Chapter TEN
Jock and I settled into a couple of deck chairs on my patio, he with an O’Doul’s and I with a Miller Lite. The sun would be going down soon. I loved watching the sunset from the Gulf side and I often did, usually at the outside bar at the Hilton. But sundown on the eastern side of the island was beautiful as well. In a few minutes, as the sun sank toward the surface of the Gulf, its rays would reflect off the cumulus clouds hanging over the bay, painting them in bright pastels as the turquoise water turned gray in the diminishing light.
“How’s Gene doing?” I asked.
“Not well, but he’s tough. He’ll survive this, but it’ll take some time.”
“What’s he doing about a funeral?”
“He’ll bury her here as soon as the medical examiner releases the body.”
“Do you think the murder was some sort of revenge against Gene for his involvement with your agency?”
“I don’t see how. I don’t think anybody could connect him to our group. His cover was as an analyst for the State Department. But I think the murderer is going to be very surprised to find out that he killed one of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He won’t like the final result.”
“Explain that to me.”
“The director told me to take the bastard out.”
“You mean kill him,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Will you?”
“If I get to him before the law does.”
“I don’t know, Jock. What about J.D.?”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“You can’t do that to her.”
Jock sat silently for a few minutes. I let him stew. He found himself in a paradox. J.D. was his friend and yet, so was Gene Alexander. Jock lived in a world where the bad guys were taken out. He killed them to protect all of us, his countrymen. I think he died a little with every one of the enemy he killed, no matter how deserving that person was of death. I was one of the few people in the world outside his agency who knew what he did for a living. He was a sometime assassin, a man sent by his government to kill those who would kill us. And when the deed was done, when he’d carried out his orders, finished his mission, he’d come to Longboat Key and crawl into a bottle of bourbon for a week. His nights were long and arduous, filled with regret and anger and self-loathing. He’d talk about our childhood in the small town in the middle of Florida where we’d grown up, of how he’d ended up in the service of his country, a noble calling, but one filled with duties beyond the understanding of the ordinary American. He hated what he did, but knew he was better qualified than almost anyone in the world to carry out his missions. And he knew that those missions were crucial to the survival of our nation. So he went out into the world and did evil to the evildoers. Was there some balance there? Or was he just another killer, no better than the idiots who killed for their rancid causes?
The answers never came, but by the end of the week, the week we called the cleansing time, he slowed down on the drinking, nursed less severe hangovers, and began running miles each day on the beach, leaching the alcohol and the hatred out of his system. Then he’d go back to the wars, back to the dismal pursuit of his deranged quarry, back to protecting his country.
“I won’t betray J.D.,” he said.
“What then?”
“She’s potentially a target. If I killed the guy and she didn’t know about it, she’d continue to feel threatened. I won’t do that to her.”
“Where does that leave you and the director’s order?”
“It wasn’t really an order. More like permission.”
“Then what’ll you do?”
He chuckled. “Play it by ear, I guess. If I can kill the guy without compromising J.D., I’ll do it. If not, he belongs to her and the law.”
I said, sarcastically, “I know she’ll be pleased.”
Jock laughed. “We’re not going to mention this to her, are we?”
“Not on a bet. She’d pack your ass off to Houston before you could get your gear together.”
“She’s tough, podna. God, she’s tougher than you and me put together.”
“And a lot prettier,” I said.
My phone began to play the first bars of The Girl from Ipanema.
“J.D.,” I said as I wrenched the phone from the pocket of my shorts.
“Geez,” said Jock, rolling his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said.
Jock shook his head, grinning.
“Aren’t we formal?” said J.D.
I looked at my watch. It was after six. “You up for some dinner?”
“Sure. What’ve you got in mind?”
“How about the Lazy Lobster in thirty minutes?”
“I’ve got to shower and change. Give me an hour.”
“Okay, Toots.”
“Toots? Have you lost your mind?”
“Sorry, Detective. See you in an hour.” I closed the phone.
“Call her ‘Toots’ again and she’ll probably shoot you,” said Jock.
“Yeah. I gotta watch my mouth.”
We drank another beer, showered, dressed, and left the cottage for the two-mile drive down the island to the Lazy Lobster Restaurant. We didn’t know that we were driving straight into the path of a murderer.