Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

“Congratulations.” The other man’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Sounds like you beat the devil.”

Lovejoy felt no triumph, only exhaustion. “We recovered Mrs. Gardner. She says her husband is in a shack-”

“We already found him. Getting set to fly him out of here. A Code Blue team might pull him through, but I don’t know. He’s in bad shape. I wouldn’t give the wife any false hopes.”

“In my judgment, she’s in no condition to be informed at all.”

As he pocketed the radio, Lovejoy released a wet, noisy sneeze. His sinuses, miraculously unclogged since his arrival in the Keys, were clear no longer. Sea spray and chilly water had done their worst. He’d caught a cold.

He sneezed again, miserably, then turned toward the cabin and saw Kirstie standing in the doorway, Moore at her side.

“I heard,” Kirstie said simply. “He’s alive.”

Lovejoy hesitated. “It’s touch and go.”

“He’ll make it.”

“It would be inadvisable to-”

“Look.”

Head lifted, she pointed toward a distant spark rising slowly from the sooty haze that was Pelican Key.

The helicopter.

It climbed higher, higher, then seemed to hang suspended in the sky, a morning star.

“He’ll make it,” Kirstie said again, dampness in her eyes. “I know he will.”

She watched the point of light until drifting smoke wiped it from view. Then she stepped to the railing and stared at Pelican Key, gliding past.

The Larson house was a roofless shell. Out of the spread of churning vapors, one long tendril of red leaped up to slash the sky like a flaming sword. The sun, swollen on the horizon, flooded the world with a febrile, apocalyptic light.

Lovejoy gave Moore a nod. Together they joined Kirstie at the handrail. She gazed at the distant fire, tears wet on her cheeks.

Moore took her hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.” Kirstie shook her head slowly. “Not anymore. It’s just that Steve always loved that house. He’ll be so sorry it’s gone.” Her voice dropped lower, hushed and contemplative. “Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s ready to let it go, now that he’s found what he was looking for.”

“What, Mrs. Gardner?” Lovejoy asked. “What did your husband find?”

Kirstie turned to him, and he was startled to see that through her tears she was smiling, a smile clean of grief or pain. Her voice was a whisper.

“Redemption.”

The boat moved on, and Pelican Key receded, melting in a crucible of sun, dissolving like the last wisps of a dream.