her wrist. Maybe not long enough. Nothing, she had nothing.
The stateroom door flew open, smacked against the closet door. She saw Gar, shirtless, his back a scrimshaw of gaudy tattoos, a mass of muscle moving underneath the faded inks. ‘You ready for-’ He stopped for a second, seeing the empty bed. But she couldn’t spring out at him, the open stateroom door jamming up against the closet door.
She was trapped.
Gar glanced around, saw the sliver of her in the closet, smiled with half his mouth. ‘Hidin’ don’t help.’
Claudia took a step sideways in the closet. Nothing in here, nothing to help her. Her fear tasted like smoke in her mouth.
‘Change of plan, Officer. But you’ll like it.’ Gar slid the closet door open, grabbed Claudia by the hair, yanked her out of the dark narrow space. Shoved her to the bed. His pale chest looked wide as a door, his arms like pile drivers. She wriggled away from him. ‘You don’t fight me, you make it nice, I’ll protect you from my boy. He’s not gonna be happy, you gettin’ what he likes. Oh, no. He might cut your eyes out when we’re done. So you be a good girl and fuck nice and I’ll-’
Claudia punched him, hard, across the jaw. He blinked, frowned, and blood welled up in the corner of his mouth. He cussed and backhanded her, the knuckles of his hand like rocks against her jaw. Little black flowers blossomed in front of her; he held down her throat, pressed his weight into her legs.
‘I’m gonna fuck all the fight out of you, honey.’ He grabbed her head and started pulling her up from the bed when the shot rang and she heard a sound like a hard thump on a melon. Blood exploded from Gar’s nose, his mouth, spraying Claudia. She screamed. He fell on her, and she kicked out from under him, wriggling along the headboard, tumbling to the floor off the bed.
Danny kept the gun pressed to the back of Gar’s head. He stared at Claudia.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh. That’s done.’ Then he grinned at her, proud of himself, the dragon slayer. ‘Are you all right?’
Her vocal cords turned to ice. ‘You killed him.’
Danny pulled the gun away from the blasted back of Gar’s head. ‘Sure I did.’ Danny seemed to not quite believe his new bad-ass status, staring at Gar, as though the big man’s shoulders would suddenly hitch with breath.
She stood, her jaw aching, her foot hurting from the broken toe. ‘The redhead will come. Or maybe he heard the shot.’ Oh, God, he’ll kill Ben.
Danny turned the gun toward her. ‘You could at least thank me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Don’t shoot me.’
He tilted his head at her and she didn’t like the dead, flat look in his eyes. No shuddering shakes over having just killed a man. The fact was done, filed, out of mind.
‘I won’t leave Ben at his mercy,’ she said. She moved toward the door; he followed her with the gun.
‘Stop, Claudia.’
She stopped.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to radio for help.’
She expected him to argue with her, order her to stop, but there was only the silence of the waves brushing the hull of the boats. Then the rev of an engine. Not theirs. Jupiter’s.
‘Oh, no,’ Claudia said.
‘Stay,’ Danny said.
She heard Jupiter’s motor rev again, and Miss Catherine swayed.
‘If we’re still roped to them…’ she started and he lowered the gun.
She ran up the stairs, through the galley, and peered through the galley door’s window out onto the deck. Jupiter was free from them, the lines cut. Gunning away from them. She could see Redhead in the flying bridge, hunkered down low, steering.
‘He’s running, he’s taking Ben,’ she said.
Claudia turned to face Danny and the foam hit the side of her face hard, cold and sharp, and pain knocked her down with an iron slap. She moaned, then liquid dribbled onto her face, smelling of stale air and medicine, and she was gone.
16
Dinner was the ‘Vengeance Is Ours’ special: grilled hammerhead, with little plastic cups of melted butter for dipping, drippy corn on the cob, and French fries thick as a finger. Whit Mosley and David Power sat in the canopied shade of the oaks bending over Stubby’s. The food was excellent but the locale was not gourmet; rather, Stubby’s was a trailer, with a walk-up window and a barbecue in the back that offered up pork ribs and brisket, except this morning Stubby’s son had snagged a hammerhead on the edge of St Leo Bay and the unlucky shark debuted on today’s menu. The tables were old cable spools, upended, each one surrounded by stumps weathered smooth from the rubbing of a thousand butts. Clouds filled the evening sky and it was still too warm and sticky for comfortable outside eating, but David wanted Stubby’s. Plus fewer people meant it was less likely they would be overheard.
David bit into his shark, which made Whit think it was truly a dog-eat-dog world.
‘Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not gunning for Lucy because you’re involved with her. You could give me some credit. I can’t not consider Lucy. You understand that.’
‘But you do have this other suspect. Jimmy Bird.’
‘How’d you know?’
‘His wife hates your guts. She called me. I called Hollis about it. She got an idea that Jimmy ran off to New Orleans.’ Let him talk to Sheriff Hollis about it, Whit decided.
‘Well, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You were too busy telling me about Lucy,’ he said. ‘And Mrs Bird asked me not to talk to you.’
‘She’s just a drunk.’
‘I got an anonymous tip today.’
David lowered his corn, butter dripping from his mouth. ‘Aren’t you popular?’
‘I heard Patch Gilbert asked around town about quietly raising a hundred thousand dollars.’
‘For what?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘I assume the tip didn’t come from a loan officer at a bank?’
‘No. Hence the anonymous,’ Whit said with a thin smile. ‘But don’t you think it would be wise to check Patch’s finances? Maybe see if he owed debts, gambling, I don’t know what, but this had to be big.’
‘We’re already on that,’ David said. ‘Jesus, a hundred thou.’
‘According to Lucy, his other niece, Suzanne, asked for a loan in that amount. Suzanne denied it to me. Said she asked for ten thou, Patch said no, she got the money from a friend. Lucy claims she and her ex-con boyfriend have gambling problems.’
‘Lucy’s sure well-informed.’
‘Patch had money,’ Whit said, ignoring the jab. ‘At least he was land-rich. I don’t see why he would need to be trying to get a private loan.’
‘You sure you don’t know who this tip came from? Was this a phone call?’
‘It’s just anonymous, okay?’ Whit said. He owed Gooch his life; if Gooch wanted anonymity, Whit gave it to him. The lie felt slick and unpleasant on his tongue but he didn’t change his mind.
‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ David wadded up the wax paper that had held his grilled shark. ‘That’s all right. I’m not going to bust your chops over it, Judge. I mean, you’re an officer of the court. A public official. You sure don’t owe anything to law and order, no, sir.’
Treat it like any other tip.’
‘You sure this didn’t come from Lucy?’
