He went to find the man in the black barn coat.
Midden stood in the open cargo bay of the Mitsubishi, with his target pistol pressed into the soft flesh under his own chin. Finger on the trigger, knuckle gone white with pressure.
“I think you’d better give me that,” said Peter, reaching out his hand.
Midden stared at him, dark eyes swimming in unwept tears. “I’ve done so much,” he said. “You’ll never know.”
“I do know,” said Peter gently. “Really, I do. Give me the weapon.”
But he didn’t wait for the other man to move. He extended his hand with infinite care and took the pistol from the other man’s hand. Then looped an arm around the man’s shoulder and pulled him in close.
“You’re okay,” he said. “It’s all okay. My name’s Peter.”
The sound of sirens rose up around them as they stood, coming no doubt from the Veterans Day parade less than a mile away.
Peter had another thought. “Lewis,” he called out. “Hey, Lewis.” He stuck his head around the corner of the truck.
Lewis stood watching Dinah with a dopey grin on his face. Dinah looked deeply confused but not entirely unhappy. The boys jumped up and down like maniacs.
“Lewis, you better get out of here before the cops come,” said Peter. “And take this guy with you. He’s a friend of ours.”
Lewis opened his mouth to talk, but Peter shook his head.
“He’s a friend. And I’ll deal with the cops,” he said. “I’ll find you in a few days. You know we’re still missing one asshole. Skinner’s still going to make out like a bandit on this.”
Lewis nodded. Then ducked in cautiously to peck Dinah on the cheek. Dinah didn’t lean in to the kiss, but she didn’t move away, either. Her eyes were shining.
The sound of the sirens grew louder, and came from all directions.
“Come on,” said Lewis to Midden. “We gotta skate.”
As the two men jogged across the bridge to disappear into the tangled streets of Brewer’s Hill, Peter turned to Dinah. “You’re okay?”
“Oh, hell, no,” she said, tears streaming down her face. She pulled her boys close with a ferocious smile. “But I’m good.”
“I’m going to take off for a few minutes,” said Peter. “Get hold of my dog. I don’t want the cops to shoot him. But I’ll be right back.”
EPILOGUE
The British Virgin Islands were a boater’s paradise, with steady winter winds, sheltered anchorages, and excellent restaurants. The sailing yacht Skin Deep swung on her anchor in thirty feet of turquoise water off Cooper Island. Manchioneel Bay was crowded with boats, the Christmas tourist season in full flood.
The fifty-foot cruiser was a beautiful boat, her sleek lines much admired by the charter tourists from Indiana and Missouri in their smaller rented plastic tubs. Skin Deep’s owner had brought her in by himself, the boat apparently rigged to sail single-handed with every modern convenience.
Like the boat, her owner was handsome with an aristocratic charm, clearly a man of means and much invited to dinner at the Cooper Island Beach Club. He flirted shamelessly with the wives and daughters and impressed the men with his broad knowledge of fine wines and the financial markets. When asked what he did for a living, he smiled broadly and said only that he was an investor whose biggest bet had paid off handsomely. Then changed the subject to various routes through the islands to South America. He planned to make Rio in time for Carnival.
After dark, the reggae grew louder in the beachside bars. Daiquiri-stunned tourists steered their buzzing dinghies uncertainly from the Beach Club to their chartered tubs. Nobody noticed the silent swimmers easing through the black water toward Skin Deep’s teak-trimmed stern ladder.
Three forms floated like ghosts up her side and into her salon. Footprints wet on the deck, and warm as blood.
Then came a moment when the boat rocked violently, but only for a moment. Perhaps just a rogue wave in the night, from a ship passing far out at sea.
Then Skin Deep’s hatches slid shut one by one. The generator started up and the air-conditioning came on, the metallic purr floating softly across the water. For a long time, no other sound could be heard.
In the morning, the charter tourists noticed that Skin Deep, that elegant sailing yacht, seemed to have slipped her moorings in the night and headed off to sea.
—
Standing behind the big chrome wheel, steering past Great Dog Island, Lewis was sorry they couldn’t keep the boat.
When the news of the bomb came out, the markets panicked. Even though the bomb didn’t actually explode, Skinner’s scheme paid off in a big way.
So once they had the account numbers and passwords, once the money was transferred and laundered, Lewis could buy his own boat. They all could. They could buy a damn fleet.
Although he was probably just going to go back home. He and Dinah were really talking again. And those boys. He was crazy about those boys.
He didn’t know if it would work out. But he could try.