“In your pajama pants?” Ben’s voice mocked.

She reached into her bra. “No. They’re right here.” Her hand closed over the can of Mace and she took a step toward him.

“Hand ’em over,” he repeated.

Her hand trembled, but she fixed her thumb over the nozzle, extended her arm and emptied the can of Mace directly into his eyes.

He screamed and managed to get off one wild shot in the air, just before Jonah charged him, head-butting him to the floor and cold-cocking him into unconsciousness.

She stood there, stunned, gazing down at the two men sprawled across her living room floor. The next thing she knew, her front door was being broken down.

Jimmy Zee charged into the room, his weapon drawn. He looked from her to Ben, whose bloody jaw was now arranged in a new and unnatural way, to Jonah, who’d seated himself atop the unmoving man’s chest.

“Oh, little girl,” he said, shaking his head and looking at Drue. “What have you gone and done?”

59

August 20, 1976

The storm raged on. Thunder boomed overhead and lightning sizzled on the deep blue horizon. Inside the cottage, the lights flickered and then the house went completely dark.

The rain was so loud, she felt rather than heard his footsteps on the deckboards. But she didn’t look up until he put his hand on her shoulder.

She was huddled at the edge of the deck, her arms wrapped tightly around her folded knees, looking like a drowned kitten. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat beside her.

“She’s out there,” Sherri said, looking up with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. She pointed toward the fringe of Australian pines.

“Okay.” He tramped off, his sneakers sinking into the wet sand. He wore a black windbreaker and his usual dark sunglasses, despite the deepening twilight. He was back moments later.

“Is she…?”

He chewed his gum, switching it from one side of his mouth to the other. “Yeah. Do you have a tarp or something like that?”

“A tarp? What good’s that going to do if she’s dead?”

“I’ve got to move her, Sherri,” he said patiently. “Before somebody comes along and finds the body.”

“There might be a painter’s drop cloth in Papi’s shed.”

“I’ll get it,” he said. “Go inside and dry off. And no more of that,” he said, pointing at the empty bottle.

“That’s all there was in the house,” she said sadly. “Or I would have drunk that too.”

He sat down beside her on the edge of the deck, oblivious to the rain, their bodies close but not touching. “You want to kill yourself?”

“That was the plan,” she said. “Her, and then me. But I’m such a chickenshit, I can’t seem to do it.” She lifted the revolver, dangling it from her middle finger.