Page 131 of The Right to Remain

“West,” said Helena. “Far west.”

Beyond the Miami city limits, where the Spanish-language billboards ended and the lands of the Miccosukee tribe began, Eighth Street became a two-lane highway known as the Tamiami Trail. It was so named because it linked Miami on the Atlantic seacoast to Tampa on the Gulf of Mexico, but Helena wasn’t headed nearly that far. About amile short of the entrance to Everglades National Park, Helena turned down a gravel side road that led to a public boat launch, where two men dressed in hunting camouflage were offloading an airboat. Helena drove past them without slowing down, kicking up dust until they reached an open field, where she stopped the car and killed the engine.

She checked the rearview mirror. Austen was nearly asleep from the monotony of a drive through the Everglades. The scenery never changed, mile after flat mile of sawgrass to the north and south, broken up only by the occasional sighting of an alligator or a turtle sunning itself alongside the endless canals of the Miami-Dade water district.

“Austen, I have a question for you.”

He lifted his chin from his chest. “What, Mom?”

“What are the four rules of gun safety?”

It wasn’t a random question. With guns in the household, Helena and Owen had begun their son’s safety education early, focusing on the four cardinal rules.

Austen’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and then he recited from memory. “Rule number one: Only point your gun at something you want to shoot. Two: Treat all guns like they’re loaded. Three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Four: Be sure you know what you’re shooting at and what’s behind it.”

“Very good,” said Helena.

Parents could disagree over how young was too young for a child to shoot a firearm, but most agreed that it was not before they could recite the four rules.

“Austen, did you know your father learned to shoot a gun when he was just seven years old?”

“I’m not him,” he said without interest.

“No. You’re better than him.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Did we come out here to shoot?”

“First, you’re going to watch me. I want you to study every little thing I do from the second I touch the gun until I pull the trigger. And then if you feel like it, maybe I’ll let you try.”

“I wouldn’t be any good. Dad said so.”

“That’s because your father is one of those people who thinks ballet dancers are weak. You’re not. You’re strong. I’ll show you. Sit up straight and hold your arms out to the side.”

He moved to the middle of the back seat and did so.

“How long can you do that without moving?”

“They timed me for two minutes at the conservatory.”

“See? It takes a strong ballet dancer to do that. Combine that with excellent balance, and you’re a natural on the shooting range. As long as you have the right-sized gun.”

She opened her purse, removed the Beretta Bobcat, and showed him.

“It’s so small,” he said. “Is it real?”

“Yes, it’s real. And with this gun, I want you to remember rule number two above all others. Because this one isalwaysloaded.”

A muffler backfired on a passing vehicle, jarring Helena from her memories. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in her parked car, behind the wheel, thinking, but it was time to go. She checked herself in the mirror and was surprised by what she saw.

She was crying.

Helena dabbed away the tears, started the car engine, and backed out of her parking space, dreading her conversation with the state attorney.

Chapter 49

The garage door opened, and the red taillights of a loaded box truck lit up Theo’s warehouse like a house of ill repute.

Theo was inside with Baptiste, the white guy who called himself Elton, and the Haitian handyman with the tool bag. They stepped away from the exhaust fumes as the box truck backed into the open space between stacks of whiskey barrels. The engine stopped. Elton closed the garage door. The driver jumped out, hurried around to the rear of the truck, and raised the roll-up panel. The cargo box was loaded with footlockers like the one Theo had seen at the “planning meeting.” They were stacked from floor to ceiling, one row against the left wall and another against the right, with an aisle-like opening down the center. Baptiste switched on his flashlight, hopped into the back of the truck, and walked up and down the aisle counting footlockers.