“Well, are they about to do that?”
“I’d say so, yeah,” Martin said agreeably.
Danny could barely contain himself. “Well, what do we do, Martin? Just wait for them to murder us?” He looked at the glider and bit his lip. “And what about that? They’ll rip it to shreds.”
“Please don’t raise your voice,” Martin said. “They have never found this site, as far as I know,” he said. “We’re safe here, and so is your flying machine.”
Danny sat down again. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Martin said. Suddenly his expression changed and he froze in place. He lifted his head and looked around to the left as if he had heard something.
Danny listened but heard nothing unusual. Martin leapt to his feet and stared off into the jungle.
Danny was again struck by the man’s quickness and panther-like grace.
Martin looked at Danny and grinned.
“But … I could be wrong,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
Danny raced along behind Martin the best he could, clutching the brown knapsack tossed to him as they fled the clearing. He felt a fear he had never felt before. If the gang caught them, what would they do? Would they be slaughtered like animals, or taken back to their headquarters and maybe even tortured for their amusement?
“We’ll have to divert them!” Martin called back over his shoulder. “Follow me!”
Danny didn’t much like leaving the security of the crashed plane, such as it was. And he very much didn’t like leaving his half-finished glider.
“We could hide in the plane,” Danny suggested as they ran. “Under all the junk that’s still piled in the back.”
Martin shook his head. “They’re like animals. They’ll smell us in there.”
Danny didn’t doubt that at all. The marauders, turned hunter-gatherers over the years, had probably developed senses of smell as keen as their preys’. He also realized that without the luxuries of soap and deodorant, and after all the days of sweating in the tropical sun, he obviously did stink.
Danny figured they had run for about a mile before Martin stopped. The golden-haired cat-man was hardly out of breath, Danny thought, as he stooped over, clutching his knees and panting. The same branches that allowed Martin to slip through without touching him had slapped Danny in the face and arms, raising a multitude of welts. Thorns and brambles that hadn’t left a mark on Martin ripped at Danny’s legs, leaving a pattern of red scratches, some of them bleeding.
Martin grinned at him, enjoying his discomfort. “You’re a mess, Man.”
Danny clenched his fists. He wanted to hit Martin, beat him to the ground, make him feel some of the pain he so obviously enjoyed inflicting on others.
Martin shrugged. “I never do anything without a reason,” he said. “They’ll smell your blood, you know.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Danny growled at him.
Martin laughed. “Yeah, actually. Dump some of your stuff out on the ground here, and toss the knapsack into the bushes over there.”
Danny suddenly understood. “Oh. We’re diverting them.”
“Right. Then we’ll wash off in the creek over there and head back around them.” Martin cocked his head. “They’re coming. Hear them?”
Danny listened. He did hear sounds in the distance, things that were not part of the normal symphony of the forest. Two deer burst from the woods and ran past them.
A small gray rabbit followed, and a large speckled bird, something like a turkey, clucking in terror.
“They’re like a forest fire,” Martin observed, looking back into the trees. “Everything runs the other way.”
Danny felt a new-found respect for Martin as the cool water of the little stream soothed his wounds. He and Martin both dipped in one of the deeper pools and let the water cleanse their skin and clothing. Danny took off his sneakers and carried them as they walked the streambed, which was covered with smooth white rocks that felt wonderful on his bare feet. They sloshed along in the water for a long time, as the stream curved gently around to the west. They didn’t talk, and Danny felt almost at peace for the first time since being dropped on the island.
He was still wary of Martin, however, knowing the man could turn on him for no reason, at any time. Martin, however, seemed almost mellow, having evaded the Tribe.
“It’s getting dark,” Danny said at last. They stepped out of the stream and back into the forest.
Martin stopped. “So it is,” he agreed. He fingered a hanging tree branch. “See this? It tells you they went right through here.” He gestured, indicating the trees around them. “Broken branches. Trampled grass. Can’t you see the difference?”
All at once Danny did see. It was like walking from a room painted one color into one painted an entirely different shade. If you weren’t looking, you didn’t notice. If you were looking, it was the difference between night and day.
“Plane’s right over there, about a quarter of a mile, due east,” said Martin, pointing. He shoved his wet shoes back on his feet. “You’ll be safe now. I’ll be back in the morning, maybe.” He stretched and looked around him.
Danny, busy trying to tie his wet laces together, glanced up. “Where are you going?” he asked, but he was no longer surprised to find himself alone. “And,” he added to no one in particular as he straightened up, “Where’d you get those shoes, Martin?” His question didn’t require an answer. If Martin wanted something, he took it, and evidently he had wanted the shoes of one of the Island’s new recruits.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie glanced at the clock. Death Island aired in twenty minutes, give or take a nanosecond, and she hadn’t decided whether or not to watch it. She was all alone in her cozy den, which didn’t feel all that cozy without her friends to keep her company. She fought off her tears. It wouldn’t do any good to fall apart, even though the secure and happy little life she thought she was living was starting to look to her like a picture puzzle with a lot of missing pieces.
Could Sarah have been wrong?
Could Sarah be right about Paul having an affair, but was he having it with someone other than Heather?
“I’m sure it was Paul and Heather,” Sarah said.
They sat at the kitchen table, nursing steaming mugs of Charlie’s favorite flavored coffee.
Charlie bit her lip. She had let nearly a week go by without phoning any of her friends. Finally Sarah had called her. Her tone was insistent. “I need to talk to you about this,” she’d said.
“Tell me again,” Charlie stared hard into the hot, dark coffee, as if she could picture what Sarah told her in its silent depths. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“I had to go to New Haven last week, Thursday, before we came over for the TV show. My cousin Janice had surgery at Yale New Haven Hospital. Her mother, my Aunt Alice, called and asked me to come down.”
Charlie glanced up and motioned her on with an impatient index finger.
“We got to the hospital, which is in a crowded, convoluted district, a horror to drive in, and has a nightmare of a parking garage.”
“I know,” Charlie murmured. “I’ve been there with Paul to see church members.”
“Well, as you know, it’s open, and you can see all around that area of the city from the ramps.”
Charlie nodded but didn’t look up.
“We finally got parked, and as we headed toward the elevator, Aunt Alice stumbled. Honestly, Charlie, I never would have spotted them if I hadn’t turned around to help her. We were quite close to the elevator, and as I grabbed her arm, I looked down into the street.”
“And in that whole buzz of people coming and going, you were sure it was Paul and Heather?”
Sarah rocked back in her chair. “I don’t like telling you this, Charlie,” she said. “I’m sure there are lots of people who would relish bringing you this news, but I’m not one of them. It was Paul and Heather. They were coming out of the garage at street
level.”
You’re sure that’s who it was?”
Paul had on that duffle coat he always wears, and I recognized his walk. I saw him say something to her, and she looked at him and smiled. It’s kind of hard not to recognize Heather—that hair, her height.”
Charlie bent down as if to take a sip of coffee, then raised her head and turned it, staring at the kitchen cabinets. She knew Sarah would see the glint of tears in her eyes, but she couldn’t hide them. Well, who better to cry with than a good friend anyway? “Were … were they touching?” she asked.
Sarah hesitated. “She took his arm as they crossed the street. They went into that trendy Japanese restaurant—Mt. Fugi’s, isn’t it?—with the mural of Mt. Fugi on the wall.”
Charlie stood up, and with a show of bravado said, “Well, that’s it, then! He loves Japanese food and he knows I hate it and can never manipulate those chopsticks. What kind of people eat little pieces of food with a couple of wooden sticks, anyway?”
Charlie felt Sarah’s eyes on her as she paced around her compact kitchen, nervously adjusting the jars and cookware that sat on the counter. Finally she went to the sink, turned on the hot water and washed her hands, almost compulsively, as if she didn’t know what else to do. Drying them on a blue towel, she turned back to Sarah.
“And later, when you saw his car in back of the Nutmeg Motel … you’re absolutely sure it was his car?”
Sarah swallowed. “I wasn’t looking for his car, Charlie. The motel backs up to Garden Place, where Aunt Alice lives. I drove her home after we visited with Janice, and Paul’s car—the silver Toyota with the REV ADJ license plate was—parked right by the fence separating the two buildings. I couldn’t have missed it if I tried.”
Charlie sank back into her chair. She felt drained of energy, of life, and of time itself, as if she had suddenly aged thirty years.
After a silence, Sarah ventured, “Are you going to confront him, Charlie?”
Charlie wondered if she should tell Sarah that Paul hadn’t come home until nearly two a.m. that night. She gazed across the table at her friend. Sarah had a dark, come-hither look, even when not trying. She looked even better in casual clothes than when dressed up, Charlie thought. So hip and trendy in her little aqua tee shirt, black jeans and boots, silver earrings flashing at her ears, and that gorgeous wide-cuff bracelet—all silver and turquoise, engraved and pierced—a masterpiece of art on her wrist.
“Sarah, I’m going to lay low until I have more proof,” she said. “If we have a big blow up over this, and if he is having an affair with Heather, he might actually move out, and the church …” she swallowed before continuing. “The church will be in a big uproar and probably fire him, and we’re heading into the holiday season with Thanksgiving and Christmas coming up … well, I’d just rather get through all that first for Courtney’s sake.”
Sarah jiggled restlessly in her chair and rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Charlie! How can you live with the man—this man of all men—if he’s screwing someone else’s wife?”
“Clergymen aren’t any different from anyone else,” Charlie said evenly. “That’s what people never get. He’s not a saint. He loses his temper, gets bored, tired and restless, just like everyone else. And from what I know about the people in this congregation, his having an affair doesn’t make him that different from the ordinary guy, either.”
“But for your own self-respect, you can’t just overlook it!” Sarah exclaimed in exasperation. “I can’t believe you would just ignore what he’s doing.”
“I won’t ignore it,” Charlie said, rising. “I will do what’s best for Cassidy and me … and maybe Paul. But I don’t want to act too fast. I need to figure things out.”
Sarah stood up, too. “Well, I’m always here for you, you know that, Charlie. But I hope you stand up to him—for your own self-respect, if no other reason.”
“I will,” Charlie said, forcing a smile. She gave Sarah a hard hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without friends like you.” She grasped Sarah’s hand. “Hey, what a beautiful bracelet! Native American, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Sarah confirmed, twisting the band of silver and turquoise around on her wrist. I had earrings that matched it, but I lost them somewhere.” She smiled at Charlie. “I’ll run along now, Sweetie, but keep in touch with me, won’t you?” She tossed a black cashmere pashmina over her shoulders. The long fringes fluttered as she adjusted it.
“I certainly will,” Charlie said, as she followed Sarah to the door and closed it behind her. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes as she watched Sarah walk briskly to her car. “Well, that went well,” she said aloud, to no one in particular. “I think you told me more than you intended to, Sarah. “And I think I just might know where your earrings are.”
* * * *
She grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV.
“Hi, Charlie,” Danny said.
Charlie sat bolt upright in shock. Danny huddled, propped up against a tree with an ample trunk and a leafy canopy that drooped over him. She could see the rain teeming in the background. The camera moved in closer. His face was definitely thinner, his hair was longer and disheveled, and a brown beard was growing, untrimmed.
“I wonder if you’re watching me right now,” he said.
She leaned closer. “I am!” she whispered, as if he could hear her.
Danny ran his hand through his wet hair, and shook his head like a dog. “I need you to help me, Charlie. Would you be willing to help me? You know I didn’t kill those women. You know I never could have hurt Katie.”
“I know you didn’t!” she exclaimed.
He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, as if they sat at an intimate table for two somewhere. “Remember when I told you I believed things happen for a reason—that you must have come into my life for a reason?”
Charlie nodded, speechless.
“Well, I think this is the reason, Charlie,” he continued. “You’re the only one who can help me.” He leaned back and opened his hands in a pleading motion. Please help me, Charlie! You know I don’t belong here.”
“No! No!” she gasped as the picture switched back to a bemused Pierre LeGrande in the television studio.
“Who’s Charlie?” he inquired. “Well, I guess that’s for Danny to know and for us to find out. After these important messages, we’ll come back and find out what’s been going on in the villages, which we’ve been ignoring for a while. And—how are the Painter brothers, Drew and Clay, getting along now that Martin has made off with their supplies? Stay tuned; we’ll be back.” With an oily smile, Pierre raised his cut crystal wine glass and turned to the right, as his image faded.
Charlie jumped to her feet, agitated. Danny wanted to talk to her and this idiot cut him off! She didn’t give a hoot about the Painter brothers. She didn’t want to visit the Village, with its homey little log cabins and its eerie semblance of civilized life, men-only style. She wanted to hear what Danny had to say to her. She felt an almost physical connection, linking them together half a world away. But—what could she do about it? She thought about her suggestion to the other women, that they begin a write-in campaign to free him, and how they had all, one by one, sidled away from any commitment to do it. Could she do it alone? Would Paul, with his public image and considerable influence, help her?
As if in answer, she heard the door open and his familiar step on the wooden floor. He peered into the den and, seeing Charlie alone, entered the room. She looked at him, waiting for the familiar feeling of love to rise within her at the sight of him. Something flickered, but like a cigarette lighter in the wind, it refused to ignite.
“You’re home early,” she said.
“Music Committee,” he replied. “Not much going on. Approved a new organist. Where are the girls?”
“We took the night off,” she said tersely. “Look, Paul, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” She seized the remote and killed the volume, leaving the pictu
re on.
Paul settled himself comfortably in the blue armchair. He looked around. “No snacks?”
“I never eat when I’m alone,” she said, looking at him.
He looked back at her. “Good habit,” he said. “You’re as trim as the day I married you, even after a baby and all those church dinners.” His smile was warm. The tired lines around his eyes and mouth softened into an expression of contentment as he regarded her. “Maybe we should make a snack and eat it in bed.”
She melted. The embers inside flickered and surged into life. She watched him stand up and walk toward her, desire in his eyes. She should talk to him about Danny, but maybe that could wait. He reached down, took her hand, and pulled her up. He put his arms around her. She inhaled the familiar scent of him, pine trees and mountain air, and felt the rough texture of his sweater against her skin. He nibbled her ear. “Maybe you’ll be snack enough for me,” he said.
Later, lying drowsily content with her arms around her sleeping husband, she listened to the soft patter of rain on the roof, and thought again of Danny, huddled against a tree on that remote island. She felt herself drifting off toward sleep. Danny’s pleading face floated up before her. “Help me, Charlie.” Tomorrow she would talk to Paul, bring up her idea of a campaign to bring Danny home, ask him to help.
“Is it raining there, Charlie?” he had asked. It hadn’t been then, but it was now.
* * * *
“Is it raining there, Charlie?”
He laughed out loud. Did that idiot really think he could talk to Charlie through the TV from several thousand miles away? And what could she do about it anyway?
It was raining here. He stood at the window, staring out at the church, which rose like a gray stone fortress on the corner. Even though he had laughed, he wasn’t feeling light-hearted, nor did he think anything that concerned Charlie and Danny was funny.
He had a new concern, now. One of the church whores was out to get Paul, of that he was sure, and Charlie didn’t seem to have a clue.
Death Island Page 10