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Camino Winds (Camino Island, #2) by John Grisham Read Online (FREE)

Bruce appeared dumbfounded. “Anything else?”

“Just speculating, of course. But I’ll bet she had a team with her. Probably rented a condo for a week or two. Had plenty of backup and they knew how to get off the island about the time that Leo was leaving. Don’t ask me how.”

“So what was the murder weapon?” Bob asked.

“We may never know, but it could’ve been Nelson’s seven iron. I looked at his clubs this morning when you two were sitting on the patio. There’s a stain and some matter on the seven iron. Could be blood, I don’t know. I didn’t touch anything. When swung properly, a seven iron, or any iron for that matter, can do some real damage to a skull.”

Bruce asked Bob, “And she was strong enough to move his body?”

“Oh sure. I weigh two hundred pounds and she really bounced me around. Of course I wasn’t resisting, mind you. Nelson weighs, weighed, a buck-seventy at most.”


Bruce said, “But there was no electricity. How could she find his golf clubs with no lights?”

“He had at least two flashlights. We used one this morning. Maybe she had been there before. Maybe someone else scoped the place when Nelson wasn’t home.”

“A lot of maybes,” Bob said. “You got quite an imagination.”

“I do. Let’s hear your theory.”

“I don’t have one and I’m not thinking too clearly right now. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s a murder. I say we wait till the autopsy.”

They sat in the darkness and listened to the distant sounds of their battered island. A gas-engine generator was rattling a street or two over. A helicopter was making a night run in the direction of the beach. A siren wailed far away. But none of the usual languid nighttime sounds—neighbors laughing on their porches, music emanating from stereos, dogs barking, cars easing down the street, the distant horn of a shrimp boat entering the harbor.

Bruce slapped a mosquito on his neck and said, “That’s it. Let’s go inside.” He started his generator, closed the terrace door, and they regrouped in the den where the air was a bit cooler. All lights were off but for a small table lamp by the television. Bruce set it on a card table and said, “How about some poker?”

He poured a round of single malt from Nelson’s collection and they toasted their late friend. The alcohol mixed with the fatigue and the poker was cut short. Bob slept on one sofa; Nick on another. Bruce stretched out in his recliner and soon fell asleep to the rickety hum of his generator.


Breakfast was coffee and a cheese sandwich. The gasoline supply was becoming critical and they discussed it as they ate. Nelson’s car had half a tank, and Bob suggested they drain most of it with a section of garden hose. Bruce and Nick confessed to having no siphoning experience, so Bob took charge and managed to withdraw about ten gallons without poisoning himself.