Page 51 of Dauntless

“Put it down, Clarry,” Joe said, keeping his voice even.“The police are on the way.”

“This is island business, Red Joe, not police business.John Coldwell was one of ours, and it’s right that we should sort it out.That man behind you is akiller, and?—”

“Bullshit,” Joe said.“That’s bullshit.”

“Believing the word of a Hawthorne over one of your own now, are you?”Short Clarry asked.

“It was an islander who killed John Coldwell,” Joe said.“And it’s an islander pointing a fucking gun at me right now.”

“Then step aside,” Short Clarry said, “and there’s half your problem solved.”

“It was you,” I said suddenly.“I was leaving the museum, and I passedyou.You weren’t in your house.You were going to the museum.You’re the one who killed him!”

Short Clarry didn’t even flinch.

“All this,” Joe said hollowly.“All this for some old diary.”

“No,” Short Clarry said.“All this forDauntless, Red Joe!For our future!I’ve been talking to investors.Investors!And then John Coldwell put everything in jeopardy when he attacked Hawthorne for the diary.Tourists won’t want to come here if they think that’s how they’ll be treated!”

I spluttered.

“Short Clarry, you’re pointing a fucking gun at that same tourist right now,” Joe told him.

Short Clarry looked at least a little shamefaced.“Yes, well, he’s not a tourist now though, is he?He’s awitness.”

“You fought with John Coldwell over what happened with the diary,” Joe said.“You got angry, and you hit him with the rack, and you killed him.And Eddie had already seen you going to visit him.”

I dug a hand into the pocket of Joe’s coat, and he must have felt it because he turned his hip to help me.My fingers closed around Joe’s torch.It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was heavy, and it was better than nothing.

“That’s the long and the short of it,” Short Clarry said.I couldn’t believe we were going to be murdered by a man with floral curtains and Royal Albert Old Country Roses tea cups.“Then I saw him, didn’t I?Climbing up to the point in that bright red jacket, sticking out like the balls on a dog, and now here we are.”He gestured with the pistol.“Step aside, Red Joe.”

“No.I can’t do that.”Joe lifted his chin.“I won’t.”

Almost two hundred years ago, on this very point, Josiah Nesmith and his fellow mutineers had hanged Captain George Hawthorne.

What would our great-great-great-whatever-grandfathers think of us now?A Nesmith standing in front of a Hawthorne, except this time he doesn’t have a rope in his hands.

I hoped our ancestors at least appreciated the irony.

Short Clarry didn’t waver.

“Is this really what you want?”Joe asked, as I felt the torch slide free.“I’m the last direct male descendant of Josiah Nesmith.”

“We’re all mutineers at heart, Red Joe,” Short Clarry said, “even now.You’re no better than the rest of us.Come on now, last chance to step aside.”

Joe stepped aside just as I threw the torch.

It was a bad throw.The torch went wide, smashing against the wall behind Short Clarry’s right shoulder.It was enough to make him flinch back though.

“Run!”Joe yelled, pushing me toward the steps.“Go!”

We were younger than Short Clarry, and faster.

I hauled myself up the stairs, and Joe was only a step or two behind me.

“Lantern room!”Joe yelled.“Go!”

We thundered up the steps.

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