Vargas couldn’t feel the cold anymore. As he crouched in the shadows at the side of the cottage, he couldn’t feel the cold or the rain running down the back of his neck, soaking his denim jacket. He was shivering, but it was a shiver of anticipation.
Byron would have been proud of him. He had done things right this time, had used his brain and thought things out.
First, he had stolen a car. He couldn’t risk being seen in the Camaro anymore. Then, after he drove out to Captiva, he had found a bar without very many people inside. The waitress
was
nice and helpful when he told her he wanted to hire the black private eye but didn’t know where he lived. She had even gone out to the parking lot to point down the road to the cottage. He had been careful to smile and thank her.
The rain was coming down harder now.
He blinked it away and crept up to look in the bedroom window. There was a light on inside, and through the gap in the curtains he could see the corner of an unmade bed and beyond into a bathroom. He could hear a TV on in the living room. But he had seen no one inside.
S
lipping down against the side of the cottage, he looked out toward the front yard. He couldn’t see the gulf, but he could smell it, almost taste the salt in the cold air. And he thought about Byron and how much Byron liked beaches.
If he had time, he’d leave her body there. Out near the water.
Kinda like a tribute.
A phone rang inside the cottage. Two times, then it stopped
. Vargas rose and peered in. There was no one in the bedroom but he could hear a voice.
Then, there she was. She came into the bedroom, carrying the phone, the cord snaking behind her.
She looked different than she had on TV. She was tall and her hair was down around her shoulders, not in a ponytail like it had been on TV. She was wearing black jeans and a little T-shirt thing. Her gun was on her belt.
He heard Austin Outlaw’s name. Then his own name. Then she hung up the phone and set it on the end of the bed.
Vargas’s eyes shot back to the bedroom doorway. He saw no one else. When he looked back, she was gone. He moved to try to get a better angle and suddenly, she was back, coming out of the bathroom now, pulling the T-shirt over her head. She wore a little black bra, and she discarded that, too. Then the gun belt and jeans came off. Then the black panties.
Her body was pale. She was skinny, too, but not so much that she looked sick. She picked up a white bathrobe and put it on, disappearing back into the bathroom.
Vargas put his fingers on the bottom of the window and tried to lift it. It opened easily and quietly. He climbed inside, drawing his knife. There was only one light on, a small blue lamp on the dresser near the door. He could hear the shower running.
The pho
ne rang again. His heart jumped and he spun first toward the bathroom door then back to the phone. He had to stop it. He hurried to the bed, grabbed the cord and cut it. When he looked back, she was coming back into the bedroom, still in the robe, but carrying a towel.
Her eyes locked on him, then went to the knife in his hand.
“Vargas.”
He didn’t answer her. He moved to her.
She started sidestepping in her bare feet, wrapping the towel around her forearm as she moved, her eyes never leaving his face. He thought first she was going to run, but then her eyes gave her away. It wasn’t the door she wanted.
It was the gun on the bed.
She lunged to the bed but he caught her robe and flung her backward. She smashed into the dresser, knocking over the lamp and sending bottles crashing to the terrazzo floor.
He came at her, but she threw up her towel-wrapped arm, deflecting the knife. He grabbed her robe to keep her from twisting away, and his knife plunged into her shoulder.
She screamed and spun back. He brought the knife up again. Then something smashed into the side of his head —- glass shattering, stabs of pain, darkness.
He reeled back, his hand on his face.
Blue glass all over the floor. Blood...his blood.
Now the bedroom was
dark, but in the light spilling in from the bathroom, he saw something white move. She was going for the gun. He threw himself at her and they fell against the wooden footboard of the bed and onto the floor. Her hands caught the edge of the blanket and she pulled it down with her. Everything -— clothes, shoes, suitcase, and gun tumbled to the floor.
She tried to scramble away but he was quick and shoved her back against the footboard.
He stabbed at her, the knife plunging into the robe, her arms, the floor. She hit him, kicked him, and he tried to get control, tried to pin her against the wooden slats. She slid down, trying to get away, trying to shield herself.
He was above her, on his knees, his left hand flat on her chest, and for an instant he could see her face, eyes wild, skin and hair streaked with blood. He brought the knife down, not caring where it hit.
Her hands flew to his wrist, and she stopped the downward thrust of the knife, her elbows locked and shuddering under his weight.
He tried to pull back to free the knife, but she held on.
Shit. Shit!
He hit her with his free hand, hard on the jaw. But she held on, her fingers tight on his wrist
. He rose higher on his knees to get leverage and she brought up a knee, trying to wedge it against his chest.
Strong...she was so strong. Not like that little thing out on the Alley. But he was stronger. And he was mad now, blind mad.
He shoved her knee away and threw all his weight behind one last thrust of the knife.
But the knife didn’t go down, didn’t hit flesh. His gloved hand crashed through
the bed slats. And he couldn’t get his hand free.
Motherfucker!
He locked eyes with her. Her eyes weren’t wild now. And she wasn’t afraid.
He was twisting his hand, trying to free the knife. Then a blow to his gut doubled him over and emptied his lungs. Another kick to his stomach and the knife dropped from his hand. He fell backward, gasping.
A blur of white and he knew she was getting away, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move fast enough.
She was tossing the clothes and
blanket, looking for her gun.
He started to crawl after her, but she grabbed something off the floor.
He caught the black glint of the gun.
He struggled to his feet and he ran toward the living room. He was at the door when he heard the explosion, felt a bullet rip into his shoulder blade. He tumbled forward, crashing out onto the porch and ripping through the screen door as more bullets popped behind him.
The cold rain hit his hot face as he ran. He found his way back to the road, staying in the shadows. Finally, he fell into the sand behind some bushes. He sat still, his lungs burning, head pounding, his shoulder smoldering.
Get away... he had to get away. Get back to the mainland.
He had to get to the airport so Uncle Leo’s plane could take him away.
Louis pulled the Bronco into the gravel drive and turned off the engine. The living room light was on in the cottage but the bedroom was dark. Joe was probably asleep. He got out and hurried onto the porch. He stopped.
The front door was wide open and the TV was on.
He stepped inside, looking around the living room.
Nothing was out of place, but...
He heard a noise. A moan that for a second he thought was the cat. Then it came again.
He stepped toward the bedroom, drawing his gun. He slipped around the
corner, leveling the Glock in the darkness.
“Joe?”
“Here.”
Her voice sounded small, weak.
His left hand went out to turn on the blue lamp on the dresser but he couldn’t find it. He moved to the bathroom, pushing open the door. Light flooded into the room, across the terrazzo floor, the bed, and over her.
She was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, her legs drawn up,
gun resting on her knees. Her face was dark, puffy, her hair wet and limp around her face. His white robe was streaked with blood.
“Va
rgas,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
Louis went to her, dropping to one knee. He took her gun and set it on the end of the bed and holstered his own.
He touched her chin, gently, tilting it up to the light. Her cheek was cut, ugly bruises forming around her right eye and her lip. Blood and glass speckled her hair.
Something started to bu
rn inside him, burning his chest, his eyes.
“I hurt him,” she said. “Shot him.”
The burning in his eyes were tears. God, her face was... Jesus. He tried to take a breath, but that burned, too.
“How long ago?”
She didn’t answer.
“Joe, how long ago?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes...maybe.”
Louis looked around for the phone and grabbed the cord, pulling it to him until he saw the severed end.
He stood. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to call for help.”
He hurried to the cottage next door, fumbling for the keys he used as the resort’s security guard, and let himself in. His hands were shaking as he dialed the number to the sheriff’s office.
When he got back, Joe had her gun back in her hands. He took it away from her again.
“Where else are you cut?”
She leaned forward and he could see the back of the robe was soaked in blood.
“Oh God,” he whispered.
He started to ease the robe down but she flinched. “Hold tight,” he said. He gently pulled the robe open around her neck. The skin on the back of her shoulder was slashed open, the gaping wound oozing blood. There were three or four more smaller cuts around her collar bone and chest.
The burning inside him was growing, hardening now into
rage. He had to take several small breaths to stay calm.
“Help me,” she said. “Help me up.”
He lifted her gently and tried to lay her down on the bed, but she pushed him away, wanting to sit up. He helped her scoot across the mess of sheets, grabbing a pillow off the floor to wedge behind her back. She leaned back against the headboard, shutting her eyes.
Her
face was a horrid chalky white and he was worried she was going to pass out. He put a hand to her forehead. Her skin was like ice. He grabbed the blanket
off the floor and covered her.
For
the first time, he got a good look at the bedroom. Blood was smeared across the terrazzo floor. The blue ceramic lamp was broken, the blanket, sheets and his clothes were splashed with blood.
Every part of him raged with anger.
He wanted to kill him.
He walked to the dresser and jerked open a drawer. He pulled out a box of ammo and the extra magazines for the
Glock. He started shoving bullets into the empty magazines. He could hear sirens.
“Louis.”
“I’m going after him, Joe.”
“Louis.”
He spun to her. “Goddamn it Joe, the sonofabitch hurt you. He came in here and did this. He was here.”
“Louis...don’t.”
He ignored her.
“This isn’t how you do it
. There are rules.”
“I don’t have any rules right now.”
He stuck the loaded magazines in the back of his jeans and put the box of bullets in his jacket pocket.
The sirens were loud now, close.
“Where?” she asked.
“What?”
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. He was going to start with Uncle Leo in Naples. If Vargas was hurting now, he might do what he had always done
-- run back to Uncle Leo. But if he told Joe that, she might send the sheriff's office right behind him. And they’d have to notify Collier County. They’d have to fight for a warrant. And Vargas would get away. Again.
“I don’t know
where I’m going,” he said.
He heard footsteps and voices on the porch.
“Rescue!” someone yelled.
“In here,” Louis yelled back.
Two men rushed in. They took one look at Joe and surrounded her, blocking Louis’s view of her face.
Another siren was coming. The sheriff's office, probably. Louis started to turn away and spotted Joe’s shield on
the floor. He bent to pick it up, using his finger to wipe a smear of blood off the gold. He glanced at her but she couldn’t see him. He stuck the shield in his pocket.
He went over to Joe. She was still on the bed, a blood pressure cuff on her arm, the two paramedics hovering. The whole right side of her face was swollen and red. He wanted to hold her. He put one hand gently on her hair instead.
He could read her eyes, read what she was trying to tell him.
Don’t do this.
He gave her a soft kiss on the top of her head and left the cottage. He was just a half-mile down the road when he passed a Lee County cruiser going in the opposite direction. He kept driving.