Holland swallows hard. He looks to Russo but finds no support there. Summoning all the conviction he can, he says, “None of this is up to Paul. Jet’s the one with a copy of the cache. And remember that video. These two are about to wind up in divorce court. Guaranteed. How many of us have been divorced? Seven out of twelve? Think about it. No matter how you start, it ends up a war. No prisoners. Does anybody here think this bitch won’t use everything in her arsenal to get custody of her kid? Be smart! Let’s find out what she knows and put an end to the threat once and for all.”
“You’re thinking again, Beau,” Jet says, stepping between Holland and the other men. “Who says I’m getting divorced? What did you see on that screen? Me having sex with Marshall? No. He doesn’t want me. He’s in love with Nadine. Sure, I strayed once. So what? It’s nothing Paul hasn’t done a dozen times. All you dinosaurs think if the woman strays, the marriage is over. Well, that’s not how it is anymore. Paul and I have a son to raise—together. And that’s what we’re going to do.” She looks at Russo. “As for your losses, that’s your problem. If the club wants to make you whole, fine. There’s no reason that should fall on Paul and me. Claude, assess every member of the club. Split eleven ways, that’s $909,090.90 apiece.”
I’m worried she’s moving too fast for these old guys, some of whom appear to be trying to mentally check her math.
“Why eleven ways?” Holland asks.
Jet smiles at him. “Because you’re going to be dead.” She turns to Buckman. “You could get him to write you a check tonight. After all, you own the bank. You could still honor it Monday, even after he’s deceased. Right?”
Her brazen confidence and mental acuity have stunned the assembled businessmen.
“Mr. McEwan,” Buckman says. “What about Avery Sumner? I’d very much like him to retain his Senate seat. Bienville needs him. He’ll vote honestly on all China-related bills. You have my word. Can you live with that?”
I barely have enough spit in my mouth to form words. “I can.”
Buckman looks over at Donnelly, who nods once. Then at Arthur Pine. Pine is slower to agree.
“This is crazy!” Holland yells. “You’re willing to risk our security because of this bitch? Because you haven’t got the nerve to do what needs to be done?”
“I’m about tired of this motherfucker,” Paul says.
Holland’s eyes blaze. “You don’t get to—”
Like a rattlesnake, Paul’s right hand strikes Holland’s throat and clamps around his windpipe. Holland fires the derringer, but Paul’s left hand has already parried it, and the bullet ricochets off the cement into the night. Holland tries to speak when Paul wrenches the little gun from his hand, but no sound emerges.
As Beau’s tanned face darkens, Paul cracks his head against a vertical post, stunning him senseless. Tommy Russo whips out a pistol and aims at Paul, but Paul ignores him. Buckman looks at Russo and lifts a restraining hand.
“I’m a new member, Claude,” Paul says. “Do I need a show of hands or what?”
The silence stretches while Buckman’s mind races, calculating odds. In the end, he takes too long. In one violent motion Paul slams Holland down to the concrete, then rises and stomps his neck so hard that a shock runs up our legs.
Several men jump in their seats, and Jet turns away.
“Can I get a second?” Paul asks, straightening his shirt and looking around the circle.
“Second,” says Wyatt Cash. “Goddamn.”
“Well,” croaks Buckman, staring at Holland’s motionless corpse. “I guess that’s that.”
Paul looks around. “Somebody find a blanket and show Marshall where the skinning shed is. And lend him a truck to take Nadine home.”
“What about my ten million?” Russo asks, staring at Holland’s body.
Buckman’s mouth works silently as he thinks about it. “The club will cover half your losses, Mr. Russo. What would that be, Mrs. Matheson?”
“Eleven ways?”
“Yes. I can assess a share from some of Mr. Holland’s shadier deals.”
Jet clucks her tongue. “$454,545.45 apiece.”
Buckman smiles. “You have a job at my bank any time you want it.”
“No thanks.”
Paul looks at the semicircle. “Dr. Lacey, how about you step over here a second?”
Lacey looks left, then right, hoping someone will excuse him from this reckoning. No one meets his eye. The doctor rubs his knees, then gets up and walks slowly to where we stand.
“You like my wife’s ass?” Paul asks.
Lacey’s face goes red. “Paul, listen, I’m into the gin pretty good—”
Paul backhands the doctor with a blow that sends him reeling, then turns his attention to Wyatt Cash. “Wyatt, how ’bout you take Jet in there with Kevin and Tallulah? Once they’ve calmed down, put them in your chopper and fly them home. I’ll stay here till Max is in the ground. Claude and I will work out the fine print going forward. Somebody needs to lose Beau’s Porsche.”
“Consider it done. All of it.”
“What about Mr. Holland’s remains?” asks Buckman.
Paul looks down at the corpse and snorts. “You can feed that motherfucker to the hogs for all I care.”
Everyone present seems taken aback by the speed with which the situation has changed, yet no one looks displeased. It’s as though Paul has so completely assumed Max’s mantle that he seems a younger incarnation of his father.
“Paul?” Buckman says as Wyatt prepares to escort Jet inside. “There’s still the matter of the cache. The Seychelles accounts, all the things your wife mentioned.” The ruthless old banker looks Jet in the eye. “May we rely on your continued discretion, my dear?”
After several seconds, she nods. “Just don’t cross me, Claude.”
The deer-skinning shed stinks of blood and urine. Nadine whimpers when I open the door, but then she recognizes me. Her first response is a quick sucking in of breath. Then she says, “Are they going to kill us?”
“No.” I go to her and cover her with a Pendleton blanket Wyatt Cash brought me.
She sobs and shudders against me. “I prayed you’d come.”
“I’m so sorry I took so long.” I squeeze her tight, trying to comfort her. “I’m sorry I had your gun. What did they do to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She draws back far enough for me to see revulsion in her face. “Except that Beau Holland. I never want to see him again.”
“You won’t. Paul killed him two minutes ago. You can look at his corpse if you want to.”
A look of desolation crosses her face. “I almost do. But no.”
“Paul and Jet got us out of here, believe it or not.” I hear engines outside. The meeting must be breaking up.
“Can we go now, please?” she asks.
“They’re getting us a truck. For me to drive you home.”
“Thank God. I can’t believe it.”
“Unless you want to ride in a helicopter with Jet and Kevin?”
Her face hardens. “No. It was Jet who told them about me. Did you know that?”
“I just found out. I’m sorry.” I feel I should try to defend Jet’s action, even though I can’t believe it myself. “They threatened her son.”
Nadine nods, but it’s plain that forgiveness will be a long time coming, if ever. “You said you’re driving me home?”
“Yes.”
“Could I stay at your house? Not to—you know. I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Absolutely.”
When I pick up her clothes, I realize they’re tacky with blood. “Um . . . you’ve got blood on your things.”
“I don’t care. It’s my blood. Just turn around for a minute.”
I turn to the stained wall of the skinning shed, thinking how close we came to dying in here. Not just the two of us, but Jet and Kevin and Paul as well.
“I’m finished,” Nadine says. “Can we go now?”
Hanging the blanket around her shoulders, I open the shed door and lead her out into the harsh light. An old GMC pickup stands waiting, keys in the ignition. I walk her around the truck and help her into the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel and crank the engine. As I put the truck into gear, Wyatt Cash’s chopper lifts into the night sky above the camp.
I gently press the gas pedal, and the truck rolls forward. Passing the Boar Island pavilion, I see a figure detach itself from the others and stand silhouetted in the light, one arm raised in farewell.
“Who’s that?” asks Nadine.
“Paul.”
She raises a hand and waves limply. “What the hell happened out there?”
“You’ll never believe it.”
“But you’ll tell me everything?”