They both stare at the line, equally pensive. “Probably extra precautions to keep invasive species out,” he says. “I guess we just have to roll with it.”
“I guess.”
They head toward the end of the line. Some of the other tourists seem agitated too. A woman in her thirties with flat blond hair, a red Prada bag over her shoulder, mutters to a companion, “Do you see the way they’re just tossing the bags around?”
“They better not leave a mark, not a mark on my purse.”
“And, like, oh my God, what are they wearing?”
Julia hears a loud clunk behind them, and turns to see a small, burly man quickly removing their luggage from the plane and loading it up on a dolly. Not a member of the church—he wears jeans, a checked shirt, and latex gloves, a face mask over his mouth and nose. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look their way, intent on his task.
No one else notices him. No one ever notices the help.
Why is he wearing a face mask?
A large middle-aged man, wearing an aloha shirt that looks brand-new, steps out of line. “Hey!” he shouts in the general direction of the young man with the clipboard. “Excuse me!”
The young man looks up at him, pushes his thick, black-framed glasses back up his nose. He leans over to one of the women, murmurs something in her ear. She turns and walks away, and she’s joined by another woman, not a word or a look exchanged between them. They head for the dolly and the luggage.
This doesn’t feel right.
“Excuse me!” the middle-aged man shouts. “Hey! What exactly are you doing with our things?”
The young man smiles and walks toward them. The harsh glare of the setting sun reflects off his glasses. “Hello, you must be . . .”
The man stands straighter. “Rog-er Nel-son.” Delivered in four terse syllables, like they’re words of the magi and can open the entrance to any cave filled with treasure.
But the name has no such relevance here. The young man holds up his clipboard, scans it, makes a quick note, smiling the entire time in a way that is also subtly dismissive. His teeth are perfectly white, perfectly straight.
“Oh, here you are. Welcome to Kapu. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. My name is Isaac, and I’ll be your host for your stay.”
“Well, Isaac, I’d like to speak to your supervisor, because this is not acceptable.”
“We’re simply checking all baggage for any unapproved items. We’ve found that some people don’t necessarily read the list of things to not bring, or misunderstand, and to preserve the integrity of this undisturbed natural preserve, we have to be thorough. If we do find unapproved items, we’ll place them in a plastic bag, label it with your name, and return it to you on your departure.”
Roger takes a presumptive step forward, puffs his chest out. “I don’t want you mucking about with my valuables, young man. There wasn’t anything in—”
“Nothing that is not unapproved will be removed,” says Isaac, holding his ground without flinching. As if he’s heard, and ignored, this very issue many times before. “We are fully bonded and insured, and have never had a complaint.”
“Well, your supervisor—”
“I am your only point of contact here on the island.”
Why is the baggage handler wearing a face mask? Maybe he’s just sick, doesn’t want to spread a bug he picked up? She’d imagine that the church members have sensitive immune systems, not having been exposed to all the viruses of the world. Seems plausible. Don’t freak yourself out, Julia.
A woman standing next to Roger, wearing white shorts and a golf visor, says, “Well, I didn’t agree to—”
“Yes, you did—page fifteen of the agreement,” says Isaac crisply. “I can show you if you’d like. However, you’re welcome to leave with the returning guests if you don’t want us to check your bags. But then, there will be no reimbursement of your vacation package, as per page fourteen, paragraph five. Now, if you could just stand in line with the others so we can let the guests board the plane, we would certainly appreciate it.” With that, he turns around and heads back to the thatched portico, completely unperturbed.
The woman leans into the man standing next to her—her husband, probably. “Well, I never. We should complain to management as soon as we get back. I’ve never been treated so rudely—do they really think that just because they’re charging us up the ass they can speak to us this way?”
“So, do you want to stay, Lois?” asks Roger.
“Of course I want to stay. I’ve been looking forward to this all year. I’m not going to let some twit . . .”
Julia tunes out the rest of the conversation. She’s heard it hundreds of times before among Ethan’s cadre, who expect the world to cater to them at all times. Instead she casts a glance at the two churchwomen who are grabbing the handle of the dolly to lug the first load of suitcases. Then over at Isaac, speaking quietly to the returning tourists under the shaded portico. He has their complete attention. They grab their bags and start to walk toward the plane, smiling and waving back at him. Everyone is busy, distracted.
She quickly slips her hand into her purse, grabs the brochure, folds it, and puts it in her back pocket, just in case. No one seems to notice.
Christ, though, what if they find the false bottom in her suitcase?
“Dammit,” says Noah.
She’s not alone in her predicament, apparently.
“I’m so busted,” he says with a sigh. “Might as well get it over with.” With that, he steps out of line and rolls his suitcase directly over to the redheaded young woman, wheels grating on the bumpy pavement. With a mighty heave he lifts his suitcase up on the table, where it lands with a loud thunk, and unzips it with a flourish.
It’s a scene. Everyone in line cranes their necks to see what he tried to smuggle in.
He reaches in, pulls out a full case of beer. Another case, this one of canned chili. Three boxes of doughnuts.
Snickers among the guests standing in line—an immediate lightening of the mood. Roger whistles and shouts, “Party tonight!”
Isaac seems visibly pained. Makes a note on his clipboard—terse, angry scratches.
If Noah was looking to gain friends, he just did, in droves. Everyone’s always attracted to the rebel. Smart move, thinks Julia.
It’s why no one else but she pays much attention to the returning guests passing by them, on their way to board the plane. Maybe it’s just the effect of spending a week in paradise, but they all seem remarkably healthy—it practically radiates off of them. Smooth skin, not a single mole or freckle or wrinkle, even on the women who are obviously older. Hair that shines and bounces, as if they just stepped out of a salon. And what the hell did they use to shave? Razors were definitely on the “don’t bring” list, yet their legs are smooth, like they’ve been recently waxed. Plump lips, no bags under the eyes. It’s a level of perfection that Julia knows is very, very expensive, that usually takes a team to create and maintain. Is that the real secret, why the wait list is so long? Maybe the church has secreted away some kind of plastic surgery facility, a neat way to get some work done under the guise of a vacation. Brilliant, really.
She turns to watch them board the plane, and for a moment her heart literally skips a beat. Leanne, standing in the jet’s open doorway. Now wearing a face mask as well.
CHAPTER 8
LEANNE WASN’T SICK. NOT A cough, not a sneeze. So why the hell is she wearing a face mask? Julia tries to find an alternate theory, fails. None of the church members wear a mask, none of the returning guests. If there had been an outbreak here, swine flu, avian flu, something like that, they’d probably be wearing them too—unless that would make for bad PR, which it would. A quarantine would be bad for business. But everyone seems so damn healthy, even the churchwomen in smocks, weird as they are.
What did the pilot say, something about rat-lung disease? Didn’t sound fun, and how do you catch that?
Julia looks to see where her suitcase
is—finds it’s precariously situated on top of the others on the dolly, being pulled toward the pop-up tent. One of the women has a hand on it to keep it steady. Julia imagines the suitcase falling off as it’s bounced and jostled along the way, cracking open to reveal what she’s smuggling in. Wonders whether they’d send her packing on the return flight or if they’d quietly take her into the jungle and push her off a cliff.
Terminally naive, Ethan whispers.
Stop it, Julia. She’s not going to make it two days, let alone seven, if she lets her imagination get the best of her. When she’d been working at the paper, she’d had nerves of steel, which she’d needed to interrupt powerful executives at press conferences with pointed questions or to meet whistleblowers afraid for their lives. But motherhood had softened her, then the divorce, the aftermath, the lean times wrecking her. She’s going to have to resurrect her old self—or at least a reasonable facsimile—if she’s going to get through this.
It doesn’t take long for the returning guests to finish boarding; the baggage handler starts to load their luggage into the cargo compartment while the churchwomen under the tent sift through the purses, fanny packs, and suitcases with the efficiency of factory workers. Zip, dig, unfold, shake, refold. Not a single word exchanged between them. Not a single look. So very, very strange.
The line moves quickly, and soon it’s Julia’s turn to hand over her purse to the young woman with red hair hanging over her face. Don’t look suspicious. Don’t think about the phone in your shoe. Impossible not to, when the damn thing feels like a rock. Her foot is already throbbing.
The young woman takes the purse, and Julia gets a glimpse of her jaw—skin poorly healed from what must have been a third-degree burn. Her lips appear to be silently moving, although it’s hard to tell for sure.
“Beautiful weather,” says Julia.
The woman doesn’t respond, doesn’t react, just puts the purse in a plastic bin. Something furtive in her movements. It reminds Julia of a woman she once interviewed at a shelter for battered women, the same twitchy kind of nervousness. She wonders if this church is more cult than congregation.
Julia puts her hand on the bin. “I forgot, I need to show my ID, right?”
The woman pauses.
So she can hear me all right.
Julia reaches out for her purse and then pretends to knock the bin onto the ground by accident. The woman crouches down to retrieve it, and Julia crouches down too, ostensibly to help, if anyone’s watching.
“I’m so sorry, I’m just a big klutz,” Julia says warmly, reaching for her wallet, which has fallen out onto the ground.
The woman looks at her—the strangest eye Julia has ever seen in her life, so gray that it’s almost white, with jagged green daggers radiating out from the iris. She whispers, “I spy with my little eye. . . . I spy with my little eye. . . .”
That was in my dream. Julia hears the crunch of shoes on pebbles behind her. The woman looks down immediately, grabs the purse, and clutches it to her chest, like an animal expecting a blow.
“Is everything all right here?”
Julia looks up. Isaac again. His straw hat, backlit by the sun, forms a shadow halo around his head. In his hand, a lei.
“Other than me knocking over everything in sight, yes,” says Julia, getting to her feet. “I forgot you needed to see our ID, and was just trying to get it.”
Isaac smiles widely, something forced about it. “Oh, there’s no need for an ID, not for you, Miss Greer. We’d recognize you anywhere. Welcome to Kapu.”
They’d recognize her anywhere? What the hell . . . ? It makes no sense, but he holds up the lei with both hands, and there’s no choice really but to bow her head and allow him to place it around her neck, although the whole thing feels unbearably uncomfortable. A subtext at play that she doesn’t understand.
Out of the corner of her eye, Julia sees an older churchwoman hoist her suitcase onto one of the folding tables. She unzips it. Julia’s heart starts to pound so loudly it’s amazing no one can hear.
She swallows, smiles at Isaac. “I’m so glad to be here.”
“Well then, let’s get you settled in.”
After a last, lingering glance behind her—she sees the redhead push the older churchwoman out of the way, somewhat forcefully, then grab Julia’s suitcase—they head to join the others gathered under the portico.
All the way there, Julia half expects to hear one of the churchwomen call out, announce the discovery of all the very incriminating gear she has hidden in the false bottom of her luggage. Or at least notice her odd gait as she struggles to walk normally with a phone in her shoe. But none do, and they reach the others that have gathered under the shade—they’ve all effectively traded places with the tourists now on the plane. The roof of the portico is dramatically steep, with supporting beams made of bamboo and dried thatch. There’s a wonderful view of the beach from one side, a small trail leading into the jungle from the other. A fresh breeze blows through.
Isaac, clipboard pressed against his chest, steps past her and up onto a slightly elevated platform. Julia notes sweat stains radiating out from under his arms. Everyone’s sweating now, for different reasons.
Isaac coughs to clear his throat, and raises his head slightly.
“Welcome, everyone. We at the Church of Eternal Light thank you for choosing Kapu for your island paradise vacation. We will endeavor to make your stay here as enjoyable, and as unforgettable, as possible.” He runs through this quickly, like it’s an overrehearsed spiel.
There are shared, highly irritated glances. The unexpected property search has not gone over well.
He ignores the rancor and continues, “Before I hand out cottage assignments, I’d like to review the rules and responsibilities that you should have received in your welcome packet. Did everyone receive the welcome packet?”
There’s a general murmur of consensus. Julia eyes the other guests. In addition to Noah, who seems to have attached himself to a young couple now—newlyweds maybe? They beam at each other and hold hands lightly—there’s the middle-aged couple, Roger and Lois in the golf visor. Lois seems somewhat appeased, or maybe she’s just silently tallying up everything that’s wrong so she can threaten a lawsuit and get reimbursed afterward.
When did I get so cynical?
“The first thing I’d like to cover is that there is to be no talking to any other members of the Church of Eternal Light. They are happy to serve you, but we have our own way of life and religious beliefs, which we strive to preserve. Should you need something, please come to me directly and I will assist you.”
A trio of women smirk—thirty-something trying to look twenty-something with artificially sculpted cheekbones and meticulously shaped eyebrows. One whispers, “I don’t think he could assist me with anything.” Blond, blond, brunette, hair extensions across the board, waxed legs and arms. A couple of younger men—college students?—surreptitiously glance at them.
“Kapu has a fragile ecosystem, and we appreciate your effort to protect it. Please use the trash receptacles in your cabin or within the resort to dispose of rubbish. Some of the plant, animal, and fish species you will encounter are extremely rare and can only be found on this island. While it might be tempting to pick a flower or touch a fish while snorkeling, please refrain from doing so. Not only would that violate the terms of agreement you signed, but some species are poisonous to the touch. It goes without saying that you may not bring anything from the island home with you on the return flight. No souvenirs. No rocks, no flowers, nothing from the island is to be taken at all. Your bags will be inspected before you leave.”
He pauses a moment to let that sink in.
Standing slightly apart from the rest, in a spot where she can see everyone and everything, is a tall woman with an athletic build, muscular shoulders, tightly braided black cornrows. Something powerful about her. A fierce intelligence.
“You will find well-marked trails that create a hiking loop that takes
you by a beautiful waterfall; we strongly recommend staying on the trails at all times. Snorkeling gear, hammocks, body boards, and other equipment will be available for your use here in the portico. Please return them here when you’re done with them. If you plan to swim in the waterfall, please take a shower prior using no soap, and refrain from applying sunscreen before you head out. Even small quantities of chemicals can damage the native species here. Keep an eye on the peak before you enter the waterfall. If there are clouds near the peak, don’t go in. We get flash floods, even when it’s not raining on other parts of the island.”
Which ones are real tourists, and which ones, like Julia, are on a different mission? Athletic Woman is an obvious candidate, but it’s too early to rule anyone out. Julia catches Noah mid-yawn. He sees her looking and makes a let’s wind this up motion with his fingers.
“There is a lava-rock wall surrounding the eco-resort. Do not, and I cannot emphasize this enough, do not go beyond the rock wall. Anyone caught beyond the rock wall will be sequestered in their cabin for the remainder of their time here, and will have to pay a significant penalty, as outlined in your agreement.”
Suddenly there’s a rumble as the jet’s engine starts up. Isaac casts a glance over at the pop-up tent—the churchwomen are now lining up the purses and suitcases just in front of the table. A heap of plastic bags containing what Julia assumes are the confiscated items are laid out on top.
This appears to satisfy him. He pulls a small walkie-talkie from his back pocket. “Delta A, please stand by.”
There’s a crackle of static and a deep voice replies, “Roger that.”
Julia looks to see if the baggage handler is still there, but he’s gone.
Isaac stands up a little straighter. “Finally, I would like to remind you that the church is not liable for injury or, God forbid, death. This is not Disneyland. This is not Hawaii. We are five hundred miles from the nearest hospital. There are no lifeguards, no helicopters, no doctors on the island. Every cabin is equipped with a rudimentary first-aid kit, which you will find under your bathroom sink. In the event of a medical emergency, we will call for a plane, but there is no guarantee that transport will be able to leave immediately. We have been fortunate that there have only been a couple of minor injuries. . . . However, there was once a fatality in transit to a hospital after a guest picked up a venomous cone snail. Remember: Look, don’t touch, and don’t leave the boundary of the rock wall. If anyone has second thoughts, please raise your hand. You can take the return flight now. However, you will not be reimbursed for your expenses.”
The Nightmarchers Page 10