Page 51 of Untamed Coast

Hold on. If he’s shot, they’ll start hunting for a killer. Nobody’s going to suspect a drunk meeting an accident in his own digs.

Virgil carefully returned the hammer to the safety position and set the gun on the table. He took a couple of deep breaths, then moved Joe’s chair over to the cabinet, trying to orient it exactly the way Joe had when he had retrieved the radio. He walked back toward the kitchen, gripped one of Joe’s ankles with each hand, and pulled at Joe’s limp body. Joe didn’t budge. He’d need to spin Joe completely around in order to pull him over to the cabinet.

Virgil moved to grip the wrists, trying not to look at Joe’s face. The smell hit his nose again. He spread his feet wide, squatted into a fighting stance, and tugged as hard as he could.

Joe slid a few inches, and his eyelids began to flutter. He let out a long, soft moan.

Virgil repeated the process, pulling harder, each pull moving Joe a little farther across the wood floor, the sour smell of Joe’s breath growing more intense.

Joe was heavy, and he seemed to be stirring more as Virgil maneuvered him nearer the cabinet.

Joe’s fingers opened and began reaching toward Virgil’s wrists.

Virgil dropped one of Joe’s arms and regrabbed it from behind the hand, preventing Joe from getting a grip on him.

Joe’s eyes began to open. He let out a louder groan.

Panic rose in Virgil’s chest. He dropped both arms, reached behind the cabinet, and pulled forward hard. The heavy piece of furniture dumped its contents—radio parts, cables, bottles, and books bouncing and crashing across the wooden floor.

He pulled again and the cabinet fell forward, smashing the wooden chair and landing on top of Joe’s lower body, pinning him down.

The impact awakened Joe even more, and he started to struggle, his eyes blinking wildly, his right arm starting to move, reaching toward Virgil. “Don’t do this, son. You’re making a mistake. I hid half the gold. It’s all for you. Kill me and you’ll never find it.”

Virgil considered.

He lifted the heavy radio off the workbench, stood over Joe’s head, and slammed it down with all his strength. It connected with a sickly thud. Joe’s body lurched and then went still.

A thick trail of blood trickled out from under the radio.

Virgil collapsed on the floor, trying to breathe. Trying to stop sobbing. He rolled onto his side and curled himself into a ball. His ears rang and his vision blurred. His stomach lurched violently and he threw up on the floor, the vomit mixing with the pool of blood that was creeping steadily toward him. He rolled away and grabbed at his own chest before losing control and vomiting again.

The room fell quiet.

Virgil lost track of time as he lay on the floor, soaking in the blood and silence.

You’re a businessman. You do what it takes to succeed. You make the hard calls.

Virgil climbed slowly to his feet, his hands shaking. He could not look at the body of his dead partner. He began gathering the stacks of cash from the table. Blood—he was getting bloody handprints on the money. He wiped his hands on his pants and started with the cash again—trying to place the bundles neatly back into his briefcase, forcing his trembling fingers to straighten them into perfect rows.

He laid the revolver exactly where it had been before. Breathing as slowly as he could, he gathered the bank statements, put the pages back in order, slipped them into the file envelope, and placed it back into the briefcase.

Did Joe really skim half the gold? If he did, it would be around here somewhere, probably hidden in the cabin or buried on the island. Still, killing him was the best plan—bird in the hand and all.

Virgil looked around the small radio shack. Now was not the time. He needed to get out and get back to Sitka. He would be able to search for the gold later, after things cooled off.

He brushed off his leather shoes, buttoned his suit jacket, and closed the lid of the case, his thumbs snapping the combination latches tight with a satisfying click.

The top-quality Italian alligator hide glowed a gorgeous green in the dimly lit room.

Chapter 39

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Lisianski Strait, AK

1982—Anya Baron

Anya had the Lady Melinda making nine knots through the rapid tidal current of Lisianski Strait. It was good to rev the diesel now and then to blow the carbon out, and she was in a hurry to get to Sitka before dark. Her boom box blaring Toto’s “Hold the Line” was keeping time with the slapping of the waves against the hull.