It had struck Dave before that personal insights came during times of duress, and were usually fleeting. The night he found Ray Castro—or whatever his real name was—murdered in North Miami, the adrenal surge of fear and the relief at escaping alive rearranged his perspective. Driving away, he wanted desperately to call Luisa. Not to harangue her for being an emotional coward, nor to beg her to come back. But to thank her for sticking with him as long as she did, and apologize for everything he had put her through. He never made the call. Struggling now with a frantic Pete Mulhane, head screaming and blind in one eye, Dave remembered that old impulse, and wondered if he would live long enough to make good on it this time.
Pete had punched him twice and was going for three when he inexplicably paused. Only then did Dave see Audrey’s arm on Pete’s throat, pulling him backward. Dave assisted with a kick in the stomach that sent the other two reeling, then looked around for the pistol. A little black nine-millimeter, Glock maybe. Dave didn’t know guns that well. There it was, near the base of the oak. No sooner did he start toward it than a foot struck his face. He could not say if it was Pete or Audrey, nor even what day of the week it was for a couple of seconds. Someone kicked the gun, which sailed past him into the weeds. He heard a few more thumps and grunts before his senses returned. As he sat up, Audrey was rushing away into the trees. Pete was nowhere in sight. Nor was Teresa, whom Dave had not seen since he tackled Pete. He crawled over to the crushed and fragrant weeds, but it was too much to hope the gun was still there. One of them had it, no knowing which.
He rose slowly, glad that he had vomited already and did not need to again. Then he lumbered in the direction that Audrey had disappeared. Trees continually leaped in front of him, and Dave careened off these without falling. Stealth was not possible, and probably pointless. Pete, he guessed, had moved from fight to flight, and Audrey was pursuing, armed or not. He didn’t like any of their chances, but someone was bound to survive, and it could as easily be Dave as anyone else. He began to succumb to morbid laughter, but it hurt and he stopped. The woods. Oh, man, he hated the woods.
Back in the sightless pines, a gunshot made him stop and crouch. Another followed it quickly, but there was no whirr of bullets passing. He was near the lawn, and pulled branches aside for a better look. Within moments, he spied two figures racing across the green. Dave stood warily, then bulled his way through to the grass.
He saw Audrey first, in the dust-caked jeans and tank top, the pistol held out before her in both hands. Pete was thirty feet beyond, backing up slowly toward the sea ledge and talking fast. Dave shouted something a dog might understand; he sure as hell did not. But it got Audrey’s attention, and a moment later the pistol was pointed at him.
“Jus, jus hoedon,” he heaved. “Youdawanna.”
“What the fuck are you saying?” she demanded. The mad look was in her eyes. She did not know him right now, or knowing him would not matter.
“You don’t want to shoot anyone today,” Dave translated for himself.
“Oh yeah,” she said, eyeing him along the top of the black pistol. She had a bloody nose and brightly flushed cheeks. “I do.” She swung ninety degrees back toward Pete. “This son of a bitch right here.”
“I was protecting all of us,” Pete insisted. “You saw that, that...”
“All I see is some psycho ex-con, who beats up and shoots everyone he runs into. You don’t deserve to live.”
“Nobody deserves to live,” Pete said savagely. “You can’t judge me. No one in your twisted family can judge me.”
“Stay still.”
“I ain’t moving. Shoot if you’ve got the nerve, little girl.”
“Audrey,” Dave said sharply, approaching within a dozen feet. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
“You can’t take it back when you stop being angry. It’s permanent.”
“Shut up,” she snarled. “You’re next.”
“What do you got against him?” Pete asked.
“He’s a thief.”
“Oh yeah? Well, good for you, man. Steal everything you can from these cheap pricks. They don’t pay their debts.”
“Pete,” Dave said, seeing the man was a yard from the ledge. “Don’t take another step.”
Dave was now six feet from Audrey. Close enough to rush her. She noticed the same thing from the corner of her eye and took two quick steps forward. Dave saw her close one eye, saw her fingers go white and the muscles in her forearm clench. All the signs of someone a split second from pulling the trigger, and yet he knew she would not.
“Stop,” Audrey commanded. Whether she was telling Pete to stand still, or warning him, or speaking to someone or something else entirely, Dave did not know. Pete only registered her quick advance and instinctively retreated. To where no ground supported him. He plunged backward over the ledge and was gone.
Audrey made a confused noise as her arms fell to her sides. Dave’s gut dropped with the ex-Marine, ex-handyman, ex-con who had gotten the better of him three times. He pulled a quick breath and rushed to the edge. It was not so far a fall, thirty feet at most. But it was steep and rocky and Pete had landed badly. The water surging around him obscured any sign of blood, but he was completely still. A piece of ragged flotsam in the white surf.
“How do we get down there?” Dave asked, turning back to Audrey. Only to find the pistol pointed at him again. Her expression had changed. She looked hurt and fragile, and sorry about what she had to do next.
“You were supposed to protect us,” she said, her voice breaking. Dave felt the rebuke deep within his sore chest. God knew he had tried. There were so many lies and agendas. But he hated excuses and explanations himself, and could see Audrey wanted none. She intended to act this time, and he guessed he knew what she would do.
“I failed, Audrey. We fail sometimes.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I let my brother die.”
That took him a moment, but only a moment. The ghostly figure in the trees that Pete had shot at.
“We don’t know. He may be all right.”
“No. He died years ago. Everything since. Trying to protect him all this time, it was pointless.”
Dave started toward her, slow and steady. She raised the weapon higher.
“Just because I didn’t shoot Pete doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you.”
“It’s not me you want to hurt.”
Four steps, three steps, two. She turned the gun on herself as he reached her. He caught her wrist with his left hand and seized the top of the pistol with his right. She hit his shoulder with her free hand and the barrel swung back and forth, pointing briefly at each of them. But her finger never squeezed, and a moment later he had the gun away from her. She punched his chest a few more times, but there was no screaming or crying. Her face looked like someone who had just woken up.
After a time, Audrey dropped her arms and stared past him to the water. The breeze off the Sound was cold. Dave waited half a minute longer and put his arms around her. She was stiff as a corpse at first, but eventually relaxed into his embrace. Not returning it.
“Everything is so messed up.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“What am I going to do, Davie?”
“I don’t know. What would your brother want you to do?”
She had no answer for that, but it occupied her mind as he walked her back toward the house.