“You’re a killer ten times over. I have your files. It won’t take much to match them to all those cases of accidental deaths. The Williams brothers and Nada are all in custody and they’re talking a blue streak.” I didn’t know for a fact that Nada was talking, in fact, last time I checked in, only the ugly siblings were unburdening themselves, but Spada didn’t know that. “And then there’s the fire, the assault on my person.” I ticked it all off on my fingers. “The second you left the dock with Jung, that was kidnapping, so there’s that. Oh, and then there’s your very salty wife who, by now, will likely swear on five stacks of Gideon bibles that you were nowhere near her the night Tim died. And there’s Jung, whom you just spilled your guts to. I’ll have to check on the marina skiff. In short, you’re up shit creek without a paddle, a canoe, or a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

Jung began to stir, his eyes opened. He was coming around.

“Darby killed Tim, not me.” Blood seeped through Spada’s fingers, but he managed a smile. “He killed them all.”

“And you killed Darby. Why send his body to me?”

Spada shook his head, pressed his lips together. He wasn’t going to say anything more, which was fine. The cops would get it from Nada, or one of the others. In addition to his files, I had a witness to Spada’s confession and a witness to Darby’s stalking of Tim Ayers. It wouldn’t take Marta and the others long to connect the dots. They’d track Spada through every alias he’d ever had. They’d find his prison record. One piece of paper, one forgotten piece, and he’d be sunk.

He omitted a low, mean chuckle. “Why not?”

The horn blew on one of the approaching boats, and I watched as the first one closed in, just a minute or so out now. Even through the fog he was in, Jung heard it, too, and stumbled to his feet. He turned to scan the lake, only to suddenly lose his footing, pitch backward, and, in an instant, seamlessly, slip beneath the railing and fall overboard.

“Jung!” I ran for him, but it was too late. I turned back to Spada and found him crawling fast for the gun I’d kicked away. I fired again, missed, thanks to the rocking boat, but the round was enough to beat Spada back. He recoiled, and then curled on the deck in the fetal position, his ducked head shielded by bloody, trembling hands.