Chapter 26

Jimmy waited outside the side exit of the Pro Sports Club, bent over, pretending to tie his tennis shoes. About ten minutes later, his back aching, the door swung open, and a florid man walked out, already on his cell phone, his squash racket under one arm. Jimmy caught the door before it closed and slipped inside, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. “Left my keys in my locker,” he said to an attendant restocking the juice machine, walking purposely toward the locker room he remembered from his visit two days earlier.

He walked through the locker room, grabbed a clean towel from the stack, and took the stairs to the second floor. Samantha Packard’s thermal yoga class was supposed to start in a few minutes. He checked out the hallway. Sandor, the attendant who had given him the tour, said that Mick Packard was always on hand when the class let out; Jimmy wanted to make certain that he didn’t drop her off too. Women in thin, baggy cotton pants and tops were filing into the room, and warm moist air drifted out into the hallway.

Samantha was in the back corner of the room, just where she had been before. She was standing on a mat doing slow neck rolls, sweat rolling down her face. No Mick.

Jimmy slipped through the door. The warmth of the room made him gasp, the air so hot and thick that breathing it felt like breathing through a wet towel. Soft music burbled over the sound system. Every pore in his body was wide open, his workout clothes were already soaked, and the back of his hair was dripping.

A slender middle-aged woman looked at him. “Try breathing through your nose.”

Jimmy edged toward the back of the room, trying to follow her suggestion. It still felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the place. He could see Samantha standing on one leg, her eyes closed, her other leg tucked behind her. She was a long-limbed brunette with full lips, and her deep tan looked like beaten bronze in the heat.

Most of the people in the class were fit women in their thirties and forties, barefoot and without makeup, their eyes clear and enthusiastic as they went through their warm-up routines, some of them meditating. The teacher, a tall, skinny man, chatted with two of the students, checking their posture.

“Nice to see you again,” Jimmy said to Samantha.

Samantha opened her eyes and jerked back, losing her poise. She stood on two legs now, breathing hard. Scared.

Jimmy spread his towel on the floor, sweat stinging his eyes as he bent down. “I wanted to give the class a try, but I don’t know now. Isn’t this what it’s supposed to be like on the surface of Venus?”

“Are—are you a member here?”

“I’m Jimmy Gage. We met at Garrett Walsh’s funeral.”

“I know who you are,” Samantha said, her voice so soft that it barely disturbed the air molecules in that stifling room. “My husband didn’t like the way you were looking at me. I didn’t like it either.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Samantha glanced toward the hallway window. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She blotted her forehead. Her diamond wedding ring flashed in the dim light.

“I know about you and Walsh.” Jimmy could see a vein at the base of her neck throbbing. She smelled as healthy and steamy as a racehorse, her face glowing, nervous as a racehorse too. “We have to talk. Can we get out of here for—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Samantha glanced again at the window.

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Then don’t. Garrett and I . . . that was a long time ago. I don’t want to see my name in print.”

“This isn’t about an article. I’m here because I want you to know that it wasn’t an accident. No matter what you read, his death—he didn’t drown.”

Samantha stared at him.

There was a clap from the front of the room. Class had started. Everyone was on their feet now, facing the yoga teacher, his voice deep and mellifluous as he ordered them to stretch for the stars in search of their center.

“Please go,” said Samantha. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“I’m trying to help you.” Jimmy moved closer to her, whispering. “I know about the letter you wrote to him. I know about the tapes—”

“I didn’t write Garrett any letter.”

“Listen to me. It was no accident. Walsh was murdered.”

Sweat streamed down her arms as Samantha stretched toward the ceiling. “I haven’t cared whether Garrett was alive or dead for a long time.”

“I know better, Samantha.”

“It’s Mrs. Packard.”

“The good wife—that’s what Garrett Walsh called you. I spoke with him a few days before he was killed. He loved you.”

Samantha Packard shook her head. “No, he didn’t. I wish he had, but—”

“Speech is a distraction,” intoned the teacher. “Ego is a distraction. Pay attention only to the emptiness within.”

Jimmy moved closer to Samantha Packard, not caring who saw them, wanting her to admit what he already knew. He felt claustrophobic in the heat, the moist air closing in on him. “He loved you, Samantha. It cost him everything, but it didn’t stop him.”

“Love is not a term Garrett ever used in my presence. Not once. Not ever.” Samantha Packard managed to speak without moving her facial muscles. In tandem with the rest of the class, she slowly bent forward, back flat, her arms pointed backward. “Now get out of here.”

“I think you’re in danger.”

“You’re the one who’s putting me in danger.”

“I’ll leave my card at the front desk.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Call me at the magazine then.”

The yoga teacher stalked over to Jimmy. “You’re upsetting the harmonics of the class.” His hands waved in the air, and Jimmy thought of machetes hacking at jungle undergrowth. “Be silent, or be gone.”

Jimmy reached for his towel. “Call me,” he said to Samantha, but she didn’t look at him.