Black Jack Point

by Jeff Abbott

  “You want to wait until you talk to him?”

  “I kind of think I should.” He tucked the cell phone into his front pants pocket. “You want to go with me?”

  “Maybe this should be a private meeting,” Claudia said.

  “I’d like it a lot if you came. He owes you an apology and an explanation. Maybe you can help us figure out how to deal with the authorities, help him avoid embarrassment. He’s probably going to need a lawyer, too.”

  “He’s going to need a PR firm,” Claudia said. She wasn’t worried about Stoney’s embarrassment. “Let me run upstairs, get my purse, and we’ll go.”

  The trunk was dark, so dark that when Whit shut his eyes he could not tell the world had gone darker. The rattle and bump of the Taurus shook him back to full consciousness as they sped down the highway.

  I’m going to kill you, he thought.

  If he simply lay here, prone with grief, Alex won. He had no doubt Alex’s goal was to kill him, Gooch, Stoney, whoever got in his way. A clean sweep. If he thought too much about Lucy a sickening paralysis crept into him.

  He had hardly moved since Alex punched him again for good measure and dumped him into the trunk. He felt in his pocket for his cell phone. Gone. He groped in the dark, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon. Alex had been at Stoney’s when Whit stopped by, but this car hadn’t been. So either a rental or maybe stolen. Maybe Alex hadn’t paid enough attention to what was in here if it was stolen, and the trunk seemed cluttered with junk.

  His fingers found the rim of the spare. Soft material that felt like silk, maybe some clothes destined for the dry cleaner’s. A small wrench, probably left out for the lugs of the spare. A book, a wilting paperback. A cool plane of metal, with three hinges on the side.

  Tool box.

  Whit slowly turned the toolbox around, found its opening. Closed, but not locked. He managed to open it, heard the clatter of metal tools as the car hit a bump in the highway. Waited for the car to slow, pull over to the side. If he made too much noise—if Alex thought he were anything but grief-stricken and broken now—Alex would kill him.

  Taking his time, forcing himself to be calm, Whit let his fingers explore the tools. A tape measure. A hammer, which would be great to swing at Alex’s face. A baggie, with what felt like an assortment of screws, nails, and lug nuts inside. A small ball of twine. Pliers. His fingers found a bar in the space above the tools. A handle. The tool box had a lift-out tray, with another compartment beneath.

  He eased the top compartment out. His fingers fumbled inside the deeper well of the box. More baggies with nails or hooks. Screwdrivers with hard plastic handles, two or three. A ball peen hammer, the better to break Alex’s teeth with if he got a chance. Masking tape, a roll thinned from use. Electrical wire. He pricked his finger on a long V of sharp metal, with wicked little teeth on each side, a carved wooden handle. He gently explored the tool with his fingertips. A wallboard saw, the kind used to slice through Sheetrock, to make cutouts for light switches and electrical outlets. But with that nice pointed blade for plunge cuts into walls.

  All it takes is one mistake, Whit thought, and, you murdering bastard, you just made it.

  “You’re gonna sit here real quiet,” Gooch said. “You mess this up so that Whit or Lucy gets hurt, you’re the mess.”

  “And I thought we’d gotten to be friends,” Stoney said.

  “Yeah, I’m going to be godfather to your kids.”

  “So what, I sit here and you negotiate with Alex?”

  “No. You sit here and I get rid of him if I have to,” Gooch said. “Then I give you to the judge and he figures out what to do with you.”

  Talking to him like he was a kid. “Be nice, Gooch. Or I’ll press charges and you’ll go to prison.”

  “Are you quite so eager to get more in the public eye that way, Stoney? Sit down,” Gooch said, and Stoney said nothing. He eased down into the chair behind the desk and Gooch turned to douse out the lights.

  Now, Stoney thought. He grabbed the handle of the desk drawer, gave it a heavy yank.

  The drawer slid out, fast, and Stoney swung it as he bolted around the desk, connecting with Gooch’s skull as he turned. Gooch went down. Stoney brought the drawer down again.

  Gooch’s eyes went white. “Fuuu—”

  Stoney took the heavy end of the drawer and smacked it down hard on Gooch’s head again, twice. Gooch sprawled across the concrete floor.

  That was fast, Stoney thought. He picked up the gun, groped Gooch’s thick neck for a pulse. After a moment he found it. But Gooch seemed to be out cold. Stoney considered whether or not to shoot him. Easier than shooting Danny. At least he wasn’t looking at him with a wet face and a horrible, blubbering pleading look. He pressed the gun against the back of Gooch’s head.

  But then headlights gleamed against the shuttered warehouse windows, a car turning in, and Stoney Vaughn threw a tarp over Gooch, took the gun, doused the last light, and stepped back into the shadows, into the maze of unopened crates and equipment in the clutter.

  Stoney knelt down by a section of crates in the back. He checked Gooch’s gun by flashlight, a full clip. He sat back, raised the flashlight, its little circle of light spilling along the crates five feet in front of him.

  He froze. “That bastard,” he whispered.

  38

  WHIT FELT THE car come to a stop, heard the engine turn off. He had reloaded the toolbox, closed it, tucked the wallboard saw into the waist of his khakis, tightened his belt. He hoped he could pull the blade out fast without slicing himself open. He closed his eyes, thought of Lucy.

  Her asking, I’m safe with you, aren’t I? And him saying, Always, babe. She’d wanted reassurance—she’d wanted to know he loved her no matter what.

  He was crouched, shoulders against the trunk’s lid.

  C’mon, c’mon, he thought. I want you.

  The driver’s door slammed; he heard footsteps against concrete.

  “Judge?” Alex’s voice called, low, quiet. Even gentle.

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to lie facedown, hands laced on your head. You yell for help, you kick the trunk or me, you fart too loud, I empty this clip into you. You understand me?”

  “Yeah,” Whit said. He lay down as Alex ordered, the little wicked saw sharp against his hip.

  A key slid into the lock, the trunk door opened. The muzzle of a gun pressed into the back of Whit’s neck.

  “Up. Slowly. Not a sound.”

  “You’ll be in hell in less than ten minutes,” Whit said. “You don’t have a prayer against Gooch.” He got up, felt the saw stay in its place against his leg.

  “You got in over your head, Your Honor. I don’t hold greed against you. But you took on too much.”

  He didn’t want Gooch to kill Alex. He wanted to do it himself.

  He stepped out of the trunk, the gun still firmly at the back of his head, and the two men walked to the warehouse door. An electronic keypad was by the door and Alex entered in a code. The electronic locks on the door clicked open.

  “You first, Judge,” Alex said.

  Whit stepped inside the darkness.

  “Guchinski?” Alex called. “Put the lights on. Now. Or the judge dies.”

  “Chill, Alex. It’s all right.” Stoney Vaughn, a little rasp of voice in the blackness.

  “Where’s your new buddy?” Alex called.

  “Barely breathing on the concrete floor. I bashed his head in.”

  Alex waited. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Come in and see.” Stoney’s voice shook.

  Fear? Anger? Whit wondered.

  “What are you mad about? He kidnaps you. I try to save you—” Alex said.

  “You’re quite the hero,” Stoney said from the dark. “You coming in or not?”

  “Do you have the Eye, Stoney?” Alex said.

  “Right here in my pocket.”

  “Okay, we’re cool, right? I’m coming in now.” And Alex di
d, pushing Whit along in front of him, not closing the door after him in case he had to barrel out fast. No light on in the warehouse, just the smell of dust and machinery, and oddly enough, the reek of greasy Chinese food.

  “Alex,” Stoney’s voice called. “Shut the door.”

  “Turn on the lights. What’s with this darkness act?” Alex’s hands fumbled for the switches, couldn’t find them.

  The lights clanged on, Stoney standing ten feet away, a gleaming pistol in his hand.

  “Nice gun,” Alex said.

  “It’s a Shootyadickov,” Stoney said. “I got it from Gooch. Hello, Judge. Sorry about this. Wow, Alex, you beat the snot out of him.”

  Whit’s heart sank. The wallboard saw was a stupid, stupid idea. Gooch down. Him stuck between these two jerks, each with a gun. He kept his hands down by his untucked shirt. “He shot Lucy,” he said.

  Stoney’s lips—clenched together in a tough-guy sneer—parted. “What?”

  “She’s dead,” Alex said. “I didn’t want to bring them both.”

  “That… wasn’t necessary. I…” Stoney said.

  “You what?” Alex said. “You need her land to rebury the gold so you can discover it and, what, get your picture on the cover of National Geographic? Man, give it up.”

  “I liked Lucy,” Stoney said.

  “Yeah, she seemed real nice. A shame. I hate what I have to do sometimes. Where’s the Eye?”

  Whit kept waiting for Alex to say, Well, Gooch is out of the game—don’t need you and shoot him dead. But instead Alex kept Whit in front of him, still a shield.

  “Don’t worry about the Eye,” Stoney said. “I promised you could keep most of the coins. I’d get thirty percent and the Eye. That’s more than fair. Let’s just settle our accounts now, Alex.”

  “I can get the coins for you tomorrow. I kind of had my hands full tonight.”

  “You’ll get them tonight.” Stoney’s face reddened.

  “I can’t,” Alex said.

  “Sure you can. They’re just about thirty feet away, in crates over there,” Stoney said. “What I want to know, Alex buddy, is how you got the treasure into my own warehouse.”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “The coins. They are all over there in that corner, crated, just as we left them in the storage unit,” Stoney said.

  The silence hung in the air. Now, Whit thought.

  “Alex,” Whit said. “Stoney doesn’t have the Eye. He’s lying. He said it was in his pocket. Make him show the Eye to you.”

  “Stoney. That’s not a bad idea. I’ve missed seeing the Eye over the past couple of days,” Alex said. “But slowly.”

  “I was not speaking literally when I said it was in my pocket,” Stoney said.

  “That means he lied,” Whit said. “You were right. He gave it to Gooch. But now he’s betrayed Gooch. You think he’s gonna play clean with you?”

  Alex took a step toward Stoney, keeping Whit close in front. Whit took a step forward in response, moaned, as though the pain of the beating had caught up with him. He closed his hand over his shirttail and around the handle of the wallboard saw.

  “I didn’t give it to Gooch,” Stoney said. “He kidnapped me, Alex.”

  “You seem to have suffered mightily.”

  “We have to stick together,” Stoney said.

  “Do we?” Alex said.

  Late-night traffic was light heading into Corpus Christi. Claudia drove, finished a cup of hot coffee, the warm effect of the wine fading. Ben said he was too nervous to drive so they took her pickup truck.

  “I think I would feel better if he’d actually apologized,” Ben said. “On the phone. He sounded so cryptic.”

  “Give it time. Maybe he thinks he didn’t do a thing wrong.”

  “How could that thought even live in his brain?”

  “You’ve gotten angrier during the drive,” she said.

  “Knowing he’s okay, I’m finally feeling mad. I don’t let myself get mad enough.”

  “Not me,” said Claudia. “I’m sort of comfortable with getting pissed off. You’re way too even-keeled.”

  The port area was aglow with lights as they reached the Harbor Bridge, arching two hundred thirty-five feet above where the Nueces and Corpus Christi bays joined. Claudia saw the blue lights centered on the USS Lexington, retired in the calm of Corpus Christi Bay, the Texas State Aquarium, the soft glow of downtown ahead of her. She barreled onto the Harbor Bridge, the traffic in front of her thin.

  Ben squirmed in his seat, as though trying to get comfortable, and suddenly she felt rather than saw the gun hovering close to her head.

  “What—”

  “It’ll help if you’re even-keeled right now. I’m sorry.”

  Her breath caught and Ben said, “Just keep driving, okay? You’re losing speed. Pick it up.”

  “Tell me what you’re doing or I’m going to drive the car off the bridge,” she said.

  “No, you won’t,” he said. “I know you.” His voice quiet now, bled of the earlier anger.

  “Ben… this isn’t the way to help your brother.”

  “He can rot in hell for all I care,” Ben said. “He would have gotten us both killed. You think I care about him now?” His tone softened. “You, I’m sorry about. I couldn’t help myself. Never quite got over you. If we hadn’t been kidnapped… if you hadn’t learned about all this… I wish you weren’t a cop.” The lights of the bridge flashed by them. His voice toughened. “Take the port exit. Then a hard right, then two more lefts until we get where we’re going.”

  Hadn’t learned about all this… “Are you saying you know where this treasure is?”

  “Just be quiet. Talking is only going to make it worse.”

  “What, you’re going to kill your brother? And me?”

  “I’m not going to kill Stoney,” Ben said. “Even now, I’m not sure I could. My partner will take care of that.”

  “Partner,” she said. “Ben, no. Please. Don’t do this.”

  “Take the exit,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you, and I’ll shoot whoever’s in the first car that stops.”

  The bridge began its downward slope, toward Corpus Christi Beach and the port, and Claudia took the Port Street exit. It was a very short exit, forcing a hard right turn, and she thought of letting the car just go straight, crash, although she couldn’t risk the life of anyone else who might stop to help.

  “I really respect that you’re not crying right now. Or calling me names.”

  “I’m waiting for an explanation, Ben. Money? Jealousy of your brother?”

  “Money. You know what it’s like to be ten times smarter than Stoney and not have a hundredth of what he does?” He sighed. “I wish you could come with me. But that’s not possible. Turn left here. Then the next left.” She turned onto a side street dominated by one large warehouse, the lot by it empty except for a battered red pickup—she recognized it as Gooch’s—and a nondescript Ford Taurus. She parked on the other side of the truck, away from the Taurus.

  “Turn off your headlights.”

  Claudia thumbed the switch and the little lot went dark.

  “Now what?” she said. Her own service revolver was in the compartment between them. She couldn’t possibly reach it without him blowing her head off. He opened the compartment, fished out her gun, put it in his lap.

  “You know,” Ben said, “I’m grateful we made love. Truly. We’re going inside.”

  “So no one will hear you kill me?”

  He started to reply, but gunshots sounded inside the warehouse, three of them in rapid fire. “Damn.”

  The gun wavered for a second and Claudia flung open the door, threw herself out onto the asphalt, the driver’s-side window exploding above her. She crabbed under the car as Ben scrambled out of the truck.

  39

  AS ALEX FIRED, his arm outstretched past Whit, Whit slammed hard into his arm, pinning him into the wall and trying to pull the gun from his hand. He got his finge
rs around the grip, gouged Alex’s wrists, but Alex grabbed the back of his head, smashed it hard into the concrete wall.

  Whit went down thinking, Stupid, stupid.

  Alex pressed down on him, knee in his back, and Whit saw Stoney lying on the floor, bone and blood and shredded jaw showing.

  “That was stupid,” Alex said. “You missing your girl? You want to see her?”

  “I know where Gooch hid the Eye, idiot. Shoot me and you’ll never get it.”

  “Liar!” he screamed. “You would have told me to save Lucy.”

  “I didn’t think you’d really shoot her.” His right hand closed over his shirttail and the hidden saw’s handle. But he couldn’t pull it free, not with Alex’s weight on him. “Let me up and I’ll tell you.”

  “You’ll tell me now.” Alex grabbed Whit’s left hand, flattened it on the concrete. Jammed the hot barrel of the gun against the back of Whit’s hand.

  “I’ll show you,” Whit said.

  “Show.” Alex froze. “It’s here?”

  “Let me up and I’ll show it to you. Don’t shoot off my hand.” Whit let out a scream, a sob. “Just don’t shoot off my hand, man, please. I’ll show you. Please?” He began to mumble and cry.

  Alex hesitated for two seconds. “Okay.” He eased up into a squat by Whit. “Get up.” His voice was thick with contempt.

  Whit got to both knees, holding his side, lips quivering, fresh blood smearing his broken cheek. Then, slowly, to his feet, his hand under the tail of his shirt, like his side ached.

  “Please… please…” Whit said, unsteady on his feet, like standing was an ordeal. “Please, I’ll show you…”

  And then in one swift motion he slashed out at Alex with the little wicked blade.

  Claudia had counted on Ben running around the car to finish her, hoping he’d think she’d try to put distance between her and his gun. So instead she rolled under the car. She heard his feet pound around the truck’s back, trying to get a sight on her, seeing if she was hit or running. She saw his feet—tennis shoes bright white in the dark—she let him race past her, peering into the dark of the lot and the loading docks, listening for her running feet and looking for her moving shadow. She rolled out from under the truck as he started to curse, the broken glass crunching under her shoulders. Ben turned and she barreled toward him in a flying tackle. His gun blazed and she felt the devilish whisper of a bullet sear past her head. She slammed hard into him, smashing her forearm into his throat, driving her knee into his groin.