Sacrifice Island

by Kristin Dearborn

  “There’s a violent murderer here,” Jemma said. “And all those missing people!”

  “I’m sure most of your missing people are relaxing on a beach miles and miles from here, and the worst culprit is poor communication.” Terry favored them with a grandfatherly smile.

  “If you don’t mind, I think we’ll stay in town for a bit.”

  “Can I recommend one of the massage parlors?” Terry asked.

  “Sure.” Alex let him point one out and talk about how fantastic the service is.

  “It’s a real massage—not anything unsavory like you might read about in Thailand.”

  “Thanks, Terry,” Alex said. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man’s white-shirted, sweaty back faced them as he returned to the van.

  13

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jemma asked. “What’s wrong with all of them? How could no one care?”

  Alex nodded in agreement. “It’s bullshit.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why we’ve got to get out of here? Like tomorrow. This is way over our heads.”

  They walked down the streets of El Nido. Early afternoon sun scorched the city, and the streets were the emptiest they’d seen. Jemma baked under her hat and in her dress, sweat pooling on the small of her back and between her breasts. They passed scores of shops that sold a variety of things: dresses, cheap packaged junk food with Chinese labels, poorly painted and brightly colored toys.

  “Go?” No. Impossible. They didn’t even know what precisely they were dealing with. Didn’t this excite him? And what about Rebecca? What if her spirit were still on the island? “We can’t go, Alex. We only just got here.”

  “I’ve seen enough dead stuff. There’s a bagel shop in Yonkers. A poltergeist. It’s perfect, and close to home.”

  “The book is about the world.”

  “New York is like the center of the world…”

  “I miss it. But I want to know, don’t you? What kind of spirit tortured Rebecca in her journal? Who killed the boy? Who’s living in the basement of the dormitory?”

  “Who wants us gone so badly they nailed an animal to your door?”

  “They don’t feel the same way about animals here as we do.”

  “All the more reason to leave.”

  “One more day.”

  “One more? Are you kidding?”

  “Let’s at least see what the gear has recorded.” She couldn’t bear the idea of leaving.

  At a concession stand, Alex bought them each a bottle of water.

  “I don’t know. It’s dangerous.”

  “We solved the murder in Canada. We proved the Eskimo fellow did it.”

  “I’m pretty sure they prefer to be called Inuits. And I agree. That was awesome, it felt really good. But this isn’t the same. That murder happened almost a decade ago. We’re stumbling across bodies and shit here.”

  “We’ll get more media attention, and more publicity, and then grants will be easier to come across.”

  “Not if we’re dead.”

  They wouldn’t be dead. They’d have an even greater knowledge of the spiritual world. Not that Alex cared. She tried not to be mad, but this was vacation for him. This was work, exploration, for her.

  They found a restaurant on the shore, with tables set up in the sand. As the tide receded, it left exotic shells and trash in its wake. The Vista Breeze beach was much cleaner, and there were fewer boats moored there. She was glad Terry caught them and talked them into staying. She liked being away from the sounds of the bustling city.

  Terry. She needed to talk to him. To find what he knew about the island. What he wasn’t telling them. With his information, they would be much better prepared for their next visit.

  “I’m calling tonight to get tickets home squared away.”

  “I’m not going,” she said.

  “You’re kidding. I don’t want to do this. Not here. It’s not right. This isn’t our kind of case.”

  “I don’t care. It is our kind of case. We thrive on the unexplained.”

  “What if I leave?” Alex asked.

  He wouldn’t go if she stayed. She knew he wouldn’t. “Fine. Leave.”

  He stared at her. She could almost see his mind race, reaching for an answer. He opened his mouth, closed it.

  “You’re being a bitch.” He stood up, gently pushed his chair in, and walked away.

  Jemma stayed in her chair. The waitress came and Jemma panicked, ordered a mango shake. Did she have any money? Did she have anything? She searched her deep pocket and came out with a dirty, soft bill. She did have enough. She paid the woman when she brought the icy drink.

  Jemma liked the island. Liked the quiet, the idea that everyone who died there, even Feng, had moved on. No one was trapped in a purgatory. She had to find out why.

  Alex wouldn’t leave.

  What would she do if he did?

  It didn’t matter, because he wouldn’t. End of story.

  For a half hour, Jemma debated whether to walk or to use one of the trike taxis to get back. All she had to do was raise a hand to flag it, say the words “Vista Breeze.” Just like she had the other evening. Which went all right. But what if the driver didn’t understand. What if it were awkward? What if he did take her, but then they went in a different direction? What if he were confused? Or worse…what if he took her somewhere.

  She started to walk back, but then realized it was too hot. She had to flag a trike down after all.

  None of them stopped and she started to cry. Finally one did stop. It took three tries to spit out the name of the place.

  “You okay, lady?” the driver asked, his English broken.

  “Fine, thank you.” She turned away. She knew she’d overpaid, but she didn’t care.

  Relief washed over her as she retreated to her cabin, shut the door behind her, locked it. She drew all the curtains, and only then did she step out of her layers of clothes. What would it be like on one of those deserted beaches? What would it be like to swim?

  It didn’t matter. She stepped into the shower and soaped herself up. The icy water soothed her after her ordeal.

  Alex couldn’t go. She needed him here. She’d have to go to him and apologize. Tell him she needed him. But she wouldn’t go. She touched her skin. It didn’t hurt when she touched herself.

  She remembered, dimly, what it felt like to be touched.

  The cold water sluiced over her until it became unbearable and her teeth chattered. She shut the water off and toweled dry. She put on a dress, hating it for being shapeless and ugly. But it was who she’d become, an embodiment of ugly shapelessness. It was her lot in life to be alone, deserted even by Alex, her closest friend.

  She donned a hat and stepped into the baking sun. She started to sweat again. She imagined her New York apartment, curling into a chair with her work, a blanket wrapped around her. A mosquito whined in her ear and she swatted it away.

  Alex wasn’t in his cabin. She found him instead at the beach with a paperback, watching two little boys throw jellyfish at each other. They laughed and splashed, squealing when the stinging masses would land on their bare skin. Her hatred of humanity welled up inside. Boys torturing each other and innocent creatures.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alex.

  At least he apologized. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, to be polite. “So you’re not going?”

  “I wouldn’t leave you, you know that.”

  “You scared me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I got mad.”

  “We can’t leave. What if we find why the ghosts don’t stay here and can bring peace to other ghosts?”

  “This is way out of our league.” She knew she’d won.

  “Think of the press we’ll get. This could be some serious money for us. Thank you, Alex, I know you’re making the right decision.” She sat with him for a bit, but watching the boys play became too much. Jemma drifted off. She would find Terry. Get some answers out of him. She came across him upstairs in the restaurant w
here he stood with an empty glass in his hand and gazed out at the sea.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.

  Terry chuckled. “I own the bar. There’s no need. Would you like something?”

  “Bottled water, please.” Jemma didn’t drink. She couldn’t let her guard down.

  They sat at one of the molave tables. A lizard basked on the railing in the sun.

  “You said your wife had a connection to Sacrifice Island.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Jemma frowned and gazed down into the bottle of water. “It would help our research. I don’t want any details, anything unpleasant. Whatever you could tell me would be helpful.”

  Terry peered at her a moment. Jemma wished Alex were here, wished he could tell her what might be going on under Terry’s surface.

  “You should leave.”

  “I love it here,” Jemma lied. “I don’t want to leave.” A mosquito whined in her ear. The heat of the afternoon made her sweat without even moving.

  “Do you really love it here?”

  She smiled because he’d seen through her. “I do like the island. There’s something about it, it’s peaceful in ways that I’ve never seen before.” Terry gave her a tiny half smile. She went on: “It’s the only place I’ve ever found where I can really hear myself think. Where I can relax and be myself.”

  “Does Alex agree with you?” Terry asked.

  Jemma felt he knew the answer to that already. “No. He doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s frightening.”

  Terry nodded. Then he sighed. “My wife lived there. In the early nineties.”

  Jemma did the math. The island closed down in 1994 after Rebecca and three other girls killed themselves. “Did she know Rebecca St. Germaine?”

  “How do you know that name?” Terry set his fresh drink down on the table. He looked scared.

  “I have her journal. It’s what brought us here.”

  “She left a journal?”

  “Yes, I have it in my cabin.”

  “I haven’t thought of Ms. St. Germaine in a long time.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “Like what?”

  “I only have her journal, where it seems as though she’s going mad. What was she like? Was she close to your wife?”

  “My wife’s name is Virginia. Virginia Weston, back then. They weren’t especially close, but they both spent a long time on the island, so they knew each other. They were friends. Rebecca seemed pleasant enough. But she was in pain all the time, and never let anyone get close to her.”

  “Her diary describes an affliction, but she never says what kind.”

  “He—her husband—destroyed her left hand.” Jemma thought of the lovely script from the diary, and imagined what she would do if she lost her hand. Lucky Rebecca that he didn’t take her dominant hand. “I’m not sure how much you know about her.”

  “Please tell me,” Jemma said.

  “She married young. She was seventeen, her husband thirty-four. She was British—titled, after the marriage. Lady St. Germaine. But she wouldn’t hear of her title being used. He died in a hunting accident. Virginia always said she hoped Rebecca killed him. He did awful things to her, and because of it, she wouldn’t trust anyone.”

  Jemma knew the feeling well. Understood it.

  “He crushed her hand when she disobeyed him.”

  Jemma wanted to know how he’d done it. Specifics. But she only nodded.

  “None of it healed right. Left her with a mangled claw. She kept it covered, it made her extremely self-conscious. Who can blame her?”

  Jemma thought about the mangled hand, never mentioned in the diary. If one carried a physical token of torture, people wouldn’t assume one was better simply because time had passed. The pain never went away. In a way, Jemma envied Rebecca’s twisted claw.

  “Did she like the island?” Jemma knew the answer to this after reading the diary. But she wanted to hear what Terry had to say.

  “Loved it. Said she’d finally come home. In a way, I’m glad she died there, though I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

  “How did she die? I know she killed herself…” Jemma also knew she hadn’t been part of the self-immolations.

  “She died from blood loss.”

  “She slit her wrists?”

  “Not precisely. Her throat.”

  “Do you have any pictures of her?” Jemma imagined her own image, influenced by Daphne Du Marier’s novel. Long brown hair, glowing smile, a mangled hand and none of the fictional character’s confidence. But she did have her own kind of self-assurance as she went through with suicide.

  Terry sucked on the end of his mustache. “I do. Wait here and I’ll get them.”

  Jemma settled into her wooden chair. When Terry came back, he scared off the basking lizard. It skittered soundlessly over the edge of the balcony.

  He handed her a stack of three-and-a-half-by-five photographs, the corners curled from the humidity.

  The first picture featured a classic beauty—yes, just as Jemma imagined! The fortysomething woman in the picture was still beautiful. Thick auburn hair, lovely tanned skin. Jemma studied her. The smile shone too radiantly. And this woman clasped her hands in front of her. She flirted with the photographer.

  This wasn’t her.

  Terry seemed to read her thoughts, and pointed to the background. Caught by accident, she saw a short blonde woman, with glasses and thinning hair. She wore all black, shapeless garments, and black cloth covered her left hand. Not beautiful at all.

  “She looks so sad. How long did she live on the island?”

  Terry took a moment to answer. “Three years.”

  “This is Virginia, then?”

  Terry nodded. In all the pictures, Rebecca appeared as an afterthought, Virginia the main subject.

  “May I ask what happened to Virginia?”

  Terry picked up one of the photos. Studied his late wife. He set his jaw. “In 2007 she was diagnosed with cancer. It started in her ovaries—we were never able to have children—and by the time they caught it, it had spread. In 2008 she was gone.” Terry collected his photographs. “Thank you for listening. I have to get some work done.” He cleared his throat. “I think—I think you’d better leave. Go back to New York.”

  “What? I thought you wanted us to write the book?”

  “I changed my mind. Go now, while you still have the option.”

  And Terry shuffled away.

  Jemma smiled. The headmaster at the Connecticut school warned them off days before they learned he’d sexually assaulted five girls in his care. It meant they were close.

  14

  Terry always seemed to forget Mr. Lucky’s massive size until he stood next to him. Terry found him in the late afternoon, hauling the day’s catch of fish off the Baby Roxanne. Not enough to sell, but enough to feed his family.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to let you know I talked with the woman. With Ms. Labasan.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about any of them. You understand?”

  “But she’s not all bad—”

  “She is exploring the island. She is going to find your wife. She’s going to write a book about her. And everyone will know about the Aswang.”

  “Maybe…” Terry let his voice fade away. Maybe what? Maybe Jemma wouldn’t find the secret they harbored on the island? Maybe she wouldn’t write the book after all? Not bloody likely.

  “And every time they go out there? She smells it. She gets hungry. And if I don’t keep her fed, she comes here, to the town. And you know what she likes to eat.”

  Terry nodded, but Mr. Lucky went on.

  “Sabu’s wife is pregnant. I won’t risk it. I have to find something to feed her tonight.”

  “I’ll send them away,” Terry said.

  Mr. Lucky shook his head.

  “Then they go to White Sands resort next door. Or rent a room
in El Nido.”

  “We won’t take them to the island. No one on the island will rent them a boat.”

  Mr. Lucky nodded. “Maybe. Maybe if we don’t take them, and we tell the people in town not to rent them any of the boats.”

  “We’ll try it.”

  “If they go to the island again, I will kill them.” Mr. Lucky paused to light up a cigarette. The last fish in the bucket stopped flopping and splashing. “Karen told me they found where she sleeps.”

  “God.”

  “I mean it. I will kill them. I should bring them to her tonight, and then we be done with it. Let it go back to the simple ways. My father talks about what things were like as a boy, back before the tourists ever came. The Aswang ate well when the war was on.”

  “See to it she eats well tonight. Tomorrow I want to talk to her.”

  “No.” Mr. Lucky picked up the fish and headed inland.

  “I’ll take my own damn boat if you won’t take me.”

  “You go tomorrow then I have to go back and feed her again.”

  “I’ll bring her a dog.”

  Mr. Lucky’s laugh rumbled. “She don’t like dogs. You know that.”

  Goddammit. Mr. Lucky was right about everything. He didn’t want to send them to their deaths. By a set of irrational double standards, the deaths of two people he’d met bothered him more than Mr. Lucky collecting drunk tourists and taking them to the island.

  “Will you find someone at the bar tonight?”

  Mr. Lucky stopped and shook his head. “Paulo’s grandmother is very sick. We’d agreed she would be the next tribute, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

  “Why not take—”

  “Leave me to it. This is my job I must do. Karen will watch the man.”

  “Alex. His name is Alex.”

  “Mr. Brenton. I do not give a damn what their names are. To me? They are only food for our monster.”

  “She isn’t a monster,” Terry said weakly.

  “You can lie to yourself all you want.”

  Mr. Lucky left Terry alone on the beach. He started to wish he’d never come here, but reminded himself he met Virginia on this island. A silver lining to everything. He loved her. They’d had so many great years together. Nothing could change that, no matter what she’d become.