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then rolled off the cutting board onto the boat’s deck.
     
    With a knee, I pinned Fama’s headless torso against the side of the boat, grabbed his other arm and chopped off his left hand. I grabbed it, dropped it into the first crab trap, and tossed it over the side. I went to the console, eased the throttle forward, and went another hundred yards into the bay.
     
    Again, I shifted the engine to neutral, went back, grabbed the next hand and its matching crab trap container, and tossed it over the side.
     
    Back at the console and still navigating from memory, I eased the boat forward, past Coon Key to the mouth of San Carlos Pass, near the Estero Boulevard Bridge.
     
    Fama’s head went into a crab trap and this, too, went over the side.
     
    I was glad Fama’s associate back in the Preserve had told me how Fama had planned to get rid of my body. I hoped Fama wasn’t mad at me for stealing his idea.
     
    I guided the boat under the bridge and followed it to where the pass widened out into the Gulf of Mexico. I pointed the nose of the boat due west, toward Texas, and eased the throttle forward until the boat was moving at a good clip directly out in the Gulf.
     
    And then a major disappointment: I went to the back of the boat and discovered that Fama’s companion wasn’t unconscious. He was dead. I shrugged off the fact that my night’s perfect batting average was spoiled.
     
    I gave him a seat in the captain’s chair and lashed him in securely with rope. With the same rope, I then tied him to the boat’s steering wheel.
     
    Next, I found a towel, wiped down the cleaver and tossed it out into the Gulf, then used the towel to wipe down anything else I had touched.
     
    A spare gas can was at the stern of the boat. It was half-full. I splashed gasoline over everything above and below decks.
     
    Next, I doused the towel with gasoline and poured a trail of gas right up to the bow of the boat.
     
    When I was sure the boat was heading perfectly straight, I used a lighter I’d gotten from the boat’s dashboard and lit the towel on fire.
     
    There was a whump as I dove from the bow. I drove myself straight down and then out, back toward land. I swam underwater for as long as I could. When I finally surfaced, a wall of black smoke covered the water, and I caught sight of what was left of Fama’s boat still motoring out into the Gulf.
     
    Moments later an explosion rocked the air and debris shot up into the sky.
     
    I dove again and swam until my lungs were on fire.
     
    This time when I surfaced there was only the faint smell of something burning.
     
    It took me nearly twenty minutes to make it to land for two reasons. One, I was not a very good swimmer. And two, I had to swim at an angle to make sure the current wouldn’t reunite me with Fama.
     
    I dragged myself onto the beach, took a minute to catch my breath and then got to my feet.
     
    The sun was just coming up.
     
    A day at the beach.
     
    I’d always wanted one of those.
     
     
     
    THE END
     

 
    About the Author
     
    Dani Amore is a crime novelist living in Los Angeles, California. You can learn more about her at http://www.daniamore.com
     
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