Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(64)

His tone was about as convincing as the cologne on the dead marshal.

“I’m going to the lighthouse,” I said. “Come with me, in case it’s locked.”

“Only Mr. Huff kept a key to the lighthouse. No one will be there. Now forgive me, señor, but I need to finish setting things in order.”

Putting the house in dying order. That’s what my mother used to call it whenever she made me clean my room before our summer trips to Rebel Island. She never laid out corpses on the dining table, though.

I left Jose making his ofrendas—pouring shots of tequila for two dead men.

Outside, the rain had waned to a drizzle. I could almost tell where the sun was behind the blanket of clouds. There was still nothing on the sea but wreckage—no sign of a boat, a fish, a bird. The water was receding around the island. The northern stretch was still gone, but the main beach was almost back to where I remembered. The pilings of the boat dock jutted above the waterline. A Volkswagen-sized metal drum, like a septic tank, had washed ashore nearby.

The lighthouse was locked. It had a solid door, weathered oak with a deadbolt. I stared at it resentfully. That didn’t convince it to open.

“He ain’t in there,” Garrett said. “Probably locked it when you two left last night.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t lock it.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, ’cause we can’t get in.”

“Back up,” I said. “Way back.”

“No way you’re gonna try busting that down.”

I hefted Maia’s .357. Hastily, Garrett wheeled himself way back. I put my face next to the door and yelled, “Alex, if you’re in there, move away from the door.”

I stepped back about fifteen feet.

In a lot of movies, I’ve seen people stand next to the door and shoot down at the lock, which always struck me as particularly stupid. The lock is metal. What you’re likely to get is killed by ricochet or peppered with splinters.

I shot three times down the center line of the door—top, middle, bottom. The .357 made three decent-size holes. I kicked the middle. The door split in half like a piece of perforated paper.

Inside, morning light filtered from the windows high above. Canvas sacks were stacked in one corner. Against the opposite wall were a table and chair and a bedraggled man slumped over with his head cradled in his arms.

“Alex,” Garrett said.

Alex Huff’s red shirt was ripped across the back. He wasn’t wearing any shoes and his feet were bleeding. He seemed to be asleep.

He reminded me of a murderer I’d seen once in a police station—a guy who’d been caught after torturing three women. He’d been hauled into the station, put in an interrogation room to sweat. Far from getting agitated, the man had fallen asleep instantly, like he was relieved to be caught.

“Yo, Alex.” Garrett wheeled himself over and shook his friend’s shoulder. I stayed at the broken door. One of my bullets had chipped off a section of the limestone wall just above Alex’s head. If Alex had stood up, he would’ve died.

He didn’t wake when Garrett shook him, but he sighed deeply. An empty tequila bottle rolled off the table and clunked on the gravel floor.

I stepped closer, my finger still on the trigger, though I was pretty sure Alex wasn’t faking. He smelled of tequila. His bare arms were crisscrossed with glass cuts.

I pulled him upright by his hair and he grunted, his mouth slack. His eyes opened and rolled back in his head and he coughed on his own spit.

“Alex,” I said. “Wake up.”

“Waaa.”

“Get up, man,” Garrett said. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Alex blinked. He struggled to focus on everything around him, scowling, as if Garrett’s question were an exceptionally good one. Then something seemed to occur to him. His expression turned miserable, and he put his head back down in his arms. “No,” he groaned. “No, no…”

“Alex,” I said. “We found the room with the bomb materials.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“Come on, Alex!” Garrett pleaded. “Explain this to me, man. Please.”

“Hotel,” he muttered. “My hotel.”

“What about it?” I asked.

He raised his head. The pain in his eyes told of a man who’d lost everything in the world.

“Is it over?” he asked me. “Has it blown up yet?”

I ran into Markie in the lobby. Ran him over, actually.

“Get out,” I told him.

“What?”

“Now! Where’s Ty and Chase?”

“In the parlor with Lane and the old dude. But—”

“Get them all and get out of the building.”

I think he asked me what was going on, but I’d given him as much time as I planned to. I sprinted up the steps to find Maia. My vision was tunneling. My mouth tasted like salt. Nothing mattered except getting her and getting out.

She was in our bedroom, curled up asleep, but her eyelids fluttered as soon as I touched her shoulder.

“Mmm?” she said.

“Fresh air time.”

“What?”

“Come outside.”

She studied my face, her sleepiness quickly dissolving. “What’s wrong?”