A Kiss Gone Bad (19 page)

From the bay Port Leo appeared as a luminous stitch against the black fabric of the night. The always open Port Leo State
Pier glowed along its long thrust into St Leo Bay, and even from this distance Whit saw stick figures moving, eclipsing the
lights, and he imagined he could see the lines the fishermen cast out into the bay, as thin as spider’s silk. Whit sat in
the bow of
Don’t Ask
and sipped at a jelly jar full of bourbon.

He had left the café, hauling Irina’s ruined computer after him and cleaning up the debris. He’d phoned Babe, said he wouldn’t
be home that night and that he’d dropped Irina’s computer while moving it. He promised to replace the computer.

Babe sounded unconvinced. ‘You’re not with this girlfriend of Hubble’s, are you? You better not be blowing this election thinking
with your dick.’

‘I’m not, and thanks for the vote of confidence. Be sure all your doors are locked. Daddy. And keep your gun at your bedside.’

‘What? Christ, Whit, what is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Just do it,’ Whit said. ‘I got to go.’

Whit felt safe in one place, and that place was now settled in the calm of the bay, a big-ass moat between him and the world.

Gooch poured the right bourbon and was the consummate listener. When Whit finished, outlining the investigation, the attack,
and the threats against him and his family, Gooch said, ‘Of course we have to destroy these people.’

Whit said nothing.

‘It’s an insult to the rule of law. Even when the rule of law is The Not-Always-Respectable but Ever-Honorable Whit.’ Gooch
sipped his spring water and stared out over the empty dark of the water.

‘I should warn Dad and Irina and my brothers.’

‘If this jerk wanted them dead right now, he wouldn’t have bothered telling you. Listen to me. Whoever did this is scum and
he deserves a quick ending.’

Whit listened to the water slap against the sides of the
Don’t Ask.
‘If they’re following me, they might figure out that I’ve told you.’

‘I’m hardly the authorities. I’m simply a grizzled fishing guide.’ Gooch finished his drink. ‘I’m curious as to who could
field this army of darkness, devoted to nothing but eliminating a legion of Mosleys.’

‘Junior Deloache.’

Gooch shrugged. ‘Junior doesn’t strike me as the forceful type on his own.’

‘So he sends one of his goons in his place.’

‘But this person knew details about you, your family. Junior is not oriented toward homework. Who else’s cage have you and
Claudia rattled?’

‘Well, Delford took her off the case and she’s steamed about it.’

‘But Delford was threatened as well.’

Whit shrugged. ‘Could be a cover so I don’t suspect him. But there’s a huge stretch between Delford yanking Claudia off this
case and then Delford ordering me to be shot at and my whole family threatened. My God, I’ve known Delford Spires for years.
No way.’

‘What about our senator?’

‘Not Lucinda’s style. You may not like her, but she’s not the kind to use thugs.’

‘Lucinda Hubble is exactly the type to use hired muscle. I am not fooled like our fair electorate. I do not
find her amusing or colorful or even particularly bright. There is something missing in that woman’s eyes, some common trace
of humanity. I don’t doubt she lets Faith’s hands get dirty while she keeps her own gloves white.’

‘But this guy clearly didn’t know about the suicide note Sam found. The note makes it much more likely I’ll rule for suicide,
even without a threat. If the shooter knew about that … why threaten me? I think it puts the Hubbles in the clear.’

‘Indulge me, Whit. What if it was a Hubble? Say your fair Faith.’

‘I’m indulging.’ Whit kept his voice steady.

‘At the least Lucinda is Pete’s mother. There’s a bond there that should survive just about anything, and you say she was
clearly torn about him coming home. But Faith, this is nothing but nightmare for her. If Pete comes home and sours the election
for his mother, Faith loses her job. Pete wants her kid and thought he had enough leverage against her that he hired a lawyer.
If he did have dirt, it had to be radioactive for him to be considered the superior parent. She’s down two strikes. And she’s
fiercely protective of Lucinda. Her I could see.’

Whit took a hard swallow of the bourbon, let it burn his throat. ‘She’d be capable of killing Pete. I have no illusions there.
But they consider the case closed now because of the note. She doesn’t benefit from this threat against me.’

‘Unless she doubts you buy the note and wants insurance.’ Gooch showed compassion the only way he knew how, by shifting subjects.
‘And Jabez Jones? His name keeps popping up here.’

‘I think not,’ Whit said.

‘Why?’

‘Gunplay doesn’t seem his style.’

‘There’s a lot of testosterone in his ministry. You
know, the Bible is deplorably violent.’ Gooch smiled. ‘You’re neglecting one other possibility.’

‘Who?’

‘Velvet.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Am not.’

‘She’s the one clamoring hardest for me to rule homicide. It makes no sense.’

‘Look, Whit, she could be working a carefully constructed sham. She looks like Pete’s advocate, but she retires from town
quietly when you rule suicide. She nicely puts herself out of suspicion.’

‘I just don’t see her as a killer.’

‘Christ, Whit, are you sleeping with her, too?’

‘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.’

Heather blanched. ‘Just give me my money.’

‘Yes, Darling,’ he said, and the knife swung up hard, burying itself in her stomach, deep. His hand slammed over her mouth.
Heather’s eyes widened in agony and disbelief, and blood bubbled out of her, from the wound and surging past her lips.

Sam, oh Jesus, Sam help me,
and then she tried to scream for her mother and then the knife was gone and she didn’t even feel the flick across her throat
but she slid into a strange darkness quite different from night.

The Blade held her close against him, smelling peanut butter crackers on her breath, feeling her death shuddering through
him, then ended the embrace. Heather Farrell fell bonelessly onto the sand. Blood soaked his clothes, but after all, that
was very easily remedied.

He wiped the knife on Heather’s jeans. He pulled a large folded square of plastic from the back of his pants. It was warm
from resting against his butt, like the knife had been. Carefully he rolled the body onto the plastic sheet and wrapped her
in the shower-curtain shroud. He carried her toward the far end of the beach.