KEVIN WAS shaking when he reached the lobby and pushed through to the sidewalk, kicking a discarded plastic cup, and found Holly leaning against a Lamborghini. Christ, it was bright out here; his eyes hurt. From the other side of the palm trees they could hear screams, shouts. Sirens.
Holly said nothing, only met his eye, smiled nervously, and started walking; Kevin followed. The parade crowd was breaking up in a panic, families rushing from the main route, Crandon, into the side streets. Holly stayed a couple of paces ahead, and he sometimes had to push through wild-eyed people to stay close. Once he knocked down a woman. In a panic himself, he stopped and helped her up, apologizing. The woman was yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear; everything was buzzing. He turned away and realized he’d lost track of Holly. He hurried forward until, finally, he saw that she’d stopped at the next corner and was watching him. The smile was long gone. Fear, perhaps, or something else. He didn’t know. He hurried on.
Another block, and they were in the car. He tried to ignore the pandemonium he’d caused. He thought of the woman he’d knocked down, and imagined how many other women, children, and men had tripped or been pushed aside, and then trampled. Humans did that. They lost their minds. Their feet became weapons against the weak.
She drove south, staying off Crandon until she had no other options, but they were far enough away to be outside the melee. They entered Bill Baggs Cape Park, the narrow road bordered by thick foliage. Before reaching the entrance, where a park guard would be waiting, she pulled off the road.
“You okay?” she asked.
“What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”
They got out and worked their way slowly through the low, wind-stunted shrubbery to reach the shore. His face and hands were scratched. In the distance, they saw it: a small motorboat heading toward them. Holly stepped into the water, then looked back at him.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Good.”
“Don’t lie.”
How did he feel? Not good, no. He’d realized, as soon as the bullet left the barrel, that it was all wrong. That distance, estimating at wind resistance and trying to calculate the arc of the bullet—why did he think he could do it? Who was he trying to impress? Did he want to hear stories, later on, about his shooting prowess? Incredible—he only nicked her from that distance! In his state of mind, that was as good an explanation as any, and now a politician was bleeding out.
“Come on,” said Holly, and she waded out into the water toward the motorboat.