She blinks, sits up straighter. Realizes her vulnerability. She casts an eye at her purse, which she’d tucked under the seat in front of her.
“What . . .” Her mind is still thick with the dream. Groggy. “Where are we?”
“We’re here,” Noah says. “We’re just about to land.”
And at first she doesn’t remember, but then she does, and looks out the window to find a small island coming into view, densely green in parts, golden grassland in others, a sharp peak jutting out from the center, wreathed in mist. The pointy remains of the crumbling, extinct volcano. None of the photos managed to capture its immense scale, or its raw, savage beauty.
Kapu.
She doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s just the aftermath of the dream—but it feels like a homecoming of sorts.
#NDC DEV ORG HUB
20:09:52
lilith in transport?
20:09:58
yes. confirmed on board. eta 30 min. no inspection on her bag.
20:10:14
not possible. they receive direct instruction.
20:10:27
no inspection. not up for discussion. make it happen.
20:10:58
hello?
20:11:02
fuck. if he finds out.
20:11:08
make sure he doesn’t.
20:11:15
easy for you to say.
20:11:21
you can wipe red’s tears away with thousand-dollar bills when this is over.
20:11:41
he suspects. watching.
20:11:48
stop whining and do your fucking job. and be on time tomorrow.
20:12:04
meds in transport?
20:12:09
negative. meds stolen with exhibit a. lilith has last batch.
20:12:24
we need those meds.
20:12:29
you had 2 months’ worth.
20:12:35
had to increase dosage. voc’s at record level.
20:12:47
check passenger 4b. or make sure lilith makes goal sooner, then take hers.
20:13:06
seriously? i thought she was off-limits.
20:13:17
she’s a means to an end. get her to the end faster, then do what you have to.
20:13:36
- - > bai908 has quit
CHAPTER 7
THE PLANE GLIDES OVER THE eco-resort—there’s a pier connecting a series of thatched huts on stilts spread out over a lagoon, each with a steep, Polynesian-style roof, other huts nestled into the jungle’s hillside that overlook a long, winding stretch of a white sand beach, and all of it encompassed by a low wall, vegetation cleared on either side, that runs up and over a ridge like an artery. The plane circles, then lands on a narrow strip of bumpy concrete that runs almost level to the turquoise ocean waters. Slowly taxis to a stop. A ding, and the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign goes off. There’s the standard, pre-exit bustle—seats put in the upright position, bags zipped; a couple of men stand, impatient to get off already. If they knew what Julia did, maybe they wouldn’t be so eager. She remembers the first passage in Irene’s journal: I made the decision that if it was my destiny to perish over an anonymous bit of Pacific, then so be it. It wasn’t so easy for her to let go, though, in the end.
“God, I’m starving. You missed the meal but it wasn’t much, at least by man standards,” says Noah. “I tried to score yours, but Leanne wasn’t having it.”
He’s jokey, assuming the familiarity of a friend, trying to establish trust. She would do the same thing if she were in his position. Start by asking about the kids, talk about the weather, before digging in with, So why did you think it was okay to bury PCB-contaminated dirt in a playground?
“What’d they serve?” Julia asks, playing along. She checks the urge to grab her purse to see what, if anything, might be missing.
“Poached salmon, not half bad, on some kind of stale bread that was labeled ‘toasted brioche.’ And about a thimbleful of whipped lemon mousse. I’m hoping it’s all-you-can-eat buffet from here.”
He leans over, looks through the window, invading her space. “Supposed to be some of the best snorkeling in the world, right from that cove.”
She reaches down for her purse—she’d zipped it shut, she’s pretty sure. So why is it unzipped? The tip of the brochure pokes out. Even if he saw the number, though, it’s not like he can do anything with it. Unless, like her, he’s smuggling some tech in.
There’s another ding and Leanne exits the pilot’s cabin. She reaches for the intercom, smiles. “The pilot has turned off the seat belt sign, and you are free to move about the cabin. Time is four thirty-six p.m., and the temperature outside is a lovely seventy-two degrees.”
Noah leans back in his seat. “Might as well let the old folks exit before we get up. Did I tell you about the woman at the Benihana in Waikiki who caught on fire?”
Julia swallows what she’d like to say, which is would you please shut the hell up?, and instead says, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I must be thinking about it because I’m really wishing for a good steak right now. Oh my God. So you know how it goes, they chop, chop, chop, and this chef, he cuts an onion, sprays it with some kind of oil and tosses his knife up in the air, right? And I don’t know what happened exactly, I just heard the screams, but I look over, and I swear to God this pretty young thing, her T-shirt is on fire. On fire. Everybody is freaking out—I mean, this is bad for business right? Oh look, look over there!”
He points excitedly through the window, and Julia catches a glimpse of a gray hump arcing through the shallow water.
“Dolphin! Wow! I bet we’ll see sea turtles too. So, do you snorkel?”
Goddamn, he’s effectively blocking her exit with his long legs. “I’ve always wanted to.” I should sound excited, I don’t sound excited enough. Or rich enough. “I can’t wait. My husband—ex-husband—hated hot weather. We’d summer in Europe instead.”
She watches to see if he gets it, the use of summer as a verb, the nomenclature of the wealthy. Something that’d confused her the first time one of Ethan’s friends asked, Where do you summer? There had been smirks after she asked what he meant. The truth, though, is she never liked swimming in the ocean, the possibility of something unseen rising up under you, coming from an unknown direction.
Something she said does seem to throw him off-balance—she can feel him recalibrating. Good. “I know I asked, but what did you say you did for a living?”
She didn’t say, and he didn’t ask. “I was a professional wife. And now I’m unemployed.” There’s an edge of real pain when she says this—so she turns to the window to head off a follow-up question.
And finds a strange scene. Lined up along the tarmac is a row of white women—long hair that reaches their waist, leis draped in their hands; they wear floppy straw hats, bland cotton smocks. For a welcome crew, they seem oddly stiff, all of them at attention, like they’re frozen in place. At their head is a young man in a Mormon-ish short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black slacks. He also wears a straw hat, and he holds a clipboard tightly to his chest. For a group of people who live in the tropics, it’s odd how pale their skin is, like they rarely go outside. Or maybe they’re religious about sunscreen too. Behind them is a white portable tent, with an array of folding tables and plastic bins.
There are also a bunch of tourists standing under the shade of a thatched portico—t
he eco-resort returnees. At least they look tanned, relaxed, and are chatting, suitcases and bags waiting by their feet for the trip back.
It eases Julia’s mind somewhat, seeing them like that. Alive. Unharmed. Happy, even. It takes the edge off her dream, what the pilot said. But she shouldn’t take a chance with the phone. She should at least destroy the SIM card before she gets off.
“I’m sorry,” Noah says. “I didn’t mean to . . . Well, even my best friends say I have no filter and am nosy to the point of being obnoxious. Whatever I’m thinking just pops out of my mouth.”
She turns to him with a fake smile. “There’s no need to apologize.”
He looks visibly relieved.
“Do you mind if I squish by you?” Julia asks. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, sure,” he says. “Let me just . . .” He stands, and steps into the aisle, and she grabs her purse from under the seat, which seems to fluster him even more, the obvious implication being feminine products.
He leans over the back of the seat of the passengers in front of them. “Where are you all from?”
As she’s heading to the back of the plane, a fluttery movement outside the emergency exit window catches her eye. A bird, bright green with red spots on its wings and bright blue legs, lands on the frame of the window outside. It feels familiar, like she’s seen it before, but at first she can’t place it, until she does.
In her great-aunt’s basement, all those years ago. She’d seen its taxidermied cousin mounted on wood, graying with dust.
The bird peers at her, cocks its head inquisitively, then flutters off and out of sight.
It’s a relief to have a few minutes alone in the bathroom, which is twice as big as the ones on commercial flights, with understated mahogany paneling, a raised bowl of a porcelain sink, basket of rolled towels embroidered ISLAND AIR. Cool air pushes through vents near the ceiling. Christ, her frizzy hair is even more of a mess than usual, the mascara around her right eye smudged from the pillow. She digs around in her purse for a brush.
She’s been alone for so long that it feels weird being in tight quarters with people, and especially unnerving being around moneyed people again. She’d caught the tail end of a complaint as she passed by the last row, a woman grumbling to her partner that the movie she’d been watching on the back of the screen had been cut off, and she won’t be able to find out how it ends until they return.
No concept of what it’s like to be hungry, but then have to throw out food because your electricity has been turned off and it’s rotting. A whole realm of experience she’ll have to keep to herself. Probably best to talk as little as possible to the others, keep her focus on the task at hand.
Julia finds the brush, and a paper clip—thank God—takes an end, bends it. Then she digs for her phone and uses the paper clip end to pop out the SIM card. It slides out easily. She’d smash it for good measure, but the sound might attract attention, so she tosses it in the toilet bowl and flushes. Hopes that the chemicals will be enough to fry it.
Now, what to do with the phone? She could flush that too, but if it clogged the drain, someone might find it and then there’d be questions. Trash can? Too obvious. But then, it’s not like someone could trace it to her. Wait . . . no, she bought it from a vending machine with her credit card. They probably could, theoretically. She can’t take any chances, not while she’s so far away from civilization.
Her sneaker. The phone is small enough to fit under her foot. Then later she could just stow it in her suitcase with all the other prohibited gear. Toss it into a waterfall. Bury it. Something.
There’s a soft but firm knock on the door.
“Is everything okay in there?”
Leanne. Of course.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Julia says, untying the laces of her sneaker. “Would you mind tracking down a bottle of water for me? I’m a little dizzy. I think I got dehydrated.”
A pause. “Of course,” Leanne says, because there’s no other way to respond. She’s the hired help.
Julia slips the phone into her left shoe, hurriedly reties the laces. Not comfortable, but it will work. She stands, turns on the faucet, splashes some hot water on her face, then wipes away the mascara smudges around her eye with one of the rolled towels. Brushes her hair and then runs wet fingers through it to tamp down the flyaway strands.
Don’t look suspicious. Don’t look like you have a phone in your shoe. What would Ethan do? Act like he owned the place, of course, stroll out nonchalantly. If only he could see her now—Julia Greer, corporate spy.
She hates the part of her that still misses him.
She takes a moment, then tosses the towel in the bin, opens the door, and almost runs into Leanne, who has indeed tracked down a bottle of water. Leanne clutches it in her right hand, white knuckles visible through her skin. Tiny beads of sweat dot her upper lip.
What’s she so nervous about?
“Oh, thank you,” says Julia. “I was so thirsty. I rarely fall asleep on planes.”
“I’m so glad you found our cabin comfortable.”
Our cabin, like the plane is Leanne’s personal property. A habit that those who commingle with the rich eventually pick up, that gloss of superiority. It never stuck to Julia for some strange reason. Maybe she subconsciously knew there was a time limit on her stay.
Everyone’s disembarked, but then there were only ten other people on board besides her and Noah. It must be killing Leanne that Julia’s lingering.
“Is there anything else you need before you go?” she asks, offering the water.
Julia takes it. “No, thank you.”
Leanne’s eyes keep flitting toward the open door. A wisp of hair has escaped her bun, and she seems frayed, on edge. Julia senses something else underneath, a wired kind of near panic.
There’s a clipboard hanging from a hook across from the open door. A soft breeze rustles the attached paper.
Julia uncaps the water bottle, takes a sip. “Very refreshing.”
Leanne’s bottom lip starts to tremble. Is she about to cry? Why does she look like she’s about to cry?
“Have a wonderful time,” Leanne says. She looks down at the aisle, steps past Julia, and almost rushes into the restroom. The lock clicks.
Leaving Julia alone on the plane. She hoists her purse up onto her shoulder, starts down the aisle, taking in the scattered debris of the tourists who have already disembarked. Crumpled napkins. Magazines stashed in front pockets. A clear plastic cup with melting ice, and a sad wedge of lemon.
It makes her feel strange, although it shouldn’t. It’s just trash. But it almost feels like that one time she’d been assigned to cover a missing-persons story and an aunt had led her through the house where her niece and nephew had vanished, along with their two children, although the wallets and purses were still in the house, the keys to the car still hanging on a hook. Julia had walked through the kitchen after the police were done with it. Crusts of toast on plates. Glasses leaving rings on the stained-oak kitchen table.
But the tourists haven’t vanished; they’re just outside. Stay focused, Julia.
She hears a thunk up ahead. A pause, and then thunk, thunk, thunk. Then there’s a crash, and then she hears Noah unleash a series of curses. That damn suitcase of his.
When she’s just about at the exit door, she realizes that Leanne still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.
Like she’s hiding.
But from who?
Or from what?
At the top of the stairs, a rickety affair of rusting aluminum, Julia pauses, momentarily stunned. God, it’s so beautiful it hurts her eyes, like every tropical paradise cliché sprung to life. The green of the palm trees and leaves is so vibrant, so lush; the air so fresh she can smell the salt on the breeze; the sky a perfect blue, with the warm sun casting everything in a golden hue. No burnished haze of smog. No sound of traffic, or sirens, or rumbling trucks. Just the slap of the ocean waves against the beach, the rustle of the wind
through the palm fronds, scattered birdsong. The island hasn’t been flattened into submission with concrete and roads and Wi-Fi and fast-food chains. It’s still wild. Pristine.
Dangerous.
Noah, of course, is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. She’s going to have to do some serious figuring on how to handle him.
Well, nothing for it. Julia walks down to join him. There’s some kind of process ahead—the other disembarked tourists line up before the young man, who appears to be checking IDs, matching names to his clipboard—Really? As if we’d have been able to board with a fake one?—before each guest receives a lei from another unsmiling churchwoman in a plain smock, who doesn’t say a word or make eye contact. Weird.
She wonders why they don’t hire professionals from one of the other islands, or if the churchwomen themselves have ever left the island, experienced hospitality themselves. Probably not. She can’t imagine what it’d be like to be born and raised on such a small circle of land, to never know anything about the outside world beyond the few tourists who visit. The guests must seem strange to the congregation too, alien intruders.
After they clear the ID check, everyone’s purses, bags, and personal items are confiscated at the very end of the line by a young woman with hunched shoulders and blunt-cut red hair that hangs over her face. She piles everything into plastic bins, which are then silently collected by another churchwoman. A third woman goes through the bags, checking them thoroughly.
Julia grips her purse tighter, tries to think about what she wouldn’t want anyone to find. The brochure, obviously. It would look innocuous enough, but it’s not something she wants to lose track of.
Noah catches her look. “This sure as hell wasn’t in the marketing.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
The Nightmarchers Page 9