Chapter 5 - THE GHOST OF THE CARIBBEANSix months later, on a secluded stretch of coastline in the Lesser Antilles, the air smelled of salt, roasting coffee beans, and tropical rain.
The sun was sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of crimson, gold, and deep indigo. A gentle breeze rustled through the palm trees that shaded a sprawling, white-stucco hacienda overlooking a private, crescent-shaped cove.
On the wide wooden veranda, sitting in a rocking chair with a glass of aged rum in his hand, sat Leo Buckland.
He looked different. The stiff, expensive three-piece suits and long black coats were gone, replaced by a loose linen shirt and weathered leather sandals. His hair was streaked with more silver, but his eyes remained as sharp and calculating as ever.
Footsteps echoed softly on the wooden stairs.
Jonathan Carr walked onto the veranda, carrying a fresh tray of ice and citrus. He looked healthy, the scars from his time in the grave and the hospital completely faded, replaced by a deep sun-tan and the easy, relaxed posture of a man who no longer had to look over his shoulder every five seconds.
"Mail boat came in from the mainland," Carr said, setting the tray down on the table and handing Leo a thick, sealed manila envelope.
Leo took it, turning it over in his hands. There was no return address. Just a red wax seal stamped with the emblem of the FBI's Internal Affairs Division.
"From Vance?" Carr asked, leaning against the wooden railing and looking out over the tranquil bay.
"From Vance," Leo confirmed. He broke the wax seal with his thumb and pulled out a single sheet of thick, cream-colored paper.
He read it silently.
Leo, The department officially closed your file last Tuesday. Officially, you don't exist anymore. Neither does Johnny. The official report states that both of you were lost at sea during a violent storm off the northern cape six months ago. Vincent Moretti is serving four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole. He spends his days screaming about a ghost and a German Shepherd. Enjoy your retirement, old man. Don't ever come back. — M.V.
Leo let out a low, gravelly chuckle. He tossed the letter onto the wooden table, where the tropical breeze caught it and fluttered it gently against a glass of rum.
"Well," Leo said, looking out toward the horizon where the last sliver of the sun was dipping below the dark ocean water. "It seems we're officially dead, Johnny."
"Best thing that ever happened to me," Carr smiled, taking a sip of his drink.
Suddenly, a heavy, familiar thump echoed from the corner of the veranda.
Rocco was lying stretched out across the wide wooden planks, his massive black-and-tan body taking up half the walking space. The German Shepherd let out a deep, contented sigh, his tail giving one lazy thump against the floorboards before he rested his chin back on his paws, his amber eyes closing in peaceful sleep.
Leo reached down, casually scratching the dog behind his thick ears.
"You know, Johnny," Leo murmured softly, watching the stars begin to punch their way through the deepening velvet sky. "Out of everyone in that city—out of all the politicians, the cops, the killers, and the cowards—only one creature in the entire world was willing to dig me out of the dirt."
Carr turned his head, looking down at the magnificent animal sleeping peacefully in the tropical warmth.
"He didn't dig you out, Leo," Carr said quietly, his voice filled with a deep, unbreakable reverence. "He dug me out. And in doing so, he saved both of us."
Leo smiled, raising his glass toward the vast, starlit ocean.
"To loyal dogs," Leo toasted softly.
May you like
"And dead men," Carr added, clinking his glass against Leo's.
In the quiet darkness of the tropical night, the waves whispered against the shore, and the ghost of the city's greatest underworld empire finally found peace.
