Key Death (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 4)

by Jude Hardin

  “Teaching studio?”

  “For guitar lessons,” she said. “Like we talked about on the phone.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Juliet knew how miserable I’d been the past few months, with nothing much to do. She knew I needed something meaningful to fill my days, something that would give me a sense of purpose. Something that would make me feel like a man again. I’d told myself I would never teach, but suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Maybe all I had needed was a nudge in the right direction from the right person. What the hell, I thought. I would give it a try. At least for six months.

  I felt myself starting to get choked up. “You rented this for me?” I said.

  “Yes! We have a six-month lease. Isn’t it great?”

  “It’s wonderful, darling. I swear, I don’t deserve you.”

  We looked around for a while and started discussing what colors to paint the walls, and what would go here and what would go there.

  “Are you ready for your other surprise?” Juliet said.

  “This is too much already. I can’t believe there’s more.”

  “Well, the second surprise is really as much for me as it is for you.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Are you ready? I bought a VIP package to see John Fogerty in concert next July. This time, you will get to meet Mr. Fogerty for sure.”

  I looked into her eyes. “You are something else,” I said. “Next July, huh? Where’s the concert?”

  “That’s the best part. It’s in Finland!”

  “We’re going to Europe?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. It will be the vacation you promised me.”

  We stood there for five minutes or so, hugging and kissing like schoolkids between classes.

  “Are you happy?” Juliet said.

  “Yes, darling. I’m very happy.”

  I was very happy, but still very concerned. Later that evening, Juliet sensed my melancholy mood, and I shrugged it off as always being like that right after a tough job. She decided food might cheer me up, so she started working on a Filipino noodle dish called pancit. My favorite. While she was busy with that, I stepped out on the front porch and called Detective Sullivan.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “I need a big favor. Like I told you before, I walked into Daniel Chard’s house after the shooting and stabbing. I got to thinking about it. I don’t think I touched anything, but there was blood everywhere. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I think so. You want to know if either of them was HIV positive? Or if they had hepatitis or anything?”

  “Exactly. I’m sure they’re both coroner’s cases, right?”

  “Yeah, but it’ll be a few days before we get the pathology reports. Maybe even a week.”

  “Would you give me a call as soon as you know?” I said.

  “I’m really not supposed to do that, Colt.”

  “But you will?”

  There was a long pause.

  “All right,” he said. “But if it ever gets out, I’ll hang you by your balls.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was just the three of us for Thanksgiving, but Juliet and Brittney had been busy all morning and afternoon preparing a feast that could have fed an army. I was sitting at the computer in the living room, looking at some examples of teaching manuals for guitar. I planned to eventually write my own series of books, but for now I would need something to get started with.

  I’d tacked some flyers on the bulletin board at one of local music stores, and I’d gotten over twenty calls in just a couple of days. Apparently a lot of people were interested in taking lessons from a bona fide rock star, even an aging and somewhat crippled one. I charged a little more than most of the guys around town, but I figured I was worth it. At fifty dollars for half an hour, I already had enough students to make the rent.

  “Dad, are you OK?”

  It was Brittney. She had somehow walked in from the kitchen without me noticing. I wondered how long she had been standing behind me.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Just checking out some of these guitar books.”

  Brittney’s long blond hair was tied back in a single braid. She’d fixed it for working in the kitchen all day.

  She sighed. “You’ve just been acting weird since I got home yesterday. Did I do something to make you mad?”

  I stood and gave her a hug. “Of course not, sweetheart. I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately. I guess I’m not in much of a holiday mood. Sorry.”

  “Did I tell you Carl Hiaasen was on campus a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yeah, I was talking to you on the phone when you were waiting for him to come on. Remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. But I don’t think I ever told you how funny he was. He was freaking hilarious. I thought I was going to pee my pants.”

  She told me some of the things the famous writer had said. I smiled and chuckled when I was supposed to, but I think she could tell my heart really wasn’t in it.

  “I’m going to have to read something by him one of these days,” I said. “If I can ever find the time.”

  “I think it’s good you’re going to be busy now.”

  “I think so too.”

  “I heard you playing awhile ago. It sounded great.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She was trying to cheer me up, but I knew better. What I’d been playing earlier didn’t sound great. Not to a trained ear, anyway. The scales I’d been refamiliarizing myself with sounded like they were being played by a guy with eight screws holding his fingers together.

  “Daddy, want to hear a joke I made up?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “A sandwich staggers into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, ‘Let me call you a cab, buddy. You’re toasted.’”

  I kept waiting for more. I was so preoccupied, I didn’t even get it.

  Juliet shouted from the kitchen. “OK, you two. Time to eat.”

  Brittney and I walked to the dining room. Juliet was placing silverware on cloth napkins by the plates. The napkins were white, not burgundy, but they still reminded me of the ones at Wesley West’s house.

  “Can I help you with anything?” I said.

  “You can carry the turkey in.”

  I carried the turkey in. It was a big bird on a big platter. I set it on the table. There was cranberry sauce and oyster stuffing and green-bean casserole and a dish of candied yams. Mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffed mushrooms. Three pies and a jug of chardonnay. Everything looked great and smelled great, but all I could think about was human brain pâté smeared on crackers, and that I might have contracted a deadly disease from Veronica. She was a beautiful girl, and it broke my heart that she had gotten mixed up with Dan and his seedy crowd. I was saddened by the fact that she had died violently and needlessly at such a young age, but I couldn’t help worrying that she might have given me something that would turn my life—and Juliet’s—upside down.

  The table was lovely and the food was lovely, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I hadn’t had much of one since I’d been home.

  “Carve us some turkey, and I’ll pour the wine,” Juliet said.

  “You guys want white meat or dark meat?” I said.

  The both wanted white. I sliced off some breast meat for them and put it on their plates, and then I cut off a drumstick for myself. I chose some cranberry sauce and oyster stuffing to go with it.

  We all sat down. I took a sip of wine.

  “Would you like to say the blessing?” Juliet said.

  “Let’s just eat,” I said.

  My downbeat attitude finally set her off. Apparently she’d grown tired of trying to walk on eggshells while I wallowed in despondence.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she said.

  “Let’s just fucking eat.”

  She tensed, gave me a hard stare.

  “I’ll say the blessing,” Brittney
said, ever the peacemaker. “Dad’s being a poophead for some reason.”

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at it, got up, and started walking toward the front door.

  “I better take this,” I said.

  “Can’t you just turn it off while we’re having dinner?” Juliet said. “It’s Thanksgiving, Nicholas.”

  “It’s probably another customer. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I knew it wasn’t another customer. It was a Key West area code. Key Death, I thought. Those smart-ass radio guys were still calling it that. I stepped out on the porch.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hey, Colt. Craig Sullivan. Sorry to call you on the holiday. I got those patho results a couple of days ago, and I’ve been so busy—”

  “Just tell me,” I said.

  He told me.

  The news was not good.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The news was not good.

  The news was great.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and went back and took my place at the head of the dinner table.

  And this time, I had a smile on my face.

  I said the blessing, and Brittney giggled when I thanked God for dolphins. Brittney giggled, and then we all started laughing. We couldn’t help it.

  It was, without a doubt, the best Thanksgiving ever.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There’s no better feeling than to see months of painstaking work come to fruition in the form of a published book. And, as always, it could only have happened with a little help from my friends.

  Thanks to Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich for their ongoing support. A good literary agent is crucial in building an author’s career, and these are two of the best.

  Thanks to Andy Bartlett, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Charlotte Herscher, and all the other wonderful folks at Thomas & Mercer. Your tireless efforts make my work shine.

  Thanks to all my friends, family members, and peers, for their continuing support. Please forgive me if I’ve forgotten anyone. Corey Hardin, Kathy Ledford, Sue Mudd, Stephen Parrish, Erica Orloff, Joe Konrath, Mark Terry, Jon VanZile, Dan Peters, Kathy Blue Quindoza, David Ryan, Scott Nicholson, David Morrell, Lee Goldberg, Bill Rabkin, Melody Woods Raymond, Nita Bingham, Norm Kelly, Mike Priddy, Alan Orloff, Jane Driskell, Allison Brennan, Blake Crouch, Bud Elder, Char Chaffin, Dana King, Denise Puthuff, Eric Christopherson, Dusty Rhoades, LaDonna Koebel, Lainey Bancroft, Linda McCandless, Tess Gerritsen, Tammy Downard, Trish Barr Johns, Pete Helow…and so many more. At one time or another, every one of you has touched my life in amazing ways, and the ongoing journey would not be the same without you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Pete Helow, 2011

  Jude Hardin is coauthor of the Dead Man series of adventure/horror thrillers created by Lee Goldberg and William Rabkin. His debut novel featuring Nicholas Colt—Pocket-47—received a starred review from Publishers Weekly. The New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen wrote, “Pocket-47 sucked me in and held me enthralled…[Nicholas Colt] is a character I’m eager to follow.” And David Morrell, creator of Rambo, called the second Nicholas Colt thriller, Crosscut, “fast, fierce, and relentless.” Hardin has held down a variety of jobs—from drummer to chemical plant supervisor to freelance journalist—each of which fuels his writing. When he isn’t creating his next story, he enjoys fishing with his son. He lives in north Florida.