10
Gino Bellini switched off his laptop. “There,” he said, “Miss Meg is up and running again. For the moment, at least.”
“Have you given up on just killing her outright?” Veronica asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Gino replied. “Dirty Joe is still on the hunt in Key West.”
“That didn’t go so well last time—we had to run for it.”
“I’ve instructed him to wait until he has a shot in some out-of-the-way spot, where the police can’t be all over him in a minute.”
“You’re going to let her do her demonstration to the Steele board?”
“Of course. I want her to have the illusion of progress, until I can hit her again. Or until Dirty Joe can.”
“Who is Dirty Joe? You haven’t told me anything about him.”
“Joe Cross. We did some time together in a California reform school when we were just kids, and we kept in touch. We called him Dirty Joe even then, because there was nothing he wouldn’t do for money. When I was at Stanford he dealt marijuana on campus. When I was in Silicon Valley, he upped his game to cocaine, which was the propellant of choice there in those days. On the side, he’d do hits, and he always got away with it. He sort of retired to the Keys, living up in Islamorada, but he’s always receptive to the opportunity for fast cash.”
“And you think he can handle this?”
“He hasn’t done a day of time since reform school, and that record was expunged when he was twenty-one, so he’s on nobody’s list of suspects, which is usually the problem when you want somebody hit. The police look at the record first.”
“But he hit the wrong person in Key West. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“It was a windy day, and that was as close as he could get. If we’re patient, Dirty Joe will come through, and Meg’s inferiors will be a lot easier to deal with.”
DIRTY JOE CROSS and his girlfriend, Jane Jillian, known to her friends as Jungle Jane, sat back a mile or so in their offshore boat, a thirty-six-footer with three large outboards clamped to the stern, and Joe watched through his binoculars as the blue Hinckley rounded Fort Jefferson and picked up a mooring in the little harbor. “They’re down for the night,” Joe said, “and the light’s going. We’re not going to get a shot at them before tomorrow morning. We got anything to eat aboard?”
“No problem,” Jane replied. “If you want fresh fish, I’ll catch you something for supper.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Snapper, maybe?”
“Whatever the sea yields,” she replied. “If you want to get picky, find yourself a fish restaurant. The nearest one is about seventy miles away.”
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me,” Joe said.
THE HARBOR was empty of other boats, and Stone was glad of it. “Dino, Viv, and I were out here last Christmas,” he said to Meg.
“Tell me about the fort,” Meg asked.
“It was built sometime before the Civil War, and during the war it was used as a prison for Union deserters. The only reason a lot of people ever heard of it was when there was a yellow fever epidemic on the island, and Dr. Samuel Mudd was imprisoned here for the crime of aiding and abetting John Wilkes Booth after he assassinated Abraham Lincoln. Booth had broken his leg when he jumped from Lincoln’s box to the stage at Ford’s Theatre, and he fled into Maryland, where he stopped at Dr. Mudd’s house for help along the road south. Mudd knew Booth but treated him anyway and didn’t report him until the following day. As a result, he was convicted along with the other conspirators and sentenced to life in prison.
“He was sent to Fort Jefferson, and while he was here yellow fever broke out, and Mudd heroically saved many lives, for which he was eventually pardoned by the President.”
“I hope there’s no yellow fever now,” Meg said.
“Nope, it’s now a national park.”
They had a drink, and Dino and Viv grilled steaks for dinner.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, after a good breakfast and a Bloody Mary, Stone broke out the rubber dinghy from its locker and inflated it, then launched it over the stern and fastened the outboard to it.
Viv pleaded freckles, and Dino stayed with her, while Stone and Meg took the dinghy to Loggerhead Key, a mile or so away.
“It looks deserted,” Meg said. “Can I go without a suit here?”
“I’m counting on it,” Stone said. “Tan lines aren’t allowed on Loggerhead.” He pulled the dinghy up onto the beach; they left their swimsuits aboard and swam for a while, then got out and let the wind dry them as they walked up the beach.
DIRTY JOE CROSS and Jungle Jane Jillian approached Fort Jefferson slowly, then saw a couple leave the moored yacht in a rubber dinghy. He took a look through his glasses. “Bingo,” he said. “And they seem to be heading for Loggerhead.”
With Jane at the helm they motored slowly along on a route parallel to the beach, and Joe went below and came back with an AR-15–style assault rifle and shoved a banana clip into it, watching as the couple swam, then walked up the beach.
“Man, she looks good naked,” Joe said.
“Watch out or I’ll kick your ass,” Jane replied.
He knew she would, too. “Okay, okay, just drift for a while. I can’t hit anything if we’re under way.”
Jane did as instructed. “How close in do you want to be?”
“A hundred yards or so, and go at idle speed.”
She slowly closed the gap between them and the beach.
“They haven’t even seen us,” Joe said. “This is going to be a piece of cake.”
“Who’s the guy?” Jane asked.
“Who gives a shit?” Joe came back. “If he gets in the way, he’s dead meat. This is a good distance. Take the engines out of gear, but be ready to leave fast, toward Key West.”
Jane put the engines into neutral, and they idled, adrift.
Joe tried standing, but couldn’t get steady enough. He knelt and braced the rifle against the gunwale of the boat; he checked the wind and distance, adjusted the scope, and checked the view. Looking good.
STONE AND MEG walked along on the wet sand at the water’s edge, then she stopped and pulled him around toward her. He took her in his arms and pressed her against his body, then kissed her.
JOE SIGHTED through the scope and took a good look. A head shot wasn’t going to do it; even a little movement of the boat made that an unlikely hit. The woman’s back was to him, and he placed the crosshairs between her shoulder blades, took a deep breath, let it out, then began to squeeze the trigger. As he fired he felt a breeze on the back of his neck and swore.
Stone felt a breeze, too, at the moment he heard the crack of the rifle. He swept Meg’s legs from under her, and they both hit the sand.