Vacation to Die For

by Josie Brown

  Telltale Sign Number 3: Whereas once you delighted in hearing the resort staff constantly wishing you a “pleasant day,” now you force yourself to smile and bite your tongue to keep from shouting, “What, are you kidding? Not at these rates!”

  Because too much of a good thing is not such a good thing after all.

  I can’t leave Boarke quickly enough to find Jack. Where the hell is he?

  After meandering through the Hunt Club lobby where a gaggle of arm charms sport ’ho couture that would rock the Adult Entertainment Expo’s fashion runway, I get the bright idea to sneak a peek in the casino.

  There he is, up in the casino’s mezzanine, bent over the balcony as he watches the action below, in the main gallery. His eyes follow me as I climb the curved staircase toward him, but he doesn’t move when I reach his side.

  Okay, time to eat crow. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

  He turns his head toward me. “How do you figure that?”

  I lean in next to him. “You left me with the impression that you’d do whatever it took to get Julie to do our bidding.”

  “And by that you thought I meant falling for her bullshit come-ons, and hitting the sack with her.”

  “Yes…of course I did.”

  “Because fucking to gather intel is part of our job.” He frowns. “And if the shoe were on the other foot, you too would screw whomever it takes, if the mission calls for it.”

  Shame weighs so heavy on me that I drop my head. Below me is the poker table. The distraction is not great enough for me to ignore what is happening here, right now, with Jack:

  Our moment of truth.

  “I avoid it, whenever possible. You know that.” I think back upon my missions since I met Jack. “In fact since our ‘marriage’, except for a little heavy petting on the suspect’s part I’ve been as pure as driven snow. Granted, it’s helped that I’ve slipped a mickey or two. Or three.”

  “The bottom line is that you’ve done your job without having to put out, as quaint as that sounds.”

  “Yes exactly, Jack. And I’ll keep doing so, as long as…well, as long as the situation allows.”

  His eyes lock onto mine. “Why would you presume I’d do any less?”

  “Because—well, because you’re…a man. Sex isn’t the same to guys.”

  “Maybe. Personally, I’ve never subscribed to the theory that we humans with outies will plug into just any available outlet for a quick charge." He shrugs. “One thing I do know, under no uncertain terms: my love for you is the same as your love for me. But unfortunately, our jobs put us in compromising positions, usually with people we can’t stomach. Nothing attractive there.”

  I have to laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  My hand rests on the balcony’s rail. He puts his hand over mine. “Until I met you, I thought killing was the most gut-wrenching part of my job. It’s not. It’s having to get it up for women whom I honestly despise. But to do my job and complete my missions, I have to smile at them. And woo them. And do whatever it takes to get them to let down their defenses and divulge whatever it is I need from them. If needed, to kill these lovers.” He pauses. “And so do you.”

  Yes, of course. Guns, knives, poison and missiles aren’t our only weapons. Our bodies are far more dangerous—to our opponents, first and foremost. And to ourselves.

  Our minds and hearts and relationships become our collateral damage.

  The pain being inflicted—to us, to our loved ones—lasts a lifetime.

  “Donna, before I met you, fucking the enemy was easy. It was retaliation.”

  Don’t I know it. For Valentina’s infidelity. For Carl’s duplicity.

  For me, fucking the enemy was revenge for Carl’s supposed death. But since Jack entered my life, it’s become the longest walk of shame.

  With a single finger, he lifts my chin so that I can see his eyes. “As long as we’re in the game, Donna, we do the role assigned to us, no questions asked, no shame felt, no jealousy to break us apart.”

  He has the sweetest lips. His lingering kiss takes away any doubts I have that anyone will ever come between us.

  I pull back when a disgusting thought hits me. “If we were an ordinary couple—like Penelope and Peter, for example—we’d call this arrangement an ‘open marriage.’”

  He finds that funny. “It locks up, tight as a gnat’s ass, the day we both retire. Is that a deal?”

  “Deal.” This mission is yet one more nail in the coffin of the Quorum. And one more step toward that glorious day when we can live normal lives. “Speaking of ‘out of the ordinary,’ I’ve got an early birthday gift for you, my love.”

  “Tell me that you found Mandrake’s plague bacteria so we can all go home!”

  “No, but hopefully it’s the next best thing. I’ve gotten us a free pass into the VIP reserve, so at least we can look for the samples without being shot at.”

  His eyes grow wide. “How did you do that?”

  “Boarke is gifting us a safari—and five per cent equity in any new property development—in exchange for your bank’s loan. But there’s a catch.”

  He shrugs. “Let me guess. We’re about to test the promise we just made to each other.”

  I stick my finger in my mouth and feign a gag. Then it’s time to get serious. “The VIP reserve has a truly unique prey: humans, many of whom are political prisoners, sent here on state-sanctioned death sentences.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Banging Boarke would be a joke. This is deadly serious. From what I can tell, they’re holding at least a hundred people down in the basement, each in separate Plexiglass cages. The hunters get to pick out their prey, sort of like a turkey shoot. I chose Sasquatch.”

  “He’s now in captivity?” Jack shakes his head in awe. “Good girl. It’s payback time. I owe him big time. When he saw us running, he must have thought we were destined for the stockyard, too. I guess that’s what he meant when he said, ‘take the first plane you can, off the island’—”

  “Oh my God!” I grab his arm. “Did you say ‘plane’?”

  “Yeah, albeit not with anywhere near Battoo’s enthusiasm. Then again, he gets paid to give a shit.”

  “No, I mean…I’ve seen Sasquatch before—on the Fantasy Island plane!”

  “He was on it—with us?”

  “No, but he is—was—part of the Fantasy Air flight crew—a pilot, in fact.” I take my cell phone and scroll to one of the photos Arnie passed my way. The name that aligns with his place in the photo identifies him as George Taylor. “He must have been piloting Mandrake’s flight. Otherwise, how would he have known so much about him?”

  Jack frowns. “Maybe Mandrake was in the stockyard with him. Or maybe Mandrake has already taken his turn, running for his life—and his head is now hanging in some sicko’s trophy room.”

  “If that were the case, Sasquatch—I mean Taylor—wouldn’t have acted as if he were still alive, or be so worried about the plague bacteria.”

  “That’s another reason to keep him alive, Donna. Maybe he knows where it is, and can lead us to Mandrake.”

  “I hope so. We’ll know for sure, tomorrow evening. Until then, we have a lot of work to do.” Suddenly, I’m bone tired. “Thank goodness Aunt Phyllis is here, to look after the children.”

  “Aunt Phyllis is here, alright. Look below you.”

  I glance down. Yes, that’s her—and from the looks of things, she’s winning big at Texas Hold’em.

  “But…it’s after nine o’clock! Why isn’t she back at Kamp KidStuff with Jeff and Mary?” I grab Jack’s hand and pull him down the staircase with me.

  I reach Aunt Phyllis just as another hand has been dealt. Not so gently, I tap her shoulder. “Why aren’t you with the children?”

  She seems surprised to see me. “Mary said you wouldn’t mind if she looked after Jeff and the other boys while I go play a hand or two.” She shrugs. “Okay, more like ten. But hey look, I’m ahead by a landslide!” She p
oints across the table. “This gentleman is my lucky charm. Since he sat down, I haven’t lost a hand.”

  She is pointing to Lee Chiffray.

  My Aunt Phyllis is beating the man who won the casino’s baccarat tournament? Something is terribly wrong with this picture.

  “You’re being much too modest, Phyllis.” Chiffray’s voice is deep and friendly. He may be talking to her, but he’s looking at me. His smile is broad, and his handshake firm. “You say your children are on their own? With all this resort has to offer, I guess I’d be worried about that, too.”

  I don’t appreciate his knowing chuckle. I nudge Aunt Phyllis. “Time to cash in your chips.” Or I’ll cash them in for you.

  Aunt Phyllis knows better than to argue with me. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I do it now, while I’m still ahead.”

  “No need to call for a resort tram. I’d be happy to give you a ride back to Kamp KidStuff.” Chiffray’s eyes take their time as they roll up my legs. “I’d hate for you to break one of those beautiful heels.”

  “We’d appreciate that.” Jack’s tone implies the opposite.

  Lee doesn’t seem to catch on that he’s treading on thin ice. “Great, then it’s all settled.” He signals a waiter, who nods at him.

  He tosses the croupier a chip as a tip. With a wave, he invites Jack and me to take the lead.

  Phyllis giggles as she takes his hand. “So much for ‘age before beauty.’ But you’re right Lee. The view is much better back here. While you’re staring at my neice's backside, I can admire her husband's, and neither of them is the wiser.”

  Jack is clenching his fist as if he’s going to belt someone. At this point, I’m hoping his target is Aunt Phyllis.

  As I hold on tight to Jack’s arm, I pray we make it back to Kamp KidStuff without killing someone.

  The children aren't in the bungalow.

  Jack sees the frantic look in my eye. Holding me by the shoulder he murmurs, “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.” He turns to Phyllis. “Stay here. If they come home, threaten their lives if they don’t go directly to bed.”

  She purses her lips, but nods. She’s been duly chastised.

  “Donna, do you have any idea where Mary might have gone?”

  “Yes, I think I do. When we walked back from the plane this morning, we noticed a group of teens hanging by the pool, both girls and boys. But they were—well, they were a few years older. I guess she ignored me when I suggested she’d be better off hanging with kids her own age.”

  “Yeah, like that was going to happen,” Phyllis mutters under her breath.

  I shoot her a dirty look. It does the trick of shutting her up.

  “I might be able to help you. Do you mind if I use your concierge phone?” Chiffray asks.

  “No, go ahead.” I point to it, on the desk behind the el-shaped couch. “You’re here with children, too. Am I right Mr. Chiffray?”

  “Yes, my fiancée’s. But they’re closer to tots than teens.” He hits a few buttons on the phone. He holds on for only a moment. “Hello, Louis, this is Mr. Chiffray. Can you do me a favor and pull up the names of Kamp KidStuff guests who have teen children?...Wonderful…Yes, now go ahead and read off their bungalow addresses.” He reaches for the pad and a pen, and scribbles the information we need.

  After hanging up, he tears the sheet from the pad and hands it to me.

  I look over at Jack. “What are the chances that Jeff is with her, too?”

  He rolls his eyes. “My guess? Slim and none. Look, why don’t you hit up these bungalows while I go down to the beach, to see if Jeff is there.”

  He’s out the door in a flash.

  “I feel guilty that I kept Phyllis so long at the Hunt Club.” Worry has brightened Lee’s stark blue eyes. “I’d like to make it up to you. Maybe we can split up the list, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Well…you see, Mary would never accompany you back here, because you’re a stranger.” He only means well. I can see that. “Do you know the locations of these other bungalows?”

  “Yes. I’m an investor in the resort, so I know the property quite well.”

  Do you know about the human stockyard, too?

  But of course he does. I clearly remember the look on Boarke’s face when I faked him out by mentioning Chiffray.

  I wonder why he’s so concerned about Mary.

  Does it really matter? His behavior isn’t the priority. Finding my children is all I care about right now.

  I shrug. “Sure, tag along if you want.”

  He smiles. “Consider me your body guard.”

  Ha. If only he knew that is the last thing I need.

  “The kids are fine! You’re worrying for nothing.” Jonathan McAdams’ eyes are bleary from too much good scotch.

  He’s not the only one. None of the guests at this dinner party hosted by him and his wife, Ginny—the parents of the friends who hang with their teen queen, Regina—are feeling any pain.

  “Mr. McAdams, you say your daughter is sixteen? Well, mine is only twelve.”

  He smirks as he raises an eyebrow. “Jesus, no wonder you’re worried! Ginny would have had a fit if Regina had been a wild child at that age. Sixteen is bad enough.”

  Don’t judge me or my daughter, you son of a bitch.

  Lee must feel my pain because he puts his hand on my arm before I can use it to beat this jerk to a pulp. “Like most girls, I’m sure Mary just wanted to be accepted. So tell us, guy. Do you know where they are?”

  Of course he doesn’t. He yells inside the house, “Hey, whose place are the kids destroying tonight?”

  His guests’ muted murmurs and nervous giggles do little to hide their embarrassment at being absentee parents.

  Welcome to the club.

  One woman lets loose with a loud sigh. “I think they’re at our place, Jon.” She sizes me up, then shrugs her delicate tanned shoulders. “Hey listen, when you get there, tell my girl, Karen, that we’re right behind you. That way they have time to hide the pot and the condoms before we get home.”

  One of the dads slurs out, “Can you steal me a joint or two? I promise to share.”

  The guilty snickers of the others burn in my ears as I leap down the veranda steps. They may have given up on the fact that their children are out of control, but not me.

  I’m halfway down the block before Lee catches up to me. “Donna, you’re headed in the wrong direction.” He points down a lane that leads to yet another row of bungalows that hug the beach.

  I can barely see it through the tears veiling my eyes. I have to hold Lee’s hand so that I don’t trip.

  I guess this isn’t the best way to introduce him to parenthood. I hope his girlfriend forgives me.

  Hell, I hope she’s a better mother than me.

  Even through the snickers and laughter, I hear my daughter sobbing and shouting to let her up and out of there.

  Lee doesn’t knock, but enters the house and heads straight for the master bedroom.

  I am close on his heels.

  The teens draped over the couch in the living room quit giggling to stare at us. They are too stoned to react, and certainly too jaded to care about what’s happening to someone who is younger and more innocent.

  Booze is old news to them. So is pot and sex. Mary is tonight’s entertainment.

  The boy straddling my daughter can’t be more than sixteen. He’s got to be at least one hundred and ninety pounds to her one-hundred and six—in other words, a bruiser. He wears a canary yellow football jersey with royal blue letters that shout his last name, MONTROSE, in bold letters across his broad shoulders. His muscular arms have her pinned to the bed, and his thick thighs block her effort to close her legs, despite fighting him with all her might.

  My punch to his nuts allows her to shove him off. She flies into my arms, babbling incoherently. I shush her and hug her close.

  When I look up, I see that Lee’s wide hands are now wrapped around the boy’s neck and cutting off his windpipe from
any oxygen. By the time I realize what is happening, the boy’s eyes are already fluttering, and he is gasping.

  “Lee, please! No!” It takes all my might to pull him away.

  With Mary, we run out the bedroom door, and through the living room. The other four boys have sobered up in a hurry. They rub their knuckles as they weigh their allegiance to their buddy against the thought of possibly joining him in jail for attempted rape on jailbait. The cold hate lingering in Lee’s eyes must mirror my own, because the boys flinch and freeze when they look into our faces.

  Smart move.

  As we stumble back to my bungalow, Mary hiccups her thanks and whispers embarrassed regrets. Suddenly she looks down at her dress, and notices that the strap is broken. “Mom, I…I’m so sorry! I think that stupid creep tore your dress.”

  It’s only then that I notice that Mary is wearing the short white frock I’d left on my bed.

  Now that my daughter and I are almost exactly the same size, I hate my honeypot wardrobe. I’m quite a role model.

  Mary can’t read my mind. She presumes I’m disappointed in her, not in myself. “You were right. They were too old for me to hang around. I thought that wearing this”—she looks down at the white dress—“would fool them into thinking I was older, but I know they could tell. Their jokes…embarrassed me. I did…things.” She ducks her head in shame.

  “Mary, did you smoke pot with them?”

  She cries as she nods. “And we drank, too. I didn’t realize what it would do to me. I was acting so…so crazy! They all laughed at me. It was so stupid.” Suddenly her face turns white. “Oh my God, I’m going to be sick!”

  She stumbles off the path. A second later she’s bending over and heaving into a bush.

  I rush to hold her head, but Chiffray beats me to it.

  It takes her a few moments to get her bearings. When she finally rights herself, she takes a good look at him. “Oh!…Thank you.”

  She looks over at me, with tears in her eyes. “Mom, I’d understand if you never trusted me again.”