“Sure.”
Hawke sat down under the Gumbo tree and stared at the quicksand grave of his wife’s killer. There was no marker, of course, nothing to identify this spot. There would be no mourners at this graveside. Ever. Only two other men even knew it existed. Still, he had needed to see it. It had been necessary to come here, sit under this tree.
Vicky is buried beneath a tree. A tree she played in as a child. A beautiful old oak beside the Mississippi.
“You killed my wife,” Hawke said softly. “One fine morning on the steps of a church. In her wedding dress. I would have found you sooner or later. I would have looked into your eyes as I killed you. You got lucky in a way, dead man. My friends got to you before I could.”
He had no idea how long he sat there under the Gumbo tree on No Name Key, but, finally, it was long enough.
“It should have been me,” he said aloud, getting to his feet.
He turned to walk away, paused, and looked back one last time. “But you’re just as dead as if I’d done it myself,” he said. “Dead is dead.”
It was over.
An unmarked grave on an island with no name for the man with no eyes.
He went back to find Stoke and the Hurry-Cane. With any luck at all, they’d be back at the dock before the cold beer ran out.
Hawke found Conch sitting on the sand, her long legs stretched out, the foamy white froth lapping at her brown feet. He ran quickly through the soft sand down to the water. They could still make it to Lorelei’s for the afterglow if they left right now.
“Hey, you,” he said. He kissed the top of her head and collapsed in the sand beside her, staring at the fiery water and sky.
“Missed you,” Conch said.
She took his hand.
“Well, I’m back.”
“You know what, Hawke?” she said, kissing the palm of his hand.
“No idea. Tell me.”
“I think maybe you just might be.”
The blood-red sun dropped into the sea.
