Gabe shook his head, images of Miguel playing across his mind. His brother had grown up to be a trouble magnet, always dragging Gabe into his shit. As boys they had been inseparable, constantly in fistfights with other kids or with each other, sticking together no matter how ugly the scrape. Even then, Miguel’s mouth got them into tight spots, but Gabe had never minded. The first time he’d fallen in love, with a girl named Elena, Miguel had stolen a gold necklace for Gabe to give to her. It made him a thief, yes, but a thoughtful one. He could still remember the gleam of mischief in Miguel’s eyes when he showed Gabe the necklace, not to mention the delicious reward he’d received from Elena in return.
Gabe had loved his brother, even when that love — and his desire to help Miguel keep his job — had made Gabe into a criminal himself. And now he hated him, too. If Miguel had lived, perhaps one day they might have come to terms with what had happened, but now they would never have that chance.
“There’s nothing you can do to help me,” he said. “Can you bring Miguel back to life? I don’t think so.”
Voss stepped away from the wall and walked toward him. She moved easily, despite the gentle bob of the ship on the ocean, and he knew she’d spent a lot of time at sea. Yeah, chasing guys like me, he thought, and was surprised to find that he could not muster up any hatred for her. Jesus. Miguel is dead.
He exhaled and felt himself deflate.
“No one can help your brother now, Captain Rio,” Voss said, and her use of the word made him lift his head. He studied her eyes, trying to figure out her angle. “Everyone you left behind on the Antoinette is past helping now. The best thing you can do is help yourself. Special Agent Hart says you helped save his life last night, that you could have left him—”
“Agent Voss!” Turcotte warned, glaring like the damned Grim Reaper.
“—that you could have left him there, and that if you hadn’t given him a hand, it’s possible your brother would still be alive. That action is going to speak well of you at trial. But you are obviously a smart man, Captain. You know there is going to be a trial, and that you are going to prison.”
Gabe glanced at O’Connell and Turcotte, both of whom looked ticked. He liked that Voss had pissed them off.
“You don’t have any evidence,” he said.
Voss rolled her eyes. “Come on, Gabe. Before this is over, we’ll get evidence off your ship and off the island. Even without it, we’ll have testimony from Agent Hart, as well as from Tori Austin and Angela Tyree. You don’t think they’ll give you up to make things easier on themselves? I don’t know why you’d bother trying to protect the guys you work for. They sure as hell aren’t going to hire you back when you get out of prison. We’ve got you, Captain. So why are you still fighting us?”
Gabe stared at Voss. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“Fighting’s the only thing I’ve ever done well.” But that only brought more thoughts of Miguel, grim nightmare images that wiped away all traces of his smile. A fresh wave of anger rushed through him and he turned to Turcotte.
“Look, if Josh — if Agent Hart — is awake, then you know everything I said about the island is true. Why are you even bothering with me? Dozens of people died last night. My people. My crew. Maybe they don’t mean anything to you, but what happens next time someone finds that island?”
“We’re here to talk about you, Mr. Rio. Nothing else,” O’Connell said. He had a file open in front of him. “Let’s go back to this fishing boat that Miss Austin told us about. How did you—”
“Dan,” Turcotte said. “Leave it, for now. There’ll be plenty of time later.”
Rachael Voss’s eyes turned stormy and Gabe thought she would argue, but then she relented. When Turcotte and O’Connell stood, the latter closing his file and tucking it under his arm, she moved with them toward the door. “Turcotte,” Gabe said.
The Counter-Terrorism agent turned to look at him. They all did.
“You don’t want to believe me, I get it. But at least check it out.”
“We did,” Turcotte said. “Scratch that. We are. We’re here now, Mr. Rio. If you had a window to look out of, you’d be able to see the Antoinette just off to starboard. I’ve got a boarding team on the way out to her right now.”
Gabe slid back in his chair, fear welling up inside him. He glanced around, knowing he had nowhere to run.
“You idiots. What the fuck are you … I thought you were taking me back to Miami! Jesus!” he shouted. “Call them back, man. Keep your people away from the ship and don’t go near that fucking island!”
He stared at them, saw the shock and disdain in their eyes, and understood how his terror must appear to them.
“You wanted us to check it out,” Turcotte said, eyes narrowed. “We’re checking it out.”
Gabe sank into his chair. Whatever weight might have lifted from him before, another took its place now. He thought he had survived the nightmare, but they had brought him right back into it.
“If you do go out to the island, you’d better use the helicopter,” he said. “They won’t let you leave by water. And whatever you do, get all of your ships away from the island by nightfall.”
“We’ve got FBI and Coast Guard here, Mr. Rio,” Turcotte said. “These people are well-trained, and if it comes to that, well-armed.”
Gabe cocked his head and stared at Turcotte. “Yeah. So were we.”
63
Angie Tyree saw them every time she closed her eyes. Images played across her mind of the legless things hanging from the walkways of the Antoinette’s accommodations block, or slithering over the railings, pale and luminescent, as though their flesh consisted only of scars. She could still hear the echoes of Dwyer’s screams, still see the things driving Miguel to the deck and tearing him apart.
She couldn’t stop crying and she hated that. All her life she had prided herself on being the tough girl. But all of that had been stripped away and she felt raw and jagged inside. The doctor hadn’t found anything physically wrong with her, but she knew that she would never be okay again. The fear had gotten deep inside her, not just under the skin but down to the bone, and it nested in her marrow like a cancer.
So when the door opened, the click of the latch alone was enough to make Angie let out a soft cry and slide across the cot, jamming herself into the corner, hugging herself protectively, wondering if she would die now. The sunlight streaming in through the window and the bright blue Caribbean sky did nothing to lessen her terror.
When the FBI agent entered the room, she let out a breath and her eyes fluttered closed for a second. She allowed herself to sit on the cot instead of crouching in the corner, but her muscles remained tensed, ready to fight or run. Angie told herself she would not die quietly, that she would scream the way Dwyer had, so that her screams would ring in the ears of those who heard them for the rest of their lives. In that way, for a time, at least, she would be remembered. Someone would know she had been on this damned planet.
The agent had a plate of food, rice and black beans or something. When he spotted her perched uncomfortably on the cot, his eyes were filled with such humanity that Angie began to cry harder. She tried to staunch the flow of tears, tried to summon the inner bitch she had always worn as a mask at her own convenience, but it wouldn’t come.
“Ms. Tyree,” the agent said. He was a big guy, and decent-looking — not one of the agents who had questioned her earlier. “I’m Special Agent Plausky. I thought you must be hungry. I don’t know when you ate last—”