Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(44)

Lindy opted for the dignified solution. He took out his .45 and gave it to me. I ejected the clip, slipped it and the gun into my pockets. I took his box of ammunition.

“Son, you’re making a mistake.”

Suddenly the electric lights flickered on.

Somewhere in the distance, my brother’s muffled voice yelled, “Yes!”

Music cranked into gear. The steel drums of “Margaritaville” wafted down a hallway.

“No!” Garrett shouted. “Not that song. Kill it!”

I sighed. The way Garrett hated that song, I figured I’d better get back there before we had another homicidal maniac on our hands.

I left Mr. Lindy sitting on his bed, staring at the scrapbook of his dead daughter’s life.

24

The day Alex got out of the army, he found himself on the streets of San Antonio with no plans, no home and not much money. He drove out of the gates of Fort Sam Houston, bought a six-pack of beer at the nearest convenience store and meandered down Broadway to the Witte Museum. He sat on the banks of San Pedro Creek, watching the geese glide by in the green water. Huge live oaks cast mottled shadows on the grass. Alex’s eyes still hadn’t adjusted from the harsh sunlight of Kuwait. He felt like he had sand in his boots, and not the good kind of sand from the Texas beaches. Desert sand—fine, dry and all-pervasive—from a world of unrelenting heat.

He took out his father’s knife and ran his finger down the blade. He imagined himself walking on the edge. Today he had to decide. After four years of letting the army tell him what to do, where to go, when to eat, how to dress, he had to make choices again, and that scared him.

Finally he pulled out his address book. He hadn’t used it in months. Most of the numbers belonged to friends who had died or girlfriends who’d left him. He walked to a pay phone at the corner of Broadway and called Garrett. He got an answer immediately.

Garrett was in town, it turned out, visiting his brother, Tres. “I’ll meet you at Liberty Bar,” he said. “Gimme thirty minutes.”

“You bringing Tres?”

Garrett laughed. “You think I should?”

Alex hung up.

Thirty-three minutes later, Alex arrived at the Liberty Bar. The two-story whitewashed building hadn’t changed in decades. It was famously slanted like a carnival funhouse, with a balcony around the second floor. Inside, the hardwood floor creaked under the waiters’ feet, and the leaning walls made Alex feel like he was in the belly of a ship. Liquor bottles gleamed against the bar mirror. Locals crowded the tables, tucking away pot roast sandwiches or chiles rellenos.

Garrett sat near the back exit. He was already on his second Shiner Bock. Alex hadn’t seen him in over three years, but when he sat down Garrett started right into it, as if Alex had simply come back from the bathroom.

“So I was talking to Tres today, and he’s gonna get a state license. Become a legitimate PI. Can you believe that?”

Alex shook his head. He’d seen Tres a few times over the years, but it was still hard to think of him as a grown-up, much less an investigator. “I need advice,” he said.

Garrett nodded like this was the most natural request in the world, despite the fact that Alex had never once taken Garrett’s advice on anything. In fact, Alex had pretty much defined himself as a teenager by doing the opposite of whatever Garrett suggested.

Alex talked about his different ideas: starting a fireworks business and traveling the country, or moving to California. Or…there was always Rebel Island.

The name hung in the air between them. Glasses clinked at the bar. Trucks rumbled by on Josephine Street.

Garrett drained his beer. His eyes glinted as dangerous as sparks on kerosene. “I could go for dinner on the island.”

They left after lunch. By sunset they were on the beach, toasting the Gulf of Mexico and reminiscing. Within a week, Alex had decided to buy the hotel.

Now, sitting in the dark, Alex unfolded his father’s knife. Once more, he felt like he was teetering on the blade. He thought about the letter he’d given to Garrett. He hoped Garrett would understand. It wasn’t much to make amends, but it was all he could do. Hopefully some of the others would be spared.

Alex didn’t care about himself anymore. He felt just like his hotel: battered, torn by the wind, coming apart at the joints.

He stared at the candy skull on the table. He had tried to fix things. He had tried to put aside his anger. But it hadn’t worked. With the edge of his knife, he flicked the skull off the table.

“Calavera,” he said.

And like magic, the door to the room creaked open. Alex stood. He knew he was going to fall off the wrong side of the blade this time. Nothing would save him—not Mr. Eli, not Garrett’s advice, not even the hope that people sometimes change. They didn’t. And Calavera would win.

25

I shared a sofa with Maia and Garrett while I told them about my conversations with Jose and Mr. Lindy. Lindy and most of the others were also in the parlor, but between the storm and the Jimmy Buffett music, it wasn’t hard to talk without being overheard.

“Brazos visited the island,” Maia said. “Two months later, his family was murdered.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why didn’t Brazos come back here afterward? Did he ever follow up?”

“I don’t know. If I could find Alex—”