In the crosshairs of the rifle scope, Chance focuses in on his target. Concentrate, he tells himself. Breathe. He sets his feet, bends his knees, centers the shot, takes a deep pranayama breath . . . and abruptly straightens up, flexing his right shoulder to ease a sudden knot. He grits his teeth in disappointment, in frustration. He knows that he has to do this, that his future depends on it, that whatever other options he once entertained are now gone. But he can’t pull off a head shot, it’s too violent, too graphic, too messy even though what he’s doing, he reminds himself, is not his fault, it’s Angelina’s.
As a steady breeze skitters across the lake, rattling the leaves of the trees, he leans over and presses his eye against the scope again and refocuses on Faye perched in the captain’s chair of Kershaw’s pontoon boat, casting a line into the cove. Then he tilts the barrel of the rifle down a fraction and slightly to the right, aiming at the heart. She won’t know what hit her, she’ll bleed out quickly, it’s more humane this way. Clenching his jaw, he presses his finger against the trigger, at the same time closing his eyes.
A fish, something substantial, suddenly strikes Faye’s line, jerking her forward, and an instant later the bullet slams into her shoulder, shattering her collarbone instead of her heart.
As the report of the shot echoes across the water, Chance opens his eyes. But Faye is no longer there, no longer visible, the impact of the bullet has flung her off the chair.
Lying on the deck of the boat she stares, through a blur, at the yellow Lab leaning over her, whimpering. Instinctively she tries to lift a hand to comfort the dog, but the pain is so sharp the hand refuses to obey. Rotating her head a couple of inches to the left, she shudders. The top of her shoulder is missing, a steady trickle of blood is streaming down her arm, and a piece of her broken collarbone, the end as sharp as a shiv, is pointing straight up in the air.
She loses consciousness for a few moments then snaps back awake. There’s a spray pattern of blood on Sunny’s fur too, and the poor thing’s still whimpering, frantic now, circling her. It’s okay, girl, she groans, it’s all right. But of course she knows it isn’t. She’s been shot, Chance has shot her, and now he’ll come and finish the job.
Yet for some reason she’s unable to fathom, she isn’t particularly afraid. Maybe she’s too numb, too emotionally drained to care. Or maybe death, once feared, now seems a blessing, an end to the sorrow, to the grief, to Mexico. She closes her eyes again—all of a sudden, despite the searing pain, she’s exhausted—and sees Dylan saunter across a stage and assume his place in the glow of a red spotlight. But wait, it can’t be Dylan because she isn’t at a concert, she’s lying on the deck of Kershaw’s pontoon boat, her left shoulder is missing, and she’s waiting for her assassin, her executioner, to come finish the job.
Everyone she has ever loved gathers around her now. She’s sure of that. Her mother’s kiss on the cheek is cool and comforting, a simple declaration of love. Unsurprisingly, her father’s expression is more stoic: it isn’t fair, of course, but this is what happens to wayward daughters. Then Jennifer takes her hand and leads her down to the lagoon in Quintana Roo to watch the dive boat sail away.
Dieter’s at the wheel, heading for the channel, and her mother’s standing next to him waving goodbye. She cries out in anguish, but Dieter can’t hear her, her mother can’t hear her, no one can hear her. At the edge of the lagoon, she falls to her knees, overwhelmed by a sudden desire to sail out to the reef and plunge through the opal water, to freefall past the coral walls into paradise or oblivion, whichever comes first.
Now she’s warm. Safe. Amniotic. Floating in the womb of fluid that protects the unborn and those about to be unborn again. In her dream the sun pours light down on the lake, on the boat, on the trees that shade the cove. Then she opens her eyes and sees Chance, pistol in hand, gazing down at her.