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 Lucy’s 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 for ever. 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 sprinkle of pepper, and a dollop of lime juice. Then he poured a cold Dos Equis lager in each glass. The beer darkened to the color of maple. 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, treating it as a crime scene.
‘God only knows. 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, ’sokay.’ 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.
‘Let’s make love,’ 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. God, 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.’
‘Bullshit, 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 the Stone Man was here?’