Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(5)

I turned off the radio. “Nothing much.”

Thunder shook the windows. The power blinked out then came back on. Somebody upstairs yelled, “Yeah, baby!”

I stared at the clock flashing 12:01. I was just thinking how useless that would be if I were trying to time the occurrence of a crime, when I heard the shot.

Maia and I locked eyes.

“A board cracking,” I said. “Something slammed into the building.”

“Tres, that was a gun.”

I looked at the bay window, which I’d closed with the storm shutters. I tried to believe the noise had come from somewhere out there, but I knew better. The shot had come from inside the hotel.

Garrett’s music was still playing next door. The college kids were still stomping around upstairs. I’d heard enough gunshots in my life. Maybe if I just let this one go, let a few more bars of “Cheeseburger in Paradise” play through…

“Tres,” Maia said, “we need to check it out.”

“We’re on vacation. They have a staff here. Alex can handle it.”

“Fine,” Maia said. “I’ll go.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Hand me my dress.”

“All right,” I relented. “I’ll go. Just…stay put.”

There was a knock on our door. Garrett yelled, “Y’all arguing in there? Thought I heard a gunshot.”

Maia did not stay put. Neither did Garrett.

They followed me down the hall as if I knew where I was going. Garrett was in a wheelchair I’d never seen before. Apparently he kept a spare on the second floor, which told me he’d been visiting the hotel a lot more than I’d known.

On the stairs we ran into the older gentleman I’d seen in the lobby. He was taller than I’d realized, almost seven feet. With his shock-white hair and his black linen undertaker’s suit he was a bit disconcerting to meet in a dark stairwell. That, and the fact he was armed with a .45 Colt Defender.

“I heard a shot,” he explained.

I wasn’t sure what bothered me more—the gun, or the way his hand shook as he held it. He must’ve seen the way I was looking at him, because he slipped the gun into his pocket. “I thought the sound came from upstairs.”

“I was thinking downstairs,” I said.

“I’ll follow you, then.”

Great, I thought.

We trooped into the lobby and I got plowed into by the blond woman I’d seen crying earlier.

“Whoa,” I said. “Where are you going?”

She pushed past me and raced up the stairs.

Chris the manager came out of the office in hot pursuit. He stopped short when he saw us. “Hi, uh…”

His ears were red. He was breathing heavy.

“We heard something,” I told him. “Sounded like a shot.”

“A shot? No, couldn’t have been a shot.”

“Did you hear it?”

“No. I mean…no. Who would have a gun?”

I thought about that. The old gentleman had one. So did Maia. She never left home without her Lamaze pillow and her. 357. Who else?

“The marshal,” Maia said, following my thoughts. “What room is he in?”

Chris paled. “Oh…uh…”

“Come on, man!” Garrett growled. “I got margaritas melting upstairs!”

You don’t argue with a no-legged man who wants a margarita.

“Room 112,” Chris said. “End of the hall on the left. Now if you’ll excuse me, I, uh—” He ran after the blond lady.

“Busy place,” Maia said.

She started to lead the way down the hall, but I put my arm out to stop her. “Pregnant women do not take point.”

“Pooh,” she said.

We found room 112. The door was ajar. I knocked anyway. “Longoria?”

No answer.

Maia and I exchanged looks.

“Go ahead, point man,” she told me.

Trespassing in Longoria’s room didn’t sound like the safest idea. On the other hand, I had Maia, Garrett and an old guy with a .45 for backup.

I opened the door.

The first thing I noticed was the broken window. Glass was strewn all over the room. Rain blew in, soaking the carpet, the dresser and the open suitcase.

Jesse Longoria was sprawled at the foot of the bed, half wrapped in the blanket he’d clawed off as he fell. He was staring at the ceiling, a pained expression on his face, as if embarrassed that he had not managed to cover the bullet hole in his chest.

4

Chris ran down the hall. The wind shook the walls. The storm had taken him by surprise. After surfing the Gulf Coast waters so long, he thought he knew the weather. But he’d anticipated nothing like this. It wasn’t natural the way the hurricane had turned toward them, bearing down on Rebel Island with a malicious will.

If he’d known, he never would’ve arranged things the way he had.

When he caught up with Lane, she was in his bedroom, looking through his dresser.

“Stop it!” he said.

She looked up, her eyes still red. Her blond hair was stringy and wet from the shower.

“What have you done?” she demanded.

Chris balled his fists. He stared at the picture on his dresser mirror: a photo of the beach at Waikiki. Thinking of Hawaii usually calmed him down, but now his dream of moving there seemed childish. Had he really believed he’d be able to get away from here?