by Jeff Abbott
Just go. Go get the stash, rent a truck, get away from the coast, feel out your buyers, get the money, go get your dad. Go to that big blue sky in Costa Rica, sit on the beach, pretend he’s not dying for a while. Forget the emerald.
But no emerald—the biggest prize, the one worth millions in one fell swoop after he made carefully placed calls to Bogotá—and all these loose ends. Helen. Guchinski. That judge. And Stoney, insufferable Stoney, getting the better of him. Claudia. Ben. And he’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder? No way. He rubbed his face and when he brought his hands down headlights flashed in his mirror, a car turning and heading south. Whit Mosley’s Explorer.
If you don’t have leverage, grab it and take it. Alex shifted into gear and tore out after him.
The cottage was dark, no lights spilling along the beach or along the small private road. The sun retreated below the horizon. Whit kept his headlights pointed at the cottage’s small door. It was closed.
“Not hanging off its hinges,” Lucy said. “That’s a good sign.”
Whit said nothing.
“So I’m getting the silent treatment?”
“No. I just have nothing to say. Stay here.” He got out of the car, she followed. He tried the door. It opened. He flicked on the lights.
The room was a mess.
“Not good,” she said.
“No. It’s not from a fight. It’s been searched. Or robbed.”
“Isn’t this trespassing? Oops, you broke a law.”
“Lucy, shut up.”
“Do you think I don’t have guilt that’s eating me alive? But I didn’t kill them. I tried to protect them.”
“I’m not blaming you for their deaths. Although it seems to me you could have warned Patch about them stealing the treasure off his land.”
She shook her head. “I hope you’re never afraid.”
“Danny Laffite. Is he dead? Did Stoney or this Alex kill him?”
“I have no idea.”
“He blamed Stoney for a murder and for stealing an antique journal from him. Do you know where that’s at?”
“No.”
“I just can’t figure… Stoney didn’t know his brother and Claudia were going to be kidnapped. And that he would need to go hide himself. That old journal’s the key to everything, if he wanted to rebury the treasure, right? It validates that Jean Laffite was involved, makes the treasure more valuable for Stoney’s purposes.”
“Yeah.”
“So he has to pick a place to hide. Quickly. Why not where he had already hidden what was of great value to him? Alex doesn’t care about the journal. Stoney has access and no one would suspect him putting it here. His house, yeah, maybe a safe-deposit box. But not a client’s house. Maybe the journal is what someone was looking for.” Alex? Maybe, to close a loose end. Gooch? No. Or Danny Laffite? How?
“Or maybe Alex was looking for the Eye. That’s what Alex wants.” She straightened a couch cushion. “It’s not here, though. I hid it well, Whit. You’d be proud of me.”
He turned to stare at her. “You have the emerald?”
“Stoney gave it to me for safekeeping.” Her tone went defiant.
“Tell me where it is.”
“No,” she said. “It was on Patch’s private property. They stole it. Now it’s mine again. According to his will it and the rest of the treasure should have been mine all along. Stoney was never quite smart enough to look at it from that angle.” She gave him a smile, but not a warm one. “So the Eye’s my property and I don’t have to tell you a thing about it.”
“I swear I don’t know you.” He shook his head.
“But you don’t want to know me, Whit. We’re finished. You don’t love me, so why shouldn’t I say whatever crosses my mind? Do you want to look for this journal or do you want to call the police and turn in Gooch?”
“Let’s look for the journal.”
“You and your double standard.”
He didn’t argue with her and they began to comb through the house. The cottage was small but elaborate and Whit went upstairs to look through the two bedrooms. They were small but had been searched thoroughly and he decided this was pointless. If anything was to have been found, it had been taken already.
He had just opened a closet door when he heard Lucy cry out, “No—”
“Lucy?” he called.
No answer for a moment, then a crash and she screamed, “Whit!” Another crash. Silence.
Whit moved quietly, down the stairs, pulling Patch’s old gun he’d taken from her purse, cocking it, stopping just above the corner where the stairs met the kitchen.
“Judge Mosley?” A man’s voice called. Gentle, calm. “You need to step down with your hands up.”
“I’m armed,” Whit called. “And if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
The answer was a single shot.
Whit froze.
“She’s unconscious,” the voice called, “so she didn’t feel that. But I just shot off a couple of fingers on her left hand. You have five seconds to come out. Moving the gun to her forehead now—”
“No!” Whit stepped out of the stairwell, hands up, gun held between forefinger and thumb.
A man knelt by Lucy, a 9mm Glock in his hand, aimed squarely at Whit. He was rangy, tall, hair dyed cheap blond, round wire-rim glasses. He looked like a professor turned punk rocker.
“Drop it,” the man said.
Whit did.
“On your knees, hands on your head.”
Whit obeyed. He could see Lucy’s hand… all five fingers, there, not shot.
“I lied,” Alex Black said. “I really hate messes.”
36
BEN HAD KICKED the FBI out. Or rather, Claudia thought, he had asked them to leave. He politely told them that he appreciated their help, he felt safe with Claudia around—she blushed at that—but he wanted to be alone and have some time to recover. And there was no proof, after all, that Stoney had committed a crime or actually become the victim of a crime. The phones were tapped in case Stoney or Danny Laffite or the boogeyman called.
The agents gave him thin smiles in answer, but they left, and from the window Claudia watched their cars cut through the Flats. After Agents Grimes and Gordell left, the house seemed too quiet. Ghost empty. She wondered if David might drive by on the pretense of checking on Ben. But the road stayed empty.
Ben clicked on the stereo. Soft Vivaldi filled the room, a whisper of violins and flutes. She stood by the fireplace, studying a nautical map, drawn in an ancient’s hand, that hung above the mantel.
He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here, Claudia. I’d be nuts in this house alone.”
“I like this old map,” she said.
“It’s a reproduction, although if Stoney has too much to drink he tells people it’s an original. Long ago a big chunk of the world was unknown. See, there’s Europe, badly drawn—they didn’t see the known world like it really was. You leave it, you reach the middle”—he pointed at a giant serpent in the waves, its head thrown back and tongue extending like fire—“they say, ‘Here there be dragons.’ If that doesn’t scare you off, go all the way and you sail past the edge of the world. Lost forever. The point of no return.”
“I think this map is more accurate than a real map.”
He kissed her neck. “Would you like some wine? Or some beer? You want me to fix you a michelada?”
“A michelada sounds good.”
He went into the kitchen, filled two tall glasses with ice, a dash of Tabasco and Worcestershire, a bit of tomato juice, a sprinkle of pepper, and a dollop of lime juice. Then he poured a cold Dos Equis lager into each glass. He brought a glass to her and they sat down on the Mexican tile floor, watching the sunlight die over the bay. They sat side by side, their shoulders barely touching. Claudia sipped. The michelada tasted like a perfect steak, but cold and smooth.
“When will they bring Jupiter back?” she asked. The FBI had it, treat
ing it as a crime scene.
“I don’t care. Not sure I ever want to set foot aboard that boat again. I suppose if something’s happened to Stoney the boat is mine.”
She said nothing; he seemed mildly surprised at the thought.
“You hungry? I can grill up some amberjack,” he said.
They finished their micheladas and then he cooked them dinner, pouring cold sauvignon blanc and fixing salad, fish scented with herbs, risotto, sliced kiwis, deftly moving from pan to pan. She could see he was making a strenuous effort to shove the darkness of the past few days behind them. They ate, her appetite suddenly ravenous. She drank two fat glasses of the New Zealand white and mellowness tiptoed over her.
He was opening a fresh bottle when she began to shake, standing by the counter. She set the wineglass down, suddenly afraid it would break between her fingers. She felt cold as ice.
“Hey. Hey now.” Ben took her in his arms, held her close. Her breathing grew ragged.
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “De—de—delayed shock. I don’t know.”
He steered her toward the couch, sat with her, warmed her with his arms. He said nothing, kissed her jaw, her throat, gently. She held him tight.
“It’s okay, ’s’okay.” A few moments later, the shivers subsided.
“Well, what was that?” she said, embarrassed. “Aren’t I the big baby?”
“You know how much braver you are than I am?” he said. He tipped her jaw, looked into her eyes. “I cried. Locked up on that boat. Afraid of what they’d done to you. Afraid of what he was going to do to me.”
She took his face in between her palms and she kissed him. First on his giant bruise, gentle as a feather, then on his lips. He kissed back, a little tentative, like she might still be shaky. She wasn’t. After five long kisses Ben eased open the buttons on her blouse, touched the lacy edge of her bra, nuzzled the top of her breasts.
“I want you,” he whispered.
He took her hands, led her upstairs to his bedroom. She undressed him; he undressed her, from head to feet, kissing the wrap that bound her broken toe, the bandages on her hands. She kissed the horrid bruise on his face again, the broken finger.
He kissed her in her middle and they moved the sheets into a slow tangle, Claudia finally surrounding him with her heat.
“Our first time in what, thirteen years?” she whispered.
“Lucky thirteen.” He laughed. He was confident with her, more sure of his touch; she was more relaxed.
“Worth waiting for,” she said, eager for the touch of his skin against hers.
“I always cared for you, Claudia. Always,” he said, closing his lips over her throat, his hands cupping her breasts. She felt the life in his mouth, his hands, and suddenly life seemed far sweeter than she had known, thinking of lying on that boat, bobbing in the waves, the sun a glaring, remorseless eye.
“Now,” she gasped. “Now.”
Afterward, his breath warmed the back of her neck, and she fell asleep.
She didn’t hear him rise from the bed.
“Doesn’t hurt too bad, does it?” Alex leaned down, patted Whit on the cheek. He’d taken four steps toward Whit after Whit laid down the gun, smashed the butt of his Glock twice across Whit’s face, knocking him nearly cold, opening his cheek. Whit sat, half-propped against the refrigerator, blood splattered all over his dancing pineapples shirt.
Lucy was still out, breathing shallowly, a trickle of blood oozing from her hairline and meandering down her forehead.
Alex Black squatted down in front of Whit, the gun aimed at Whit’s stomach. “Your friend Guchinski,” he said. “Where’s he at?”
“I don’t know.” Whit’s face felt broken. The cheekbone might be fractured. It hurt. His voice sounded thick and dopey.
Alex cocked the gun, aimed it at Lucy’s head. “Try again.”
“It’s the truth. Please don’t hurt her. I don’t know where he is right now.”
“So what’s his angle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rethink your answers, Your Honor. Can I call you that? Your Honor. I feel so privileged.”
“I didn’t know he was grabbing Stoney. I didn’t know he even knew where Stoney was.”
“How’d he find out Stoney was here?”
Whit paused. No way he’d point to Lucy. “He must have followed you out here.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Alex said. He closed his hand—fingers hard from digging, Whit thought; they felt like steel springs—around Whit’s windpipe. Alex wormed the gun in between Whit’s legs, pressed the barrel against his testicles. Whit quit breathing.
“Here’s my theory, Your Honor. Stoney wanted to get rid of me. He got himself a new partner. He gave the Devil’s Eye to new partner, who has a guard dog mentality. I think new partner was Guchinski, and he’s cutting you in, too.”
Whit risked a very small, shallow breath. The barrel didn’t ease its pressure.
“Now Guchinski has gotten Stoney hidden away and is calling me, wanting to deal. But I smell a trap. What do you smell?”
“Gooch doesn’t have the Eye.”
“Who does?”
“Stoney. You think he’s gonna trust anyone with a multimillion-dollar emerald?” Whit breathed again, cleared his throat. Let this lie work. “I can’t believe you fell for what he said. Giving it to someone else.”
“So you’ve chatted with Stoney.”
“Just that once. When you were hiding in the house.”
Alex smashed his fist across Whit’s face. Whit tried hard not to cry out, to groan.
“I wasn’t hiding.” Alex shook his head, ran his tongue along the little scar at his mouth’s corner, gave a little annoyed laugh. “I give you this, Judge: You got balls. Big ones. I pull the trigger here, there’s gonna be, what, sixty percent of your balls left?”
“If you kill me or Lucy, you don’t get the Eye,” Whit said. “Gooch has Stoney under his thumb, and he’ll never give it to you. Gooch’ll hunt you down and kill you. An inch at a time.”
Alex picked up a cell phone from the kitchen counter. He keyed in a number, dialed. “Mr. Guchinski, you answering Stoney’s phone now?”
Whit could not hear Gooch’s reply. Alex stood, let the gun slide along Whit’s bruised face, took a step back. On the floor Lucy stirred, moaned Whit’s name.
“No. You listen. I got my own trump cards, idiot.” He held the phone close to Whit’s mouth. “Speak to him. Say hello. Say more than hello and I kill the woman.”
“Hello,” Whit said.
Alex yanked the phone back. “I got the judge’s woman, too. So you got Stoney, man. I don’t care. Get rid of him now—he’s nothing but trouble.” A pause. “You want these two, you’re gonna give me the Eye.” He glanced at Whit.
Whit thought: He believed me. Or I just confirmed what he already thought, that Stoney has the Eye.
Alex listened, winked at Whit. “Give me directions,” he said. “Okay. We’ll meet there. In an hour or so.” Pause. “We make the trade then.” He clicked off. “People are so predictable.”
“What?” Whit asked.
Alex stared at Whit. “Tell me, how come a judge is friends with a crook like Gooch?”
“We have a lot in common.”
“Yeah,” Alex said. “Lots of judges in Florida are crooked, too. Trust me.” Whit saw a shift in his face, amusement hardening into contempt. He cocked the gun, kept it aimed at Whit, and stood over Lucy. She was trying to surface back to consciousness. The amber necklace around her throat was broken, the jewel loose on the floor. He wanted to reach over, fix it for her, hold her, tell her it was okay.
Her eyes fluttered open, looking at him but not quite registering him. Whit could see two little trails of blood from her hairline where Alex had pistol-whipped her, her right ear bloodied.
“I don’t think she’s in any condition to travel, do you?” Alex said with a crooked smile.
“What?” Whit said again. Okay, I can be
the hostage—
“We don’t need her.” The grin widened, the gun moved to Lucy.
“No, please—” Whit yelled.
“Devotion. That’s nice,” Alex said. Then he fired three times.
37
CLAUDIA AWOKE IN complete darkness. The night surrounding her felt as solid as glass, and panic tightened her stomach, thrummed between her shoulder blades. She felt tied. Danny. Danny still had her, Gar waiting nearby, the tattooed arms ready to force the life out of her, hungry to force himself inside her. She sat up in bed, blinking, easing out of the snarl of sheets.
No Danny. No Gar.
No Ben in bed.
She glanced at the digital clock. Ten-forty-six p.m. She’d drunk too much, the michelada and the wine too early in the evening; she wasn’t used to it. She had a little headache, not bad. She got up, went to the bedroom balcony that faced onto the bay. The heavy curtains were pulled closed and she parted them an inch. St. Leo Bay lay calm in the night, the moon a wafer in the wash of the Milky Way.
She closed the curtains, found her clothes on the floor. She stepped into panties, pulled her khaki slacks up over her legs. She groped for her bra and blouse and put them on.
She started down the stairs, toward the spill of light in the kitchen, heard Ben say, “All right, I’ll be there.” When she entered the kitchen he was standing by the granite-top counter, a cell phone in his hand. He set it down on the counter.
“Ben?”
“That was my brother, babe. He’s alive.”
“Where is he?”
“In Corpus Christi. He wants me to come see him. Right now.”
“He decided to come out from under his rock?”
He didn’t react to her sarcasm. “He’s ashamed. Embarrassed that he panicked. But he’s alive.” He took Claudia into his arms. “He’s at a warehouse he owns down by the port. You know a guy named Leonard Guchinski?”
“Yeah. He’s nuts. How is he involved?”
“Stoney’s with this Guchinski guy, and I’m not quite sure why.”
“So what are you going to do, Ben?”
“I should call the police,” Ben said in a tone that said he actually didn’t want to do that. “Let them know he at least is all right.”