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?’
Whit paused. No way he’d point to Lucy. ‘He must have followed you out here.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Alex said. He closed his hand – fingers hard from digging, Whit thought; they felt like steel springs – around Whit’s windpipe. Alex wormed the gun in between Whit’s legs, pressed the barrel against his testicles. Whit quit breathing.
‘Here’s my theory, Your Honor. Stoney wanted to get rid of me. He got himself a new partner. He gave the Devil’s Eye to new partner, who has a guard dog mentality. I think new partner was Guchinski, and he’s cutting you in, too.’
Whit risked a very small, shallow breath. The barrel didn’t ease its pressure.
‘Now Guchinski has gotten Stoney hidden away and is calling my ass up, wanting to deal. But I smell a trap. What do you smell?’
‘Gooch doesn’t have the Eye.’
‘Who does?’
‘Stoney. You think he’s gonna trust anyone with a multimillion-dollar emerald?’ Whit breathed again, cleared his throat. God, let this lie work. ‘I can’t believe you fell for what he said. Giving it to someone else.’
‘So you’ve chatted with Stoney.’
‘Just that once. When you were hiding in the house.’
Alex smashed his fist across Whit’s face. Whit tried hard not to cry out, to groan.
‘I wasn’t hiding.’ Alex shook his head, ran his tongue along the little scar at his mouth’s corner, gave a little annoyed laugh. ‘I give you this, Judge: you got balls. Big ones. I pull the trigger here, there’s gonna be, what, sixty percent of your balls left?’
‘If you kill me or Lucy, you don’t get the Eye,’ Whit said. ‘Gooch has Stoney under his thumb, and he’ll never give it to you. Gooch’ll hunt your ass down and kill you. An inch at a time.’
Alex picked up a cell phone from the kitchen counter. He keyed in a number, dialed. ‘Mr Guchinski, you answering Stoney’s phone now?’
Whit could not hear Gooch’s reply. Alex stood, let the gun slide along Whit’s bruised face, took a step back. On the floor Lucy stirred, moaned Whit’s name.
‘No. You listen. I got my own trump cards, fuckhead.’ He held the phone close to Whit’s mouth. ‘Speak to him. Say hello. Say more than hello and I kill the woman.’
‘Hello,’ Whit said.
Alex yanked the phone back. ‘I got the judge’s woman, too. So you got Stoney, man. I don’t care. Get rid of him now – he’s nothing but trouble.’ A pause. ‘You want these two, you’re gonna give me the Eye.’ He glanced at Whit.
Shit, Whit thought. He believed me. Or I just confirmed what he already thought, that Stoney has the Eye.
Alex listened, winked at Whit. ‘Give me directions,’ he said. ‘Okay. We’ll meet there. In an hour or so.’ Pause. ‘We make the trade then.’ He clicked off. ‘People are fucking predictable.’
‘What?’ Whit asked.
Alex stared at Whit. ‘Tell me, how come a judge is friends with a crook like Gooch?’
‘We have a lot in common.’
‘Yeah,’ Alex said. ‘Lots of judges in Florida are crooked, too. Trust me.’ Whit saw a shift in his face, amusement hardening into contempt. He cocked the gun, kept it aimed at Whit, and stood over Lucy. She was trying to surface back to consciousness. The amber necklace around her throat was broken, the jewel loose on the floor. He wanted to reach over, fix it for her, hold her, tell her it was okay.
Her eyes fluttered open, looking at him but not quite registering him. Whit could see two little trails of blood from her hairline where Alex had pistol-whipped her, her right ear bloodied.
‘I don’t think she’s in any condition to travel, do you?’ Alex said with a crooked smile.
‘What?’ Whit said again. Okay, I can be the hostage ‘We don’t need her.’ The grin widened, the gun moved to Lucy.
‘No, please-’ Whit yelled.
‘Devotion. That’s nice,’ Alex said. Then he fired three times.