Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘No.’

‘You never know about people, Whit.’

The statement and Gooch’s even tone made Whit stop. ‘No, I suppose not.’

Another blanket of clouds unfurled over the western Gulf after the fall of evening; Whit longed to see the long swath of stars that scored the autumn sky over the coast. He heard a soft whispering, and he looked over the bow. Barely discernible in the darkness, several dark shapes surfaced into the gentle cups of waves, puffed misty air, then slowly submerged again. A small herd of porpoises, sleeping. He listened to them rise and fall in their total calm.

‘So how are you going to rule?’ Gooch finally asked.

Whit set down his drink. The shakiness had passed, but the liquor hadn’t calmed him – just made him scared and drunk, all at once. ‘Ruling for suicide makes everyone safe. For now. But what does that say about me? You think people here would vote for me or respect me if they knew I caved in to a threat?’

‘I’ve known cowards, Whit. You ain’t one.’

‘I lay on that floor for the instructed thirty minutes. I didn’t even answer my cell phone when it rang.’

‘Not cowardice. Prudence. Learn the difference.’ In the dark, Gooch cracked his knuckles. ‘I still vote we find out who’s behind this and destroy them.’

‘And by destroy you mean call the papers and the cops and put them away forever.’

‘I mean making sure they can never threaten anyone again. By means fair or foul.’

‘I can’t support anything illegal, for God’s sakes. I’m a judge.’

‘Whitman. Please. The court of Gooch is eminently fair. These people put themselves at risk when they threatened you. You would have been entirely within your rights if you’d had a gun and shot the bastard. Self-defense. Think of this as extended, ongoing self-defense.’

‘No.’

‘I remind you that you could have chosen to run to the police. You did not. You came to me. Do you expect me to sit with thumb in ass while my friend is threatened? You knew I would take action.’

‘I just don’t want anyone killed, Gooch, for God’s sakes.’

‘You sell me short every time. Whitman. I never said I would kill anyone.’

‘You never said you wouldn’t.’

‘You can hardly open up a can of certified, high-octane whoop-ass on these people and then start setting boundaries.’ Gooch stood and stretched. ‘I’ll sleep under the stars, even if they’re playing hide-and-seek tonight.’

‘I have my own ideas on how to move forward,’ Whit said. ‘But I want to think them through.’

‘Then we’ll talk in the morning.’ Gooch pulled a sleeping bag from a kit on deck and unrolled it, stretched out his big body on it without getting inside. ‘Good night, Your Honor.’

‘Good night.’ A pause. ‘Thanks, Gooch. I mean, really, thanks.’

Gooch turned his face in the direction of the sleeping porpoises. ‘You’re welcome.’

Whit went below to the guest stateroom and climbed into a berth. The draining of adrenaline throughout his body hit him hard. His head dropped onto the pillow, and his last waking thought was he had come as close to death tonight as he ever had and did he even want this stupid justice of the peace job anymore?

Or did he even deserve the job?

The Honorable Whit Mosley fell asleep before he could decide.

Heather Farrell stood in the dark curve of Little Mischief Beach. She knew Sam hated surprises – he was such a careful thinker – but money was money and they could use another five thousand. New Orleans was expensive. Sam never worried two seconds over cash, but Heather had searched in trash bins for half-eaten sandwiches, burgers doubling as housefly helipads, and fries cold and clotted with grease. Only she had the money sense. No amount of money lasted forever, and five thousand bucks was worth waiting on the cold dark beach in the middle of the night.

Heather eased down on the sand, holding her flashlight. In the dark of the beach she would be hard to find. Just like she and Sam would be. Once they got to New Orleans, they could rent a cheap room near the Quarter under invented names and nab some weed and lay in bed and smoke, spend whole days making love, stopping only to wander among the tourists, devour crawfish and boudin, and drink icy Jax beer.

It was funny. She wouldn’t have touched a younger guy back in Lubbock, but travel broadened a girl. Sam was different than the pimpled boys. Confident, and funny, and making love he did not act or feel like a kid but a full-grown man. Sweet and kind. And smart, he had it all worked out where his mother and grandmother would have to let him go and have his life. He had convinced Heather his outlandish plan would work just fine.

Shoes crunched against the crushed shells along the lip of the beach. Her thumb moved to the toggle on the flashlight. Hand over the money, she nearly growled, as a joke, like she was robbing the guy. But then she thought he might not appreciate humor. He didn’t smile much.

Funny the way people were, the way you could never guess about them, what lay under a skin -

‘Heather?’ a voice called softly behind her. She wasn’t afraid, she knew he was coming, and she stood and dusted damp sand off her jeans. She clicked on her flashlight, the cone of light illuminating her worn sneakers.

‘Hey.’ A soft hiss of a laugh. ‘You can turn that off.’

‘Let’s get out of here. I could use some coffee.’

‘No, this won’t take long.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Do you have the money?’

‘Yes. Five thousand dollars, as we agreed, and you and Sam Hubble leave town.’

The guy was so stupid. He had no idea she and Sam were planning on leaving town anyway, and here he was bribing her to do exactly what she wanted.

‘It’s going to screw over his grandmother in the middle of this election,’ Heather said in her tough-chick voice. ‘You sure that’s what you want?’

‘I want,’ the man said. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’

‘And I’ll miss you, too. You never looked down on me.’

‘Of course not.’ A pause, the only sound her breathing and the soft swish of the waves. ‘I like you. Heather.’

A coyness tinged his voice, and she wondered if numerous unsavory strings were attached to this sum of money. On the road a car passed, loud jazz blasting from the windows, and the man held himself perfectly still until the car was gone.

‘The police,’ he said. ‘They questioned you pretty thoroughly about finding Pete Hubble’s body.’

‘Yeah. But they didn’t bug me too bad. I could handle them.’

‘Did you really not see anything? Hear anything when you went on Pete’s boat?’

Suddenly her stomach roiled and a prickle rose along her arms, her legs, the small of her back. She just wanted the money, and she wanted off this dark beach. A whirl of what was going to be – a narrow little room in New Orleans, street curbs reeking of beer, blowing sugar off a hot beignet onto Sam’s face for fun, zydeco drifting from a hundred open bar doors, her pockets heavy with money, Sam’s breath cool against her ear after loving – flashed through her mind. Her throat ached.

‘There was nothing to hear. I mean, Pete was already dead. He killed himself.’

‘Yes. But the police doubt you.’

She blinked. ‘No, they don’t.’

‘They know you lied to them.’

‘I didn’t lie. He was dead when I got there.’

‘And you saw nothing suspicious? Heard nothing suspicious?’

‘Nothing to see, nothing to hear,’ she said, more annoyed than afraid.

‘Just between you and me, were you going to make a movie for him?’ She heard a creeping breathlessness in his tone.

‘What?’ she said. ‘No.’

‘Too bad. I would’ve liked to have seen him fucking you.’