The Shop

Landry looked at the television. He’d encountered a cottonmouth once, when he was at SDV school outside Panama City, Florida.

Landry opened to the article in US Weekly magazine. There she was with her golden retriever, Charlie, and her teacup Chihuahua, Spike.

“Contrary to popular belief, a venomous snake’s bite is rarely life-threatening…”

Landry knew of people who had been bitten by venomous snakes. Most of them did fine because there was so little snake venom actually injected into their wounds. This was because snakes had only so much venom, and they used it to paralyze prey. They didn’t like to waste it.

Landry turned the page. There was a story about the reality show, Soul Mate. Below were the photos of the four remaining contestants. He remembered them in a different context. He read their stories, seeing them for the first time as human beings with petty problems and lofty aspirations. He read each of their names aloud—the show producer, Justin Balough, Brendan Shayles, Amber Redmond, Connor Fallon, and Tanya Williams.

Brendan Shayles was the kid who looked at the stars. Turned out Brendan was one of the last two finalists chosen earlier that day. No wonder he was happy.

Poor kid. Brendan Shayles was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Landry looked back at the television. There was the cottonmouth, coiled up, its mouth wide open and showing white—white like cotton. Showing his mouth as a warning, because snakes didn’t use their venom indiscriminately.

He looked back at Brendan Shayles. The question remained: Why kill a bunch of kids from a television show? Why kill a celebrity like Brienne Cross? Were the kids collateral damage, or were they also the targets?

There would be a pattern. The Aspen killings weren’t random, any more than mathematics was random. It would have its own logic.

The snake documentary was over, and now The Dog Whisperer was on. Landry switched the TV off.

He had undergone a battery of psychological tests for his current job—thoroughly profiled. He knew he’d been chosen for the job because he did his work without question. He saw his job in terms of mission only.

When he was working with the team, he answered to “Peters.” There were four of them: Peters, Jackson, Davis, and Green. Peters had no connection to the life he had with his wife, his daughter, his brothers, and the racetrack.

Because he compartmentalized so well—it was an absolute necessity for him to do so—Landry had never looked for patterns in the missions he was given. He took each job as it came. He stayed away from the news and didn’t read any paper except for the Daily Racing Form. He’d built a wall around the job, because the job defined him and he refused to look at it in any other light. The job was who he was. He carried out the missions that had to be done to keep this country safe and her people unaware. Blissfully unaware. He shouldered that burden for them.

But Brienne Cross?

Landry thought about some of “the Shop” missions, the ones that fit a similar profile to the Aspen killings. They had seemed unusual at the time, but Landry had lived long enough to know that danger could come from unusual sources.

There was the blonde Mexican woman in Malibu. She’d looked familiar. He’d dispatched her one twilight as she jogged alone down Serra Road near her rented house. His orders were to stab her in the heart and leave her there, exposed.

The Egyptian professor at Berkley. Landry could see a reason for this man’s death. He could have been a radical Islamist.

But he didn’t know for sure, did he? Because he didn’t read the papers or watch the news.

The wealthy couple in Montana. The man had looked familiar.

He Googled them.

The Mexican woman was Jacinta Rivera, a Mexican pop star. She was very popular in the United States, but a superstar in Mexico. There had been a national day of mourning for her.

The Egyptian professor was a well-known political pundit and author. He had a show on CNN.

The husband and wife in Montana were both actors. The husband was an up-and-coming star, widely hailed to be “the next Brad Pitt.” They had just bought the ranch and retreated there between films.

Landry stared at the crime scene photos of the ranch, remembering the mission. He and his team had been swift and merciless. That was a year and a half ago, during the hostage crisis at the U.S. embassy in Yemen. The U.S. government had botched the hostage situation, and both U.S. soldiers and American civilians had been killed and dragged through the streets.

He counted them on his fingers. A Mexican pop star. An Egyptian professor with a show on CNN. The famous actor who was the next Brad Pitt.

He found himself thinking about poisonous snakes, how they knew when to strike and why. And he thought: What strange places to use your venom.

11

“Stop!” Maddy shouted. “That’s it. I’m sure this time.”

In the last two hours, Jolie and Maddy had driven all over Palm County looking for Chief Akers’s guns and phone, finally narrowing it down to a stretch of road between Gardenia and Port St. Joe. Dade Ford Road ran along an area punctuated by a dozen small sloughs and ponds. Maddy claimed she’d thrown the guns in one of them and the phone in another. But it was dark when she did it, with only a few stars to see by. She couldn’t tell one place from another.

Three or four times now they’d pulled off to the side of the road, Maddy squinting through the windshield. Then she’d say, “No, this isn’t it.”

On the drive, Maddy told Jolie about her adult children. One girl had two children, a boy and a girl, and the younger girl was a theater major at FSU. In close quarters, Maddy’s voice seemed very bright and loud—almost manic. Jolie felt increasingly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t just Maddy’s voice. She knew that at some point, she would have to get out of the car and walk out to one of these ponds.

Jolie wondered if this…phobia could affect her job. Nobody wanted a phobic cop, especially a water-phobic cop in a county where there was so much water.

Maddy said, “You know, I really think this is it. Up a little farther. Off that little road.”

Jolie drove along the road’s shoulder and turned onto the crushed shell two-track in the direction of the trees. She parked. Maddy got out, but Jolie remained in the car.

It was hot with the air off. Like an oven. Beads of sweat prick-led her scalp.

Maddy waded through the brush a ways and turned back. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” Jolie said. “You go ahead.” She took the clipboard off the dash. She stared at it without seeing and made a notation—her initials. The heat buzzed at the edge of her nostrils, making it hard to breathe. She glanced at her computer. Looked through the windshield at Maddy, who was walking along the edge of the trees.

All right.

She pushed open the heavy car door and stepped out. Adrenaline rushed to her hands and feet, leaving her center cold. The buzz in her gut grew louder.

She watched Maddy push through the undergrowth. Lots of low vegetation and tall trees. Kudzu vine, too. Jolie stared at the kudzu. It was a special color green. She knew the color. What was it? Kelly. Kelly green. It was so bright, so luridly green, she had to look away.

Maddy called out to her. “I really think this is the place.”

Jolie straightened and took a breath. Pushed off with her left foot. Kept on walking, right foot, left foot. She’d walk until she had to stop. Through the brush, she caught glimpses of the water, stained to a tea color by the tannin from the cypress trees.

And she surprised herself. Before she knew it, Jolie had reached the bank. Stood at the edge, looking down at the water.