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A widening crack of gray slashed through the darkness. It was Kaitlyn, slipping out the door, the bag in hand. “Travis!” she called out. “I’ve got the stuff!”
There was another shot. A low moan in the dark. A thud as something heavy hit the floor. And other shot. I scuttled toward Kaitlyn.
“Travis!” she yelled again.
“Just go!” I said. The gun went off again, blowing off a piece of the door. Kaitlyn fled down the steps, with me behind her. She ran toward the sandy road, while I waited at the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadows beneath the house. The door opened and Eddie stepped out. As he took aim at Kaitlyn, I whirled around to the foot of the stairs and fired twice. Eddie curled like a leaf and tumbled over the side. I ran over to him. He was dead.
I took his gun and dashed to my car for a flashlight, then up the steps, two at a time, to check on Travis. The flashlight’s beam caught him, crumpled in a corner, half his brains on the wall. An entry wound, like a third eye, was on his forehead, and the expression on his ghostly face was one of mild surprise.
I went back down, calling Kaitlyn’s name. I trudged up the road a short ways, but saw no one and heard nothing except the sound of waves pounding the shore.
As I walked back to the car, keys in hand, I heard a noise behind me, then felt a solid blow to the back of my head. Pain stabbed my already throbbing brain. Everything turned to grainy brown, with white spots, like an old movie. The ocean roar became an unbearable pounding. I struggled to stay conscious. The world spun, and I was on my back looking at the sky. The man in the moon stared back at me, a gawking spectator to my predicament. I could hear the car start. Darkness blotted out the moon’s stare.
When I woke up, it was still dark. The car was gone. I was lying next to a large piece of driftwood. Kaitlyn had left me. I checked my fanny pack and my wallet was still there, money and credit cards still in it. Decent of her. I guess it was the least she could do, after I’d saved her life. Twice.
I walked partway back to Ocean City, hitched the rest. I went to the beach and watched dawn break over the ocean, the sky turning to mother-of-pearl streaked with salmon, where the sun poked up over aqua-blue waters. Finally, I made my way back to the Bayside Villas, Unit 8. Mendez answered my knock. I must have looked a sight. Her mouth dropped open, but I held up my hand to stem the flow of questions.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Never mind that,” she snapped. “We got some bad news, girl.”
I came in and closed the door behind me. The bed was untouched and the T.V. set was on, the sound muted. “Your concern touches me. I probably have a concussion or two. But don’t let that worry you. What’s the problem?”
She flounced over to the bed and perched on the end. Her slender legs, encased in purple capri pants, looked poised and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.
“Our connection. We can forget about that big meet we had worked out.”
I stared at her. My head was starting to pound again. It wasn’t the ocean this time. The T.V. set was tuned to the news. She picked up the remote. A reporter was droning about bodies found in Delaware.
Mendez gestured at the screen. “Look at this. Ay. Here we are, only trying to maintain national security and all, and we gotta depend on Eddie, the two-bit drug runner from Philadelphia. What a waste.”
The video showed a familiar beach house.
“Looks like the little shit got into a shooting match with someone.” Mendez lit a cigarette. “Some guy in the house bought it, too. Piece of shit—all of them. Fuck it. You have breakfast yet?”
I didn’t answer right away. I watched the two bodies being carried from the stilted beach house.
THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT
“I hear kudos are in order.”
Mike Finnegan strode into the office he shared with Dan Marinelli, files under one arm and a battered briefcase swinging from the other. He parked the files on his desk and tossed the briefcase into a nearby guest chair. “Way to go, dude. You’re racking up an impressive record on those capital crimes.” He offered Marinelli his upraised hand. Marinelli slapped it in return, feeling Finnegan’s excessive give in response.
Lame-ass, white-boy high five, Marinelli thought. No wonder the brothers make fun of us.
“Thanks. I think I did all right.” Marinelli was having mixed feelings about the case he’d just won for the Culver City State’s Attorney’s Office. Chico Hernandez, a not-so-bright, emotionally-damaged, but sane man in his early twenties, had been accused of shooting a priest, Father Jaime Ramirez, who had allegedly abused Hernandez as a child.
“All right? You got a conviction, despite all that psychological crap the defense trie
d to raise. I mean, the guy’s got problems, okay. But that doesn’t mean he can go around shooting anyone who messed up his life in the past.”
Marinelli shook his head.
“Maybe it’s just me. You know how I feel about priests. Especially those pedophiles. Hell, it was all I could do to keep from slapping Hernandez on the back and saying, ‘Attaboy,’ when I saw him in court.”
Finnegan looked at him. “Dude. We’re talking about murder. Even a sick, twisted pedophile deserves better.”
“I know.”
