Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(52)

In six months, give or take, I would be a father. When I thought about the legacy I had from my own dad, what did I come up with? His old service revolver, a warped view of law enforcement and some painful memories from a childhood spent on Rebel Island.

I stared at the telephone. Then I picked it up and dialed my boss at UTSA. I told him I was thinking of going full-time. He said he’d start the paperwork immediately.

30

Benjamin Lindy watched the sunrise through a hole in the wall.

He’d always been an early riser. When he was a child, his job had been to tend the chickens on the ranch. He’d get up before first light and check for eggs, remove snakes from the hutch when necessary and let the chickens out to feed.

Early rising had been bred into him. It was a physical need. Around four in the morning, his feet would start to tingle and the sheets would begin to feel itchy. He had to get out of bed. On the rare occasion when he overslept and woke up to daylight, he felt sluggish and out of sorts, cheated of his best time.

This morning, he’d had several hours to think before the sun came up. He’d decided he would have to kill someone today.

The room he was standing in had been a parlor suite. Sometime during the night, a telephone pole had pierced the wall—crossbeams, wires and all. It stuck about five feet into the room, hanging crookedly in the ragged hole it had made, the top of the pole pushing against the ceiling. Lord knew where the telephone pole had come from. There were none on the island, as far as Benjamin could recall. When he came into the room, his first impression was that a sailing ship had rammed the building with its bowsprit.

He slipped his hand into his pocket. The gun was still there. It was his spare sidearm, too small for his hand, but now he was glad he’d brought it. Years ago, he’d bought the gun for his wife, but she’d never touched it—one of the many things she’d left behind. He supposed there was some sort of justice in him using that gun today.

He watched the sky turn from black to steel. He still burned from the indignity of having his .45 taken from him, as if he were a child. A year earlier, the state had tried to take away his driver’s license, simply because he was old. Then a murderer had taken away his daughter, as if old age did not rob a man of enough. Navarre had no right to rule over him. Benjamin had been wrong to trust Navarre. He would do no more than the law.

He remembered his last conversation with Peter Brazos, who of all people should’ve been his ally. Peter had turned all his attention to prosecuting the drug lords. He poured his rage into his work. But Calavera…Peter saw the assassin as a tool, not the real target. When Benjamin had tried to warn him what the Marshals Service was doing, tried to suggest they take action before the assassin could cut a deal, Peter had shut him down.

“Not another word,” Peter snapped. “Ben, this conversation never happened. If they can bring the bastard in, I’m all for it. I want his bosses’ names. All of them. But you will do nothing outside the law. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

Benjamin backed down. He pretended compliance. And they had not spoken since.

Outside, the rain still fell, but the storm was dying. Today Calavera would try to escape. Benjamin wasn’t sure how, but he could not allow anyone to leave the island, not until the assassin was dead.

He would have to watch.

He replayed last night in his mind. His brief conversation with Ty had bothered him. Those boys were up to no good. Ty knew something about Stowall’s murder, but he’d wanted to talk to Navarre. He wouldn’t tell Benjamin anything.

Then there was Alex Huff, the way he’d left abruptly last night. And now where was he? Every time Benjamin looked at Huff, he had to constrain his anger. It could not be a coincidence that the trail to his daughter’s murderer had led here, to this vile hotel. The very existence of the place was an insult to him. And Alex Huff…he would have to be found.

Benjamin rested his hand on the telephone pole. He would have to be patient a little while longer. He would have to control his anger. But when the time came, he could not hesitate.

Blood for blood today. No one would take that away from him.

31

As dawn broke, I stood at one of the many shattered windows on the second floor and surveyed the aftermath of Hurricane Aidan.

It was still raining hard, like white noise rather than water. The northern stretch of the island had disappeared under the waves. As far as I could see—which was only about two hundred yards—the Gulf churned in a foamy gray soup that blurred into the sky.

The main bulk of the island had been reduced to a few acres around the hotel. The path was scoured away. The remaining palmetto trees were stripped of fronds. The boat dock had vanished, but as the waves swept back, the tips of the old pilings peeked above the water.

In front of me, the lighthouse rose dark and undamaged. Even the glass of the lantern house seemed to have survived the storm, which seemed impossible—insulting, really. But no light flickered in the windows. No sign of movement. I still needed to check out the light I’d seen the night before, but I wasn’t anxious to brave the rain again. I was steeling my nerves to go downstairs when I heard a cough behind me.

“Is it over?” Lane Sanford asked.

She was standing bleary-eyed in the doorway. Her hair was flat on one side. She had pillow-wrinkles on her cheek.

“Looks that way,” I said. “What brings you here?”