Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(55)

“You don’t want the authorities alerted, either,” I said. “You want to resolve this yourself.”

Lindy didn’t answer.

I looked down and realized I was still holding the frayed piece of electrical cord. I felt it was important, but I didn’t know why. It bothered me almost as much as the statue up in Alex’s room.

“How did Chris know to contact you?” I asked Lindy.

“We’ve been through this.”

“He didn’t know you personally?”

Lindy hesitated. “I assume he saw the news about Rachel’s murder.”

“You hadn’t been to Rebel Island before? You didn’t know Alex Huff?”

“No.”

“Alex wasn’t friends with your daughter? They didn’t go to school together or anything like that?”

“No,” he said coldly. “Why are you asking this?”

I thought about Rachel Brazos’s face, carved in wood. The face of a grown woman carved while Rachel was still a child. A new mother.

“What about your wife?” I asked.

Lindy’s expression hardened. “What about her?”

“There were no pictures in the scrapbook. Who was she? Did Rachel look like her?”

There was a sudden electricity in the room that had nothing to do with the storm. I knew I had crossed a line Mr. Lindy would never forgive.

“That has no bearing,” Lindy said.

“You said you asked Longoria’s advice about your wife. She ran away, didn’t she?”

Lindy stared at the suitcases on Lane Sanford’s bed. The rain in the window made a frame of static behind him.

“My wife was a troubled woman,” he said. “Rachel’s birth left her deeply depressed. Unbalanced. She disappeared and left me to raise our daughter alone.”

“You never found her?”

“I stopped looking. That was Marshal Longoria’s advice. She was better gone. He was right.”

The bitterness in his voice was so fresh his wife might’ve left yesterday.

“Longoria understood vengeance,” I said. “He wasn’t so good with love. It sounds like he steered you wrong more than once.”

“My daughter was murdered, Mr. Navarre. Her killer is here. I intend to find him.”

I nodded. “Maia was wondering who’s more dangerous. You or Calavera?”

“Do not compare us.”

“Don’t try to kill him.”

A knock on the door. Jose came in, looking worried.

“Señores,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I thought…I happened to see. The three young gentlemen.”

“What about them?” I asked.

“They went downstairs,” Jose told us. “They just left the hotel.”

32

Maia and Imelda returned to the Colonel’s Suite and found it hardly damaged at all. Rain still dripped from the ceiling into the overflowing silver cup. The air smelled of extinguished candles. The picture of Tres’s father and the other two men hung crookedly on the wall.

Maia sat on the edge of the bed to catch her breath. The bedspread was dry and warm.

“I will pack your things, señora,” Imelda said.

“That isn’t necessary. I can get them.”

Imelda didn’t seem to hear. She found the suitcase in the closet and set it at the foot of the bed. “You should be ready to leave.”

It didn’t take long. Maia and Tres had always been light travelers. Within a few minutes, Imelda had folded their clothes and tucked them away. She found Maia’s .357 wrapped in a nightgown and held it cupped in her hands as if unsure whether to pack it.

“What’s bothering you?” Maia asked.

Imelda set the gun down. “I—I should help Jose get breakfast ready.”

But Maia could sense her indecision—wanting to say something, afraid to do so.

Usually, silence helped. In her practice, Maia would sit quietly for a long time, creating a space for the client’s statement. Let them fill the gap with words. But Imelda didn’t.

“I decided,” Maia told her, “the baby will be a boy.” And without knowing why, Maia explained her fears.

Imelda stared at her, as if she’d just noticed Maia for the first time. “This…disease runs in your family, señora?”

Maia nodded. “My brother died when he was very young. We watched him get weaker and weaker. Grief destroyed my father.”

“And the chances are good that your son will have this?”

“Yes.”

“But you risk it anyway.”

“I’ve thought about it. I’ve decided I am supposed to have this child.”

Imelda pursed her lips. “I thought the same thing with my own children…”

Maia waited, but once again, Imelda backed off. Whatever she was afraid of saying, the fear won out.

“Imelda,” she said. “If there’s a way I can help you—”

“You should get out of this old house, señora. Fresh air would do you good.”

“It’s still pouring,” Maia said.

Imelda folded the .357 back in the nightgown and packed it in the suitcase. “You are ready, señora. I have to help with breakfast.”