Authors: Michael Robotham
Valdez had taken almost a year to get membership of the country club, and that was only after his uncle, Victor Pilkington, pulled some strings. Before then, Ryan and Sandy had hosted barbecues and wine appreciation nights and Sandy had started a book club, but it didn’t open doors or lead to invitations. Living in Woodlands was like being back in high school, but instead of nerds, jocks, band geeks and cheerleaders, now there were socialites, empty-nesters, country clubbers, Republicans (patriots) and Democrats (socialists). Valdez didn’t know where he fitted in.
Pulling into the drive, he waits for the garage doors to open and glances at the glorious erection of shingles and brick that cost him more a million dollars. The tall arched windows are reflecting the afternoon sun and shadows spill across the lawn like pools of oil.
Walking through the house, he calls out and thinks nobody’s home. He gets a beer from the icebox and steps onto the patio. That’s when he notices the boy doing laps, crawling down the pool with an easy stroke. Max turns onto his back and stares skywards as he backstrokes, water rolling off his shoulders. When he reaches the far end, he stops. Stands.
‘Hi.’
Max doesn’t answer.
‘Where’s your mom?’
He shrugs.
Valdez tries to think of another question. When did talking to Max become so difficult? The teenager pulls himself out of the water and wraps a towel around his midriff, tying it like a sarong. The late sun is casting a yellow glow across the lawn. Max takes a seat on a lounger and sips on a luridly coloured can.
‘Did she mention dinner?’ asks Valdez.
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll sort something.’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘Toby’s. We’re doing a biology project.’
‘Why can’t Toby come here?’
‘He’s got the stuff.’
‘Do I even know Toby?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. Do you know Toby? I’ll have to ask him.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Max shrugs as though he doesn’t have a clue. Something snaps inside Valdez and he grabs a fistful of the boy’s hair, wrenching him upright. His vision has narrowed and he seems to be looking at the world through a stained-glass window.
‘You think you can talk to me like that. I put a roof over your head. I put food in your stomach. I pay for that phone you carry and the clothes you wear and that computer in your room. You treat me with respect or I’ll drown you in that fucking pool. Do you understand me?’
Max nods, holding back his tears.
Valdez pushes him away, immediately embarrassed and wanting to apologise, but the teenager is already walking to the cabana where he closes the door and he turns on the shower. Cursing himself, Valdez hurls his can of beer halfway across the lawn, where it bounces and foams at the mouth. The boy goaded him. He had no goddamn right! Now he’s going to tell his mother and cause even more problems. She’ll take Max’s side like she always does. If only the kid would just ease up. Show some more respect. There’s no common ground any more. They don’t watch Rangers games together or play Xbox or tease Sandy about her cooking.
An earlier image of Max is summoned from his memories – a little boy dressed in a cowboy hat, holding the sheriff’s hand. They were best friends. They were father and son. They were partners in crime. They were close. His anger drains away. It’s not Max’s fault. He’s fifteen. It’s what teenagers do – rebel against their parents, test the boundaries. Valdez had a fractious relationship with his own father when he was about the same age, and his old man didn’t brook any backchat or smartass comments.
According to Sandy it’s a stage kids go through. Hormones. Adolescence. Peer pressure. Girls. Why doesn’t Max just masturbate four times a day like every other teenage boy? Better still, Valdez could take him to a brothel – one of the cleaner places – and put the kid out of his misery. Sandy was always saying he should do more father–son stuff. He smiles to himself. She’d throw a fit if he got Max laid.
He hears a sliding door open and turns. Sandy steps onto the patio and puts her arms around him. Her hair is tousled and she smells of something sexy and sweaty.
‘Where you been?’ he asks.
‘At the gym.’
Somewhere above them he hears a hawk cry out, or possibly an osprey. He raises his chin and shields his eyes, but can only make out the silhouette.
‘I tried to call you today. You didn’t have your cell turned on,’ he says.
‘I put it down last night and couldn’t find it.’
Max emerges from the cabana and crosses the lawn. He kisses Sandy on the cheek. She rearranges his wet hair. How was school? Any homework? Toby’s? No problem. Don’t be home late.
Later Valdez sits at the kitchen bench and watches Sandy prepare a meal. Her hair is cut short, curled at the ends, blonde, and her blue-green eyes have a mysterious quality that causes men to stare at her longer than they should. How did he ever convince her to marry him? He hopes it was love. He hopes it still is.
‘I thought I might take Max away camping next weekend.’
‘You know he’s not a big fan of the outdoors.’
‘Remember that holiday we took to Yosemite? Max must have been about seven. He loved that trip.’
Sandy kisses the top of his head. ‘You have to stop trying so hard.’
Valdez looks out the patio doors to where two ducks have landed in the pool. He doesn’t
want
to stop trying. If he could just reset the clock and go back to when Max was happy to kick a ball or play catch …
‘Give him time,’ says Sandy. ‘He doesn’t like who he is right now.’
‘Who do
you
think he is?’
‘He’s our son.’
When the meal is finished they sit side-by-side in the porch swing. Sandy holds one brown knee in the crook of her arm and paints her toenails with a tiny brush held between her thumb and forefinger.
‘How was work?’ she asks.
‘Quiet.’
‘You gonna tell me about why you went all the way to Live Oak County?’
‘I was checking up on someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A prisoner was due to be released. He escaped a day early.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘That’s not the important thing.’
Sandy puts her leg down. Turns to face him, waiting for an explanation.
‘Remember the armoured truck robbery – the guy who survived?’
‘The one you shot?’
‘Yeah. I tried to keep him locked up but the parole board decided to set him loose. If he hadn’t escaped, he would have been out anyway. I went up to the prison to talk to the chief warden, but Palmer had gone over the wire.’
Sandy sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is he dangerous?’
‘He’s probably in Mexico by now.’
Valdez gives her a squeeze and she sinks back against him, holding his forearm between her breasts and resting her head on his shoulder. He’s going to let the matter rest, but reaches for his phone and scrolls through the images.
‘That’s what Palmer looks like,’ he says, showing Sandy a recent photograph.
Her eyes widen. ‘I saw him!’
‘What?’
‘Today. Outside the house,’ she stammers. ‘He was jogging. He said he just moved in around the corner. I thought it must be the Whitakers’ old place.’
Valdez is on his feet, walking through the house, peering through the curtains, his thoughts fizzing. He checks the locks on the windows and doors.
‘Did you see a vehicle?’
Sandy shakes her head.
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said he was a widower … doing some sort of audit. Why did he come here?’
‘Where’s that gun I bought you?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Get it for me.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
Valdez punches a number into his phone. He’s through to a dispatcher. He relays the information, putting out a BOLO on Audie Palmer and asking for extra patrol cars in the neighbourhood.
‘But you said he’d be in Mexico by now,’ says Sandy. ‘Why would he come here?’
Valdez has collected her gun and fitted the magazine. ‘From now on you carry this everywhere.’
‘I’m not gonna carry a gun.’
‘Do as you’re told.’
He grabs his keys.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get Max.’
17
The Shady Oaks Motel is just off the Tom Landry Freeway – a seventies building that is functional, utilitarian and ugly as a safari suit. Moss parks the battered blue pickup truck out front of his room and takes a shower before lying on the bed, waiting for Crystal. She arrives wearing dark glasses and a shiny black raincoat like she’s hiding from the paparazzi. Moss opens the door and she runs into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him passionately as he carries her backward into the room.
She looks around. ‘Is this the best place you could find?’
‘It’s got a jacuzzi.’
‘You want me to get cholera?’
He grabs her hand. ‘No, I want you to feel this.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Now you’re just spoiling me.’
‘The hardness of the butter is related to the softness of the bread. And your bread is soft, baby.’
She laughs and shrugs off her coat before unbuckling his trousers. ‘Where did you get the threads?’
‘They were left in a car for me.’
‘You got a car?’
‘I have.’
She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles him. Neither of them talks until they’re sweaty and spent. Crystal goes to the bathroom. Moss lies on the bed with a towel over his middle.
‘Don’t you get too comfortable,’ he yells.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m gonna do that all over again as soon as my eyes uncross.’
Crystal flushes the toilet and joins him on the bed. She takes a cigarette from the pocket of her raincoat and lights it up, putting it between his lips before lighting one for herself.
‘How long has it been?’
‘Fifteen years, three months, eight days and eleven hours.’
‘You kept count.’
‘No, but it’s close enough.’
She wants to know about Audie Palmer and the missing millions, listening without interrupting, although she frowns and harrumphs at chunks of the story like she wasn’t born yesterday.
‘Who are these people?’
‘No idea, but they got some real juice to get me out.’
‘And they’re going to let you keep the money?’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘And you believe them?’
‘No.’
She’s resting her head in the crook of his arm, with her thigh over his waist.
‘So what will you do?’
Moss draws on the cigarette and blows a smoke ring, which rolls upwards until the draft from the air conditioner obliterates the ghostly shape.
‘Find Audie Palmer.’
‘How?’
‘His mama lives in Westmoreland Heights – not a mile from here.’
‘And if she doesn’t know?’
‘I’ll ask his sister.’
‘And then?’
‘Jesus, woman, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself! Have a little faith. If anyone can find Audie I can.’
Crystal still needs convincing. ‘What’s he like?’
Moss ponders this for a while. ‘Audie is clever. Book-bright, you know, but not street-savvy. I taught him to have eyes in the back of his head and he taught me stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘About philosophy and shit like that.’
Crystal giggles. ‘What do you know about philosophy?’
Moss pinches her for laughing. ‘Well, this one day I was getting frustrated trying to write a letter to the appeals board and I said to Audie, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing,” and Audie told me that I just quoted a famous philosopher – a man called Socrates. Audie says a man is smart to have doubts and question everything. The only thing we can know for certain is that we know nothing for certain.’ He looks at Crystal. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘No, but it sounds clever.’
Crystal rolls onto her side and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. A wisp of smoke rises from the crumpled butt. She picks up Moss’s hand and notices his missing wedding ring. Sitting upright, she bends the finger backwards until he cries out in pain.
‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘Your wedding ring.’
‘They took it off me in solitary and didn’t give it back.’
‘Did you ask ’em nicely?’
‘I fought for it, babe.’
‘You’re not trying to act single on me.’
‘No way.’
‘’Cos if I thought you were being unfaithful, I’d slice little Moss off and throw him to the dogs. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’
18
The cell phone is bouncing across the kitchen table. Special Agent Desiree Furness saves it from toppling off the edge. Her boss is calling, hoarse and half asleep. Not a morning person.
‘Audie Palmer was seen in The Woodlands yesterday morning.’
‘Who saw him?’
‘A sheriff’s wife.’
‘What was Palmer doing in the Woodlands?’
‘Jogging.’
Desiree grabs her jacket and puts her pistol in the shoulder holster. She’s still eating a piece of toast when she skips down the outside stairs, waving to her landlord Mr Sackville, who lives beneath her and keep tabs on her comings and goings through a crack in his curtains. She drives north against the rush-hour traffic and pulls up twenty minutes later in front of a large house, partially hidden by trees. A police cruiser is sitting in the driveway with two uniformed deputies inside, playing games on their cell phones.
Desiree straightens her shoulders in a familiar attempt to appear taller as she shows them her badge and walks to the front door. Her fringe is too short to be pinned up and keeps falling over one eye. She warned her hairdresser not to trim too much off, but he didn’t listen.
Sandy Valdez opens the door on a security chain, speaking through the six-inch gap. She’s dressed in a tight top, Lycra leggings, ankle socks and cross-trainers.
‘My husband is dropping Max at school,’ she says in the kind of voice you hear from educated southern women.
‘It’s you I wanted to see.’
‘I already told the police everything.’
‘I’d appreciate you being just as considerate with me.’