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“Why did you agree to work with Cloke?”
Benjamin hiked one shoulder. “A chance to thumb my nose at karma. To tell the whole friggin’ universe it underestimated me bigtime.”
“A hundred million dollars is a lot of thumbing.”
“It wasn’t the money. God almighty, it was never the money.”
“You told Cloke you were having second thoughts?”
A quick flicker in Benjamin’s eyes, there then gone. He took a long moment to answer.
“There could be kids on those planes. Bubbies. Pets.”
“You knew that from the outset.”
“It didn’t register at first. When we were setting it up, it was like some sort of video game.”
Beyond the door, a soft tic. A heel kissing tile?
Benjamin turned this time. To bolt? Or shoot?
It all happened at once.
Gripping the quilt with both hands, I sent the tangle into his face, partially draping it over his head. Furious, he dropped the sword to brush aside the fabric. At that point, Monck thundered through the door and pushed Benjamin to the floor before he could raise the Beretta. In a series of lightning-quick motions, Monck pounded the gun from Benjamin’s grasp, grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his face down hard.
Then again.
Then a third time.
Blood spread across the tile and trickled into the grout.
“Monck!” I shouted.
Monck slipped his real palm under Benjamin’s chin, lifted, and placed his bionic wrist across the back of his neck. He could either choke the man out or snap his cervical vertebrae.
“Stop!” I screamed.
36
SUNDAY, JULY21
It was a day made of sapphires and diamonds, the sea and sky an unrelenting blue, the sunlight electric off the rolling surf.
I arrived late. For the first time, the Honda had showed attitude before firing up. Did the old heap sense we were about to part ways?
Spotting Monck seated in back, bionic limb draping the arm of the pew, I crossed to him. He looked gaunt and haggard. The black circles were back under his eyes.
Monck acknowledged my presence by sliding left to make room. I slipped in beside him, taking the last empty seat in the church.
I’d expected the usual high turnout of law enforcement, Musgrove’s fellow soldiers in that thin blue line between order and chaos. They were there, of course, looking coiled and angry, livid over the murder of one of their own. They’d come from every jurisdiction in TCI, several islands throughout the Caribbean, the US, and the UK.
But it wasn’t just cops filling Our Lady of Divine Providence. People from all walks of life had put on their Sunday finest to say their final good-byes.
I saw two waitresses from the Shay Café. A toothless old woman who had to be Juniper Rose, the bed swing builder. Iggie Bernadin. Harvey Lindstrom. Zev and Leah Abrams. Adeera, Dovid, and Uri Stribbe. Arthur, from Da Conch Shack. Surf bums. Fishermen. Shopkeepers. Several couples with kids in tow. And, of course, Musgrove’s sister, Raina Ewing from Cockburn Town.
Fleeting thoughts of thosenotpresent skirted the edge of my mind. Musgrove’s abusive husband, Milo Willis. Benjamin’s victims, including Bobby Galloway, Ryder Palke, and Quentin Bonner. Musgrove’s own killer.
Or was he? Monck’s follow-up investigation had determined that Willis was, in fact, at a resort in Houston when Musgrove was murdered. So who strangled her?
