He closed his eyes, but nothing happened. He waited, but still, there was nothing but the sound of wind sweeping in from the ocean. He opened his eyes in time to see a pair of brief flashes, followed by a sharp pain in the center of his chest. He staggered back, then tumbled into space. He was falling, plunging toward his final resting place, and the last thing he saw before he hit the water was a face in his mind. It was Caroline’s face, the unmistakable image of his long-dead daughter, and as he took his last breath, pulling the black water into his lungs, he saw her open her arms and smile. She was bringing him home.
Kealey stood at the edge of the pier, holding the Beretta against his right thigh, staring down at the churning surface of the ocean. He stood there for several minutes, waiting for the weight on his chest to lift, waiting for the sense of relief that Machado’s death should have brought, but nothing changed. And then he realized that it never would. Naomi was still gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.
There was no point in hurling the gun into the ocean; there was no one around to witness so dramatic a gesture. Instead, he simply dropped it over the side.
Then he turned to walk away.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2008 by Andrew Britton
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