by Debbie Burke
Tillman didn’t care. He leaned forward, his tone harsh and commanding. “Where’s Gabriel?”
Nyala swallowed, a movement that appeared painful. “I’m sure he’s left the country. I don’t know if I’ll ever see my brother again.”
“Not our problem,” Tillman growled. “He should be in prison.”
She pressed her lips together. “I know what he is. But he is my brother.” Her reserved façade returned. “Wally’s boat was found adrift yesterday with several empty liquor bottles. He was not on it. The Coast Guard suspects he was drunk, fell overboard, and drowned.”
Tillman’s muscles tightened against Tawny’s arm. “He deserves his fate,” he said.
Nyala’s wordless gaze flicked between them.
All three of them knew Wally’s disappearance was no accident and that Nyala was ultimately responsible.
She picked up the envelope from the coffee table.
“That wouldn’t be the Honus Wagner card, would it?” Tillman asked.
She shook her head, opened the flap, and tipped out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. She handed it to Tawny. “I believe this is meant for you.”
Puzzled, Tawny unwrapped the tissue. Inside was a single emerald stud earring. She gasped. “Smoky’s?”
Nyala removed a folded paper from the envelope and offered it.
Tawny and Tillman put on their glasses and read the scrawled handwriting.
Tell Tillman to have this set in a nice ring with diamonds around it. He can afford it. Green looks good with your red hair. Sorry to miss the wedding.
Tawny clasped the emerald in her hand. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Nyala answered.
Tillman’s voice reverberated low. “You knew all along.”
She nodded. “He called the night Irma hit and asked me to pick him up. He’d already planted most of the evidence by then. He’d cut his boat loose in the channel to blow free, threw his extra prosthetic out into the jungle, and left his wallet and shirt in the lake.”
“The leg?” Tawny asked.
Nyala’s smile was tight, grim. “He’d saved his amputated leg. The reason he called me three years ago to bring him back from Panama was because he figured, as a flight attendant, I’d know how to handle it so it wouldn’t be inspected.” She shuddered. “It was repulsive but I helped him. He called it his insurance policy. He knew someday he’d need to stage his death.”
“He kept it in his freezer?” Tawny said.
Another shudder. “He’d offer to cook dinner for me but, knowing about it, I could never stand to eat there. We always went out.”
Tillman frowned. “Why did he steal the Honus Wagner now?”
Nyala sighed. “Ten years ago, he was married to a nurse in Panama. When she divorced him, she didn’t tell him she was pregnant. After his accident, he got himself admitted to the hospital where she worked, hoping she’d give him another chance. She refused but she let it slip about his daughter.”
Tawny remembered her conversation with Smoky, his regret that he didn’t even know the little girl’s name or her birthday.
Nyala went on: “He said his ex-wife was proud and stubborn, damned if she’d take a penny from him. Six weeks ago, she died from ovarian cancer. The girl’s grandparents reached out to him. They will care for the child but they need money. The only way he could provide for her was to steal the baseball card. He mailed it to them in Panama.”
Tillman grasped Tawny’s knee. “That postal tracking number you found.”
Nyala continued: “Smoky knew he’d have to disappear or my brother would kill him. The hurricane was his opportunity. When he called, I picked him up and hid him out here until he could scrounge passage out of the country.”
“The day we came to see you,” Tillman said, “he was here?”
“Yes.”
Tillman shot to his feet, fists pounding his thighs. “That motherfucker put us through all this grief, letting us think he was dead. Goddamn him!” He paced the small living room, covering the length in two steps.
Tawny caught his hand on the return. “Tillman,” she said softly, “we need to hear the rest.”
Bringing his fury under control, he again sat beside her, letting her cradle his tense hand between both of hers.
Nyala remained calm in the face of his explosion and rubbed her calf, as if the ankle bracelet was chafing. “Smoky could have escaped earlier but he wouldn’t leave until he saw you, Mr. Rosenbaum. When I picked him up that night, he was weeping. Not a side I’d ever seen of him.” She studied Tillman for a long moment. Finally, she continued: “When he left from here, he flew partway on a small plane, then caught a boat and made it to Puerto Armuelles. Now he’s gone someplace in Asia. I guess there are insane, wealthy, baseball memorabilia collectors there. He’ll sell it and have money for his daughter.”
Tillman planted elbows on his knees and let his head drop in his hands. “That crazy sonofabitch.” Between his sneakers, a tear splashed on the tile floor. Tawny touched his bent-over back.
“You think I’m a terrible person and perhaps I am,” Nyala murmured. “I’m guilty of loyalty to my brother but Smoky is my friend and I do care.”
Tillman ran a hand across his eyes, raised his head, and stared at her. “Ms. Nyala, I believe you.” He stood to leave.
Tawny gathered her bag and the package containing the emerald. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. But Tillman didn’t follow.
She looked back inside.
He and Nyala were facing each other. Tillman loomed above the beautiful woman and extended his hand. “Notwithstanding what you put Tawny through, I thank you for helping my friend, Smoky.”
They shook. Nyala said something low that Tawny couldn’t hear. Tillman’s wide shoulders blocked her view for several seconds. Then he joined her on the porch.
For an hour, they drove in silence toward Clearwater Beach.
As they approached the Highway 60 causeway, Tillman pulled off the road and parked at a beach access. “Are you up to a walk?”
The long ride had stiffened her injuries. She needed to stretch. “Sure.”
They got out and together moved from the pavement into soft, warm sand. Seabirds sailed overhead, cawing and clamoring. Across the inlet, power saws screeched as carpenters repaired docks damaged by Irma.
Revelations about Smoky still tumbled in Tawny’s mind. She wondered what Tillman was thinking. He was rarely quiet this long. After a few minutes of walking, she said, “I’m glad Smoky’s alive.”
He glanced down at her. “If he and Gabriel ever cross paths again, he won’t be. And if I ever see him again, I’ll kick his goddamn ass into next week.” But a faint smile flitted across his mouth.
They passed a makeshift graveyard of damaged, abandoned boats, battered into scrap by the hurricane, now piled high, waiting to be hauled away. A bent mast stuck up, broken pulleys with frayed lines running through them, personal floatation devices, torn seat cushions, a shattered galley countertop, a cracked portion of a sink.
And a twisted metal ladder similar to the one Tawny had desperately clung to on Ezekiel’s yacht. The memory caused a sharp inhale, followed by a brief coughing spell.
Tillman watched her, waiting for the spasm to end, worry creasing his brow.
She recovered and sipped small breaths.
“You OK?” he asked.
She swallowed. “ER doc said my lungs might be touchy for a while.”
His stare bored through her. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”
“Me either.” She rested her hand on his solid chest, feeling the thud of his heart. “You know what kept me hanging on?”
His long fingers played with her braid. “Hmm?”
“I kept repeating your name and the kids’ names, over and over.”
He let go of her braid, put on his half glasses, and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.
She recognized it. Nyala must have given it to him as they left.
He unfolded it and read aloud what Tawny believed would be her last words to him. “I love you, Tillman. Here and now. That’s all that matters. No more excuses from me. Forever yours, Tawny.” He took off his glasses and refolded the paper, studying her.
She let her hand drop from his chest to her side and lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “Nyala wasn’t supposed to give that to you unless I died.”
“But you didn’t, thank God.” A long pause. “Do you still mean what you wrote?”
After nearly drowning, marriage to Tillman no longer felt as terrifying. She whispered, “Yes.” Then she looked up at him and said more loudly, “Yes, I do.”
His dark eyes crinkled with tease. He held the paper up as if presenting it as evidence in court. “In that case, my considered legal opinion is you have proffered an open offer that is awaiting my acceptance. Once I accept—and I do—this document constitutes a valid binding contract.”
She slid both hands across the muscular contours of his chest, over his wide shoulders, coming to rest on his hard biceps.
No longer did she feel as if she stood on either side of an earthquake fault, the ground ready to shift without warning under her feet.
Her footing finally felt steady, in bedrock.
His mouth curved into the crooked smile that brought back memories of the first night they’d made love. He tilted his head sideways. “Do we have a deal?”
She stepped closer, into his arms. “Deal.”
THE END
A note from debbie
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About The Author
Debbie Burke
In addition to Tawny Lindholm Thrillers With A Heart, Debbie Burke writes articles for many print and online magazines. She is a regular contributor to the award-winning crime writing website, The Kill Zone.
Tawny Lindholm Thrillers With A Heart
Instrument of the Devil
Stalking Midas
Eyes in the Sky
Dead Man's Bluff
