5

“HOLD ON!” BRIGGS started the motor. The once calm bay now surged with white caps. The area was known for small uninhabited islands, so he headed for the nearest one—maybe a few miles away, planning to wait out the squall on the lee side. “It’s gonna get rough before it gets better!”

He dodged the coral head where he’d found the cash, but only because he knew it was there, how many others lurked just beneath the surface?

It would probably be an equal distance to head back to town, but he wanted to at least check Providenciales for the Pearl tonight. The storm would pass soon enough, and hell, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen way worse seas than this.

Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed.

The little boat rode well, he’d give her that.

“Briggs!”

“Yeah? Got any sandwich fixings? I’d be thrilled for a PB & J!”

She ducked up from the cabin door. “Look to our port side. We’ve got company.”

“Are you shitting me?” A black Picuda raced toward them at an incredible speed. A go-fast boat made entirely of fiberglass, they were a drug-runner favorite. Turtle’s single outboard ran at maybe 50hp. These guys? Triple engines for a total of 600hp. In other words, if their intention was a rendezvous, they’d get their way.

But then twenty yards out, they stopped.

And shit got real serious. Real fast. The rain had lessened, making the passenger clearly visible as he lifted a stainless-steel Remington. In his head, Briggs heard the action, then felt the rifle’s assault on the hull.

Click, click . . . Boom!

“India jump!”

Click, click . . . Boom!

“What?”

“Grab a cushion and jump the hell overboard!”

Click, click . . . Boom!

Click, click . . . Boom!

The powerful twelve-gauge decimated the hull just below the waterline. Turtle’s boat was sinking fast.

“There’s a self-inflating life raft,” India said as the shooters vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared. She ripped the cushion from the bench she’d earlier sat on, tearing open the pouch, then tugging the inflation cord. A six-foot blaze orange raft appeared on the dive deck.

“Good girl. Climb in.”

She did. “What about you?”

“I’m checking the galley for supplies. Bottled water. Food. A lighter.” Six-inches of water already flooded the teak decking, pouring into the cabin. But it also flowed up into the cabin from the ruined hull.

“I’ll help! I know the layout.”

“No,” he barked. But it was too late. She was already beside him, having tied off the raft’s affixed nylon rope to the sinking boat’s aft cleat.

In tandem, they filled the small craft with a half-case of drinking water, four Gatorades, a few cans of Spam, beans and assorted soups, and five already opened, probably stale bags of chips he’d be damned glad to have had they not been rescued by sundown.

They had bonus time to load shoes, shorts, T-shirts, and dive gear. Each put on fins, masks and snorkels before Turtle’s boat grew too unsafe to be near in case it produced a drag in the deeper water that funneled them down along with it.

The storm had already passed.

Sun glistened on the still rough water. Gotta love the tropics.

Judging by shades of blue, Briggs guessed the ocean’s current depth to be at least a hundred feet.

With the raft too full for them to ride, they each took hold of the aft end, using their dive fins to propel them toward the island that was now a mile away.

“You all right?” Briggs asked.

“No.” India’s burst of laughter was borderline hysterical. “We just had our boat literally blown out from under us. And if there was any question before as to whether or not someone wants me—and now, you—dead, I think that sent a clear message.”

“It did. But that’s kind of a good thing. Think about it. Whoever is behind this may want you gone. Or maybe the real message they’re trying to send is for you to drop your investigation. Leave Turtle’s death alone.”

“Why?”

“You’re too close.”

“Why not just shoot me? Why didn’t they just shoot him? Why go to all the trouble of setting up these accidents? Even today—waiting until the storm, until we’d reached deeper water. If I drowned? Great. It looked accidental. If not? I looked even crazier, right? Who’s going to believe what just happened?” There she went with her laugh again. “I don’t even believe it.”

“I do.” He paused long enough to skim his hand over her back. “I’m not leaving till we get to the bottom of this and make them pay, all right?”

“I’m starting to wonder if it even matters anymore? What good will it do me to catch Turtle’s killers if I’m gone? There’s so much more at stake than you know . . .”

“What do you mean?” They were a few hundred yards from shore. He kicked harder.

She released a ragged sigh. The sort of a person who had reached the end of their proverbial rope. “I can’t tell you here. Not like this.”

“Okay . . .”

They finished the swim in silence.

When the water ringing the island was shallow enough for Briggs to stand, he removed his fins, tossed them in the raft, then dragged the craft through light surf to the sandy shore. They were lucky not to have drifted into open water. Or been sucked under by the sinking boat. There was a myriad of ways they might have died that afternoon, but they hadn’t. Why? Why didn’t Turtle’s killer want them dead? Could India be on to something with her theory that the killer wanted the issue once and for all left alone, but didn’t necessarily want her in her grave?

Made sense. Sort of. But why hadn’t it applied to Turtle?

The island was a tight-knit community. Someone knew what happened to India’s cousin.

They also didn’t want their money flow to dry up. Killing her would only call more attention to themselves. But if she died in an accident? Win-win. She stops looking under stones and no more bad press revolving around alleged killers. Made sense if you thought about it—especially, in an economy dominated by tourist dollars.

With the raft fully out of the water, Briggs dropped backwards onto soft sand. “What a day.”

“No kidding.” She sat beside him, hugging her knees.

“God, you’re beautiful . . .” He fell all the way back, resting his head on clasped hands.

She glanced his way with a funny half-smile. “That was random. Thanks.”

“I mean it. Nothing blazes a faster trail to a man’s truth than a dance with the devil and the straight-up truth is that since the day I left you, not a day has passed that I didn’t regret it. Every time you call, I—”

“Briggs, there’s something you need to—”

“No. Please, let me get this out. When I told you I never wanted to marry. To have kids. I didn’t tell you why. My mom was non-existent and my dad was a mean drunk. He was such a bastard. Kicking me when I didn’t get up fast enough for school—that is, when he remembered to wake me. Kicking made for a great alarm clock since my bedroom was a mattress in a corner of the living room floor. We lived in a shitty small town in Tennessee. I lost count of how many times I ran away, but do-gooders kept bringing me back. My only meals were free school breakfasts and lunch. Once I got old enough to sack groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, he’d come in on my shift specifically to steal. I always wanted to turn him in, but couldn’t. I figured I must have been as broken—as effed up—as him, right?”

“Honey, no . . .” She leaned in, cupping her hand to his cheek, brushing stupid tears he hadn’t realized he’d been crying with her thumb.

“I joined the Navy at eight a.m. the morning of my eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t wait to escape. And I did. A few years ago, I heard he died in a house fire. I-I was glad. W-what kind of monster does that make me?” Briggs sat up, legs crossed, hunched over, folding in on himself, mortified for India to see him cry. “I could never be a husband to you. Or a father to any of our children. You—they—would deserve so much more. That’s why I had to go.”

He looked up to find India also in tears. “Stop. You’re an idiot . . .”

“How do I deserve that?”

“For saying you can’t be a father when you already are!”