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“Ouch. What?” Drayton said. He hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of Booker lying there.
Theodosia stepped to one side and made a broad, sweeping gesture. “Go ahead and take a look. But I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Oh no,” Drayton said as he peered into the gloom and saw Booker lying there. “He’s...”
“Dead?” Theodosia said. “I think that’s the case, yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I suppose we have to make sure. Because otherwise... he might need medical help.”
They both tiptoed in, mindful of the spooky shadows, terrible smell, and distressed, almost neglected interior of the cabin. Booker’s body still lay on the floor, dark blood pooling around it.
“He’s definitely been shot?” Drayton said.
“I don’t think that hole in his forehead is religious stigmata,” Theodosia said.
“Please don’t joke.”
“I’ll try not to,” Theodosia said. She knelt down, touched Booker’s ice cold hand, tried to take his pulse, and felt nary a beat. Booker had left the building. Then, upon making a more detailed inspection, she said, “Drayton, take a look at what’s resting in his right hand.”
“Lord have mercy,” Drayton said.
The fingers of Booker’s right hand were curled around the handle of a gray snub-nose pistol.
“So it’s a suicide?” Drayton asked. “I mean, it must be. There’s blood all over the place.”
“I don’t...” Theodosia’s eyes searched the darkness, hoping for some kind of clue, some shred of evidence that might explain what had happened here. Then her eyes landed on a half-finished painting that was propped on a wooden easel. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Look at the painting on his easel.”
Fascinated as well as repelled, they both stepped closer to study the angry slashes of red and orange paint on canvas with the words i’m sorry scrawled across it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Drayton asked.
“A signed confession?” Theodosia said. “I think it might be.”
***
“Now what do we do?” Drayton asked.
“I’ve got two bars on my phone, so I’m going to call Riley and...” Theodosia stopped abruptly. Off in the distance she’d heard something. A sound. Or maybe a vibration. Low and rumbling.
“So you can call Riley and tell him what?” Drayton asked.
“Hush.” Theodosia held up a hand. “Do you hear that?”
Drayton cocked his head and listened. The vibration increased until there was the sudden high-pitched whine of a motor off to their left!
“You don’t think...” Drayton began.
Alarm bells were clanging in Theodosia’s head. “What? That maybe Booker didn’t kill himself? That maybe someone murdered him and staged all this? And that his killer has been watching us and is making a getaway right now? Drayton, I think it’s a possibility,” Theodosia shouted. “Come on, we gotta get back to the boat!”
They tore down the narrow path, branches swatting them in the face as they dodged and ducked their way through nettles and swamp grass. When they got to the rickety pier Theodosia untied the boat and jumped in. Drayton made a flying leap into the boat just as she started the motor. She took the boat out some fifty feet, throttled back, and scouted the area. Searched the darkness for a sign of the boat they’d just heard.
“Do you see anything?” Drayton asked.
“Not yet.” Theodosia guided the boat between two islands.
“Think that boat’s still out there? Somewhere?”
