J. Black - The Shop

Landry knew what it was like, that feeling of athleticism, the rocking action in the stirrups as you balanced above the horse’s back, the ground rushing underneath. Pushing with his wrists on the animal’s neck, the horse quickening. The feeling when you crossed the wire in first.

He’d ridden twenty-six races as a bug boy. Then he shot up into the giant he was now.

When it was over for him, he’d closed the door. When he closed a door in his life, that was it.

Finally, it was jockeys up. The colt looked good. A flashy chestnut like his daddy. He moved with confidence, interested in his surroundings. No fear in him. He broke a step slow, but caught up fast. Too fast? Landry felt his heart thump hard. Was the jock screwing up? Bejarano—he had to know what he was doing! They’d sweated blood to get him.

Settling into a good rhythm going down the backstretch, three from the rail, the colt moving up. Well within himself. You could tell by Bejarano’s arms, following the reins in a subtle rocking rhythm, steady and relaxed, but there was coiled strength underneath. Plenty of horse. And then, right before the turn, Rafael shook the reins and Chernobyl Ant took off.

Landry didn’t know when he realized it would be a rout.

First he was ahead by a length, then widened to four, five, six, his lead growing with every stride.

Eleven and a half lengths at the wire!

The feeling bubbled up inside him. A deep and satisfying smile warmed him like a rising sun. He ignored the cigarette smoke, the dank smell of whiskey, the crowd jabbering. Walked out into the sunset, appreciating the palms fluttering against the lurid red-and-plum sky.

Eleven and a half lengths.

35

A man stood under the overhang of the gift store and bait shop, eating a candy bar. Landry had been on his way back to the boat when he spotted him.

The man was easy to make. He pretended to look at the bulletin board by the door, which was cluttered with business cards and photos of tourists holding up big fish. It was dusk, gloomy, but he could tell the man kept one eye on the AG’s boat. He looked casual, but wasn’t. For one thing, he wasn’t really looking at the photos. Landry could tell by the inclination of his head, by the small movements he made, shifting slightly to the left and then turning back. His cap pulled down too low.

Landry walked down the other dock to a slip holding a sports fisher and stepped aboard. Walked around the outside of the cabin as if he owned it. Bent down to work the line.

He did this for maybe a minute. Darkness closing in. He slipped into the water, swam under the dock, and came up on the other side. Got his bearings and swam to the other dock, right to where Frank’s boat, Judicial Restraint , was tied up.

He had not lost his ability to board a boat silently. It was like riding a bicycle; you never forgot.

He slid sideways through the narrow doorway to the galley, looking toward the stateroom doorway. He’d memorized the layout. He saw the edge of something black—a man’s leg, clad in cargo pants. Knife in a scabbard. Soft-soled shoes.

Another man.

The watcher by the bait shop must be a lookout. He could be one of Frank’s people, but Landry doubted that. He was pretty sure that someone besides him was interested in Frank’s business.

The man on the boat must have just gotten here. He was bent over the bed, looking at the bag of triptascoline, trying to figure out what it was.

The entry to the stateroom was extremely narrow. Landry sidled in, then moved quickly.

The man sensed something and stiffened. Landry had seen this in a rabbit just before a hawk bolted out of the sky—a sixth sense. But the man wasn’t a pro. It took him a second to believe his senses, and by that time it was too late. Landry held his head in a vise, hands on either side of the head. He jerked backwards, wrenching the neck sideways at the same time. Heard the pop as the neck snapped, severing the spinal cord: instant unconsciousness, followed by death.

He allowed the body to fall back against him, then lowered it to the sole. The smell of feces was overpowering.

Landry found a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Fantastic. He cleaned the body up and dragged it to one of the bench storage seats in the galley. Lifted the hinged seat. Empty. He heaved the body inside and closed the lid.

More cleanup. There wasn’t much. Urine trailing to the bench seat, pulled along by the man’s heels. Landry worked efficiently and quietly in the light of the dim lamp from the stateroom. He wet a towel to get rid of the Fantastic smell, wiped the galley sole dry. Admiring the satin finish of the cherry wood sheen.

Twenty minutes later, he felt the boat rock as the lookout stepped aboard.

The man was quiet and careful, but eventually he would have to come through the doorway.

When he did, Landry shot him.

36

Jolie thought: Memorial Day weekend.

Something had gone on at Cape San Blas that weekend. A party, a gathering—something. She remembered Kay mentioning it. Kay was always mentioning parties and galas and barbecues and visiting dignitaries, and Jolie was always tuning her out. Now she wished she’d listened better.

She almost called Kay, but decided not to. As much as she liked her cousin, this time she would keep her in the dark.

She Googled Memorial Day and Indigo. Memorial Day and Frank Haddox, Memorial Day and attorney general and “party.” And so on.

Zip.

Jolie thought about Zoe and Riley, the day they visited the sheriff’s office. Riley worried about the nude pictures on Luke’s cell phone. Zoe telling Jolie that Riley and Luke broke up that weekend.

Jolie didn’t like coincidences, but she couldn’t see how these pieces fit. What did Riley’s and Luke’s breakup have to do with a missing gay man? Luke and Riley’s breakup seemed straightforward and self-contained: Luke had broken up with Riley, and Riley was worried that Luke had a sex video of her on his phone. The phone was probably with the FBI—swallowed up into a black hole.

So Jolie tried it from the other end. The man named Rick had come to Cove Bar looking for a young man to take to a party on San Blas. A certain type. Like picking a lobster out of a tank . Technically a man, but slim, young-looking, boyish.

A memory poked up.

It was just a piece of gossip, something her cousin Kay had told her when they were alone together on a shopping trip in Tallahassee. Kay looked around at the few oblivious shoppers in the mall before saying anything. “The veep’s coming this weekend.”

“The veep?”

“The vice president? Owen Pintek? Remember him?” As if Jolie should know everything she did about the goings-on at Indigo Island. “I know I told you this. He’s always coming down here—it’s private and he can have a good time.”

“I like his wife.” The vice president’s wife worked tirelessly for the women of Afghanistan. She’d used the bully pulpit, and used it well. A beautiful, charming woman. Genuine.

“Merle doesn’t come down here much.”

“Why not?”

“They have separate lives.” Kay lowered her voice. “Between you and me? He likes boys.”

Jolie Googled Vice President Pintek, plus visit, plus Cape San Blas. The first two of seven hits were from the National Enquirer . The other four looked like blogs, each one referencing the Enquirer ’s headline: “VEEP’S SECRET GAY HIDEAWAY.”

The article about the vice president was the cover story for the April 3 edition of the Enquirer , accompanied by a telephoto shot of Indigo Island.