Rebel Island (15 page)

“You can’t just kill him.”

“How many has Calavera killed?”

“Give me your gun,” I told him.

He shook his head.

“Give it to me,” I repeated. “Or I’ll take it away.”

His face flushed, but I held his eyes. I could take the gun. I had no doubt. And I let him see that.

Lindy opted for the dignified solution. He took out his .45 and gave it to me. I ejected the clip, slipped it and the gun into my pockets. I took his box of ammunition.

“Son, you’re making a mistake.”

Suddenly the electric lights flickered on.

Somewhere in the distance, my brother’s muffled voice yelled, “Yes!”

Music cranked into gear. The steel drums of “Margaritaville” wafted down a hallway.

“No!” Garrett shouted. “Not
that
song. Kill it!”

I sighed. The way Garrett hated that song, I figured I’d better get back there before we had another homicidal maniac on our hands.

I left Mr. Lindy sitting on his bed, staring at the scrapbook of his dead daughter’s life.

24

The day Alex got out of the army, he found himself on the
streets of San Antonio with no plans, no home and not much money. He drove out of the gates of Fort Sam Houston, bought a six-pack of beer at the nearest convenience store and meandered down Broadway to the Witte Museum. He sat on the banks of San Pedro Creek, watching the geese glide by in the green water. Huge live oaks cast mottled shadows on the grass. Alex’s eyes still hadn’t adjusted from the harsh sunlight of Kuwait. He felt like he had sand in his boots, and not the good kind of sand from the Texas beaches. Desert sand—fine, dry and all-pervasive—from a world of unrelenting heat.

He took out his father’s knife and ran his finger down the blade. He imagined himself walking on the edge. Today he had to decide. After four years of letting the army tell him what to do, where to go, when to eat, how to dress, he had to make choices again, and that scared him.

Finally he pulled out his address book. He hadn’t used it in months. Most of the numbers belonged to friends who had died or girlfriends who’d left him. He walked to a pay phone at the corner of Broadway and called Garrett. He got an answer immediately.

Garrett was in town, it turned out, visiting his brother, Tres. “I’ll meet you at Liberty Bar,” he said. “Gimme thirty minutes.”

“You bringing Tres?”

Garrett laughed. “You think I should?”

Alex hung up.

Thirty-three minutes later, Alex arrived at the Liberty Bar. The two-story whitewashed building hadn’t changed in decades. It was famously slanted like a carnival funhouse, with a balcony around the second floor. Inside, the hardwood floor creaked under the waiters’ feet, and the leaning walls made Alex feel like he was in the belly of a ship. Liquor bottles gleamed against the bar mirror. Locals crowded the tables, tucking away pot roast sandwiches or chiles rellenos.

Garrett sat near the back exit. He was already on his second Shiner Bock. Alex hadn’t seen him in over three years, but when he sat down Garrett started right into it, as if Alex had simply come back from the bathroom.

“So I was talking to Tres today, and he’s gonna get a state license. Become a legitimate PI. Can you believe that?”

Alex shook his head. He’d seen Tres a few times over the years, but it was still hard to think of him as a grown-up, much less an investigator. “I need advice,” he said.

Garrett nodded like this was the most natural request in the world, despite the fact that Alex had never once taken Garrett’s advice on anything. In fact, Alex had pretty much defined himself as a teenager by doing the opposite of whatever Garrett suggested.

Alex talked about his different ideas: starting a fireworks business and traveling the country, or moving to California. Or…there was always Rebel Island.

The name hung in the air between them. Glasses clinked at the bar. Trucks rumbled by on Josephine Street.

Garrett drained his beer. His eyes glinted as dangerous as sparks on kerosene. “I could go for dinner on the island.”

They left after lunch. By sunset they were on the beach, toasting the Gulf of Mexico and reminiscing. Within a week, Alex had decided to buy the hotel.

Now, sitting in the dark, Alex unfolded his father’s knife.
Once more, he felt like he was teetering on the blade. He thought about the letter he’d given to Garrett. He hoped Garrett would understand. It wasn’t much to make amends, but it was all he could do. Hopefully some of the others would be spared.

Alex didn’t care about himself anymore. He felt just like his hotel: battered, torn by the wind, coming apart at the joints.

He stared at the candy skull on the table. He had tried to fix things. He had tried to put aside his anger. But it hadn’t worked. With the edge of his knife, he flicked the skull off the table.

“Calavera,” he said.

And like magic, the door to the room creaked open. Alex stood. He knew he was going to fall off the wrong side of the blade this time. Nothing would save him—not Mr. Eli, not Garrett’s advice, not even the hope that people sometimes change. They didn’t. And Calavera would win.

25

I shared a sofa with Maia and Garrett while I told them
about my conversations with Jose and Mr. Lindy. Lindy and most of the others were also in the parlor, but between the storm and the Jimmy Buffett music, it wasn’t hard to talk without being overheard.

“Brazos visited the island,” Maia said. “Two months later, his family was murdered.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why didn’t Brazos come back here afterward? Did he ever follow up?”

“I don’t know. If I could find Alex—”

“There’s gotta be a reason,” Garrett insisted. “So this Brazos guy asked some questions. So what? That doesn’t mean Alex—”

“Garrett, Alex should’ve said something. He didn’t.”

“What about this Lindy guy? How do you know he isn’t Calavera?”

“It was Lindy’s daughter who died,” I said. “He isn’t an assassin. I mean…he wants to kill somebody in cold blood, but he’s not
that
assassin.”

“Great,” Garrett grumbled. “That clears it right up.”

“The poor man.” Maia sipped her red-raspberry-leaf tea. She looked over at Lindy, who sat in conversation with Jose. Jose looked uneasy to have the old lawyer’s attention.

“The poor man?” I asked Maia.

“He lost his daughter and granddaughters. How would you feel?”

“Like tracking down Calavera and butchering him. But I wouldn’t do it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay,” I said. “I’d think about doing it, but you’d kick my butt if I tried.”

“Lindy has nothing left to lose,” Maia said. “No family. His career is behind him. He’s too old to care about jail time.”

“You think I should give him his gun back?”

“On the contrary. I think he may be more dangerous than this assassin. More unpredictable. But I also don’t want to see him killed. If Calavera finds out why he’s here—”

“I still think Lindy is nuts,” Garrett said. “You sure he doesn’t have another gun?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And speaking of that, give me back the .357.”

Garrett looked offended. “I’m your brother.”

“A good reason for extreme caution. Gun, please.”

Garrett muttered a few curses, but he gave me Maia’s gun.

Jimmy Buffett kept singing about Key West. The time must’ve been well past one in the morning, and everybody looked even more tired than I felt. Ty was out cold from whatever medication his friends had given him. I kind of envied him. Chase and Markie were teaching Imelda to play Spit in the Ocean, which probably had some sort of cosmic significance when played in a hurricane. Lane had made herself a nest of blankets next to the wall. She was curled into a fetal position, but her eyes were wide open. Mr. Lindy was still talking to Jose, who was looking frazzled and soaked. Ceiling plaster flecked his black hair.

There was no sign of Alex.

“He’ll be back,” Garrett said, apparently reading my mind. “He won’t do anything crazy.”

“I hope you’re right. What was in the envelope he gave you?”

Garrett’s face darkened. “Just personal stuff.”

“Nothing about Calavera.”

“No.”

“You’d tell me if it was.”

“Hey, little bro. It’s cool. Alex will be back. The power came back on. Alex must’ve done that.”

I wasn’t so sure. The generator seemed about as predictable as the storm tonight. I also noticed that Garrett had not answered my question.

“When you told me Alex was having some problems even before this weekend, what did you mean?”

Garrett folded the bottom of his Hawaiian shirt like he was rolling a joint. “Money problems. The hotel wasn’t keeping afloat too well. Maybe there was more. I don’t know. He said he and Chris…”

“Were arguing?” I supplied.

“Yeah. But don’t get ideas, little bro. It doesn’t mean anything. You know Alex couldn’t hurt a soul.”

I remembered Alex’s steely look the afternoon he pushed me out of the boat, into the water with the blood and the sharks. I wasn’t sure Garrett was being completely honest. I wanted to know what Alex had given him in that envelope. But I also knew my brother well enough to know I couldn’t force the issue. He’d tell me only when he was ready.

“You guys get some sleep,” I told them. “I’ll keep watch.”

Maia closed her eyes without protest. “Wake me if somebody else dies.”

Garrett looked over at Lane.

“Go ahead,” I said. “She could use some comfort.”

He studied me, like he was trying to detect sarcasm. But he didn’t look too hard, or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Good night, then,” he said. “And you watch. Alex is gonna prove you wrong.”

I’m not sure when I fell asleep. I must have been too exhausted
to even notice I was fading.

I dreamed I was teaching a class at UTSA. We were discussing
The Pearl,
talking about grief and the death of children. It was raining in the classroom. The students were trying to take notes but their laptops and legal pads were getting soaked. Lindy’s daughter, Rachel, was one of the students. Ty, Markie and Chase were there. So was Imelda, holding a baby in either arm. Ralph Arguello sat in the back of the room, a beach umbrella over his desk. He kept grinning at me like he found my lecture amusing.

I talked about the Black Plague and medieval parenthood. I discussed the sociological theory that parents in the Middle Ages, who were so accustomed to loss, did not have the same emotional attachment to children as modern parents. Personally, I didn’t buy that.

“Why not,
vato
?” Ralph asked.

“Just because death was more commonplace,” I said, “doesn’t mean life was cheaper.”

Ralph smiled. “I love this guy. He thinks he’s a professor.”

The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Rachel Brazos and Imelda and Ty were all watching me intently. Rain pattered against their papers.

I looked down at the podium. My lecture notes had disappeared. “The, uh, intense emotion in
The Pearl—
”

“People don’t change,” Ralph interrupted. “They let grief tear them up. That’s what you’re saying, huh?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you had to look in a book for that,
vato
?” Ralph laughed. “Why don’t you look around?”

“Tres.” Maia was shaking my arm. “The water.”

I sat up groggily. “Your water broke?”

“No. Look.”

I might’ve still been dreaming. The carpet was spongy with salt water. Garrett was rowing around in his chair, waking people up. His wheels made strange squishy sounds.

“Hey, get up.” He shook Mr. Lindy, who was slumped in the armchair. “Your shoes are wet.”

Lane paced nervously, a blanket wrapped around her like a queen’s robe. Chase and Markie were stirring on the floor. Their clothes were drenched.

“What the hell?” Chase said.

Water flowed down the steps into the parlor. The hall looked like a wood-paneled storm drain. The storm was still roaring outside, but louder now, like the waves were right against the building.

I got up and helped Maia to her feet.

Imelda ran in from the kitchen. “The basement is flooding. The señor’s body—”

“We can’t worry about that,” Maia said, trying to sound calm. “We need to get out of this room.”

“Imelda,” I said. “Help me with Mrs. Navarre.”

The maid seemed glad to have something to do. She took Maia’s other arm and together we walked toward the stairs.

“Look how fast the water’s coming in.” Lane’s face was ashen. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Up,” I told her. “The second floor.”

“And if that floods?”

Garrett and I exchanged looks.

“Come on, darlin’,” he told Lane. “We’ve made it this far. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He wheeled himself to the steps. Several inches of water were swirling in the foyer, racing down the hallway. “I don’t swim too well, little bro.”

“You won’t have to,” I promised. “Leave the chair and let’s go.”

He nodded uneasily, then slipped out of his wheelchair and hand-walked up the steps. As he navigated the hall, his torso in the water, he looked like a man wading up a deep, unfriendly river.

Getting Maia upstairs wasn’t easy. The stairs creaked and
groaned. Below us, the first floor sounded like a public swimming pool, water sloshing everywhere.

It was possible the whole hotel would get washed away. I knew that. But I didn’t see any alternative other than getting into the middle of the building and hoping it didn’t happen.

We settled everyone into a row of guest rooms on the second floor. Imelda bustled around making sure we all had enough sheets and flashlights. I figured the generator would go out again any moment, but strangely the power stayed on.

Maia got comfortable on one twin bed while Garrett and Lane collapsed on the other.

I fiddled with the nightstand radio and to my surprise found a garbled AM station. Three-twenty
A.M.
and the tail end of the storm was coming ashore. Winds of one hundred thirty miles an hour. Massive flooding from Port Lavaca to Port Isabel. Fifteen-foot waves. On the bright side, the rainfall should lessen by midday. The Spurs were playing tonight in game seven of the playoffs. Anyone who was still alive would have something to look forward to.

There was shouting in the room next to us. It sounded like Ty, Markie and Chase had gotten a second wind and Mr. Lindy was trying to referee. I decided not to interfere. They probably needed the exercise.

Head count: Maia seemed all right for the moment. Garrett and Lane were fine. The three college guys and Benjamin Lindy were next door.

“Alex,” I said. “Did he ever come back?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Garrett admitted. “I thought for sure…”

He didn’t finish. Even
he
looked worried.

I thought about Ralph Arguello, grinning in the raining classroom.
Maybe you should just look around,
vato.

“Imelda,” I called.

She came to the doorway, her arms full of towels.

“Have you seen Alex Huff?” I asked.

“No, señor.”

“Where is his bedroom?”

She looked down, hugging the towels to her chest. “Mr. Huff is very private about his room, señor. I don’t—”

“I need you to show me.”

Jose appeared next to her, breathing hard. His pants were wet from the knees down.

“¿Que pasa?”
he asked his wife.

“He…he wants to see Señor Huff’s room.”

Jose frowned. “We will show him, then.”

“I’ll go, too,” Garrett said.

“No,” I said. “Stay here. Take care of Lane and Maia.”

Garrett didn’t look pleased, but the fact that I’d included Lane made it difficult for him to say no. Lane was curled on the bed, staring forlornly at the wall as if it would blow apart any moment.

“All right,” Garrett said. “But, little bro, nothing crazy, okay?”

“On a night like tonight? Of course not. Nothing crazy at all.”