“Hard call. To a marine, it’s all about loyalty.”
“But loyalty to whom?” she asked.
He only shrugged. “I’m grateful our base commander’s nothing like that asshole, Jessep.”
The auditorium door swung open. John turned at the sound, then hurried to the woman standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She pointed an accusing finger at Renée. “This the bitch you been cheating on me with?”
“You making a fool of yourself,” John snapped. “You been drinking?”
“Where the hell you been?”
“Working.”
“This what you call work?”
Renée instinctively stood to face her adversary, but the woman in the doorway looked more pitiable than threatening. She was thin and tired looking with wild hair and red-rimmed eyes. She scowled, but her anger was interlaced with a heavy dose of sadness.
“You sleeping with my husband?” the woman shouted over John’s shoulder.
“No! I—”
“There’s nothing between us,” John interrupted. “I told you, I been assigned to her work detail.”
“Work detail? What about us? They call an evacuation and you don’t even check on your family? We had to hear about it from the neighbors.”
“Shut up.” John’s voice whipped through the air.
An infant’s piercing wail filled the auditorium. A little girl stood in the open doorway, wisps of hair slipping from her red ponytail, her small lips trembling. In her arms was a screaming bundle.
“Momma, Anthony won’t stop crying.”
“You brought the kids into this?” John’s anger was palpable, but he gently took the bundle from the little girl. “You did a good job with your brother, Isabel,” he assured her. The little girl began to cry. “It’s all right, sweetie,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I promise, everything’s gonna be all right.”
John’s wife glared at Renée. There was something oddly familiar about the woman. It took a moment for her to recognize the young mother from the fence line earlier that day. By then, it was too late.
“Stay away from my husband, you bitch.” John’s wife charged at her, knocking them both to the ground. She landed on top of Renée and began throwing wild punches. Though she wasn’t a trained fighter, her anger lent her strength. She managed to shove a knee in Renée’s gut and land several punches to her ribs.
Renée raised an arm to protect herself, grimly absorbing the blows. She shifted, managing to dislodge her opponent. It was a small opening, but it was enough. She grabbed the woman’s flailing arms and pinned them to her sides before rolling on top of her. She didn’t want to hurt John’s wife, but she wasn’t going to take a beating either.
“Stop it,” Renée said as her now-defeated opponent twisted beneath her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The woman spat in her face. Before Renée could do anything, a strong pair of arms lifted her off the ground. She found herself surrounded by the cast members. One stood in front of her, another held tight to the baby, and someone else picked up the little girl.
John pulled his wife off the floor and shook her until her head bounced like a balloon in the hands of a toddler. “You embarrassed me for the last time.”
She smacked him across the face. The sound echoed in the room. “You love these filthy boat people, don’t you? That’s why you crawled into this one’s shit-stained panties.”
John raised a hand—
“Daddy!” the little girl screamed.
He seemed to awaken from a trance. “I . . . uhhh.” He caught his daughter’s tearful gaze and hung his head. “I need to get my family home,” he said to no one in particular. “Can you make sure Ms. François gets back to her hotel?”
“Yeah, man,” one of the guys said. “We’ll take care of it.”
John reached for his daughter, but she flinched from his touch. His shoulders drooped. Someone handed him the squalling infant. He nodded his thanks and ushered his family from the auditorium.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Damn Rat
The hotel lobby was empty again, but this time Renée was grateful. She didn’t want to have to explain the blood speckles on her shirt or her split lip to anyone. She touched a finger to her mouth and winced as she limped to the elevator.
Not so long ago, she had been the one who had tracked her husband like a rabid bloodhound. She had stood in the middle of that hotel room screaming obscenities at Paul and his lover. But she didn’t stop at mere words. She slapped that other woman so hard, a thin red line bloomed on her lips.
Karma really was a bitch.
She cleared her mind of the unpleasant memory. It was after nine o’clock. Eric should be on duty. Should she hunt him down to talk about the autopsy report? She immediately nixed the idea. It had been a long day with too many surprises, including that the two people she thought she could trust on this island had both lied to her. The only thing she wanted was to put an end to this miserable day. She would find Eric in the morning.
The elevator doors slid open on the third floor. She made her way down the hall, fishing in her purse for the room key. Her hand was shaking, she noted with almost clinical detachment. The fight with John’s wife had brought on a tidal wave of adrenalin that was now receding, leaving her flattened. She struggled to unlock her door. The key fell to the ground, and she bent to pick it up, swearing as pain sliced through her ribs.
A rustling sound came from inside her room.
She paused, frowning. Had she left the bathroom window open? The last thing she needed was to tangle with another banana rat.
The noise sounded again, soft but unmistakable this time. Footsteps. This was no rat—at least, not the four-legged kind.
She thrust the key in the lock and flung the door open. The light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room. For an instant, she caught sight of a man’s back as he scuttled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
A fresh wave of adrenaline shot through her. She ran after the intruder but was brought up short by the locked bathroom door. Raising her foot, she smashed through the cheap plywood, crushing the door panel. She sprinted into the room, hitting the light switch in time to see a sunburned arm disappear into the night.
She ran to the open window and thrust her head out. A familiar baseball cap bobbed in the air as the man worked his way down a long pipe, hands and feet moving with swift, practiced ease.
“Hey!” she shouted.
He paused but kept his head down. The cap and surrounding darkness obscured his features.
“You were here yesterday. What do you want?” she said.
He tipped his cap in mock salute, then allowed himself to fall into a jungle of overgrown shrubs, disappearing into the thicket.
She knew it! From the moment she’d seen him, she had known there was something odd about the so-called repairman. But she had ignored her intuition; she had let him get away. Not this time.
She started to climb out after him, but thought better of it. She had to make it home to her daughter in one piece. She bolted from the room and headed for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time until she tumbled into the lobby and out the front door.
The alley behind the hotel was a study in darkness with small patches of light filtering down from the guest rooms. A stand of shrubs formed an amorphous shadow with countless places to hide. She approached cautiously, each step weighed and measured so that the snapping of a twig or the crackling of dry leaves wouldn’t give her away.
She sniffed the air, picking up hints of gardenia and the mild spice of prickly pears but not the musky odor of sweat. Leaves rustled in the banyan trees overhead as night-hunting predators slithered into their nests.
He was here. She could feel it.
She stepped deeper into the thicket, sliding past leafy hedges and prickly cactus. Her eyes finally began to adjust, allowing the shadows to t
ake form. Beyond the trees and shrubs, she could see the outline of a tall wooden fence.
She approached the gate and hesitated at the last minute. Should she call the military police? And tell them what? That someone had broken into her room and then run off? The police were already stretched thin monitoring the camps after the protest. They wouldn’t take this incident seriously, but instinct was telling her that she must.
She unlatched the gate and stepped forward. The shrubs and hedges were thicker here, the cacti more abundant. She felt the sting of needles on her arms as she moved through the untamed field. What was this place? By now her eyes had adjusted well enough for her to see the endless passage of trees. Her ears tuned to the croaking of nighthawks and the swish and swoosh of god-knows-what in the trees overhead. The land was wild and undisturbed. What was Mr. Baseball Cap doing out here?
She paused, straining to hear a sound, a breath, anything that might lead to her prey. Nothing.
It was time to turn back, she told herself, even as she took another step forward. Just a bit farther.
A heavy weight fell on her right foot. She kicked out high in the air and heard something land in the bushes.
It happened instantly. A banana rat came charging at her. She didn’t think about it, she just turned and ran. The rat gave chase, squealing indignantly.
It was fast. Too fast.
She veered toward a clump of trees. There was no way she could outrun it, but maybe she could climb out of harm’s way. She tried to clamber on to a low-hanging branch but missed. She went down hard. Her aching ribs took the brunt of the fall, leaving her gasping for air.
The banana rat didn’t even break stride. A second later, it was on her, its sharp claws digging into soft flesh. She screamed, her arms and legs flailing. The rat clung to her, its howls mixing with her shrieks to form a discordant chorus.
She leaped up, shimmying and twirling in a crazed version of the “Chicken Dance.” Finally, the banana rat released her. It gave her one last, rebuking squeal before scrambling up the tree that had felled her.
She stood there, shivering and breathless. Eew! She wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She wanted to sink into the ocean until the salt water washed the rat-slick off her body. She wanted—no, she needed—a tub full of boiling water, an enormous scrub brush, and an infinite supply of soap.
Damn rat.
She aimed a kick at the base of the tree, but her foot met something soft and yielding. Curious, she bent to inspect the object of her wrath. It was a rucksack. She tugged at it, surprised at its heft. Without allowing herself time to think, she opened the rucksack and began rummaging through its contents. The first thing she found was a flashlight. She trained the beam of light inside the bag, pulling out a covered Tupperware bowl, a half-gallon bottle of water, binoculars, and a camera.
Her hand traced the outline of the camera. It was sleek and expensive looking, and the small view screen identified it as one of the new digital cameras that had recently hit the market. Paul had insisted on buying one, of course, but she preferred her old reliable Kodak. The digital cameras were probably just a fad anyway.
She powered up the camera and watched an image fill the screen. Immediately, her breath caught in her throat and her hands began to shake.
It was a picture of her.
She flipped through frame after frame with mounting horror. There she was leaving the hotel. There she was returning. Someone had been watching her, monitoring her every move—and recording it.
Why?
The last couple of frames stopped her dead. They were pictures inside her hotel room. Pictures of her files.
What the hell?
Someone had camped out here to spy on her. Mr. Baseball Cap? Why? What could he possibly hope to gain? Her mind sifted through the possibilities, none of them good.
She reached for the Tupperware container and opened it. The smell of spicy chicken drifted in the air.
Her hand trembled. The container fell, and a mound of chicken and rice littered the ground. She stared stupidly at the mess for a full minute, unable to take in what her eyes were telling her. A lump spread in her throat. For the first time since she’d surprised Mr. Baseball Cap in her hotel room, Renée felt the stirring of fear in her body. She had to get the hell out of there.
She threw everything in the rucksack except the fallen Tupperware. She would bring the bag to the military police, and let them make what they would of it. At least now, no one could dismiss this as a figment of her imagination.
She cinched the top of the rucksack and hoisted it across her back, nearly staggering under the load. She had barely taken a step before the crackle of a tree limb stopped her in her tracks. She pointed her flashlight and saw a nighthawk land on a tall branch. The leaves of the tree shivered.
A banana rat came bounding down the tree to stand just a few feet in front of her. It eyed the chicken and rice with naked longing.
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t run this time—the rucksack was too heavy. Besides, the rat had already proved it could outrun and outclimb her. There was nothing to do but stand her ground.
“I’m not scared of you,” she shouted, despite the tremble in her voice. “If you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m going to brain you with this flashlight.”
The rat peered up at her, as if taking her measure. After a long, thoughtful stare, it disappeared into the brush.
She slumped against the tree. She had won. She had bested that damn rat.
Hysterical laughter bubbled from inside her. Her laugh echoed in the night until a hand clamped over her mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fight
Trapped.
Strong arms surrounded her, and a man’s body pressed against her own.
Fight!
Her amygdala shot into overdrive, but her arms and legs refused to obey. Her limbs trembled so hard, she could almost hear them knocking.
She wanted to fight.
She wanted to kick this man in the groin.
Gouge his eyes out.
Crush his windpipe.
But she also wanted to curl into a ball, expose her soft underbelly, and pray it would be over quickly. After all these years and all that training, her body still betrayed her.
“Don’t move,” the man warned, a rough hand stripping Renée of the rucksack.
Rage shot through her.
She’d be damned if she’d allow herself to be some man’s victim again. She had trained for this moment, she knew what to do.
She went limp, letting her captor bear her full weight. He staggered, and the arms around her relaxed slightly. She hefted the flashlight, still in her right hand, and brought it down hard on the side of his head. It connected with a satisfying thud.
He grunted, stumbling to the ground.
She took off like a shot, racing through the night with cactus needles scratching at her flesh and her ribs aching.
Too soon, she heard the pounding of footsteps behind her.
“Wait.” The man reached for her, plunging them both to the ground.
She kicked out and connected with something that must have been his nose given the force of his shrieks.
“Why the hell did you—”
Within seconds, she was scrambling up and tearing through the bushes once more. She ran as if her life depended on it, not stopping until she was back at the hotel.
But this interminable night was not over yet.
“There you are.” Gigi came charging at her, wrapping her in a fierce bear hug. “Where have you been?”
“What’s going on?” Renée blinked at the crowd of pajama-clad guests huddled in front of the hotel. It might have looked like a grown-up slumber party except for the smell of fear lingering in the air. A few yards away, a line of military police circled the hotel entrance.
Gigi finally let her go. “I went to your room. The front door was unlocked, and the door to the bathroom was smashed,” she said breathlessly. “I thought
something terrible had happened to you.”
“You called the police?”
Gigi shook her head. “They were already here about the dead guy.”
“What dead guy?”
“You don’t know? The hotel’s bellhop was murdered.”
In the space between erratic heartbeats, Renée asked, “You mean Eric?”
“Yes, I think that was his name.”
Her legs gave way. “Oh my God.”
Gigi half dragged, half carried her to a bench away from the crowd and forced her to sit down. “What happened? Is that blood?” She gently traced Renée’s lower lip, pulling back to show the droplets of blood on her finger.
Renée dismissed the injury with a wave of her hand. “Some guy broke into my room. I followed him through the alley behind the hotel.”
“You followed him?” Gigi asked incredulously. “Are you crazy? You could have been killed.”
“I’m fine. Tell me about Eric.”
Gigi slumped down on the bench beside her. “I don’t know much. The MPs came knocking a few minutes ago. They said we had to evacuate.”
“How do you know it’s about Eric?” She was still praying for a miracle.
“Someone from the bar told me.”
Renée struggled to lift herself off the bench.
“What’s wrong?” Gigi asked.
“My ribs. They’ve taken a beating.”
“You need to sit before you fall down,” Gigi insisted, tugging at her arm.
“I’ve got to talk to the MPs. I have to tell them about the guy who broke into my room tonight.”
“We can report your attack later,” Gigi said. “I don’t think we should interfere right now.”
“Either help me up or get out of my way. I have to talk to them.”
Gigi frowned at her. “What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
A sob escaped before Renée could stop it. “It’s my fault.”
“What is?”
“Eric’s death.”
Gigi shook her head. “Chérie, non.”
When Death Comes for You Page 11
