Chapter 38
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Radioville, AK
Virgil could not make himself touch Joe’s neck.
He wanted to check for a pulse, but making physical contact was impossible.
It was as if there were some invisible force holding him back.
His throat burned with bile, and his left arm buckled as he tried to use it to hold himself up.
His right hand was still locked on the gun, which so far had been useful only as a club to strike his friend.
His hand throbbed in pain, the trigger finger still refusing to release its grip.
Virgil studied the weapon.
He’d cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Why didn’t it fire?
He tried to take a moment to relax, to get his bearings, to get back in control of himself. The shaking began to subside, and he leaned cautiously forward, putting his ear near Joe’s mouth, hoping for some sign of life without touching him.
The sour scent of alcohol filled Virgil’s nose. Did that mean Joe was brea—
SNORT!
Virgil leaped backward at the sound and jumped to his feet.
He raised the heavy gun and tried to get the sight on the barrel to align with the notch.
It shook wildly. He took a step forward and used his left hand to support the pistol.
The barrel was cold and smooth. He figured it was aimed roughly at the middle of Joe’s chest.
Virgil held his breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the kick. He had no idea a gun would be this difficult to fire.
Shoulda practiced.
He opened one eye to be sure the pistol was aimed at Joe, then closed it tightly and squeezed the trigger. Harder. Harder still. With all his might.
Nothing.
The gun refused.
It was a snore. Joe was snoring.
Dead men don’t snore.
Virgil pointed the gun at the wall, thinking somehow that it might cooperate if not directed at a person, and tried a third time to fire it. No good. It was loaded, he had cocked it and…He pulled again on the hammer…it clicked farther back.
Of course! The first click-back of the hammer was the safety position. He hadn’t pulled it all the way to the business position.
He turned and aimed at Joe once again, holding his breath. The trigger grazed the underside of his finger. He lifted it away. He’d been terrified of Joe, and thought his only option was to surprise and shoot him. Now he had a better option available.
Hold on. If he’s shot, they’ll start hunting for a killer. Nobody’s going to suspect a drunk meeting an accident in his own digs.
Virgil carefully returned the hammer to the safety position and set the gun on the table.
He took a couple of deep breaths, then moved Joe’s chair over to the cabinet, trying to orient it exactly the way Joe had when he had retrieved the radio.
He walked back toward the kitchen, gripped one of Joe’s ankles with each hand, and pulled at Joe’s limp body.
Joe didn’t budge. He’d need to spin Joe completely around in order to pull him over to the cabinet.
Virgil moved to grip the wrists, trying not to look at Joe’s face. The smell hit his nose again. He spread his feet wide, squatted into a fighting stance, and tugged as hard as he could.
Joe slid a few inches, and his eyelids began to flutter. He let out a long, soft moan.
Virgil repeated the process, pulling harder, each pull moving Joe a little farther across the wood floor, the sour smell of Joe’s breath growing more intense.
Joe was heavy, and he seemed to be stirring more as Virgil maneuvered him nearer the cabinet.
Joe’s fingers opened and began reaching toward Virgil’s wrists.
Virgil dropped one of Joe’s arms and regrabbed it from behind the hand, preventing Joe from getting a grip on him.
Joe’s eyes began to open. He let out a louder groan.
Panic rose in Virgil’s chest. He dropped both arms, reached behind the cabinet, and pulled forward hard. The heavy piece of furniture dumped its contents—radio parts, cables, bottles, and books bouncing and crashing across the wooden floor.
He pulled again and the cabinet fell forward, smashing the wooden chair and landing on top of Joe’s lower body, pinning him down.
The impact awakened Joe even more, and he started to struggle, his eyes blinking wildly, his right arm starting to move, reaching toward Virgil. “Don’t do this, son. You’re making a mistake. I hid half the gold. It’s all for you. Kill me and you’ll never find it.”
Virgil considered.
He lifted the heavy radio off the workbench, stood over Joe’s head, and slammed it down with all his strength. It connected with a sickly thud. Joe’s body lurched and then went still.
A thick trail of blood trickled out from under the radio.
Virgil collapsed on the floor, trying to breathe.
Trying to stop sobbing. He rolled onto his side and curled himself into a ball.
His ears rang and his vision blurred. His stomach lurched violently and he threw up on the floor, the vomit mixing with the pool of blood that was creeping steadily toward him.
He rolled away and grabbed at his own chest before losing control and vomiting again.
The room fell quiet.
Virgil lost track of time as he lay on the floor, soaking in the blood and silence.
You’re a businessman. You do what it takes to succeed. You make the hard calls.
Virgil climbed slowly to his feet, his hands shaking.
He could not look at the body of his dead partner.
He began gathering the stacks of cash from the table.
Blood—he was getting bloody handprints on the money.
He wiped his hands on his pants and started with the cash again—trying to place the bundles neatly back into his briefcase, forcing his trembling fingers to straighten them into perfect rows.
He laid the revolver exactly where it had been before. Breathing as slowly as he could, he gathered the bank statements, put the pages back in order, slipped them into the file envelope, and placed it back into the briefcase.
Did Joe really skim half the gold? If he did, it would be around here somewhere, probably hidden in the cabin or buried on the island. Still, killing him was the best plan—bird in the hand and all.
Virgil looked around the small radio shack. Now was not the time. He needed to get out and get back to Sitka. He would be able to search for the gold later, after things cooled off.
He brushed off his leather shoes, buttoned his suit jacket, and closed the lid of the case, his thumbs snapping the combination latches tight with a satisfying click.
The top-quality Italian alligator hide glowed a gorgeous green in the dimly lit room.