I HADN’T CALLED TO TELL Hollis I was coming, but before I was halfway down the dock, he was out of the cabin of the Francesca and standing in the cockpit waiting. His was the only boat with lights on, like a lone candle in the quiet, dark cathedral of the marina.
When I got closer, I saw that Hollis wasn’t looking at me. He was looking down at Dono’s speedboat, still tied up at the Francesca’s stern. Hollis had tied it too close, and its bow rubbed up against the bigger boat like a pup nuzzling at its mother.
“His escape pod,” said Hollis. “To a whole new life.”
“Yeah,” I said. The speedboat bobbed gently, little waves popping against its gray hull. Built and stowed for a long, fast run. One-way, if need be.
Hollis grunted. “Probably helped him sleep easier, having it at the ready.”
I could empathize. I’d run away to make my own new life ten years ago. My army career, or what was left of it, had been on my mind all through the drive from Ondine’s apartment to the marina.
“Don’t just stand there,” said Hollis, “Get your ass aboard.”
He turned and shambled back into the Francesca’s big cabin. I grabbed a stanchion and hauled myself up into the cockpit.
The inside of the cabin was stale. The lights gave me a better look at Hollis. The usual pink of his face had concentrated into a rosy flush. His yellow polo shirt looked wrung out, wrinkled even where the fabric stretched tight across his belly. His thick paw was wrapped around a glass of whiskey. A strong waft of it came with him as he stepped past me to close the narrow wooden door at the back of the cabin.
I tossed the blue duffel full of clothes and Dono’s stuff onto the settee, next to a pile of Hollis’s own laundry. “Did you come straight here from the hospital?”
Hollis was having trouble throwing the bolts at the top and bottom of the door with just one hand. “Fucking things,” he said. “No, I went by Willard’s house first.”
I tried to imagine Hollis waking up the huge man at two in the morning to tell him about Dono’s death. Hopefully, Willard was an easy riser.
“I thought he’d want to know,” Hollis said, “and besides, I need the big bastard to work with me on your man’s funeral. Help yourself.” He waved idly at the table, where a bottle of Old Ivory stood open. There was a Tupperware bowl next to it, filled with water and a few slivers of surviving ice.
“I want a wake,” I said.
“Damn right you want a wake.”
“At the Morgen. On Sunday morning.”
He stared at me. “Well, that’s positively fucking traditional. Good for you. He’d have liked being in the bar one last time. You’re not drinking.” He picked up the bottle and sloshed two fingers into a glass and thrust it at me. “Pay your respects.”
“To Dono.” I took a drink and let the whiskey ease its way down my throat.
“And the devil take his enemies.”
“It’s done.”
Hollis almost dropped his drink. “It’s done? You found the bastard who shot Dono?”
“Near enough. The brother of one of the dead men.” I caught Hollis up on recent events, at least where Boone McGann was concerned. I left Alec out of it. Ondine could clean up her own corner.
“I hope they gas the pigfucker,” Hollis said.
I couldn’t improve on that. Part of me regretted serving Alec and Boone up to the very different brands of justice that Ondine and Guerin would mete out, even though I knew that was the smartest move—much smarter than hunting them down myself.
Still, it might be worth something to see their faces at the end.
“Guerin will close the net on McGann,” I said, “with a whole fucking SWAT team.”
Hollis smiled grimly. “Never thought I’d be cheering for the cops.”
“They have their uses. You’re not drinking,” I said.
He grinned and poured us another round. “You’ll have one more,” he said, “and then you’ll sleep. No arguments. You look like steamrolled shit.”
“I was just thinking the same about you.”
He spread his hands wide. “I’m in my own home. A man can be his worst, and it’s just him getting comfortable.” He lifted his glass. “To Moira.”
My mother.
“I’d forgotten you knew her,” I said.
“Oh, sure. At least as well as anyone knows the children of his friends, which means I could wave hello and she might wave back.”
“Why did she leave?” I said. “I know she was out of Dono’s house before I was born.”
“Well.” Hollis sat with a heavy exhale on the settee, squeezing in next to the duffel bag. And suddenly he was smiling. “Moira was stubborn. As tough in mind as your grandfather. Or you.” He took a drink. “She wouldn’t give up his name, you see.”
“My father.” It felt weird just saying the words.
“She told Dono that since the prick—sorry, boyo—since your father had chosen not to be part of your lives, then he didn’t fucking well exist. And there was no point in telling Dono who he was.”
Jesus. “I can picture Dono’s reaction.”
“He wanted to kill the boy. Didn’t we all?” Hollis waved his arms. “But your mother wouldn’t say a word. Not that I think she had much love for the tomcatting son of a bitch.”
She wouldn’t surrender him to Dono.
Just like I wouldn’t give Davey up.
“Do you think Dono would have killed him?” I said.
Hollis’s brow furrowed, making him look even more simian. “I think he might have, lad. Honestly, I’m glad it never came to a choice.” He sighed. “Anyway, Moira left the house to let things cool off. And found she liked being out on her own, from what I understand.”
For as long as it lasted. Six years, give or take.
The speedboat outside caught a wave wrong and thumped against the stern of the Francesca.
“I’ll move that,” I said.
“Here.” Hollis reached into the open duffel for the big ring of Dono’s keys. He tossed the loose ball of jangling metal at me, a fraction too hard. I snatched it out of the air a moment before it hit my head, my fingers catching the small chunk of wood tied to the center ring.
And right as the wood hit my palm, I knew. Before it even became a thought, I knew.
Here, Dono had said, his hand almost crushing mine with the intensity of it. My hand that held this ring of keys.
I looked at the piece of wood, the candy-bar-size hunk I’d assumed was just a float, in case the key ring was accidentally dropped into the water. Most of the piece was polished to a smooth grayish red by linseed oil and fingers and time. The deeper grooves of the grain, where fingers couldn’t reach, were the original deep crimson. Blood-colored.
I recognized where the wood had come from. When it had come from.
I understood what Dono had been trying to tell me.
Hollis came closer to stare at me. “Are you crying?” he said.
“I’m laughing.” That crazy old pirate.
“What did you figure out? Does one of those keys open something?”
I looked out the cabin window.
“It’s the diamonds, isn’t it?” said Hollis. “You lovely bastard, you know where they are.”
Dawn was coming up strong, the slate-colored sky brushed clean by the earlier storm.
“I’m taking Dono’s boat,” I said.