He jerked toward her, a smile now transforming his face. “Hey, there. I’m glad you’re awake. The rain has stopped finally, winds are dying down and somehow the island isn’t totally underwater. We made it through Tony.”
“I wonder if we’ll make it through Leland,” she couldn’t help but add.
“We’ll make it, but one thing at a time.” He wedged the chair against the door and waded to the kitchen, returning and presenting her with a can of pineapple juice and a jar of peanuts. “Ta-da!” he trumpeted.
She goggled. “You found food!” It came out in a high-pitched squeal.
“Didn’t you order room service, madam?” He feigned confusion. “I’m sorry. I’ll just take this back to the kitchen.”
“No way,” she giggled, snatching the peanuts from his hands.
They popped the tops off the pineapple juice and drained two cans each. He peeled off the foil seal of the peanut jar and poured her a massive handful before filling his own palm. They gobbled the salty nuts, eating until they had emptied the container.
Antonia’s eyes closed in pleasure. “Of all the meals I’ve eaten in my life, I think that was the best.”
“Certainly the finest company,” he added.
She blushed. “Considering we’re stranded on an island with only a few other people, several of whom are killers, that’s not saying much.”
He laughed and held a pineapple can out in a toast. “To the finest meal the Isla Hotel has ever produced. And the last,” he added, more quietly.
Her smile dimmed as she clinked his can with hers. “Can it be restored, do you think? Isla, I mean?”
His lips pressed together and something went dull in his eyes. “You know the answer to that.”
She did and it pained her deep down so she sought another subject. “Is there any more food?”
“What, still hungry?” he said, hopping off the mattress and splashing into the kitchen.
“Not now, but I will be soon,” she said.
He dumped the contents of a small grocery bag onto the counter. “I found a couple of useful things. Two granola bars,” he said, wiggling them for her to see. “A box of matches, which looks to be relatively dry. Three bandages and a flashlight that doesn’t work right now but might once it dries out.” He regarded her triumphantly. “What do you think?”
“Not as magnificent as the peanuts, but those granola bars will come in handy later.” She shivered. “I’d give a pretty penny to have some dry clothes right about now.”
“Sorry, can’t help you with that one. The washer and dryer have done their last loads.” He stopped, then shook his head. “Thought I heard a helicopter. Wishful thinking.”
“When do you think the coast guard will come back?”
He drifted to the window and peered out. “Not anytime soon unless we can convince them there’s an emergency situation here. They’ve got plenty bigger priorities right now.”
Dread kindled inside her. “How will we do that? Are the phones working?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking if I could get to the skimmer, providing it’s still afloat, there’s a radio in it. If it’s intact, I could call for help.”
The thought of going back to that spot in the lagoon where she’d been marched out to drown made her feel sick. She swallowed hard. “Okay. I’m in.”
“No. I’ll go myself, but first we need to regroup for a while and maybe get Silvio and Paula back here if we can. They’ll need to rest, and Silvio can help secure the doors. Either that or we get you to the lighthouse and wait for help there. Neither place is great, but it’s all that’s still standing except for the boathouse.”
“What about Hector and Gavin?” she asked softly. “They were headed to the boathouse.”
“I don’t know what to do about that.” He looked at her. “I don’t know how to help my brother. I never did.”
“You loved him the best way you could.”
He didn’t answer, turning instead to gaze out the window again.
The light picked up the deep shadows on his face, lines of fatigue engraving his forehead. “Reuben, why don’t you lie down now? I’ll take a turn watching.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. You’re exhausted and you need to rest. I had my turn, it’s yours now.” She hopped off the bed and sloshed over to him. “Rest, just for a few minutes. Please.”
He shook his head. “I want to be ready if he comes.”
She touched a finger to a long scratch on his temple, tracing the line down the side of his face. His eyes closed and he caught her hand in his, pressing it to his face, lips seeking the place at her wrist where her pulse hammered at his touch. Then she was in his arms, holding him close, stroking his back as if she could smooth away the past and restore what had been taken from him, from them both.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “that everything is ruined here on Isla.”
He sighed, warm breath ruffling her hair. “I wasn’t meant to be here, running this hotel, Nee. My pride told me I was the one, the only one who could save it, and that gave me some kind of self-importance, I guess. God wants me in an orange field, tending those trees. He’s been telling me that all along. I should have listened.” He pressed his face into the crook of her neck. “I should have listened to a lot of things.”
They clung to each other. “I’ve made mistakes, too, Reuben.”
He raised his head then, and she saw moisture glimmering in his eyes. “But your mistakes didn’t wreck things.”
Didn’t they? Hadn’t her relentless need to expose Hector’s failings driven further the wedge between them? Her decision to support her sister’s flight, helping her keep Gracie away from Hector, had also removed the little girl from Reuben, from this uncle who loved her desperately. Had running been the only answer? But at the very core of her being she knew her greatest sin—that she had not wanted Hector proved innocent, but condemned.
“If it means anything at all,” Reuben said, “my brother said he has been clean for the past five years. He was blackmailed back in by the Garzas. They threatened him with prison and never seeing Gracie again if he didn’t deliver Isla.”
And you believe that? The thought sprang to her mind, but she swallowed it. “I’m sorry. I know you love your brother.”
He gave her a startled look, followed by the sweetest smile she had ever seen, one that went right past her defenses, the regret and condemnation straight into her soul. She stroked his cheek, and he pressed close to her, his mouth inches from her own.
A snap sounded from outside.
Reuben raced to the front window and she crowded next to him.
“I don’t see anything,” she whispered.
“I don’t, either, but that noise was close. We’d better move.”
Stuffing the last two cans of juice into his pockets along with the granola bars, he pushed her toward the back door, which hung crookedly on its hinges, wedged in place against the concrete porch step. The gap was only a scant twelve inches across, and though Antonia slipped easily through, Reuben’s broad shoulders wedged.
“Go,” he hissed. “Run to the woods along the creek. Head for the lighthouse.”
“No way. You’re coming, or I’m not going,” she whispered back.
“Nee, move it,” he commanded.
She did not budge except to take his hand and yank as hard as she could until he finally stumbled clear of the door. Then they were running, heads down, as quietly as they could manage into the cover of the mangled palms and trees.
Pushing through the wet branches brought them close to the swollen banks of the creek, which lapped the very top and spilled over. The ground was treacherous with debris and slippery rocks, but they kept up a quick pace until they were a good fifty yards from the bungalow. Ahead on the ridge sat the wreck of the hotel, some patches of white paint shining oddly in the sunlight. Panting and scratched they slowed to a halt.
Antonia pressed a hand to her cramping sid
e. If she hadn’t had a small rest and something to eat and drink, she never would have completed the run. As it was she was still fighting fatigue, her muscles rubbery and weak and her bare feet painfully battered. She wondered how Reuben was holding up.
He pulled her to the dripping canopy of an oak tree and climbed on a rock to peer back at the bungalow.
It was hard to know if they had made a reasonable choice fleeing from their only shelter. Were they both suffering from paranoia? Or had Martin found his way out of the mangroves and tracked them to the bungalow?
“I don’t see any sign of him,” Reuben said. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“No you weren’t,” Martin said, stepping from the shrubbery and firing his gun at Reuben.
*
The sound of the gunshot nearly deafened Reuben, and he felt the hot metal skimming by his shirtsleeve. Antonia screamed. Grabbing a stout, fallen branch, he swung it at Martin. “Run, Antonia,” he hollered. “Get away from here.”
Instead of running, she picked up a rock and heaved it, missing Martin by several feet. She picked up another and another, hurling them at him with rapid-fire motion, eyes wild and hair flying. Martin batted most of them away with his free hand, but one or two struck his shoulder and he swung the gun at her.
It was as if Reuben were in the grip of a living nightmare. There was a gun pointed at Antonia. It was the most vicious, ugly scenario he could imagine, and it filled him with pure fury that scorched a white-hot path from his gut throughout every muscle in his body. Swinging the makeshift club with strength born of rage, he advanced on Martin, hitting him so hard the gun spiraled loose and skittered away into the mud.
Antonia scrambled after it, searching desperately through the grass with outstretched hands.
Martin howled, his face going red as Reuben readied for another strike with the branch. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Martin rasped. “Think you’re going to take me down with that stick?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” Reuben snarled.
“All right then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Reuben swung again, and Martin danced to the side before launching himself stomach down at Reuben’s ankles. Sidestepping, Reuben meant to leap over Martin, but he skidded on the mucky ground and went down on one knee. Martin rolled over and grabbed Reuben’s waist, bringing them both to the mud.
They grappled and rolled. Reuben tried to reach for the knife sheathed at his waist, but Martin’s hands went around his throat and he had to apply all his strength to keep from being choked.
Antonia looked frantically from Reuben to the grass where she was still pawing for Martin’s gun.
Finally able to pry Martin’s fingers loose, Reuben shoved his foot into Martin’s chest and sent him backward. Martin landed on his back, panting, sweat beading on his forehead. Slowly he rolled over and stood.
“Not bad for a farmer,” Martin said. “But you’re going to die anyway.”
Reuben’s heart pounded so hard the vibrations shuddered through his body. “Yep, but it’s not going to be today,” he breathed. “Not here and not now.”
Martin smiled and hurled himself again at Reuben. This time, Reuben did avoid the collision, moving just enough that Martin stumbled to his knees. Reaching out, Reuben knew this time he could use his advantage to get around behind the guy and press him facedown to the ground.
His miscalculation became clear a moment later. Time seemed to slow as he realized that Martin had pulled a knife from his belt. There was no time to react as his arm arced and he plunged the knife forward. Reuben felt it grating against his ribs a second before the explosive pain. Through an excruciating haze he saw Antonia, who looked up just as the knife slid home, horror infusing her beautiful face, an odd contrast to the ugly triumph on display on Martin’s.
Run, Nee, he wanted to shout, but he could not force his mouth to give voice to the words.
He staggered back and then he was falling, spiraling backward, hitting the swollen creek with a harsh smack. Water closed over his head, and through the silted depths he caught one more glimpse of Antonia before the creek whisked him away.
NINETEEN
“Reuben,” she screamed, running to the edge of the creek. A flash of his arm, one tiny glimpse, and then he was gone, sucked under the roiling surface.
“Too bad,” Martin said, brushing off the soiled knees of his pants. “He shoulda stayed in the fields. Farmers almost never get themselves drowned.” He chuckled.
Antonia wanted to scream, to beat at his awful chest, but she was numb with horror as she stared at the spot where Reuben had been only a second before. Reuben, Reuben, her mind wailed. Martin grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly away from the creek. She tried to twist out of his grasp. Reuben could make it to shore, and she could help him climb out. Her feet turned back toward the rushing water, but Martin forced her away.
“He’s gone. We’ll go to Leland and see what he wants to do with you.” She could not form a coherent thought marching across the soggy ground. Everything was a numbing void.
She tripped over a broken slab of plaster and he jerked her up by the back of her shirt. She had to get away from him, to get back to the creek. The water would have carried Reuben downstream toward the lagoon. It was quieter there, tranquil. He could get out; she would help him. Her mind spun frantically.
“We called for help,” she lied to Martin. “The coast guard is on its way.”
He didn’t answer at first. “Save your breath. You don’t have a working phone. Not after both of you took your dip in the ocean.”
“We radioed.”
“With what?” he snorted.
“The radio on the skimmer.”
Martin grabbed her elbow and turned her around. He was breathing heavily, and she was happy to note one of her rock missiles had found its mark on his cheek. “Radio’s busted. We disconnected it.”
“Reuben fixed it.” She held her gaze steady, willing him to believe her ruse.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”
“Well you’ll believe it when they show up here.” She searched the sky. “Shouldn’t be too much longer. You saw the helicopter they sent just before the storm surge.”
Breath held, she waited.
Martin considered. “All right, I’m game. We’ll check the skimmer. If you’re telling the truth, we’ll radio again, tell them everything’s fine. And if you’re lying…” He smiled. “Then we can take our time and tie things up here properly.”
She tried to think of a secondary plan as they went along. Somewhere on the path to the lagoon, she’d get away from him and find Reuben. Hardly a plan, hardly a chance.
Her stomach squeezed again and something cold slithered through her. She prayed that Reuben was not gravely hurt. He could not be. There was so much left she had to say. Martin huffed along the path, never more than a few feet behind her.
“Why do you do this?” she asked.
“What?”
“Abduction, murder, whatever Leland wants.”
“Not Leland. Mr. Garza. He’s my boss, and I do what he tells me.”
She noted the sullen note that crept into his voice and filed that away to use to her advantage. “Killing innocent people, though? And women?”
“Don’t usually kill women. Don’t usually kill at all anymore. Too messy and attracts too much attention. This whole thing got out of hand, but you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Mr. Garza doesn’t want you to kill us, does he? This is Leland’s idea.”
Martin’s pace slowed for a moment. “Got no choice now. Mr. Garza will want things cleaned up.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What choice is there?” Martin huffed. “We got an island full of witnesses now. You’re going to have to die and that’s that. Just a matter of how’s best to do it.”
“And you don’t even have a qualm?” She shook her head. “No conscience that tells you what you’re
doing is wrong?”
“I don’t get paid to have a conscience. Listen, honey, if you’re looking for me to come to my senses and realize the error of my ways, it ain’t gonna happen. Life’s too short to worry about morals.”
Too short not to. She sighed. “What a waste of a life.”
Martin gave her a shove, which nearly sent her sprawling. “Just get going. All this talk is making my head ache.”
They came to the deep pond of water, splashing in up to their knees and then down the muddy slope that led to the lagoon. “All these lagoons look the same to me,” she said. “Do you remember where you stowed the skimmer?”
“Sure I do,” he said, catching hold of her wrist. “Right down there, tied up safe.”
The water made her slow and clumsy. There was no way she would escape even if she did manage to break the tight grip he had on her wrist.
Wait, Antonia. The moment will come. Watch for it. She wondered if Reuben had lost much blood from the stab wound. Was he still struggling against the rushing creek? The muscles in her chest knotted into a tight ball.
Martin did remember the pocket of lagoon where they had secured the skimmer. They made their ungainly way to the edge of the inlet, which was now showing signs of life again. Pushing aside the trailing Spanish moss, Martin peered into the little sanctuary. A pelican ruffled its feathers as if to shake off the remnants of the killer storm. Flickers in the surface indicated the fish, or perhaps it was the manatees, had begun to stir in the swollen circle of water. Martin had eyes for none of it. He thrashed forward, dragging her along until their feet sank in the muddy shore.
The skimmer was gone.
Perhaps it had blown loose in the surge. Martin must have considered that option, too, because he began to shove his way through the trees, heedless of the branches that slapped at them both.
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