“Did you say dynamite?” she asked.
“Eight hundred pounds,” Skip Wiley said, “split into three payloads. One at the northwest tip, another at the southeast cove. The third cache, the big one, is right over there, no more than twenty yards. Can you see it? That galvanized box beneath those trees.”
From where she sat Kara Lynn saw nothing but shadows.
“I … I don’t … “ She was choking on fear, unable to speak. Hold on, she told herself.
“They do it by remote control,” Wiley explained, “from a barge. We passed it on the way out, anchored three miles off the island. You were asleep.”
“Oh … “ The plan was more terrible than she had imagined; all the stalling had been futile, a wasted strategy.
“They have to do it at dawn,” Wiley went on, “some kind of Army Corps rule. Can’t bring boats any closer to the island because the blast’ll blow the windows out.”
He ambled to the campfire and stood with his back to her for several moments. His naked cantaloupe head twitched back and forth, as if he were talking to himself. Abruptly he turned around and said, “The reason for the dynamite is the coral. See—” He kicked at the ground with his shoe. “Harder than cement. They need to go down twenty-four inches before pouring the foundation for the condo. Can’t make a dent with shovels, not in this stuff … so that’s why the dynamite. Flip of a switch and—poof—turn this place into the Bonneville flats. Eight hundred pounds is a lot of firecracker.”
Kara Lynn steadied herself just enough to utter the most inane question of her entire life: “What about me?”
Wiley spread his arms. “No life forms will survive,” he said in a clinical tone. “Not even the gnats.”
“Please don’t do this,” Kara Lynn said.
“It’s not me, Barbie Doll, it’s progress. Your beef is with Puerco Development.”
“Don’t leave me here,” she said, just shy of a beg.
“Darling, how could I save you and not save that magnificent eagle? Or the helpless rabbits and the homely opossums, or even the lowly fiddler crabs? It’s impossible to rescue them, so I can’t very well rescue you. It wouldn’t be fair. It would be like … playing God. This way is best, Kara Lynn. This way—for the first time in nineteen pampered years—you are truly part of the natural order. You now inhabit this beautiful little island, and the value of your life is the same as all creatures here. If they should survive past dawn, so shall you. If not … well, maybe the good people of Florida will finally appreciate the magnitude of their sins. If Osprey Island is leveled in the name of progress, I predict a cataclysmic backlash, once the truth is known. The truth being that they blew up the one species they really care about—a future customer.”
Kara Lynn was running low on poise. “The symbolism is intriguing,” she said, “but your logic is ridiculous.”
“Just listen,” Wiley said. From a breast pocket he took another clipping and read: “ ‘Officials in South Florida estimate that adverse publicity surrounding December’s tourist murders has cost the resort area as much as ten million dollars in family and convention trade.’“ Wiley waved the clip and gloated. “Not too shabby, eh?”
“I’m impressed,” Kara Lynn said archly. “A month’s worth of killing and all you’ve got to show for it is one dinky paragraph in Newsweek”
“It’s the lead Periscope item!” Wiley said, defensively.
“Terrific,” Kara Lynn said. “Look, why don’t you let me go? You can do better than this.”
“1 think not.”
“I can swim away,” she declared.
“Not all tied up, you can’t,” Wiley said. “Besides, the water’s lousy with blacktip sharks. Did you know they spawn at night in the shallows? Aggressive little bastards, too. A bite here, a bite there, a little blood and pretty soon the big boys pick up the scent. Bull sharks and hammerheads big enough to eat a goddamn Datsun.”
“That’ll do,” said Kara Lynn.
Something rustled at the edge of the clearing. A branch cracking in the storm, she thought. Skip Wiley cocked his head and peered toward the sound, but the hard rain painted everything gray and hunched and formless. The only identifiable noises were raindrops slapping leaves, and the hiss of embers as the campfire died in the downpour.