Yesterday, Chief Salazar called and said the Sea Booty had been hijacked by a gang of smugglers, and there was a chance Daniel Westcott was on the boat. King-napped. Natalie had pressed the phone to her ear to steady her hand. The way Salazar chose his words¸ she knew he was trying to downplay the danger. She let him talk on. He'd just received confirmation that the Sea Booty was anchored at St. Ann's Bay, Jamaica. They didn't know exactly when the boat would head out and return to Tampa. But Salazar said he and Carlos Mendoza were putting a crew together to head off the smugglers before they reached the desolate spit of land on Egmont Key. When he stopped talking, an awkward pause followed. Natalie's mind raced. She thought to thank him, to apologize for the inconvenience. Nothing seemed right. So she invited him—and Carlos Mendoza—to dinner Sunday evening.
Late Sunday afternoon, just before the dinner party, Natalie was upstairs taking a bath. She thought she saw Daniel through the mirror. She blinked her eyes to clear the vision, but Daniel didn't budge. He was hunched over on the stool. As he folded and unfolded his hands, Natalie sensed something unnatural about him, far beyond the mischief in his eyes. His once-plump face appeared slack, paler than an onion. Skin hung from his lower jaw as if he were losing weight. How was that possible? Natalie splashed water over her shoulders. Since no one else had seen Daniel, she wondered if her mind were playing tricks on her. Or perhaps, Daniel was dead, but he'd left behind some unfinished business between them that he'd come back to reconcile. She shivered and added a bit of warmth to the bath. Maybe Daniel was still angry about the gunshots. Well, hadn't he dared her to pull the trigger? And besides, this disappearance act had worn out its welcome. She'd seen it all before—his gambling junkets to the Bahamas, his all-night binges. She'd even found photos of those island women who draped silk scarves over their naked shoulders. "Havana hussies," she called them.
Natalie remembered the night she'd heard Daniel's footsteps pounding down the stairs, and she raced to his gun cabinet to grab the revolver from the rack—and why? Because he was going out and leaving Natalie alone in the living room again? Yes, it was exactly that madness—that helium buzz, the giddy, high-pitched hissing that pulsed her brain with fiery reds and then spread black and blue like spilled ink until it was black all over and exploded into a smoking pistol—that drove her to shoot him, not once, not twice, but three times, all tripped by the eagerness of a twitching finger. That was the last time she'd seen him. Natalie stepped out of the tub. What she needed to know was—were the bullets in that gun blanks from a Gasparilla parade? Or were they real? Time would tell.
The night Becca hid beneath the live oak waiting for Adam, she opened her suitcase and pulled out the first volume of Rebecca's diary. The floodlight, positioned to illuminate the tree, shone on the journal while Becca remained unseen within the remaining darkness under the oak. Becca remembered the story that Rebecca had recorded in the diaries that dated back to the mid-1800's. Here is an excerpt from that journal.
On the corner of Seminole and Powhatan just north of downtown in the Heights, Emmeline and her granddaughter sat on the front porch waiting for the sun to set.
After Adam backed out of the driveway and left Becca sitting beneath the live oak, she glanced down at the diary in her hands.