Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(45)

“There’s gotta be a reason,” Garrett insisted. “So this Brazos guy asked some questions. So what? That doesn’t mean Alex—”

“Garrett, Alex should’ve said something. He didn’t.”

“What about this Lindy guy? How do you know he isn’t Calavera?”

“It was Lindy’s daughter who died,” I said. “He isn’t an assassin. I mean…he wants to kill somebody in cold blood, but he’s not that assassin.”

“Great,” Garrett grumbled. “That clears it right up.”

“The poor man.” Maia sipped her red-raspberry-leaf tea. She looked over at Lindy, who sat in conversation with Jose. Jose looked uneasy to have the old lawyer’s attention.

“The poor man?” I asked Maia.

“He lost his daughter and granddaughters. How would you feel?”

“Like tracking down Calavera and butchering him. But I wouldn’t do it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay,” I said. “I’d think about doing it, but you’d kick my butt if I tried.”

“Lindy has nothing left to lose,” Maia said. “No family. His career is behind him. He’s too old to care about jail time.”

“You think I should give him his gun back?”

“On the contrary. I think he may be more dangerous than this assassin. More unpredictable. But I also don’t want to see him killed. If Calavera finds out why he’s here—”

“I still think Lindy is nuts,” Garrett said. “You sure he doesn’t have another gun?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And speaking of that, give me back the .357.”

Garrett looked offended. “I’m your brother.”

“A good reason for extreme caution. Gun, please.”

Garrett muttered a few curses, but he gave me Maia’s gun.

Jimmy Buffett kept singing about Key West. The time must’ve been well past one in the morning, and everybody looked even more tired than I felt. Ty was out cold from whatever medication his friends had given him. I kind of envied him. Chase and Markie were teaching Imelda to play Spit in the Ocean, which probably had some sort of cosmic significance when played in a hurricane. Lane had made herself a nest of blankets next to the wall. She was curled into a fetal position, but her eyes were wide open. Mr. Lindy was still talking to Jose, who was looking frazzled and soaked. Ceiling plaster flecked his black hair.

There was no sign of Alex.

“He’ll be back,” Garrett said, apparently reading my mind. “He won’t do anything crazy.”

“I hope you’re right. What was in the envelope he gave you?”

Garrett’s face darkened. “Just personal stuff.”

“Nothing about Calavera.”

“No.”

“You’d tell me if it was.”

“Hey, little bro. It’s cool. Alex will be back. The power came back on. Alex must’ve done that.”

I wasn’t so sure. The generator seemed about as predictable as the storm tonight. I also noticed that Garrett had not answered my question.

“When you told me Alex was having some problems even before this weekend, what did you mean?”

Garrett folded the bottom of his Hawaiian shirt like he was rolling a joint. “Money problems. The hotel wasn’t keeping afloat too well. Maybe there was more. I don’t know. He said he and Chris…”

“Were arguing?” I supplied.

“Yeah. But don’t get ideas, little bro. It doesn’t mean anything. You know Alex couldn’t hurt a soul.”

I remembered Alex’s steely look the afternoon he pushed me out of the boat, into the water with the blood and the sharks. I wasn’t sure Garrett was being completely honest. I wanted to know what Alex had given him in that envelope. But I also knew my brother well enough to know I couldn’t force the issue. He’d tell me only when he was ready.

“You guys get some sleep,” I told them. “I’ll keep watch.”

Maia closed her eyes without protest. “Wake me if somebody else dies.”

Garrett looked over at Lane.

“Go ahead,” I said. “She could use some comfort.”

He studied me, like he was trying to detect sarcasm. But he didn’t look too hard, or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Good night, then,” he said. “And you watch. Alex is gonna prove you wrong.”

I’m not sure when I fell asleep. I must have been too exhausted to even notice I was fading.

I dreamed I was teaching a class at UTSA. We were discussing The Pearl, talking about grief and the death of children. It was raining in the classroom. The students were trying to take notes but their laptops and legal pads were getting soaked. Lindy’s daughter, Rachel, was one of the students. Ty, Markie and Chase were there. So was Imelda, holding a baby in either arm. Ralph Arguello sat in the back of the room, a beach umbrella over his desk. He kept grinning at me like he found my lecture amusing.

I talked about the Black Plague and medieval parenthood. I discussed the sociological theory that parents in the Middle Ages, who were so accustomed to loss, did not have the same emotional attachment to children as modern parents. Personally, I didn’t buy that.