Silver Linings

One

    The only thing she really knew about Paul Cormier was that he was dying.
    The blood from the wound in his chest had soaked through his white silk shirt and white linen suit and was running in small rivulets over the white marble tile.
    The old man opened his eyes as Mattie Sharpe crouched helplessly beside him, grasping his hand in hers. He peered up at her, as if he were trying to see through a thick fog.
    “Christine? Is that you, Christine?” Even in a croaked whisper, his accent was elegant and vaguely European.
    “Yes, Paul.” Lying was the only thing she could do for him. Mattie held his hand tightly. “It's Christine.”
    “Missed you, girl. Missed you so much.”
    “I'm here now.”
    Cormier's pale blue gaze focused on her for a few seconds. “No,” he said. “You're not here. But I'm almost there, aren't I?” He made a sound that might have started out as a chuckle but turned into a ghastly, gurgling cough.
    “Yes. You're almost here.”
    “Be good to see you again.”
    “Yes.” A hot, torpid island breeze wafted through the front hall of the Cormier mansion. The silence from the surrounding jungle was unnatural and oppressive. “It's going to be all right, Paul. Everything will be fine.” Lies. More lies.
    Cormier squinted up at her, his gaze startlingly lucid for an instant. “Get out of here. Hurry.”
    “I'll go,” Mattie promised.
    Cormier's eyes closed again. “Someone will come. An old friend. When he does, tell him…tell him.” Another terrible gasping sound drained more of the little strength he had left.
    “What do you want me to tell him?”
    “Reign…” Cormier choked on his own blood. “In hell.”
    Mattie didn't pause to make sense out of what she thought she'd heard him say. Automatically she reassured him. “I'll tell him.”
    The hand that had been clutching hers slackened its grip. “Christine?”
    “I'm here, Paul.”
    But Cormier did not hear her this time. He was gone.
    The horror of her situation washed over Mattie again. She struggled to her feet, feeling light-headed. Without thinking, she glanced at the black and gold watch on her wrist as if she were late to a business appointment.
    With a shock she realized she had been in the white mansion overlooking the ocean for less than five minutes. She would have been here two hours earlier if she hadn't gotten lost on a winding island road that had dead-ended in the mountains. At the time the delay had made her tense and anxious. It occurred to Mattie now that if she had arrived on time, she probably would have walked straight into the same gun that had killed Paul Cormier.
    The toe of her Italian leather shoe struck something on the floor. It skittered away across the tile.
    Mattie jumped at the loud sound in the eerily silent hall. Then she glanced down and saw the gun.
    Cormier's, probably, she told herself. He must have tried to fight off the intruder. Dazed, Mattie took a step toward the weapon. Perhaps she should take it with her.
    Even as the words formed in her mind she shuddered. The last gun she had handled had been a little plastic model that had come in a box labeled, “Annie Oakley's Sharpshooter Special. For ages five and up.” A friend had give it to her on the occasion of her sixth birthday. Mattie had practiced her fast draw for hours, whipping the toy gun out of its pink fringed, imitation leather holster over and over again until her concerned parents had taken it from her and replaced it with a box of watercolors. Mattie had dutifully played with the paints for approximately ten minutes and succeeded in producing a cheerful yellow horse for Annie Oakley to ride. The picture had been cute, but was not deemed good enough to hang on the refrigerator next to her sister Ariel's latest rendition of a bouquet of flowers.
    Her training in handguns thus halted at such an early stage, Mattie realized now that she had absolutely no idea of how to use the lethal-looking monster lying at her feet on the white floor.
    On the other hand, how complicated could it be? she asked herself as she stooped to pick up the heavy weapon. Every punk on every city street back in the States owned and operated one. It was a sure bet most of them were too illiterate to read the manuals. Besides, it was easy to see which end to point away from herself.
    Oh, God. She was getting hysterical. It was a sure sign of losing control. She had to get a grip on herself. She could panic later if necessary.
    Mattie took