Cindi would be back in three days, but Landry missed her already.
They had been childhood sweethearts. They grew up together. He had been away for most of their marriage. Bosnia in the nineties, two deployments in Afghanistan, three more deployments in Iraq, and eight months working security for Kellogg, Root & Brown. But in the last few years, he’d made sure he stayed home as much as possible, making up for the time they were apart. Even on overnight trips, he missed her. It was a physical ache that centered just under his navel, and if it could be given a name, that word would be “longing.”
This was worse by far. He had never been the one left behind before.
It was comforting to drive through the maze of houses in the flat, hot, California sunlight. The place was familiar in its sameness, every house looking like every other house, with the exception of the cars parked out front and the configurations of the bushes and trees. Every house had a two-car garage. Every house had a peaked roof. All the houses were tan stucco. Nice and neat, no surprises, their shadows falling the same way on the same white concrete driveways lining up to the same clean black asphalt.
There were people who would call this subdivision “cookie-cutter.” But Landry prized order. It was an American thing, miles and miles of houses that looked the same. Like McDonald’s. When he thought of his country, he thought of McDonald’s, shopping malls, and subdivisions like this, all of them uniquely American. It was the new way. It was the twenty-first century.
He parked out front and went inside. Cold—Cindi kept the air conditioner cranked up.
Shutting the door on the hot California light, Landry experienced a brief twinge of futility. It happened more and more as he got older, the feeling that he was dispossessed. Life didn’t have much purpose other than the purpose he gave it—his family, the racetrack, his job. It was that feeling that had caused him to go back to Iraq.
Landry was good at one thing—he was a warrior.
With Cindi and Kristal gone and the house empty, the feeling came back in spades. He set his keys and wallet and change on the dresser and walked to the kitchen. Not having his girls with him made him restless. He took out the orange juice and drank it right from the carton.
Orange juice was starting to give him heartburn, but he ignored it. The same reason he wouldn’t go to a doctor for any ache or pain or even the flu. Doctors only look for trouble, and when they find it, before you know it they put you in a hospital where a cold can turn into pneumonia and you’re on life support.
Of course in his job, he had regular checkups. He didn’t comply, he’d be out, and the only thing he loved more than his wife, his daughter, and the ponies was his job.
He did things for his government that no one talked about. The only difference, as far as Landry could see, was that in this job he’d never been face-to-face with his employer. In fact, he didn’t even know the name of the company. Some operations, he knew, needed to be outsourced. But the job was the same: to protect and defend the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
Landry couldn’t stand being in this empty house. He decided to go to his brother’s barn at Hollywood Park and check on their Derby hopeful, see if the quarter crack on his foot was any better. He headed back to the bedroom to get his wallet and keys, stopping by the open doorway to Kristal’s room.
Cool air came from inside, scented with strawberries. His daughter’s lair. A Keep Out sign had been tacked to the door, but she left it open all the time—mixed signals. Kids, he found,
Landry rarely crossed the threshold into her room, however, because he trusted her. She knew damn well she’d better do the right thing, and therein lay the trust.
He was about to start down the hallway again, but his eye caught the poster on Kristal’s wall.
Brienne Cross.
He’d glanced at the poster a few times on his trips down the hallway to the bedroom, even though he didn’t like the way it made him feel.
But
It was as if he were in a forest, and something caught his eye, and he’d looked away and then back again, and saw an exotic bird in the branches where none existed before. He thought Kristal had taken the poster down. It had been well over a month since Brienne Cross died. He’d read Kristal’s raw grief on Facebook, the childlike grief of losing an idol, but he’d thought that was over.
And yet, the poster remained.
He shrugged. Turned away. Almost.
His neck creaked as he looked back. Something compelled him. It felt as if he were in a long tunnel, and the only way out was to look at Brienne Cross.
Brienne lay in an infinity pool. Everything was completely still around her. Her face rose partway out of the water, long hair like golden seaweed spread out in a fan. She wore a skimpy blue bikini top. Her breasts rose up, droplets of water on satin flesh, surrounded by a deep, saturated blue. As if she had been a sculpture partially poured into a mold, or had been formed by an upheaval in smooth, pale rock. Her eyes wide open and startled, her lashes beaded with water. Her lips—
Her lips were parted. He recognized her expression. Surprise. His fingers closed around the crucifix on the chain around his neck. The silver filigree felt warm—alive to his touch.
He went back to that moment. Suspended on a breath Brienne Cross never got to finish, the moment she looked up into his eyes.
He saw those eyes, blue orbs filled with light. He saw them change from surprise to trust.
She had accepted that he knew what was best. She knew she was in good hands, even as he extinguished the light in her eyes and stopped her heart.
His heart wrenched inside him, as if it had been torn loose of its moorings. The feeling went away almost immediately. It was not physical pain. It was emotional. He could not turn away. He could not move. All he could do was stare at the poster.
He had shared something with her nobody else would. In that moment, he had known her better than anyone could have ever hoped to. He had held her with his eyes, he had told her without words it was all right, and she had submitted.
It was a communion they shared.
He realized he had never known a more emotional moment, or conversely, a moment so completely devoid of worldly passion.
He’d been raised Catholic. He didn’t give a damn about that mumbo jumbo, the rosary, the confession, the standing up and kneeling down and repeating phrases over and over—as if those phrases would somehow take, somehow transform. They were just words sent into a void. That was what he’d always thought.
But now he knew that religion was real, and that transformation was possible.
All in a rush, he knew the truth. The world fell away, and it was just the two of them. There was no Cindi, there was no Kristal, just the two of them, Brienne Cross and himself, inextricably bound together.
He had never questioned a mission. In fact, he tried to know as little about the people he was charged to kill as possible.
But this was different.
Landry had carried out his mission. He had killed Brienne Cross.
Now he needed to know
9
Maddy Akers said to Jolie, “Did you know Kathy Westbrook had an eight-year-old son?”
Jolie and Maddy were in the new interview room at the Palm County Sheriff’s substation in Meridian Beach. So new you could smell the white paint on the walls. They sat catty-corner at the small table pushed up against the wall, close enough to touch.
“Kathy’s son,” Maddy continued. “That’s what bothered him the most. He couldn’t stand the thought of that little boy out there somewhere without his mother. You know what happened?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Jim was primary on the hostage negotiation; he had an FBI agent for his secondary. Jim spent
