It was hard to believe that I was still on the same planet that I had woken up in the day before.
“Well, it appears they’ve all gone out for a bit,” she said, after showing me in. “You may find them on the beach. Just through there and down the steps.”
“Thank you,” I said, fumbling in my pocket for a bill to give her.
“A kind thought,” she said, shaking her hand to indicate a gentle negative. “The Aerie is a non-tipping resort. Your wife made dinner reservations for seven o’clock, but you may want to come up a bit earlier for cocktails and sunset.” She hopped back in the cart and was gone.
My wife. It sounded good, possibly for the first time in my life.
I left my bag and jacket on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, noticing as I did the five toy cars lined up beneath it. Even with no one there, I knew I was in the right place. I stripped off my shoes and socks, rolled up my shirtsleeves and pant legs, and walked down to the beach. I kept the Outlaws hat on. There would be plenty of time later to explain why I had acquired a gunshot wound on my head.
The distance in height from the deck in front of the huts to the shoreline could not have been more than four or five feet. If Deeter and people like him won, all this would be gone in a generation or two, the ocean devouring most of the island. A blink of time in the history of man, but a very long time in my life. Perhaps I would never see it. But it is impossible to be a parent and not look at the world as you will leave it and wish that the beauty could be preserved.
There was another small island a quarter mile offshore and a flock of birds circled above it, wheeling and diving. The shadows of the hills to the west on Tortola were already beginning to throw sections of the beach in shadow. I put my feet in the water. The memory of a dream I used to have shuddered through me. I let it go and just let myself feel the pull and lift of the small waves.
“Jason!” It was Skeli, her voice full of exhilaration. Far down the beach a group of people began to form into shapes I recognized. A tall woman walking with a small child, whose hair shone like a beacon against the gathering dark. Skeli and the Kid. Behind them my father and Estrella. Skeli was waving madly. “Jason!”
I waved one arm, then two, my throat so tight with emotion I couldn’t speak. Finally, “Helloooooo!”
Skeli and the Kid began running toward me. The Kid broke away and flew across the beach. I tried running to meet him and almost tripped head over heels as my feet sank into the soft sand at the water’s edge. “Helllooooo!” I screamed.
The Kid slammed into me, wrapped his arms around my legs, and sank to the ground, laughing, gasping, and crying. I almost made the mistake of reaching down and hugging him back. Instead, I put the back of my hand in front of his face and he sniffed and laughed with real pleasure, then in a flash he became angry, his face contorting as he yelled at me, “Jason bad! Jason bad!”
“I’m sorry, bud. I was scared, too. Please don’t be mad at me, my heart will just break.”
He looked confused, but grabbed me tighter and turned his face away.
Skeli came up, laughing with pleasure. Neither of us said anything at first. We just wrapped arms around each other and stood there trying not to cry. I tried. Skeli didn’t bother. “Oh, thank god,” she said over and over.
Pop and Estrella came along slower, stopping a few feet away, hesitating to invade our tableau. I looked up and waved them over.
I stood on an idyllic beach, with a sunset just beginning that would rival any, anywhere, anytime, holding my family to me and wanting nothing more.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My life is blessed in so many ways these days. The first blessing is and always will be my lovely wife, my Ruby—my greatest fan and severest critic. Then there are my agents, Judith Weber and Nat Sobel, and their fantastic team. Next, the people at Putnam who always give the impression that they are working solely on my behalf: Neil Nyren, Sara Minnich, Kate Stark, Ashley Hewlett, Chris Nelson, Michael Barson, Rob Sternitzky, and the copy editors who have saved me from embarrassment time and again. The community of writers, too many to name, who have extended their friendship or given me their support individually or through organizations like Private Eye Writers, Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, and the International Crime Writers. The Muses and my readers who keep me honest and true to myself and my characters. The booksellers—the front line in the fight against the forces of darkness. And especial thanks to the various experts who have lit my way through the deep caverns of the judicial system: Larry Ruggiero, Melissa Mourges, Richard Fiske, and Tim O’Rourke. Whatever I got right is thanks to them, and whatever I still got wrong is entirely my fault.
And if by some chance, you recognize yourself in one of my characters, let me assure you that you are mistaken. You are much better-looking, much smarter, and you can even sing better. None of my characters are meant to mimic any person alive or dead, real or imagined by anyone other than me.
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