by Robert Lane
I took a swallow of wine, not bothering to let my taste buds get even a hint of the grapes. I leveled my eyes at her hazel-greens and let my breath out. “No. I do not think that.”
Her tongue poked out her left cheek. “Morgan says he lost his faith. Besides, there is nothing that points in your theory’s direction. To the contrary,” she said, placing her wineglass on the side table between us. “Antinori was forthright in discussing the church’s shortcomings.”
“Nothing focuses your attention like the shadow of the gallows. Antinori was one step ahead of the law and went to the only place where that long arm did not reach. How do you know so much about Antinori’s past?”
“Morgan.”
“Morgan’s not always right.”
“Name one time when he’s been wrong.”
So she scored a point; you can’t always pitch a shutout.
I drained my glass. Hadley III flew off the grill and cornered a gecko. She maimed it and brought it under Kathleen’s chair.
“I don’t like her doing that,” she said.
“But you still like the cat, right?”
She let that hang for a few seconds. “Give it up, doofus, you have more free will than a cat.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Probably would be. Ready for the sunset stroll?”
I stood up. “I’ve got to get my gun.”
“My, you must really be disgusted with words. What’s the game plan, plug holes in a dictionary?” She stood and faced me. “Or do you plan to take potshots at sandpipers?”
“Garrett called right before you slammed the screen door that you’re supposed to fix. Paretsky’s still breathing. He knows me. He knows you. Garrett will be shadowing us, as will John Wayne. Don’t ask. I think we’ll be fine. For all we know, Paretsky’s boarding a private plane to George Town as we speak. Or he might seek revenge. You still want to walk with me?”
“What would you do?”
“What?”
“Revenge or flee?”
“I’d live to fight another day.” Why do I keep lying to her?
“Am I in danger?”
“You might be bait. It’s hard to—”
“Am I in danger?”
“Any time you walk with me.”
“The sun waits for no one.”
“Can the bravado act. You don’t need to pre—”
I needed a few quick steps to catch up with her.
CHAPTER 41
She left her shoes—I was shoeless—in the truck, and we trudged over the quarter-moon boardwalk that spanned the sea oats. I couldn’t spot Garrett or Wayne. I didn’t really think that Paretsky would try to seek revenge on a public beach, and if I had I certainly wouldn’t have brought Kathleen along, but after my elevator ride, I thought it better to err on the side of caution.
The bullcrap we tell ourselves. A couple of days ago I smuggled her off on a sailboat, but now I felt she was safer with Garrett, Wayne, and me? Fleeing was never a permanent solution.
The sea breeze was from the east; therefore, we were on the leeward side of the island. The sky was clear in the west, and the air was like a blanket that came out of the dryer too early, still warm and wet. We arrived at the water’s edge and headed north, saving the southern trek, my preferred direction of travel, for the return trip.
“We missed it,” Kathleen said. The water had already swallowed the top of the sun. The blue sky was now infected with yellow, red, and black.
“Hope it comes back tomorrow.”
“That could be an issue.”
“Make our troubles small.”
“Yes.” She looked at me and smiled. “Make our troubles small.”
She was on the lower ground, and I switched places with her so I didn’t tower over her. She wasn’t fond of crushed shell on bare feet, so I wandered a few inches into the gulf so she could be on the smooth, concrete sand. The gulf lay flat and barely had the energy to deliver any of its waves onto the shore. A black skimmer glided over the surface and dropped its lower beak. It made the tiniest wake you would ever see. We chitchatted about the cloud formations and how, often, a half hour after the sunset the sky blazes, and the real show begins. We held hands.
“You know,” I started in, “I plumb forget what we had a disagreement over.”
“For starters, while on vacation, by omission, you lived a lie.”
“Been thinking about that. Doesn’t it just make us even? After all, you lied when we first met.”
“That was different.”
“You lied when we first met.”
“That doesn’t apply to this situation.”
“You lied when—”
“Stop it. We’ll call it a draw, but it doesn’t excuse the gist of the matter: your condescending attitude toward me.”
“Right. And I called that horseshit.”
“You did.”
“I misspoke. Double horseshit.”
“Man oh man, that’s the extent of your progress? Way to strive for middle ground.”
“I don’t do middle ground. There’s you and the universe that surrounds you.”
“See.” She stopped and faced me. She tugged at my hand to free hers, but I wouldn’t have it. “You say stuff like that, and I get it, I more than get it. But words just can’t make everything good.”
“Triple horseshit. You’re telling me that words can make things bad but are incapable of making things good? Convince me of that.”
A woman jogger danced around us. A human being exercising during prime drinking time. Swear to almighty God, what’s this world coming to?
“Words of criticism sting and linger. Words of praise fade away.”
“Where are you getting this stuff from?” We resumed our pace.
“Me.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t argue with me; it has always been that way. People feel pain more acutely than joy—it’s the same with words. It’s the callous and thoughtless words that lurk and hurt; they contaminate our pots of self-esteem and foster doubt. Such words trump our good words and intentions.”
“I’m not disagreeing, Ms. Marc Antony. Did you ever consider that just, perhaps, my hastily misspoken words did not accurately convey my thoughts?”
“Your thoughts?” She swung her head toward me. “What exactly did you mean when you told me to crawl into books?”
I stopped and, still holding her hand, turned to face her. “Run away from me. Run far. Run fast. Never look back. What type of person goes on vacation and kills another man? Who hides that side from his lover? What man is foolish enough to dream of a grandiose world, a romantic Eden where love, anchored in a calm harbor, rests beyond the reproach of stormy words and steamy flesh, where it’s—whatever, whoever, some-ever. You get the picture, right?”
“Some-ever? Little over your head there?”
“Not a bad side to err on.”
“Pretty slick recovery, I’ll give you that.”
“I—”
“You’re telling me that you say something mean and… what? It’s a subliminal attempt to drive me away from you?”
“Sure—I’ll go with that.”
“That,” she splashed water at me with her feet, “is horse-crap.”
“Doing what I can, here.”
She punched me on the shoulder with her free hand. We continued our pace.
A couple in shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes pounded past us. Evening power walkers. No acrimony against them, and not to belabor the point, but the Eleventh Commandment (am I the only one to read the Good Book?) clearly states that sunsets—that’s generally 4:00 to 10:00 p.m.—are explicitly reserved for alcohol consumption. Wouldn’t surprise me if someday all these evening-exercise sickos turned to salt.
“Did I ever tell you,” I tugged at her hand, “I was sorry for what I said?”
“Hmm…pretty sure that never happened.”
“Did so.” Was she right?
Was she?
; I showed sympathy by saying sorry to Rondo over his loss and to Cynthia over the death of her childhood friend, mended fences with Morgan, and apologized to Paige for slapping her; I even tossed the word out to Lambert’s bird—a frickin’ bird—but not to Kathleen? You always think it’s physical. That’s how we got here.
“Did so.” I opted to stage a weak defense.
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“Nope.”
I tossed out the white flag. “I’m sorry.” I leaned in, placed my free hand on her shoulder, and gave her a kiss. “I’ll stand here until the sun comes around and say it over and—”
“Please don’t.” I let her go, although I still held her hand. “Are you really?” she asked timidly, which was an unfamiliar tone for her.
Wayne’s badge weighted down my T-shirt pocket. You tell me if the badge makes the man or the man makes the badge.
“It was a poor decision. I thought it was best not to tell you at the time. I was wrong. I—”
“That’s not what I’m referring to.” She went from timid to disgusted in record time.
“The books?”
“Yes, birdbrain, the books.”
“Major-league sorry about that. Begging your forgiveness.”
“Accepted.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You know,” I said as I felt old man swagger rising up from his dormant position, “I wondered if there was any chance—we’re talking a tiny little possibility—that you were just a tad—remember, we’re dealing in minuscule, nuclear measurements—too sensitive to that remark?”
“You waste no time going on the offensive, don’t you?”
“Microscopic chance.”
“How big is that?”
“A particle of dust in the universe.”
“Hmmm…sure.”
“Sure?”
“Blame rarely fits neatly on one set of shoulders.”
Somewhere, at that precise moment, there was a men’s club nailing a plaque with my name on it upon a wall. In the far corners of the earth, dissident armies were laying down their arms, raising their glasses, and toasting me. If only for that moment, the male population of the planet enjoyed peace and camaraderie that transcended all political, ideological, and religious divides as they chanted my name, harmony echoing throughout the universe.
“That’s it? All this time putting the weight on me, and just maybe a little of it belongs on you?”
“Don’t get bloated. Dust in the universe.”
“Ever going to come clean with that minor detail?”
“The night you came clean at the Valencia? That was a lot for one dinner. I told you I needed time.”
“How about the other times that—”
“Don’t be so persnickety.”
“Persnickety?”
She gave a playful shrug of her shoulders. “Doesn’t excuse your remark. I’m a woman. I have a right, an obligation, to demand that you pay more attention to details—in this case, words. It’s my right to be persnickety.”
“Persnickety. Just how much did you and Sophia indulge in?”
She stopped and faced me. “Persnickety, persnickety, persnickety. That answer your question?” She nailed each syllable with astonishing accuracy and verbal agility. She’d make a good trumpet player.
We’d walked about half a mile, and I didn’t want to make it too difficult for Garrett and Wayne to track us in the shadows. “On three?”
She said, “One…two…three.” We pivoted and trekked south.
Darkness settled fast. The days had become notably shorter as the sun slipped farther south, answering the prayers of those in the southern hemisphere, or, perhaps, chasing its own dreams. Another couple passed us. Swimsuits, T-shirts, and red Solo cups. Finally, hope for the species.
“Do you?” Kathleen halted and faced me.
“What?”
“Want me to run. Run far. Run fast. Sail away. Never look back. Do you want me to do that?”
“You ever worry as a kid that something terrible was going to happen?” She gave me a quizzical stare. “Die young,” I continued. “Fall out of the air the first time you flew, show up to class buck naked, or—”
“What does this—”
“Play along.”
She brushed away a strand of hair that had found freedom in the breeze. “I read Death Be Not Proud. I was very young. It haunted me for years, the thought that everyone would continue with his or her life and mine would be genetically programmed to end early. Not your aforementioned panic plunge from the sky or trying to spell persnickety at a sixth-grade spelling bee and realizing that I had forgotten to get dressed, but the lingering knowledge that you would be gone before twenty. Knowing that it was all out there and would continue as if you had never stepped on the stage.” She shuddered. “I was too young when I read that book. I kept thinking, what if that happens to me? It was, still is, my worst thought: slow knowledge of impending early death.” Her head had drifted down. She snapped it up. “But that’s life, isn’t it? And you?”
“If you ever were to run, far and fast—sail away—that would be the saddest thing in my world.”
“Oh, great.” She halted as if we’d hit a red light. “And you hung me out there totally absorbed with myself. What does any of this have to do with you living a lie while on our vacation and your crass book remark?”
“Despite the weight of my poor judgment, my callous decision and ignorant words were inconsequential to the core.”
“The core?”
“The core. Where even radioactive words have no effect.” My conversation with Wayne at the airport and the book of Corinthians took over my mind. I added, “Where all is forgiven and love endures.”
Really? That didn’t sound like me at all. But it was something that if I didn’t believe, I should.
“You really are pulling out all the stops. You might convince me to buy into that.”
I dropped her hand and reached behind her with both my arms. I hiked up her dress, lifting her so that her legs rested on my hips and her face was with mine. The bottom of her dress was soaked, and it bled onto my shirt.
“Are you back?” I said.
“I never left.”
We kissed, and I was already anticipating waking up with her in my bed, covering her with a blanket, and quietly leaving her in the predawn hours while I ran and swam, and flirted with the top of the world. Only then was I beginning to understand the depth of her absence.
I lowered her back down. She smoothed her dress with both hands, and I thought of Paige Godfrey when she had caressed her own dress. We continued our walk, and Kathleen placed her head on my shoulder. It felt funny. I wasn’t sure she’d done that before. I’m not sure she could have done anything better.
It was nearly black now, and the streetlights from Gulf Boulevard ran straight until they stopped at the channel. Twenty-eight lights. We continued south on the beach and back toward the truck. I wondered if Garrett and Wayne had stayed around for the show or called it a night.
Another couple approached, and the man was also on the water side. He wore tan slacks, and the woman was in shorts and a loose blouse. At least the guy wore a T-shirt with a pocket. Nice T-shirt, not beachwear. A baseball cap was pulled low over his face. I thought of the fishing boat we’d come across on Tampa Bay and the captain who wore his cap at night. Why? They passed on the higher ground as Kathleen and I drifted toward the water to accommodate them.
Kathleen said, “Let’s throw a beach party. You know—”
Revenge or flee? She had asked what I would do. I’d live to fight another day. I had lied to her and foolishly believed my own lie. The real question was: what would Paretsky do? In that regard, he likely wasn’t that different from me.
The couple that had just passed. Not the couple—the man. A T-shirt with a pocket—not that different from me. Why had I looked at the man, when a woman was with him? A cap pulled low over his fac
e. Too low. Sun was gone.
Bad men don’t wear shorts. The picture of Paretsky on the boat…tan slacks.
A hundred feet down the beach, John Wayne sprang from the sea oats, his gun drawn, his leather coat trailing him like an unwanted accomplice. Wayne’s gun cracked the night as Kathleen babbled about grilling lobsters over an open fire.
I spun around, reaching for my gun. The woman had kept walking—she was in on it—and was several paces beyond the man who stood, feet apart, pulling a gun out of his pocket. Paretsky. I caught Garrett out of the corner of my eye, crouched low by the concrete bench at the Twenty-First Street walkover. His SASS aimed at me. We’re too close. He’ll never get a shot off.
I wanted to turn back and see where Wayne was but didn’t dare take my eyes off Paretsky. I started to raise my gun, but he was ahead of me. It was a hundred-yard dash, and he had a fifty-yard head start. I was cooked.
He aimed at Kathleen.
CHAPTER 42
My life was down to one act.
Garrett’s SASS sliced the night, and two more reports echoed from the direction of Wayne. Wayne was shouting, but I couldn’t make out what he said.
Kathleen had ceased talking, and her eyes held the first seeds of confusion and panic. I threw myself on her. I had to get her covered and on the ground. I twisted so that my back was to Paretsky, but I was too late and felt a blistering pain in the left side of my chest. My momentum carried me over her, and we tumbled onto the sand. Another shot, and my lower left side burst into heat. I kept my concentration on Kathleen. With Wayne riding in and Garrett poised, once I had her on the ground, Paretsky was done.
I fell on top of her just as another bullet shaved my head, and then the darkness came fast.
No, no, no—not on the beach where I run.
A coquina shell washed into my eye. I thought of Paige Godfrey’s toenails. Sand swirled into my mouth, but I couldn’t close it. I was broke and didn’t work anymore. Kathleen’s dress wiped across my face. It was red. She called my name. She called it again. I reached out for her hand, but I couldn’t find it.