Second Honeymoon Part 76

Two minus one still leaves one.

As fast as I'd ever moved, I reached for my spare-the 9mm Beretta tucked into my s.h.i.+n holster. I grabbed it and fired without really aiming.

The shot hit Ned near his shoulder, in a spot similar to the one where he had hit Sarah. He stumbled back, feet wobbly, reality sinking in. He tried to lift his arm to fire, but I was ready for him. And guess what? I was even angrier than he was.

BLAM!

This shot was truer, ripping through his chest, the force nearly cutting the legs out from under him. But he wouldn't go down.

He was stumbling back, the blood spilling down his body, changing colors in the rain. Deep red, light red, almost pink.

As he raised his pistol again, he opened his mouth to say something. But he'd already done enough talking as far as I was concerned. He'd talked way too much, the sick murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

BLAM!

The shot echoed around the surrounding oak trees as I fell onto my back. Then I was staring up at the swirling clouds. I was trying to catch my breath.

Slowly, I made my way over to where he'd fallen. My last bullet had caught him in the heart.

Ned Sinclair was dead.

Not six feet from his sister Nora's grave. And you know what? They deserved each other.

Chapter 119

IN THE AFTERMATH, so to speak, of Ned Sinclair's death, one of my immediate problems solved itself. Squandering the kudos I'd received in the wake of the identification of the Honeymoon Murderer, I'd broken half the rules in the FBI handbook and angered more than a few superiors, not the least of whom was Dan Driesen. But in doing so I'd also shut down a killer who had scared every guy named John O'Hara in the country, including one who just happened to be the president's brother-in-law.

I wasn't fired. I wasn't even put back on suspension. Frank Walsh still wanted me to see Dr. Adam Kline, but after the good doctor heard of the little field trip I made after mending for a few days back home in Riverside, he decided his work with me was done.

"That showed real courage," he told me in what would be my last visit to his office. "You did the right thing. You're good by me."

I wasn't sure about the courage part, but even before I rang the doorbell at Stephen McMillan's house, I was pretty sure about it being the right thing to do.

This was one problem of mine that wouldn't take care of itself.

I sat in McMillan's living room, listening as he delivered his heartfelt apology for causing Susan's death. I had little doubt that every word was as true and real as the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I know it's no consolation, but I haven't had a sip of alcohol since the accident," he told me.

"You're right," I said. "It's no consolation to me or my kids. But I'm sure it means a lot to your family."

McMillan glanced at a photograph of his teenage son and daughter that was sitting on a small table next to his armchair. He nodded.

The two of us talked for only a minute longer, during which he was either too smart or too scared to ask for my forgiveness. That was something he'd simply never get.

But what I could and did offer him was this: acceptance of what had happened.

I told him I could accept the fact that he fully understood what a mistake he'd made and what a terrible loss it was for my boys and me. He'd made that abundantly clear, and I believed him.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Then, after we both stood up, I did something I never imagined I'd ever do. Not in a million years. Or even longer.

I shook his hand.

"What changed your mind?" asked Harold Cornish once we left the house. As our go-between, McMillan's attorney had been waiting for me in the foyer. "Why did you finally agree to meet with my client?"

I could've told Cornish a very long story about what I'd been through since I'd last seen him on his little visit to my back patio. Martha Cole. Ned Sinclair. And the one thing the three of us had in common, a singular desire.

Instead, I simply summed it all up for him. "Nothing good ever comes from revenge," I said.

EPILOGUE

Chapter 120

"OKAY, FOR THE last time," said Sarah, smiling at me from the bow. "How is it that we're on this boat?"

"It's like I told you. I met a guy on a Jet Ski down here and he owed me a favor."

Sarah folded her arms, waiting me out. It didn't take long. You can only be coy with a pretty girl in a black bikini for so long.

I told Sarah about my first trip to Turks and Caicos, when this whole crazy ride began. And in the case of the Speedo-wearing con man, Pierre Simone, I meant "crazy ride" literally.

With perhaps a little encouragement from police commissioner Joseph Eldridge, however, Pierre managed to provide a humdinger of a make-good. "I won it in a poker game," he told me on the phone in his French accent, his exact whereabouts undisclosed. "Zee guy had a flush, and I had zee full boat."

I didn't know if Pierre was simply making a joke. I didn't care. For one glorious week, I had a forty-foot-long tall-rig Catalina and the chance to dust off my skippering skills, which I learned as a teenager during three summers at my local YMCA sailing camp.

I also had one h.e.l.l of a first mate joining me for the ride. Even the scars from her bullet wounds were d.a.m.n s.e.xy, at least to me.

"I'm grabbing a beer," said Sarah, heading down to the galley. "You want one?"

"Absolutely," I said from the helm.