down.”
“Do we have to?”
“We do. It’s time for lunch, anyway.”
“What about the tank? My regulator.”
“We leave it for now. We’ll be back.”
They swam to shore. Maria was there to wrap a towel around Will. Frank Sr. clapped his grandson on the back.
“He did it?” the elder Castle asked.
Frank nodded.
“Free ascent on the first try. I’ve seen Navy SEALs do worse.”
“That’s what we like to hear.”
Maria shook her head.
“This is supposed to be vacation, not basic training.”
Frank opened his mouth to respond, but Will beat him to it.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take it easy on him.” Everyone—except Maria—laughed.
Frank put an arm around his wife and drew her close.
“He did great. And I was there the whole time, honey. Nothing to worry about.”
“Hmmmpphhh.”
Castle kissed his wife. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Anyone hungry?”
Frank turned. His mother—Betty Castle—was on a blanket behind them, an open picnic hamper next to her. “We’ve got sandwiches,
Will knelt in the sand next to the hamper and pulled out a sandwich. “Tuna. Yeah,” he said, and took half in a single bite.
“William Francis Castle.” Frank’s mother shook her head. “Where did you learn your manners?”
“From Grandpa,” Will said, nodding toward Frank Sr., who had just taken a sandwich of his own and swallowed it almost entire.
Betty glared at her husband.
“Frank? Who is that?” Castle turned. Maria was pointing out at the dock, where an old man was refueling a beat-up dugout outrigger.
Frank and his father exchanged a smile.
“Manuel Candelaria,” the elder Castle said. “The locals claim he’s a witch doctor.”
“Wow. A real witch doctor?” Will stood up. “Can we go talk to him? Maybe he can teach us some spells.”
“Not likely. He lives on an island, around the point. Only one person’s ever had the guts to swim out to it.”
Maria looked at Frank. “Gee. Let me guess.”
“Cool!” Will said. “Let’s go diving there!”
“No. Absolutely not.” Maria shook her head. “Not until you’re certified.”
“Or tomorrow morning,” Frank said. “Whichever comes first.”
“Yes!” Will gave him a high five. Maria gave him a glare.
“Frank . . .”
Castle shrugged. “I’ll be right there with him, honey. Nothing to worry about.”
Frank Sr. stepped up behind his son and grandson then, and threw one arm around each of their shoulders. “We’ll both be there. Already rented the boat to take us out, in fact.”
His father gestured toward the dock then, and Frank saw, moored next to Candelaria’s boat, a small launch, outboard motor pulled up and out of the water.
“Nothing fancy,” Frank Sr. said. “But it’ll do the trick.”
“Just how long have you all been planning this little expedition?” Maria asked.
Frank shrugged. So did his father.
Betty leaned forward and spoke to Maria.
“Nothing you can do about it, honey. You married a Castle.”
Maria shook her head. But Castle saw that smile was back.
He smiled, too.
“Who wants ice cream?” Frank Sr. asked. “My treat.”
“I’m in,” Will said. “Dad?”
“You know it.”
“Boys.” Betty Castle looked up at her husband, son, and grandson. “Don’t stuff yourselves. Remember the dinner tonight.”
Right. Frank had almost forgotten. The big dinner—the centerpiece of the entire week’s reunion, taking place in less than . . . five hours, he realized, looking at his watch.
And seeing the Rolex, he thought of Jimmy Weeks again, and he wished his friend could be there, too. Weeks and his family had come to the last reunion in Puerto Rico, five years ago. They’d had a helluva time, the two of them. Even without Gwen, Jimmy ought to be here. Frank had to call him, see if he couldn’t convince the man to take a day or two off, come down here and relax. It would do Weeks good to get out of the pressure cooker for a while.
After all, all work and no play . . .
“Dad!”
Frank turned and saw his son, already halfway to the pier and the ice-cream stand on it, motioning to him to hurry.
“Come on. Let’s go!”
Smiling, Frank Castle hurried to catch up to his boy.
TEN
For Livia’s sake, Howard Saint had agreed to have a priest at the grave. It made no difference to him one way or the other, just as it had made no difference to him whether or not the boys had been baptized, or attended church at all. All that talk about the ways of God being a mystery, about the Lord taking back his own, if it gave Livia some sense of comfort, fine.
He planned to find comfort elsewhere.
Exactly where, he expected to discover very soon. Any minute now, in fact.
“Mr. Saint?”
Dante stood in front of him, holding out a shovel.
Saint realized Father Cusmano had finished talking, had, in fact, stepped back from the grave and was now looking in his direction expectantly.
Saint carefully unhooked his arm from Livia’s. As he did so, John pulled his mother closer, to support her.
Saint took the shovel from Dante. He scooped up a spadeful of the black earth piled next to his son’s grave and dropped it onto the polished mahogany of Bobby Saint’s coffin.
It struck him then, for the first time in the last couple days. His boy was dead, his body cold inside that wooden box right there, soon to be food for the worms.
Saint trembled with rage.
He dropped the shovel on the ground and looked up. Some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face. Father Cusmano flinched and took a step back.
Saint spun on his heel, took Livia’s arm, and without a word, led his family down the hill, past the crowd of mourners lined up twenty deep around the grave, past the line of limousines along the cemetery drive, back to their own waiting car.
Lincoln and Cutter held the doors as the three of them climbed inside, Livia in the middle.
“I’ve changed my mind, Howard. I want to go home,” his wife said.
Saint nodded. There was a memorial luncheon planned at Casablanca, but if Livia didn’t want to go, she didn’t
