Free Gone by Randy Wayne White Page A

lot of money when he died,” I continued. “To inherit the money, she has to sign a legal document. That’s why the family asked me to find her. I’m being paid, but that’s not the only reason I’m doing it. I don’t like rough men who hurt women. More than anything, the family’s worried about him.” I tapped a finger on the photo, thinking it might cause Mrs. Whitney to look.
    She didn’t. The woman had her face in her hands, so still and quiet it took me a moment to realize she was crying. She was sobbing harder when, a minute later, Nathan reappeared, carrying three miniature-sized bottles of liquor he’d found somewhere, the kind they serve on airplanes. He was proud of himself, all smiles, but then figured out why I had my arm around Mrs. Whitney, letting her rest her head on my shoulder. He stood there for a moment, probably fighting the urge to sprint for the door, then shot me an accusing look that asked What the hell did you say to her?
    I told him, “Nate, why don’t you walk over and visit with Darren for a while. I’ll be there soon enough.” Then, because he was flustered, I had to remind him, “Leave those little bottles. Mrs. Whitney would appreciate a nice cold drink, I think.”

FIVE
     
    I T TOOK A WHILE FOR IT TO COME OUT, BUT WHAT R ICKY Meeks had done to Mrs. Whitney was rape her over and over during the weeks he’d worked for her, although not in a legal sense. At least, the woman wouldn’t admit he’d forced her more than a little, at first, before she joined in and did things that still shamed her too much to talk about.
    Not that I wanted details. Talking about such things has always made me uneasy, and feel sort of sneaky, even when the person is eager to share. What’s private in a person’s head isn’t like seeing them step out of a shower. It’s the sort of nakedness that can’t ever be covered once it has been revealed.
    Within fifteen minutes of Nathan leaving, the woman had downed the three airplane whiskeys, and her tears had turned into spitting anger. Instead of making her more wobbly, the liquor had steadied her enough so that she got up and paced while she raged about Ricky Meeks.
    “That sick white trash con artist! He’s only after her money, of course. Doesn’t the stupid little bitch realize that? He’s a predator. A two-timing predator—no more class than a wild dog.”
    I was still sitting at the table but ready to move in case the woman lost her balance again. Meeks had robbed money from her in some way, that much was clear. And I’d guessed they’d had a sexual relationship long before she’d finally admitted it. But calling him a two-timing predator stuck in my head as even more important because it had a double meaning. It told me Mrs. Whitney hated Ricky Meeks for what he’d done to her, but she hated him more for taking up with another woman. That was as troubling as it was confusing. How could she still feel jealousy for someone who’d hurt her so badly? It was so far beyond my understanding that I picked up Meeks’s photograph, still listening to Mrs. Whitney, and gave it another close look, thinking maybe I’d missed something.
    No . . . the man wasn’t handsome. It was the same surly-looking face I’d studied before. Round dark eyes, and a leering expression that had a dirtiness about it. The same gaunt cheeks of a man who worked too hard with his hands and muscles to accumulate fat, but an otherwise ordinary face. Not good-looking, not even the oddball attractiveness that some plain-looking men have. I couldn’t understand how someone who worked for hourly wages, and wasn’t handsome, could have buried a hook so deeply into Mrs. Whitney’s heart. But he had.
    “What’s the family’s name?” The woman had her hands on the table, leaning toward me. She was asking about Olivia Seasons, I realized.
    “Like a lot of people on the islands,” I replied, “they’re real private.”
    “I don’t really care what their damn name