“I hate that damn gun.” Brian Keyes had needed six rounds from the Browning to put a bullet where he’d wanted. His hands still tingled from the shots.
“Which hospital is nearest?”
“Homestead,” Garcia said, shivering. “Call my wife, would you?”
“When we get there.”
“I’m pissed you didn’t tell me about your pal Wiley.”
“He said he’d kill lots more people if I did.”
Garcia coughed. “It couldn’t have been much worse than it was.”
“Oh no? You saw what that bomb did to the John—now imagine the same thing at the parade, with all those kids. A holocaust, Al. He seemed capable of anything.”
“You shoulda told me anyway,” Garcia said. “Shit, this hurts. I’m gonna sleep for a while.” He shut his eyes and sagged down in the passenger seat. Soon Keyes could hear his breathing, a weak irregular rasp.
Keyes drove like a maniac. Droplets of salt water trickled from his hair into his mouth and eyes; he was soaked to the skin. Garcia’s blood dappled his shirt and pants. As he wheeled the MG back onto Highway One, a sharp pain pinched under his right arm. Keyes wondered if he had torn open the old stab wound while carrying Garcia piggyback through the hammock.
The trip to Farmer’s Hospital from Key Largo took twenty minutes. Garcia was unconscious when they arrived at the emergency room, and was immediately stripped and taken to surgery.
Keyes telephoned Garcia’s wife and told her to come down right away, Al had been hurt. Then he tried Jenna. He let it ring fifteen or twenty times but no one picked up. Was she gone? Hiding? Dead? He considered driving up to the house and breaking in, but it was too late and he was too exhausted.
He made one more phone call, to Metro-Dade Homicide. He told them where to find Jesus Bernal’s body. Soon the island would be crawling with reporters.
Keyes looked up at the clock and smiled at the irony; two-thirty in the morning. Too late to make the morning papers.
The phone jarred Cab Mulcahy from his sleep at seven-thirty.
“I got a message you called. What’s up?” It was Cardoza.
Mulcahy sat round-shouldered on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “It concerns Skip Wiley,” he said fuzzily.
He told Cardoza about Wiley’s criminal involvement with the Nights of December, omitting nothing except his own knowledge.
“Goddamn!” Cardoza exclaimed. “Maybe that explains it.”
“What?”
“Wiley sent me a New Year’s column yesterday but I damn near tossed it out. I thought it was a fake, some asshole playing a joke.”
“What does it say?” Mulcahy asked. He was not surprised that Wiley had ignored the chain of command and appealed directly to the publisher. Skip knew how much Cardoza loved his stuff.
Cardoza read part of the column aloud over the phone.
“It sounds like a confession,” Mulcahy said. It was actually quite remarkable. “Mr. Cardoza, we have to write about all this.”
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s our job,” Mulcahy said.
“Making a blue-chip newspaper look like a nuthouse—that’s our job?”
“Our job is printing the truth. Even if it’s painful and even if it makes us look foolish.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cardoza said. “So what exactly do we do with this column? It’s not the least bit funny, you know.”
“I think we run it as is—right next to a lengthy story explaining everything that’s happened the last month.”
Cardoza was appalled. In no other business would you wave your stinky laundry in the customers’ faces; this wasn’t ethics, it was idiocy.
“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Cardoza told Mulcahy. “I heard on the radio that the whole gang is dead. I assume that means Mr. Wiley, too.”
“Well, tonight’s the big parade,” Mulcahy said. “Let’s wait and see.”
Cardoza was stunned by the revelation about Skip Wiley. Of all the writers at the paper, Wiley had been his favorite, the spice in the recipe. And though he had never actually met the man, Cardoza felt he knew him intimately from his writing. Undoubtedly Wiley was impulsive, irreverent, even tasteless at times—but homicidal? It occurred to Cardoza that a newspaper this size must be riddled with closet psychopaths like Wiley; the potential for future disasters seemed awesome. Expensive disasters, too. Lawyerly-type disasters.