared on America’s Newest Star, which helped her single, “Stealthy Lovin’,” make it to the top of the country charts. She appeared in some movies and released a Grammy-winning country album, Marfa Lights. When she became a judge on America’s Newest Star, Brienne became an even bigger celebrity. Eventually this led to her own reality show, Soul Mate.

  Landry had gone out and bought up every celebrity magazine with Brienne Cross on the cover. He’d printed up reams of information from TMZ and sites like it. Her death still generated publicity all these weeks later. The family had yet to arrange for a burial; for some reason there had been a holdup at the medical examiner’s office in LA. This created a great deal of hysteria. People wanted to see America’s Princess squared away. They wanted a big funeral they could all participate in from their living rooms. Half the tabloids hinted at a conspiracy theory.

  He read about the lone survivor, Nick Holloway. Landry had been briefed about the survivor one day later, after he had gone to Salida, Colorado, to carry out the rest of the mission. The sheriff’s cars racing by on Castle Creek Road had distracted them from going back into the house and checking everywhere.

  A black mark on Landry’s once-pristine record.

  But lucky for Nick Holloway.

  They’d let it go. A reporter for Esquire wasn’t important in the scheme of things.

  Nick Holloway was a lucky man.

  Back to Brienne Cross. The Internet generated lots of stories, but most of them harped on the same themes. They concentrated either on her extreme behavior, or the idea that in most ways she was just like regular people. For example, she liked Burger King. Apparently, the idea that she was just like a regular person was very important to the people who read the fan magazines.

  There was little point in reading this garbage, so he just looked at the photos—inhaled them. Even the ones where Brienne was featured as the “worst dressed” celeb for the week. In fact, he liked these photos best because he could see a little more of her as a person. Her inner conflict showed on her face; she knew she was dressed like a trailer park hooker. He wondered why she did it. In the photos she would look at turns tentative, defiant, and worried. Sometimes, it was clear she’d made a clothing mistake but was going out there anyway.

  He admired that.

  “Anyone who has ever had a personal encounter with a Florida cottonmouth knows where it got its name,” the announcer on National Geographic said.

  Landry looked at the television. He’d encountered a cottonmouth once, when he was at SDV school outside Panama City, Florida.

  Landry opened to the article in US Weekly magazine. There she was with her golden retriever, Charlie, and her teacup Chihuahua, Spike.

  “Contrary to popular belief, a venomous snake’s bite is rarely life-threatening…”

  Landry knew of people who had been bitten by venomous snakes. Most of them did fine because there was so little snake venom actually injected into their wounds. This was because snakes had only so much venom, and they used it to paralyze prey. They didn’t like to waste it.

  Landry turned the page. There was a story about the reality show, Soul Mate. Below were the photos of the four remaining contestants. He remembered them in a different context. He read their stories, seeing them for the first time as human beings with petty problems and lofty aspirations. He read each of their names aloud—the show producer, Justin Balough, Brendan Shayles, Amber Redmond, Connor Fallon, and Tanya Williams.

  Brendan Shayles was the kid who looked at the stars. Turned out Brendan was one of the last two finalists chosen earlier that day. No wonder he was happy.

  Poor kid. Brendan Shayles was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Landry looked back at the television. There was the cottonmouth, coiled up, its mouth wide open and showing white—white like cotton. Showing his mouth as a warning, because snakes didn’t use their venom indiscriminately.

  He looked back at Brendan Shayles. The question remained: Why kill a bunch of kids from a television show? Why kill a celebrity like Brienne Cross? Were the kids collateral damage, or were they also the targets?

  There would be a pattern. The Aspen killings weren’t random, any more than mathematics was random. It would have its own logic.

  The snake documentary was over, and now The Dog Whisperer was on. Landry switched the TV off.

  He had undergone a battery of psychological tests for his current job—thoroughly profiled. He knew he’d been chosen for the job because he did his work without question. He saw his job in terms of mission only.

  When he was working with the team, he answered to “Peters.” There were four of them: Peters, Jackson, Davis, and Green. Peters had no connection to the life he had with his wife, his daughter, his brothers, and the racetrack.

  Because he compartmentalized so well—it was an absolute necessity for him to do so—Landry had never looked for patterns in the missions he was given. He took each job as it came. He stayed away from the news and didn’t read any paper except for the Daily Racing Form. He’d built a wall around the job, because the job defined him and he refused to look at it in any other light. The job was who he was. He carried out the missions that had to be done to keep this country safe and her people unaware. Blissfully unaware. He shouldered that burden for them.

  But Brienne Cross?

  Landry thought about some of “the Shop” missions, the ones that fit a similar profile to the Aspen killings. They had seemed unusual at the time, but Landry had lived long enough to know that danger could come from unusual sources.

  There was the blonde Mexican woman in Malibu. She’d looked familiar. He’d dispatched her one twilight as she jogged alone down Serra Road near her rented house. His orders were to stab her in the heart and leave her there, exposed.

  The Egyptian professor at Berkley. Landry could see a reason for this man’s death. He could have been a radical Islamist.

  But he didn’t know for sure, did he? Because he didn’t read the papers or watch the news.

  The wealthy couple in Montana. The man had looked familiar.

  He Googled them.

  The Mexican woman was Jacinta Rivera, a Mexican pop star. She was very popular in the United States, but a superstar in Mexico. There had been a national day of mourning for her.

  The Egyptian professor was a well-known political pundit and author. He had a show on CNN.

  The husband and w
ife in Montana were both actors. The husband was an up-and-coming star, widely hailed to be “the next Brad Pitt.” They had just bought the ranch and retreated there between films.

  Landry stared at the crime scene photos of the ranch, remembering the mission. He and his team had been swift and merciless. That was a year and a half ago, during the hostage crisis at the U.S. embassy in Yemen. The U.S. government had botched the hostage situation, and both U.S. soldiers and American civilians had been killed and dragged through the streets.

  He counted them on his fingers. A Mexican pop star. An Egyptian professor with a show on CNN. The famous actor who was the next Brad Pitt.

  He found himself thinking about poisonous snakes, how they knew when to strike and why. And he thought: What strange places to use your venom.

  11

  “Stop!” Maddy shouted. “That’s it. I’m sure this time.”

  In the last two hours, Jolie and Maddy had driven all over Palm County looking for Chief Akers’s guns and phone, finally narrowing it down to a stretch of road between Gardenia and Port St. Joe. Dade Ford Road ran along an area punctuated by a dozen small sloughs and ponds. Maddy claimed she’d thrown the guns in one of them and the phone in another. But it was dark when she did it, with only a few stars to see by. She couldn’t tell one place from another.

  Three or four times now they’d pulled off to the side of the road, Maddy squinting through the windshield. Then she’d say, “No, this isn’t it.”

  On the drive, Maddy told Jolie about her adult children. One girl had two children, a boy and a girl, and the younger girl was a theater major at FSU. In close quarters, Maddy’s voice seemed very bright and loud—almost manic. Jolie felt increasingly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t just Maddy’s voice. She knew that at some point, she would have to get out of the car and walk out to one of these ponds.

  Jolie wondered if this…phobia could affect her job. Nobody wanted a phobic cop, especially a water-phobic cop in a county where there was so much water.

  Maddy said, “You know, I really think this is it. Up a little farther. Off that little road.”

  Jolie drove along the road’s shoulder and turned onto the crushed shell two-track in the direction of the trees. She parked. Maddy got out, but Jolie remained in the car.

  It was hot with the air off. Like an oven. Beads of sweat prick-led her scalp.

  Maddy waded through the brush a ways and turned back. “You coming?”

  “In a minute,” Jolie said. “You go ahead.” She took the clipboard off the dash. She stared at it without seeing and made a notation—her initials. The heat buzzed at the edge of her nostrils, making it hard to breathe. She glanced at her computer. Looked through the windshield at Maddy, who was walking along the edge of the trees.

  All right.

  She pushed open the heavy car door and stepped out. Adrenaline rushed to her hands and feet, leaving her center cold. The buzz in her gut grew louder.

  She watched Maddy push through the undergrowth. Lots of low vegetation and tall trees. Kudzu vine, too. Jolie stared at the kudzu. It was a special color green. She knew the color. What was it? Kelly. Kelly green. It was so bright, so luridly green, she had to look away.

  Maddy called out to her. “I really think this is the place.”

  Jolie straightened and took a breath. Pushed off with her left foot. Kept on walking, right foot, left foot. She’d walk until she had to stop. Through the brush, she caught glimpses of the water, stained to a tea color by the tannin from the cypress trees.

  And she surprised herself. Before she knew it, Jolie had reached the bank. Stood at the edge, looking down at the water.

  And she felt nothing.

  No dark, buzzing cloud of unreasoning fear. No feeling that she would die any minute. None of that.

  She did experience a thrill. Pure, like salvation.

  12

  Nick thought: This book will sell itself.

  He loved the idea, his agent loved it, and the publisher loved it. Why not? Something like that happens to you, why not use it? He’d be a fool not to.

  Someone murders a bunch of people in an upscale house in Aspen, kills a big star like Brienne Cross, and you’re the sole survivor? It’s like the gods came down from Mount Olympus and said, “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  His agent and his publisher wanted the book soon. Even before the ink was dry on the contract, they suggested he get out there and hype it. And so he did. He gave interviews to news organizations, tabloids, magazines, radio, and the bloggers. He always held something back, though, giving every one of them the same canned story. He needed to keep his powder dry for the book.

  When he and his publisher were tossing around ideas, they fell into calling it “The Aspen Project.” They all agreed he had a special perspective, having written the series of essays on Brienne’s reality show for Vanity Fair. Nick had been embedded with the Soul Mate cast and crew, had been there for every flare-up, every temper tantrum, every romance, every act of subterfuge and double-dealing.

  He would follow the lives of those who were killed—the four finalists, the producer, and Brienne Cross herself—and propel them to their moment with destiny. At the same time, he would tell his own story.

  He had eight-thousand-plus followers on Twitter, and over five thousand on his Facebook author page.

  He announced: “By the end of this week, I’ll be living in Aspen for the summer. I’ll be in and out, because I plan to meet with the families of the dead. I’m going to tell their story because until now, they’ve had no voice.”

  A follower asked if he had contacted the family members. “Yes I have, and I will be interviewing all of them for the book.”

  More questions: “Who was the guy you talked to out on the deck? Was he the one who saved you?”

  Nick said, “He said his name was Mars. Weird name—maybe I dreamed it.”

  “Are you going to thank him?”

  “If I can find him.”

  “Is that going to be hard?”

  “I think he said his dad is a congressman from Colorado. I’ll start there. Nick Holloway, intrepid reporter! Seriously, I have no idea how Mars knew what was going to happen, or why he saved me, but you can bet it’ll be in my book. I’ll keep you posted. Ciao for now!”

  13

  They didn’t find the guns or the cell phone, and probably never would. No money in the budget to drag ponds, even if Maddy could remember where she’d been.

  It was late afternoon by the time Jolie drove into Meridian Beach.

  The town still had the ability to charm. The sand was white as sugar. The Gulf changed color according to its mood—olive-green, jade, dark blue, gray, and gold at sunset. Gift shops were strung along the two-lane highway. The locally owned supermarket sold groceries, sunscreen, beach towels, and beer. But every day, more pine forests went under the bulldozer and another multiple-family rental went up on the beach. It was starting to get giddy here, and Jolie wasn’t surprised that her estranged family had gotten on board in a big way.

  The first thing she did was run a bath. Interrogating Maddy had taken its toll. It took her back in time to the day she got the call from her supervisor, breaking the news. Earlier in the day she’d heard about a man shooting himself in a cabin in the Apalachicola National Forest, but she would never have made the connection. Life was good. She and Danny were happy. He was a cop, she was a cop. They understood each other.

  When someone you loved committed suicide, there was no refuge from it. You couldn’t help but take it personally. It was as if someone threw acid on you, and the acid stayed, eating its way through your soul.

  It shamed you.

  If you only did this, if you only did that. You played that game over and over until you thought you’d go mad.

  The phone rang. Kay McPeek’s name showed up on the readout—her cousin.

  Kay came with a very large string attached. She was a Haddox. True, Kay led a relatively normal lifestyle—she didn’t
live on Indigo, for one thing—but she’d managed to drag Jolie to the Haddox compound not once, but twice. Jolie had mixed feelings about that.

  It was hard not to be impressed by all that power and ostentatious wealth. The family lived on a private island. Jolie found herself wondering what her life would have been like if she’d been part of the family. But when her mother married her father, a working man and artist with little money and fewer prospects, the family turned their backs on her. These were difficult thoughts to entertain, because Jolie couldn’t help feeling she was being untrue to her father’s memory.

  Jolie answered, and Kay said, “Forty-eight days and counting.”

  The goal was for her daughter Zoe to reach the first day of classes at Brown University. “Just hope she doesn’t get knocked up before then.”

  “You don’t honestly think that would happen.”

  “No. Zoe’s a cool kid—waaaaay too smart for that. But I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when she’s in the dorm. I’ll finally be able to breathe.”

  Kay wasn’t happy that her daughter was spending the summer at Indigo. She was sure Zoe’s cousin Riley was a bad influence. But Zoe had lobbied so hard, wanted it so badly, that Kay had given in. It was only for the summer. After that, Zoe would be safely in Rhode Island.

  “So did you go see the house?” Kay asked.

  “I did.” Jolie went to turn off the tap. She felt dirty and tired, and hoped the bathwater wouldn’t cool off too quickly.

  “I was right, wasn’t I? Depressing.”

  “A little,” Jolie said. “But maybe it wasn’t back then. I remember my first apartment—what a dump that was. But I was too young to know any better. I can see a young couple just starting out being happy there.”

  “Young people in love,” Kay said. “They’ll live anywhere. You remember anything?”

  “How could I? I wasn’t even two years old. I took some pics, though.”

  “Well, good, you have a record of it, then. I’m glad it’s not listed with us—that place is going to be a hard sell, even if it is the ancestral home of the Petal Soft Soap Baby.”