Sacrifice Island

by Kristin Dearborn

  They were trapped. And it was all her fault. She shouldn’t have hurt Anna.

  “Any ideas?” she asked.

  “Working on it. I could call Karen.”

  “Would she help?”

  “I don’t know. What do I say? I’m stuck in my beachfront cottage by a machete-wielding madman?”

  “The townspeople all know about Virginia.”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t you felt the way they’ve looked at us?”

  “I thought—” He paused, and she knew he felt he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. “I thought they just thought you dressed funny.”

  “It’s all right. I thought that too.” How else could she dress? No one could touch her, and she couldn’t tease them. Teasing men got her in this position.

  “I’m going to call Karen.”

  “And what? We’re thousands of miles from home. They knew we were coming when we stepped off the plane here. She couldn’t get us past Mr. Lucky out there.”

  Jemma peered out the curtains. She hated him. He reeked of malice and evil. Another one of Virginia’s keepers.

  Alex took his phone out and thumbed a text message. Jemma wondered what he wrote.

  They sat for a moment and listened to the morning. The temperature rose.

  “You know what no one would expect?” Alex said.

  Jemma bit back on a joke that had been played out long ago. “What?”

  “You. Dressed like the average Palawan vacationer.”

  “Impossible.”

  “And if we found some colored tanning lotion, you wouldn’t be so painfully white.”

  “I don’t have any touristy clothes.”

  Alex pointed out behind her cottage. There hung a clothesline where the Vista Breeze staff hung tourists’ laundry up to dry. “If you went up to Mr. Lucky, you could distract him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you went up to him with no hat, no sunglasses, in shorts and a tank top.”

  The thought of such a thing made her heart pound.

  “Go out there, ask him if he’s doing tour C today, and when it’s leaving. Flirt. Giggle.”

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  “If you run for the clothes, change, I bet you can swipe some tanning stuff from the store,” Alex mused.

  “I’m not going out there.”

  “The other option is to be hand delivered to Terry’s beloved.”

  “I’m sure we can think of something else…a better plan. What if you went?”

  Alex shook his head. What if someone touched her? What if Mr. Lucky looked at her? Alex wanted it so he could see her skin…she rubbed at the baggy silk dress she wore. It soothed her, covered her, wrapped her in black. It kept her safe. In it she was a weird girl, nothing more.

  Alex went to the bathroom, yanked the screen out of the window.

  “I can see the clothesline,” he said, upon his return. “A ton of stuff. Probably will fit you. And totally out of Lucky’s sight lines.”

  “You go?”

  “I can’t fit through the fucking window. I’m a big dude.”

  “What if I can’t get back in?”

  “You’re not supposed to get back in, babe.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  Jemma hugged herself. Ghosts were so much easier. Ghosts she could navigate. Mr. Lucky was a real man…men she couldn’t handle.

  “But he’s real.”

  “I know he is.”

  “Slip out the window, grab some clothes, change in the bushes. Then walk to the store and steal the colored tanning stuff. Put it on so you aren’t so pale anymore. And so you don’t get a sunburn. Then go talk to Mr. Lucky. While you distract him, I’m going to get out the front window.”

  “Then what?”

  “Karen’s boat.”

  That changed things. They would never make it to Puerto Princesa on one of the Jeepneys or vans…everyone knew everyone and it would be too easy to intercept them. But a boat? Maybe they could make it to the airport after all.

  She wasn’t giving up on the idea of meeting Virginia, but getting to another place to regroup safely wouldn’t hurt. To research.

  “Where will she meet us with the boat?”

  “The beach in front of Merriweathers.” The resort sat about a half mile down the beach. “We’ll have to book it. Run like crazy and hope we’re faster.”

  “I hate this idea,” Jemma said.

  “Do you see another way? I’m not going to sit here and let Terry take us to the island again.”

  “We could fight…”

  “With what?”

  Jemma kept silent. Alex was right. Maybe this was their best plan.

  “Mr. Lucky’s distracted. Now would be a good time to go. The window’s open for you.”

  She couldn’t even ask him for a boost. As with everything in the past ten years of her life, she needed to do this alone, too.

  She hauled herself up to the small, high bathroom window, aware of how weak she was. As she squeezed through the window, her hip caught on something. The fabric of her dress tore with a growl. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t wear it for long.

  Jemma landed on the shadowy, soft dirt with a quiet thump. The wide moon of Alex’s face appeared in the window. He didn’t speak. She didn’t either, not wanting to call attention to herself. She stood and brushed herself off. And examined the clothesline. There! A pair of jeans.

  …but that wasn’t what this disguise was about. She ought to pick the articles that were the most repugnant to her. The ones she’d be least likely to wear.

  A midriff-exposing halter top. And a pair of black surf shorts that barely covered her ass cheeks. Even being out here without her hat and sunglasses threatened to push her into a panic attack. The thought of people seeing her legs, her arms, her stomach, her back…

  It was funny, he hadn’t left a single scar on her body. He did it on purpose, of course. Because he wanted to keep her pretty. He was the fool. She’d never been pretty.

  Alex told her, once, that she had beautiful skin. She’d been curled in a chair and the leg of her pants had ridden up. She’d blushed, tried to erase the incident. Then he’d asked her why she bothered to shave her legs, and she’d almost cried with embarrassment. She still wanted to feel like a woman sometimes. She couldn’t feel that way with hairy armpits, hairy legs.

  Jemma darted out into the sunlit morning and took her prizes. She darted back into the shadow, hugging the damp warm wall of the cottage. Her heart pounded and blood thundered in her ears.

  Now put them on.

  The shorts were easy; she slid them on under the skirt. It had been over a decade since she’d worn something so tight. Constricting. Claustrophobic.

  Now the scary part. She glanced up to make sure Alex wasn’t looking. She couldn’t see him. It’s not that bad. Women do this every day.

  Dressing like this is why he hurt you.

  But she had never dressed like this! Never!

  She whipped her torn dress off, and in her haste to cover up got caught in the halter top. This was even worse, the idea that instead of seeing her dressed like a slut, someone would see her failing to dress like a slut, trussed and bound in her own clothes.

  She fought with the shirt, tying it awkwardly behind her neck and behind her back. She imagined women asking their boyfriends and husbands to tie it for them. Like everything else, she would do this on her own.

  “Can I look?” Alex whispered from above.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” She steeled herself. There would be time to curl into a ball later. To weep. To wrap herself in yards and yards of thick clothing. She didn’t have shoes, but she guessed here that didn’t matter.

  “You need this.” He flicked a hair elastic at her with half-intensity, so it merely glided to the ground at her feet. It wasn’t hers. She found it in the bathroom when she got here. Her hair was all she had left to hide behind.

  “Okay.” She exhaled
the word. Took a handful of her thick black hair and bound it in a sloppy ponytail. She blinked at the world, before her with no sunglasses, no hair to act as filter.

  “Walk over like you own the place.”

  Acting. She studied it a bit in college. Had been quite good, everyone told her. She worried they were just being polite.

  It didn’t matter now. She pretended she wasn’t terrified of the sun. Pretended she didn’t care if people could see the delicate skin of her stomach. Like their visions could disembowel her. It made her shiver.

  She saw no one as she walked to the store in the underside of the restaurant. There wasn’t even anyone at the cash register. So she took a can of spray tan, and made her way back to the shadows behind the cottage. As simple as that. She selected what she wanted, reached for it, took it, and walked out. She saw no one. No one saw her.

  Power?

  It almost made her laugh as she resumed her place under Alex’s window.

  The orange caste of her skin amused her as she sprayed her legs. People paid money for this. Enjoyed it. Fascinating.

  Alex, from the window, sprayed her back and her face.

  She covered her arms, her underarms, her stomach.

  “Now what do I do?” she asked.

  “Go talk to him. Try and lead him to the beach.”

  “He’ll know me.”

  “No. I don’t even know you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You’re totally different. Just…don’t fold your shoulders forward. Throw them back. Be proud.”

  “I’m not proud.”

  “You know that. I know because you tell me all the time. But no one else needs to know.”

  Jemma threw her shoulders back, aware of her breasts jutting out. All the more reason for people to look at her. She felt like a caricature of a woman, wanted to withdraw into her shell, a safe, warm Jemma snail.

  She stole one final glance back at Alex, and steeled herself.

  This was the first time she’d been in real danger in years. She hated the feeling.

  She stepped out into the sun. Let it touch her skin.

  Eleven years ago, she hadn’t known what fear was. What pain was. She thought she did, sure. Everyone thinks they know. But once she felt real fear, thought she was going to die at someone else’s hand…then she realized what a lovely life she’d been living.

  When she talked to Mr. Lucky, she had to speak clearly. Couldn’t mumble, couldn’t talk to her shoes. She was a tourist. She was excited to be here. He was a tour guide; she wanted to see the places where he took people.

  He sat on the stoop of her cottage, staring at his bare feet and the dusty ground. Jemma thought about what Terry told them, about stepping on terrible, poisonous things.

  “’Scuse me.” She hated the sound of her voice. Usually hated it, really hated it now, with this phony enthusiasm.

  Mr. Lucky had to recognize her. How could he not?

  “You do tours, right?”

  “Yes, but not today. Today is a day off. A holiday.”

  “No way!” Jemma focused on every TV show she’d ever watched. Every movie she’d ever seen. “What’s the holiday? Which boat is yours? Can we see it from here?”

  She hoped the sweat pouring down her back didn’t mess up the spray tan.

  “You’ve not heard of the holiday. It is special here in El Nido.”

  “There gonna be parties tonight?” She focused the slight English accent out of her voice.

  “There are parties every night here.”

  “Which boat is yours?” she asked again. “And which tour is best? There’s three tours, right? So which one is best? Show me your boat!”

  He stood, that was something. He drank her in with his eyes. The little shorts that sat on her hips, the slightest curve of her stomach.

  He scrutinized her. He must know something was up. She had to get him away from the cottage.

  “So if it’s a holiday, then are any boats going out?”

  “Some yes, some no.”

  “Can you show me which ones are going?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Are you, like, busy or something?” God she sounded stupid. But lots of people sounded stupid, so maybe she wasn’t so far off her mark.

  “Yes, very busy.”

  She laughed. “Doing what? Sitting? It’ll take four seconds. Take me to a tour guy, set me up, and you can come back to your stoop or whatever.”

  He might be considering it.

  “You better be busy, ’cause you’re missing all the money of that trip.”

  Mr. Lucky sighed, and peeked over his shoulder at Jemma’s cottage door. She could imagine Alex crouched inside, listening for what came next.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Thank you so much. But you never told me which tour is best?”

  Thinking of Lot’s wife, Jemma didn’t look back at her cottage. She kept her eyes forward, on the ever-changing cerulean seas.

  21

  Alex pressed himself against the door, listening to the conversation outside. Jemma didn’t sound entirely natural, but he wondered if anyone who didn’t know her would pick up on it. He suspected not. Certainly Mr. Lucky wouldn’t.

  Their voices started to recede. One quick slam with his shoulder should take care of the flimsy lock. It was one of those things he’d never attempted, but always watched when heroes did it in the movies. He thought he could handle it. Hoped he could, anyway.

  He hazarded a glance out the window, and couldn’t see Jemma or Mr. Lucky. Go time.

  Alex launched himself into the door. A crack, a sharp pain in his shoulder, but no movement. One more. It gave a little bit, but the whole process proved much louder than he’d anticipated. He wound up for a running start, bounced off the door again, and finished it off with a kick. His shoulder hurt like a motherfucker. The door flew open and smacked into the wall.

  Karen should arrive in front of Merriweathers any minute now. A half mile north down the beach. Toward town. He didn’t much care for that. But beggars, it is said, can’t be choosers.

  A 230-pound white guy has a hard time being secretive and sneaky pretty much anywhere. Yes, he was tall. Yes, he carried his weight well. But it still didn’t make him a little dude. Didn’t make it easy for him to cross the beach without being noticed.

  He caught a glimpse of Jemma talking to Mr. Lucky. He should have grabbed one of her dresses for her, but on the other hand, she had the rest of her life to curl up in a burlap sack. He kept his head down, and tried to walk like a man with a destination. He wondered what Terry was doing.

  A half mile down the beach wasn’t so far. He wished he could check on Jemma. He executed a casual, wide turn, hand shielding his eyes from the sun, hoping to look like a dude scoping the scenery, and nothing more. There was fantastic scenery to scope. He wished he had even the slightest chance to enjoy it. Vampires and being locked in cottages sort of bled the fun out of the lovely vistas.

  He could see Jemma, as she made her way down the beach. She stopped to talk to a native boy. Well, it was un-Jemma. The Merriweathers resort sign featured a margarita glass, a palm tree, and a crescent moon, painted faded Day-Glo pink. Alex dropped into a wicker beach lounger, and stared out at the water. He examined each Bangka and motorboat. He hoped Lucky Daze could outrun Baby Roxanne. Once Mr. Lucky went back to the cottage, he’d see they were gone.

  From his peripheral vision (god, he hoped he was being discreet) he watched Mr. Lucky leave the beach. Alex stood, willing Jemma to hurry the fuck up. Where was Karen? He’d stressed the gravity of the situation, so it wasn’t as though she would get distracted and wander off. There were plenty of little boats out there, but most of them seemed to be unmanned, waiting in the early morning to collect tourists and head out into the islands.

  Where was she?

  Jemma moved down the beach at a casual, meandering pace. They had maybe three seconds before Mr. Lucky came after them. Would he put
two and two together, or was Jemma’s disguise solid?

  Two things happened at once: Karen put-putted the Lucky Daze into view. A half mile down the beach, Mr. Lucky came sprinting from the Vista Breeze resort, a tiny white Terry behind him.

  Jemma ran.

  Alex headed into the water toward Karen, the boat name gnawing at him. Running from Lucky to Lucky didn’t quite sit right. Jemma saw him and cut into the water—which would slow her down, shit—to triangulate the distance.

  Karen worked her boat in as shallow as she dared.

  This, Alex reflected as his heart slammed against his ribs, is why people run for fun. So when the time comes to run for your life, it’s not quite so painful.

  Closer to the boat now, he paused and watched Jemma struggle through the calf-deep water.

  Lucky closed the distance between them.

  Alex waited, not sure if he should board the boat or go try and hold off Mr. Lucky. The man carried a machete, there wasn’t much Alex could do.

  A loud pop—gunshot?—rent the morning, and something splashed and exploded in front of Mr. Lucky, then blazed brilliant green. For a moment it glowed brighter than the sun.

  Karen stood on the nose of her boat, wildly sexy in her conservative khaki shorts and button-down shirt, a neon orange flare gun in her hand.

  It bought them the time they needed. Jemma came to him, and he stepped out of her way, letting her clamber gracelessly on board.

  Karen extended a hand to help her, and Jemma muttered a terse “no thanks,” then a harsher “please don’t touch me.”

  “Go!” Alex flung himself into the boat with a wave of warm seawater.

  Jemma curled into one of the seats, wrapping her arms around herself as best she could. Karen lobbed the flare gun to Alex, gawked at Jemma a little, and started the motor.

  Alex pointed the gun at Mr. Lucky, who’d resumed his pursuit. He didn’t want to shoot anyone. He wanted to get away. He fired another flare in front of his pursuer, and again, Mr. Lucky stopped. He shielded his eyes, and started to laugh.

  “Not so lucky now, eh?” Alex called. The guy’d finally flipped his shit. Good. Now to get to Puerto, get on a plane, and get the hell out of here. Back to New York, back to snow and sleet and rude people. Back to home.