Playing Jacks

v. Life is a Puzzle, part 3

 “It was just over here,” Sophie directs, nearly jogging in her haste to find the little shop nestled into the corner of a condo building.  She reaches the dark door before Jacks and, abruptly, her entire demeanor sags.

 “Closed?” Jacks offers, shoving his fists into his pockets and slowing his step.  Looking into the stars, he ruefully admits that he shouldn’t be surprised.  It’s late.

 But Sophie wilts into a puddle on the concrete.  Robbed of her hope, her shoulders hunch over her crossed legs- deflated. 

 “They’ll open in the morning,” Jacks points out, trying to sound reasonable.

 The door in front of her jiggles open and Sophie’s eyes travel from a pair of worn sneakers up the faded, baggy jeans to the heavily creased smile of the old man. “Well now,” he exclaims. “If it isn’t my little morning glory!  I was just heading out for a little nip of ice cream,” he confesses, looking up into the darkened windows of the condos above the shop. “The Misses is finally snoring, you know.  Can’t sneak anywheres while she’s rattling around the place.”

 Jacks chuckles and even Sophie smiles.

After all was said and done, Mr. Mac (not his full name) not only agreed to speak with the FBI, he left a message on Agent Callan’s phone extension inviting them to his shop and explaining everything in detail. Sophie listened to his lengthy phone message, tears pooling in her eyes.  She choked on the word, ‘thank you’ too many times to count.  Mr. Mac simply laughed and patted her hand; then insisted that everyone needed ice cream. 

The morning sun found Sophie on the beach, just as it had found her here the past three days.  Mr. Mac called out to her with a wide wave from his shop door and Sophie lightly wove back, enjoying the solitude.  Jacks would appear eventually, though if the snore in the hotel room next door had been any indication, he might be awhile.

Digging trenches in the sand with her bare heels, Sophie watches the water and lets her mind trip over the puzzles: Marie’s murder, unknown evidence that places her in the light of primary suspect, and- more intriguing than any of these- Jack’s history.  Last night she had slipped into the hotel lobby and searched the internet, scouring the web for Jacks’ name.  Inexperienced in these sorts of investigations, it took her a while to find the FBI most wanted database.  She’d stared at the old photograph of Jacks: his hair long, his features unmarred by scars, his expression angry.  That expression affixed her eyes to the screen for long minutes.  How different he looked now.  In that photograph, young Jacks held a righteous fire.  His anger is so much harder, so much colder now.  It holds less emotion, but something infinitely more frightening.  Grit and determination line his cold eyes. 

“Murder:” the screen announced his transgressions as easily as it told housewives how to defrost their Thanksgiving turkeys. 

If it were possible for her to be the primary suspect in a murder, why not Jacks?  Why wouldn’t the entire world assume that this hard man was guilty of something.  He spices the air around him with the danger he brings.  Of course they’d assume he did it.

But she hadn’t done it.

Jacks’ simple denial rings in her ears: “Neither did I.”

And as unwise as it may seem to anyone else, Sophie believes him.  Even as she concedes that she doesn’t exactly sport a spotless record on her ability to judge a person’s character, she believes him.

“Ms. Amando,” a cool voice calls her from her revere.

Blinking through the sun’s glare, Sophie shades her eyes and smiles at the FBI agent. “Callan!  Tell me you got Mr. Mac’s message!”