by Eva Pohler
Chapter Seventeen: The Body Beneath the Pier
The thin strip of beach ended with more massive rocks for Daphne to climb if she was to make her way around the coastline to Scorpion Anchorage. As she reached up with her hands to find a grip, she saw her own burnt arms, and the stinging she’d been only mildly aware of hit her full force. She grit her teeth and bore the pain, for there was nothing else to do, and she climbed the rock, little by little, searching for lodgments for her feet, finding a new grip, heaving herself up, until she was, at last, on top, only to find another rock must be climbed to move forward. The sun baked her, but the wind had picked up, cooling her the higher she climbed. When she reached the summit, she looked to the east where the island curved north, and though she could not see Scorpion Anchorage, she was amazed to see the coast of California and hundreds of boats in the distance. None of them were close enough to see her, but the sight of them filled her with tremendous hope, and she leapt in the air, waving her arms. She would get off this island. She could feel it.
Realizing she might make herself more visible to those following her, she stopped gallivanting about and jogged across the headland, passing an old wooden sign that read “Bowen Point,” and scaled down the side of the bluff to where the rocky terrain sloped inland through a thin copse of scraggily trees. Further inland, the brush grew thicker and the trees taller, but here the leaves were few and the shade hardly worth standing in. Because her skin stung, she stood there for a moment, the approaching bank barely visible between the jutting rocks. She could stay there and wait for Brock, but the landscape penned her in and provided little chance of escaping if the wrong person were to discover her, so she trudged onward toward the bank, between the rocky cliff-edges on either side, and out onto a sandy embankment leading, in the distance, to a another pier.
Although this strip of sand was wider than the one by the poppies, it was encroached upon my massive slabs of rock divided by gaps, one of which had led her from the scraggily trees to where she now stood. But there were other gaps between the crags, and the notion that someone might appear through one of them at any moment urged her past them toward the pier.
The sand was as pristine here as the beach at the resort, and although she jogged across it, she couldn’t help but appreciate the way the water, with its diamond-like sparkle from the sunshine, lapped up to meet it. She could still see the boats miles off in the distance and on the horizon toward the east, not as visible from Bowen Point, the mainland.
As she approached the pier, she noticed a sea cave tucked beneath the last mound of rock where the beach gave way to ocean, so she passed the pier and jogged down to the last foot of sand and peered inside. The water was deep where it rushed into the cave, and she imagined there might be all manner of sea life thriving there. Sure enough, before she took her eyes away to inspect the ceiling, she saw a stingray circle at the surface and disappear again into the depths of the water. She recalled what Larry had said about the stingrays and the tide and realized it must be coming in. Before seeking higher ground, she looked up at the walls of the cave as far back as she could and was amazed by the presence of petroglyphs, like those in the caves Larry had taken her to in the kayaks. Dolphins, sea lions, sharks, pelicans, and other figures were visible in crude form carved and painted along with other symbols Daphne did not recognize.
A rush of water covered her shoes, reminding her of the tide, so she turned back up the embankment toward the high rocks, when an object floating beneath the pier caught her eye.
A hump of pale gray, resembling a dead dolphin, rocked back and forth with the waves. She walked to the edge of the sand to the wooden steps to get a better look. Still unable to make it out, she climbed the steps and peered over the edge. It was hung up on one of the wooden legs of the dock, rocking, but not drifting, with the tide.
She stopped and stared, and the more she stared, the more it resembled a person floating on his back. A dead person.
A cry of shock fled from her throat, and she covered her mouth, trying not to be sick. Just then, a wave loosed the body from the pier, and it rolled in the water three-hundred-sixty degrees, returning to its back. That’s when she saw the face and realized who it was.
“Pete!” Maybe he wasn’t dead. “Pete!”
The body didn’t move except with the tide toward the island.
“Pete, can you hear me?”
The water rolled him over again, and now he was face down, rushing along the shore toward the sea cave. Another wave took him under, and she lost sight of him for a long moment until he popped up again, several feet away at the mouth of the cave. He rolled once more, landing on his back, but his face remained without expression.
“Pete!”
She thought of jumping in and shaking him. Maybe he was simply knocked unconscious and was still alive, but before she could act on this idea another wave swept him into the cave. Daphne climbed down the wooden steps and ran back down the bank to where the water reached her knees, following Pete until his body disappeared in the dark depths of the cavern.
Should she follow?
The water slapped against her chest, threatening to wash her in after him, but too frightened by what sea life might be lurking there, and even more frightened of getting trapped underwater by the tide, she ran against the current back to high ground and through a gap in the crags to the grassy knolls further inland.
Poor Pete!
Once she caught her breath, she climbed over the sea cave and further east, away from the high rocks to a gentler terrain of sand and dirt and grass, and, wonder of wonders, a giant sprawling oak with real shade. She went to it.
Oh my God, Pete! And again, out loud, inexplicably, she cried, “Kara!”
She rubbed her eyes as sweat and tears blinded her and nausea threatened to make her vomit. Pete must have failed in the kayak. He’d been so desperate to get off the island, he’d sacrificed his life! She fell beneath the oak and wept.
Poor Pete. Now his son would never have the opportunity to invite him to visit in Costa Rica, and his brand new granddaughter would never meet him, nor would his daughter, Daphne’s age, ever set eyes on her father again. Tears slid down her face, and the image of Pete floating and rolling in the sea made her stomach churn. If she had believed before that Stan and his gun might have been one more exercise in a strange therapy, she could no longer. With Pete dead, there was no doubt in her mind she and Brock were in danger and needed to find a way off the island as soon as possible.
For now, she would wait here for Brock since it was open to multiple escape routes and had low branches to hide her as she sat on the ground facing the sea with her back to the thick trunk. Brock would pass by here, if he came this far—suddenly she worried she had gone too far. Too exhausted and upset to turn back, she sat there, determined to give him a chance to catch up with her and hoping he’d come.
She couldn’t believe Cam had brought her here. She suddenly worried he, too, might be in danger. Maybe he didn’t know what was really going on. That was the only reasonable explanation. But she couldn’t save him without getting caught. He’d be better off if she got off the island and returned with help. She’d get the police or the FBI.
As the sun sank behind the rocks, Daphne sat beneath the sprawling, thick oak, which was probably as old as the island, wishing she had gone back for Brock. She shivered in the breeze, her red skin breaking out into goose flesh, her body sore and tired.
Why hadn’t he found her yet?
