The Mission (Clairmont Series Novel Book 2)

by L. J. Wilson

  A woman led a group of children to a play area. There was plenty of equipment, but it was worn, the asphalt busted like its benefactor had long since vanished. The kids didn’t seem to mind, swarming swings and slides like happy bees. Their teacher pushed one swing, then the other. She was dressed in a longish skirt and long-sleeved blouse that seemed counterintuitive to the oppressive heat. Her hair was braided, wound tightly to the back of her head—even from the distance Alec could tell she wasn’t Latina. He continued to stare. Alec understood burkas, mandated cultural clothing, but the woman’s looked more like something from a different century.

  Alec’s military observations faded to civilian ones. He wasn’t watching, he was remembering. A woman dressed exactly like her had once pushed himself and Aaron on swings. His mother was there. In the back of his mind, the thrill of the swing gave way to an argument—a vicious, thundering fight. Someone hurting Evie. Alec struggled to grasp the memory. The clergyman was back, dressed in vestments, his pockmarked face stern. Alec could picture Aaron—who was three, maybe four years old—reaching for Evie. But she couldn’t get close to him—like there was a fat object in the way. The recollection was old, sandwiched between stronger military memories that Alec spent most of his mental energy trying to keep subdued.

  As he stood on the side of the dirt road, an impulse shot through him. Alec wanted to ask the teacher if she might fill in his blanks. Her clothing, if not her presence, seemed tied to the bits and pieces of his childhood memory. Then Alec thought better of it. His shirtless, sweaty appearance would scare the hell out of her. Aside from that, even from this distance, he could see she was young—probably younger than him. He sighed. Surely his elusive memories wouldn’t mean anything to her. He glanced at his watch and jogged back to the hotel.

  An hour later, Alec, Jess, Julian, and a hired motor boat captain were bumping through a rough ocean. Alec’s gaze stuck mostly to the blazing horizon. In between, the two people standing beside him kept registering as a couple. The shoreline of La Carta grew smaller as an island came into focus.

  “See, I told you,” Jess said. “It’s thick as a rainforest, devoid of people. When I started questioning the locals about my investigation—3Cs tip on a recent plane disappearance—this,” she said, pointing, “is the story they wanted to tell. It took some back and forth to establish that they weren’t talking about a plane that vanished last week but more like a dozen years ago. The locals talked about a husband and wife with a lot of reverence. I don’t know if they were missionaries or what, but some of the village elders spoke about a school connected to the couple.”

  “I saw the school,” Alec said. “It’s on the edge of town.” He looked toward the island and back at La Carta. His parents’ plane, the oddly dressed woman on the playground, and his vague memory, it all seemed to link—though, admittedly, the missionary part didn’t add up.

  “Nobody knew anything about the missing plane I came looking for,” Jess said over the hum of the motor, “but the subject set off a barrage of stories. To me, it sounded like local legend. My translator relayed stories… or maybe it was just hearsay about the couple and their plane. They said it might have gone down on that island. But what struck me as really strange is that for an island not too far from the mainland, nobody knew much else.

  “That’s when I learned why it is no one’s ever gone in search of any plane or the couple—years ago or now. It’s been rumored that…” Alec turned, facing Jess. She swallowed hard. “Well, the island, they call it Isla de la Muerte.”

  “Translation?” he said.

  “The story goes… Listen, Alec, I’m sure it’s native talk, but the villagers claim…” She quieted and looked toward the horizon of Isla de la Muerte.

  “What, Jess? Just say it.”

  “Alec, remember where you are. The stories I heard, they were told to me by people who still believe in rain gods. Theories varied about what happened to the man and woman, starting with a plane crash, and ending with…”

  “With…?” Alec said, grazing his arms through salt air.

  Jess leaned against the bulkhead and Julian’s arm moved around her shoulder. Goose bumps rose on her flesh and Julian took over the explanation. “Isla de la Muerte—it means Island of Death. The area where Jess found the plane crash, the island was said to be inhabited by an ancestral tribe that practiced cannibalism.”

  Alec gripped the frame of the boat’s windshield to stay steady on his feet. It felt like his seaworthy legs might come out from under him. His glance brushed warily with the hired captain. Alec tugged at a bandanna knotted at his throat and locked his eyes on the island.

  They anchored the boat offshore. Alec weighed his words as Julian checked his weapon. Insult or safety? “You know,” Alec said, opting for safety, “I’ve got serious real world experience discharging a weapon.”

  “We’re fine.” Julian tucked the gun into his waistband, squinting up at Alec. “So have I,” he said. “I can handle it. Here.” He opened a cargo bin. Inside was a machete. “Can you handle that?”

  Alec picked up the medieval instrument. Definitely not his weapon of choice. It made Alec wish he’d spent the morning scouring the streets for a firearm connection instead of a heat-filled jog. Surely he could have scored a gun. He was irritated, having allowed something other than the mission to influence his actions. The threesome trudged through knee-deep water and onto shore.

  “This way,” Jess said. After a few hundred yards, the necessity of the machete became apparent. Alec took the lead, cutting through thick jungle. He followed the vague path made two days before by Jess and her guide. Sunlight dappled the green forest, hit-and-miss light peeking through. It was eerily silent, less the caw of native birds and the swish of falling fauna.

  “It’s just a little farther. My guide was one of a few who could confirm an old wreck. He said the father of a friend came out here years ago to investigate.”

  “And?” Alec said over his shoulder.

  “He never came back.”

  All three stuttered to a stop and cagey glances passed from one to the other.

  “In my guide’s opinion, the man was swept away by a sudden storm,” Jess added. “He wasn’t a believer in the village rumors. Considering the odds, sudden storm is far more likely. Anyway, it didn’t take us long to—”

  Forward motion ended in a manmade clearing. Alec’s sweaty grip pulsed around the handle of the machete. The scene depicted Jess’s photo, but the live version held more impact. His breath quickened and his mind was rushed by images of his parents—scenes more vivid than home movies. He felt fingers lock around the back of his arm. “Alec, are you all right?” Jess said. Julian pushed past them, moving closer to the wreckage.

  “I, um…” Why the fuck hadn’t he told Aaron to come with him? Aaron was good at dealing with live-wire reactions. There was no containing this. He looked from the scene and into Jess’s hazel eyes. “It just can’t be good, you know? I mean, not knowing for years was rough. But if I have to go back and tell them…”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?” Jess said. “And I, uh… Well, I know it’s not like you to need anybody—for anything—but should you find yourself in that place… I’m here.” Jess’s hand slid down his arm, squeezing the fingers that weren’t wrapped around a machete.

  “You sure about that?” It was all Alec could get past whatever the hell was in his throat.

  Julian called Jess’s name, which seemed to answer the question. “Of course,” she said before moving toward her ex.

  Time and the jungle had overtaken the ruins. The plane had married with the landscape, vines and native plants hugging twisted metal. It made the whole sight look like a modern art exhibit. Alec took charge, like he always did—Middle East, home, or here. He quickly boarded the plane, the cockpit’s door missing. There were no human remains, just as Jess had texted. Empty crates and dirt were most obvious, a cracked control panel and windows.

  Backtracking fr
om the cockpit through the interior, Alec examined the cabin floor. It was dark—small but without seats. This plane had been meant for cargo. A hole in the upper shell allowed spears of sunlight to pierce through, a thick overgrowth of vines strangling daylight. Between his hands and the machete, Alec cleared it away. With better light, he could make out a faint trail. Dark steady spots on the cabin’s floor. He followed them to the plane’s exit and hopped down. Jess was in his path.

  “What?”

  “Blood stains. They go from the cockpit to here.” He continued to follow the trail, which was more like streaks—as if a bloodied body had braced against the plane while moving along. On the tail section were the markings Jess had discovered. In a fairly neat order, scrawled in blood, were initials: S.C., E.N., followed by his name, Aaron, Honor, Jake, and Troy’s.

  Julian stepped up to the plane, brushing his hand over arrows that jutted from Honor or Jake’s names to the initials E.K. It was hard to tell what, precisely, the arrows pointed to. The line moved shakily between the names of Alec’s siblings. Julian ran his hand harder over the dirty hull and Alec fought the urge to tell him to get his hands off his parents’ plane. Julian glanced back at Alec, looking intrigued by the plane’s bloody, cryptic message. “Jess explained about your siblings names on the plane, but who is E. K.?”

  “I don’t…” Alec didn’t want to have this discussion with Julian. “K… Kane,” he said, irritation jarring a memory. “Duncan Kane.” The whole name popped into his head, matching the clergyman he’d recalled earlier that morning.

  “And who’s Duncan Kane?” Jess said.

  “Connected to E. K…. maybe? Total speculation, but Duncan Kane was some kind of preacher that ties to my mother’s past. I’m not sure how. Her personal history, before my father, it’s always been… sketchy.”

  “As a kid, do you remember anything about this area, talk of it, or coming here?” Julian asked.

  “No… I don’t.” Alec struggled for a memory—but it was too old, or he’d been too young. Now he wished he’d approached the teacher in the village, asked questions.

  “If you ask me, those arrows,” Julian said, pointing, “read like a clue.”

  “If it is, it’s kind of a vague one,” Jess said.

  “That or the person who left it was out of time… or blood,” Alec said, swallowing hard. He didn’t want to give Julian any credit, but he agreed. The arrows, the initials, it did strike him as a clue left in haste. When Alec didn’t say anything else, Julian walked away, examining other parts of the plane. “Evie and Sebastian,” Alec said, “nothing about them was… traditional. Their relationship—in a lot of ways they belonged to each other like no two people I’ve ever seen. Even as kids we could see it, the emotional bond. On the other hand, there were moments… spans of time completely out of sync with that feeling. None more striking than the fact that they were never married.”

  “That’s quite an observation,” Jess said.

  “In what sense?”

  “Aside from the fact that I’ve never heard you use the words ‘emotional bond?’” They traded confounded stares. “Those are pretty vivid observations coming from a guy who generally sees in black and white.”

  Jess’s words hit hard—that she said them, that she knew him so well. Alec wasn’t comfortable with either fact. “Yeah, well, this whole thing dumps me on a path way out of my comfort zone.”

  “I get it,” she said, relenting. “But there is another option here. You can make a different choice, Alec.”

  “Like what?” he said wiping dirt from his hands. “Hop a flight to Rio, plant my ass in some white hot sand and pretend this doesn’t exist?”

  “Not so extreme. But you don’t have to see this through. The outcome, it might be more than you bargained for. It might be something you can’t—”

  “Handle?”

  “I’m just saying I feel responsible. If I hadn’t discovered the plane… Look, I’m sure not knowing what happened to your parents has been torturous. But if learning what did happen to them is even worse…” In Jess’s motionless stance, Alec saw internal squirming. “For as tough as you are, Alec, sometimes I worry that you’re a heartbeat from losing it. I don’t want to be the person who pushes you off that cliff… or,” she said, displaying sentiment he refused to acknowledge, “causes you that kind of pain.”

  “You can’t protect me from the truth, Jess. I don’t want you to. I get it. What we learn may be extremely gruesome. But if any Clairmont is going to bear that, it’s going to be me.”

  She nodded, forcing her voice lighter. “Oldest child syndrome?”

  “Or shortest straw. I’ll let you know.”

  On a map, Isla de la Muerte spanned about a fifteen-mile radius. Alec had walked a portion of it, the group staying on the east side of the island. The wreckage held the only signs of a human presence. Other than blistering heat, the island appeared to pose no other threat. Regardless, Alec understood that didn’t mean one hadn’t existed years ago. Back on the mainland, he contacted the NTSB. They would pick up the physical end of the investigation.

  Alec spoke with Aaron, relaying facts. The two agreed to keep speculation about possible cannibalism between them. Both brothers felt strongly that the grisly theory wasn’t something they wanted to dump on Jake or Troy, especially Honor. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle it—Honor was as tough as any Clairmont. But there was an instinct to protect the only girl among the Tribe of Five. Right or wrong, Alec knew Sebastian Clairmont would have done the same thing. From there the brothers formulated a plan. Alec would learn whatever else he could in La Carta. Aaron would work the angles closer to home, trying to unearth their parents’ curious past, particularly Evie’s.

  First on Alec’s list was the town where he fought folklore and a language barrier. The boat captain, who spoke English, accepted a crisp hundred-dollar bill to interpret. Julian and Jess had gone in a different direction. It was fine. He preferred to be on his own. An hour later Alec and the guide questioned an older woman who’d gasped audibly upon spying Alec. She told them about a couple—a man who clearly resembled him (except for the eyes)—and a pretty blonde woman. She poked a crooked finger at Alec, accusing in broken English, “You are him with her eyes…” He gulped at a description of his parents that would result in a spot-on sketch of Alec Clairmont. Other villagers chimed in, offering thickly accented confirmation, saying “Sí Sebastian” then “Evie.”

  Alec wanted all the clarification he could get. “Sebastian… Sebastian Clairmont?”

  The villagers looked from one to the other, hesitating. “No… Christos… Sebastian Christos…”

  The surname meant nothing to Alec. Lastly, he plucked a photo of his parents from his shirt pocket. He’d been saving it. The photo was the ultimate confirmation, the older villagers leaving Alec with no doubt.

  Sometime later, Alec had cobbled together a story: In the mid-seventies and into the next decade guerilla rebels had terrorized the region. It was a dangerous period of political unrest, native factions fighting for control over the drug-filled landscape. The villagers told Alec that initially Sebastian’s presence only enabled the violence. But over time, his mission had changed, arming a separatist group—one that had ultimately wanted peace. With Sebastian’s help they were able to take back La Carta and the outlying land. After the violence waned, Sebastian’s visits didn’t stop. They changed as he brought medical supplies, a doctor, food and, eventually, a woman with him. His benevolence raised his status among the people of La Carta to almost god-like.

  It seemed their travels were random—sometimes just Sebastian, sometimes with Evie, who they took to be his wife. All agreed their assistance in the aftermath of a forgotten, war-torn region was lifesaving. They’d even funded the school Alec had seen. He was amazed by the stories he heard. None of it matched memories or the things his parents’ talked about. As far as Alec knew, Sebastian Clairmont’s employment history was exactly what he’d told Julian: he worked a
s a pilot for an international courier service. In his downtime, his father worked in Nickel Springs as the caretaker of the old Rose Arch Inn.

  But as a village elder picked up the story, speaking about one trip in particular, emotion swamped Alec. He wanted to run, but instead he was stuck in the middle of fucking La Carta, listening to a family history about which he hadn’t a clue. Via Alec’s translator, a man said that at one point they hadn’t seen the woman for more than a year. When Evie did return with Sebastian, they had a son with them—an infant. The couple made many trips and the baby turned into a toddler. A few years later, Evie appeared to be pregnant with another child. Looking at the dusty streets of the village, Alec guessed it probably didn’t look too different thirty-plus years ago. Maybe he’d been wrong about his assumption that he’d never been to La Carta before.

  The villagers went on to tell him that the woman’s visits grew less frequent. Alec did some quick math. By the time his twin siblings came along—Honor and Jake—toting four children over rough terrain, in this surely never-safe place, was improbable at best. Then, according to the locals, about a dozen years ago, the couple had made one last visit. They’d arrived and left by a plane that Sebastian piloted. They never returned again. Tales began to circulate, talk of smoke rising from the island the same night Evie and Sebastian’s plane left La Carta. The island with a hauntingly horrific reputation.

  It matched Alec’s timeline but not the explanation the NTSB had provided. The government agency had informed the Clairmont children that Sebastian picked up a last-minute courier assignment from San Paulo to Bogota. The authorities told the Tribe of Five that their parents’ plane had vanished from radar after leaving Colombian airspace. Endless, mountainous terrain, thick rainforest, bad weather that night, it had seemed more likely than not that the plane would never be found.