Being down under that cool, December water.
How could she not think of Daddy? Dead twenty years, yet still with her. Always with her. She’d heard somewhere that every person reaches a certain age and, though they keep getting older, never feels any older.
In so many ways, she was still that nine-year-old girl shivering in cold bathwater.
In prison, she’d sat through enough AA and NA meetings to know the drill.
The propaganda.
Admit a lack of control.
Acknowledge a higher power.
Make amends.
Embrace forgiveness.
That was all fine and good. But at the end of the day, the nine-year-old trapped in this woman’s body could care less about twelve steps. Her world was imbalanced in the worst possible way—she’d had a monster for a father. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never get over it.
Up ahead, Fitch was almost to the dock.
Letty slowed from a sprint to a jog, trying to mask her accelerated breathing.
She leapt over a piece of sand-blasted driftwood.
Took the final steps slow and careful.
Fitch held the revolver in his right hand. His gait looked tired, like an old man’s.
Letty tightened her grip on the knife and pushed the point of the blade into his back.
Fitch took a sudden breath and quit walking.
She said, “I’ll shove it through to your stomach. Drop the gun…I swear to God.”
He still held the gun. Letty leaned her weight into the blade, and as it started to penetrate, the revolver hit the sand.
She lunged down for the gun, and let go of the knife as she picked it up.
Stumbled back away from Fitch.
The revolver was a giant thing. Must have weighed four or five pounds. It was nickel-plated and over a foot long. Raging Bull was engraved down the side of the barrel.
Letty had to struggle to keep it leveled on Fitch’s chest.
“You just stay right there,” Letty said, backing another foot away.
Four cartridges remained in the cylinder.
“You lost your lovely dress,” Fitch said.
“Get down on your knees.”
Fitch carefully lowered himself into the sand. “That’s a big gun for a little girl. Packs a helluva kick.”
It took her two fingers to pull the hammer back.
“Wasn’t personal,” Fitch said, the pitch of his voice kicking up a few degrees. “I hope you understand that. You are a formidable little girl. A scrapper. In another life, I’d have you come work for me.”
“Why is that all I ever hear anytime somebody does me wrong? Nothing’s ever personal anymore. All those people you ripped off…that wasn’t personal either, was it? Just business, right?”
“Letty—”
“No, you’ve explained yourself plenty. Your men are offshore in boats?”
“Yes.”
“Are there any other boats on the island?”
“No.”
“Do you have your cell phone with you?”
“No.”
“We’re going to the house.”
“Why?”
“Get up. Start walking.”
“Calling the police would be a very bad idea, Letty.”
“Get. Up.”
Slowly, Fitch stood.
“Now walk over to the dock,” she said. “And do it slowly, with your hands raised.”
But Fitch didn’t move. He just stared at her.
“Do you think I’ll tell you again?” she asked.
“I knew. I knew it all along. From the minute I met you. That this would be one hell of a night, Letisha. Rare to feel I’ve met my match.”
He let slip a long, tired breath.
Like he’d come to the end of something.
Then sprang at Letty.
It was the loudest gunshot she had ever heard, with a kick like a shotgun.
Fitch sat in the sand. His mouth dropped open. He made a sucking sound, as if trying to draw breath. The hole in the dead center of his chest was massive. Letty was shaking. Fitch fell back onto the beach and stared up at the stars. There was so much blood, she knew he was going to die.
Out on the water, a motor growled to life.
Letty turned around. She looked down the dock and out to sea.
A single spotlight glided toward her, the motor getting louder as it approached. Soon she could see the profile of the speedboat. It was seconds away from reaching the end of the dock.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Letty sprinted inland. Already she could hear men’s voices behind her. Shouting her name. Her real name. Ordering her to stop as their shoes pounded against the planks.
She tore up the steps onto the deck and shouldered her way through the front door.
After several hours in the dark, the onslaught of light made her eyes water.
Letty barged into the living area and rushed to the cordless phone. It was still lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. She grabbed it, hit Talk, held it to her ear.
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep…
She raced down the hallway into Fitch’s bedroom.
Slammed the door after her, locked it, flipped the lights.
Thank god.
There it was.
Lying on the desk.
She picked up Fitch’s cell phone and flipped it open, praying it still held a charge.
Outside, she could hear numerous sets of footsteps hammering up the stairs.
Men screaming her name.
They charged into the house.
Hide.
Letty crossed the hardwood floor to the french doors.
Someone was coming down the hall.
She turned the handle.
Locked.
The knob on the other door rattled—someone trying to get in.
She was out of time.
Nothing left to do but fight.
Three bullets versus three or four men.
This may be how it ends for you. Are you ready?
The door splintered, a man kicking it in from the other side.
She aimed the revolver at the bedroom door.
After two more kicks, the door burst open, and the muscled girth of James filled the doorway. His cheeks were flushed from running. With one arm, Letty trained the Raging Bull on his substantial center mass. In her other hand, she gripped the cell phone.
Her thumb keyed in 9-1-1.
James held a black pistol at his side. At least for the moment, he was smart enough to keep it there.
Someone on the second floor yelled his name.
“Down here!” he shouted back.
“You got her?”
“Sort of!”
Letty moved her thumb toward a green icon on the cell phone’s keypad that she assumed would initiate the call.
As the other men came running, James said, “Who you calling?”
“Nine-one-one.”
“Why don’t we talk about that, okay?”
Letty’s right biceps had begun to cramp from holding the Raging Bull with one hand.
She could hear the other men in the hallway now.
James yelled over his shoulder, “Everybody stay back!”
“What exactly do we have to talk about?” she asked.
“How dialing that number is going to get you killed.”
“Way I figure, I’m dead either way.”
“That’s not true. But if you involve the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department, we’re going to have a problem. Why don’t you put that gun down? I’ll do the same. And we’ll talk.”
“I’m not putting anything down. You people tried to kill me.”
“What if I were to guarantee your safety?”
“I’d call bullshit.”
“You put the gun down. I’ll get you some clothes. And I’ll have you back on Key West within the hour.”
“You must think I’m really stupid.”
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “This can work out for everyone. Of course, you’d have to do a few things for me.”
“Like?”
“Like never mention any of this to anybody. Ever.”
“What about that famous dead man on the beach? Aren’t some people expecting him tomorrow?”