Vacation to Die For

by Josie Brown

  He shrugs. “Let’s just say you’re pleasingly plump.”

  “And you’re a sicko.” I try to move my hands, but I can’t. He has them bound behind my back. I’m naked now, except for the silk sash around my throat and around my ankles. The way he jerks on it, he makes sure I know it may also serve as my noose.

  In fact, if I try to straighten my legs from a crouching position, I'll choke myself.

  He slams my head down, deep into the couch cushion. My head is facing the coffee table. On it, six very sharp instruments are laid out on a towel.

  Hannibal picks up the one that looks like a kebab skewer, and very slowly runs it up my spine. I try my damnedest not to shiver.

  He slides the skewer to my neck, right below my ear where it meets my jaw. “Did you know there's a pressure point, right here? It reduces your appetite." He pinches my waist. "Guess not, eh?" He giggles as he presses down on the skewer.

  The pain is excruciating, but I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming out.

  He laughs—and lets up. The skewer clicks against the carving knife as he tosses it back on the coffee table. Then he picks up a bowl filled with something thick and moist. “You know, you and your scrawny little gal pal in there are providing me with a veritable feast! It’s like having an early Thanksgiving at the beach. In fact, while you were out cold, I took the time to make some stuffing. Here, tell me what you think of it.”

  He sits me up so that he can slather some on my breasts. After they're covered, he dabs even more to my right nipple. He stops a moment to admire it, then he licks it off. “Wonderful, you find this stimulating! Hey look, me too!” He points at his crotch.

  He’s lucky I’m all tied up. Otherwise I’d kick the shit out of him, starting with his tiny wanker.

  He shoves some stuffing into my belly button, but stops when he gets to my Brazilian wax job, so that he can scrutinize it. “Well now, that won’t do! I’ll have to shave it all off before I finish stuffing you, my little turkey-lurkey. In the meantime, you can suck on this.” He jabs his stuffing-laden fingers into my mouth.

  The fool. I bite down so hard that I can taste the tartness of his blood.

  When he’s finished screaming and cursing at me, he tosses my head back down between the seat cushions. While I’m choking, he sticks something long and hard in my hand.

  “Zucchini,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s on my diet.” He slaps my ass with it, hard. “Now it’s part of yours, too. Of course, when I get through with you, all your friends will be asking who did your lipo.”

  What, now he’s looking for referrals?

  “Like the firmness?” Slowly he slides the vegetable down the small of my back. I feel it moving down toward my crack. “Only twenty calories. A gram and a half of dietary fiber.” He caresses those last two words, as if they are porn.

  In his hands, they are.

  And in his hands, apparently my ass is delectable. He bites me, and it’s my turn to scream.

  I may lose those eight pounds yet.

  He yanks the silk sash so hard that I gasp. I can’t black out, not now.

  “Shhhh,” he whispers in my ear. “Now the fun part begins.”

  I feel his fingers separating my ass cheeks. His thumb slides down my crack, until he finds what he is looking for—

  No, it slides even lower, until it enters my vagina. With thumb and finger he widens it, then he places the zucchini on its lips. “I’ll bet you’ve never been fucked with a summer squash.”

  He’s got that right.

  I brace myself for the worst lay of my life.

  Instead, I hear the sweetest sound to any victim’s ears: the whoosh of a bullet as it hits your tormentor in the back of the head.

  Then the thud of his fall as he lands on top of you, pushing you deeper into a cushion, at an angle that has your bindings choking you.

  Then a whisper in your ear, from your savior: “Donna? Oh God, Donna! Are you okay?”

  Even a simple nod of your head will take you into darkness, so you wait until your savior has moved the dead body of your captor to one side and unties your bindings before cuddling you in his arms and swearing that he’ll never let anyone hurt you, ever again.

  All at once you’re thankful he got to you in time. And you’re embarrassed that he has to see you like this—all tied up, as it were, ha ha—

  But seriously, this is no time for jokes, now is it?

  He throws a sheet over you and carries you back to your tiki. Then he bundles you up into bed, and lies beside you—

  And holds you as if he’ll never let you go, as long as you both shall live.

  When you wake up in the middle of the night, you whisper, Jack I love you, over and over again.

  Maybe in the morning you’ll break the news to him that zucchini is off the menu until you can stomach it again, but for now you let him sleep because the best time in the world is when he holds you in his arms.

  If you don’t break the spell, perhaps you’ll never have to leave them.

  My phone is buzzing its cricket ring tone.

  I open one eye. Jack is still beside me and still deep in slumber.

  I roll over and look at the Caller ID on my cell. It’s Arnie. I click on it. “Speak to me.”

  “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you on the tooth mark, Donna. Ready for this? It belongs to the heir to the Bannaker Steel fortune, a guy named Connor Reems. I guess that makes him wealthy enough to pay to have his rap sheet buried in the bowels of Pittsburgh’s police department’s data archive. No convictions, but Reems has got a propensity for picking up single women who, for the most part, are never seen again. The few who got away have some pretty wild stories to tell, like food fetishes—even cannibalism!”

  “Really? Ya think?” Hey, I can’t blame Arnie. I’m the one who put too much on his plate (excuse the pun).

  I’m glad Jack set me straight about that.

  “By the way, Donna, Battoo asked me to tell you that your friend, Angie, is safely on her way home. But the other two are ready to partay, as soon as you can break away, they’re there for you.”

  Thanks, but no thanks. This isn’t supposed to be a gal pal getaway weekend.

  When I hang up, Jack mutters, “Who was that?”

  “Arnie. He got around to some reconnaissance I requested.” I flip around so that we’re nose to nose. “I was out of it, but did I hear you say that Abu took care of Angie, and Dominic took care of…whatever is left of Hannibal?”

  He nods. “I take it Arnie confirmed he wasn’t our suspect.”

  “No, unfortunately.” I entwine my hand in his. “I’m beginning to feel as if we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Oh well, maybe the tour today will put Mandrake in our laps.”

  Jack frowns. “Oh yeah, about that…When I mentioned to Julie that you wanted to tag along, she didn’t seem too keen about it. She’s concerned that Mr. Boarke won’t like it.”

  Yeah, right, I’m sure that’s her real concern.

  “Mr. Boarke owes me, big time,” I mutter. “If I have to remind him about it, I will.” One of Boarke’s problems is solved. He’s got a new one—me.

  I yawn. “We barely have time to jump in the shower before we have to meet the Boarke buggy. Love that rich Corinthian leather.”

  Jack grins. “We’ll have plenty of time if we shower together.”

  “Last one in has to scrub the other’s back.” I roll out of bed. “Oh, I just remembered! If you see a bite mark, just ignore it.”

  Jack checks out my backside. “No way. I want to take my time examining you for bruises, then kiss them and make them better.”

  I’ve no doubt he will. And I’ll love every minute of it.

  Chapter 8

  Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

  One of the joys of traveling is seeing new sights, and making new friends. Here are some tips that will help you expand your horizons in ways you never thought possible:

  Tip #1: Travel alone. �
�Alone” doesn’t mean you’ll be lonely. It means going without your usual BFF, bestie, bro, or SO. Seriously, why do you need an entourage, anyway—to carry your purse, or your suitcase, or your miniature dog? (Just get a bigger dog, and he can drag your suitcase—problem solved!)

  Tip #2: Reach out to strangers. You’ll meet so many nice people on planes, trains, or automobiles. Hint: if (a) the selected mode of vehicle is a hippy bus, and (b) drugs are being offered, and (c) everyone on the bus worships a guy named Manson, pass on the lift. Better to keep that thumb in the air. Trust me on this one.

  Tip #3: Don’t be afraid to open up. Tell your new friends your name and where you’re from. Give them a glimpse of the real you. However, no need for diarrhea of the mouth. Leave out such info as (a) your home address, (b) your ATM pin number, (c) your Twitter and Facebook passwords, and (d) any sexual peccadilloes or kinky predilections you may have.

  Tip #4: Keep your eyes open, and enjoy the view! From the plane. From a mountaintop. From your hotel room—especially if the couple across the street are going at it, like bonobos in heat. In fact, this alone is a perfect reason why you bring binoculars—

  Which can also be carried by your new pack dog.

  “I think it’s just adorable that you two met on the plane to Fantasy Island!” Mr. Boarke’s assistant, Julie bats her lashes so furiously that I wouldn’t be surprised if she took flight.

  I’ve been watching her do it all morning. She does it when she talks. She does it as she walks. She does it when she giggles. And she does it as she drives.

  Unfortunately, she hasn’t shut up or quit giggling since we started our road trip through Fantasy Island. Worse yet, she can barely drive and talk at the same time. I don’t dare test this theory by tempting her with a piece of gum. We may find ourselves hurtling over one of the island’s many shore-hugging cliffs.

  I look straight ahead in the hopes she’ll do the same. “Oh, pshaw! I bet cute meets happen all the time in this lovers’ paradise.”

  “To be honest, yes.” She blushes. “In fact, thirty-six percent of our guests have found their future spouses at Eden Key.”

  “How romantic.” I’m tempted to ask her if there is a statistic for how many guests leave the island in a body bag.

  We’ve been touring for the past couple of hours. Already we’ve taken in the highlights of Eden Key—the tricked out huts, the large heart-shaped communal pools with swim-out bars, and of course its infamous nude beach.

  We’ve also seen the joys of Kamp KidStuff, what with its cute family cabins, each with verandas boasting large porch swings. The cabins are set far enough apart that each has its own lawn. While parents indulge in massages, tennis, golf, yoga, and romantic walks on the beach, their children play games of all sorts, supervised by fresh-faced youth advisors (minus two, now that Emma and Arnie are officially ensconced in Eden Key—in separate tree houses, of course).

  While I’m busy talking nonsense with our guide, Jack is listening to a different chatter. Arnie is feeding him Dr. Mandrake’s GPS coordinates through his earbud.

  Suddenly Jack gives me a thumbs-down. I guess that means we’re out of range again. This Mandrake guy is always on the go! I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever catch him.

  “Hey, Julie, this tour of the resorts is great, but I was hoping to go off-road, too. You know, see areas of the island that lend themselves to future development. In fact, I have some specific regions in mind.” I guess Jack is worried. Why else would he make his request so directly—

  Make that so blatantly. As he moves the map closer to her, his hand grazes her thigh. She gasps a bit, but shifts even closer to him—

  And almost drives us off the road.

  Quickly, I reach over from the back seat and jerk the wheel, steering us away from the shoulder.

  Do I get a thank you from either of them, for saving their lives? Nah. They’re too busy looking soulfully into each others’ eyes.

  “I…I’ll have to get proper authorization for those areas,” Julie stutters.

  “I’ll make it worth your while—and Mr. Boarke’s of course.”

  I give the wheel another quick jerk—to straighten out the Jeep, if not my relationship with Jack.

  The maneuver causes Jack to hit his head on the roof of the Jeep. “Shit…Ouch!”

  “I’m sure Julie will happily kiss it and make it feel better,” I hiss at him.

  Julie, still embarrassed, takes the wheel. But this time she keeps her eyes on the road.

  We pull into the Hunt Club right at lunch time. The club, which sits behind a tall stone wall deep within the island’s thickest jungle, resembles a rustic Victorian lodge. It is made of worn stone and aged-wood beams that look as if they were salvaged from old ships. White Adirondack chairs are scattered, in pairs, over its velvety green perfectly manicured grass.

  Beyond the lawn, the lush jungle lays undisturbed, except for the shrieks of parrots, no doubt in response to the rumbling footsteps of the wild beasts roaming through the ferns at the base of the tall moss-veiled palms where the birds have taken sanctuary.

  Julie ushers us into the lobby, which is filled with men clustered according to their toys of choice: rod and reel, guns and ammo, or cards and chips.

  “Ah, the deep sea fishermen are back!” Julie gives a happy sigh. “Their catches–mostly tuna—will be prepared to their liking at dinnertime by the lodge’s legion of world-class chefs.”

  All around us, hunters are swapping tips on the best routes to stalk the island’s wild game. “What kind of animals are they after?” I ask her.

  “Mostly red stag,” she answers, “Although our puma, black buck, and wild boar safaris are popular, too.”

  I nod, as if fascinated. “I hear the Hunt Club also has a private reserve, just for its VIP guests. Does it have a different, more exotic prey?”

  My question wipes the smile off Julie’s face. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

  Give, queenie. “Ooh! Are we talking endangered species? Elephants? Lions?”

  Julie glances over my head, at a security camera, I presume. When she turns to Jack, her lashes are batting a million miles an hour. “I hardly think Mr. Boarke would do anything that would displease our guests.”

  That’s just the point. How far would he go to please those who pick up the tab?

  And who exactly are the partners he wants to cut out?

  More importantly, how does Dr. Mandrake fit into this equation?

  “As for a tour of the club’s private reserve, sorry, no. It wouldn’t be fair for those who have paid top dollar for the privilege.” Her frown turns upside down as she faces Jack. “But you’ll be happy to know, Mr. Stone, that the part of the island you’ve requested to see is next on our itinerary! I’ve arranged Battoo to be your guide, since he’s more familiar with the terrain than me.” Her eyes sweep over me. “Your sundress is precious, Miss Tallant. But considering that most of your journey will take you off the beaten path and within the animal reserve, you’ll have to change into camo. We don’t want to scare the animals, now do we?” She takes Jack’s arm in hers. “Take your time. We’ll wait for you up in Mr. Stone’s suite. I have to go over a figure or two with him.”

  Hers, being the prime integer.

  Let the games begin.

  Too bad she can’t tag along on the rest of our tour. It would have been interesting to point a rifle in her direction, if only to see how fast she can run in those heels.

  “You look ridiculous in that get-up,” Jack mutters.

  At least he’s waited until Battoo is a good fifty feet in front of us on this rocky path before chastising me for what I’m wearing.

  I shrug. “Hey it’s not my fault that the women’s attire in that so-called ‘gear shop’ was slim pickings at best. Camouflage bustiers and short-shorts? I mean, come on already!”

  Jack raises a brow. “Admit it. You counted the wolf whistles from the guys in the lobby.”

  Six, but I feign ignorance wi
th a shrug. “Can I help it if your new gal pal, Julie, has cornered the market on Ralph Lauren safari wear?”

  I’m being serious. Her outfit was downright elegant: a long-sleeved belted beige linen tunic over formfitting khakis.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be so jealous. She’s a nice kid.”

  “She’s no kid. And that’s no normal hunt club, either. The only other alternative was a Playboy Bunny outfit! No wonder this place is called ‘Fantasy Island.’ Tell me honestly, Jack, what kind of woman would wear this get-up in a hunting lodge?”

  “One who’s looking to bag a man with a humongous bank account.” He swats away a mosquito. “And believe it or not, the lodge is crawling with that kind of woman—sometimes on all fours and tied to a leash by a studded collar around her neck, and wearing a pair of antlers on her head. We’ve only been on this island for thirty-six hours and already I’ve been invited to three orgies with the theme, ‘Fuck a Fawn.’”

  “If you think Dr. Mandrake will show up, you should certainly attend.”

  “He’s not. He’s out here somewhere. At least according to his GPS reading as of thirty minutes ago. But if Mandrake were there, yeah sure, I’d play along. We’re here on a mission, and we both know it.”

  So that he doesn’t see me grit my teeth, I feign interest in a beautiful bush with pale pink tulips that hang upside down from its branches. But before I can touch it, Battoo slaps my hand away. “Miss Tallant, don’t! That is Devil’s Breath. It turns those who touch it into zombies.”

  “Wow! Thanks for the warning.” I’ve already had one run-in with the drug that comes from it: scopolamine. My ex, Carl, used it on me then waltzed out of Guantánamo Bay, with me as his cover.

  And you wonder why I wanted a divorce?

  “Mr. Stone, we’ve gone as far as the path will take us.” Battoo sounds worried.

  Jack’s green eyes darken as he stares deep into the jungle. “I understand that, Battoo. But any investment in Fantasy Island dictates a due diligence that goes beyond the boundaries for the already established resorts. I’m sure you and Mr. Boarke understand my need to investigate even further.”