The Last Resort

by Marissa Stapley

  She lay awake, her thoughts an endless barrage. She kept hearing Miles’s voice, she was sure of it. Once, she thought she heard him shouting down a hallway. And outside, the ocean pounded and the wind gathered more power—she could feel it. As the voices in the room turned to murmurs, then whispers, then near silence, her thoughts began to roar like that wind. Was it really going to be so simple? Or were they living out some sort of twisted fairy tale that couldn’t possibly have a happy ending?

  She waited, listened to Ben’s breathing, waited some more.

  Then she stood up.

  She needed to find Grace. She needed to make sure she was okay, that it had all gone according to the plan Grace had told her about when they were hiding together in her office. She needed to find out if the monster was harmless, fast asleep—or gathering strength, the way the storm was.

  Getting stronger instead of weaker.

  Getting ready to strike.

  If he was, Johanna was going to have to do something about it.

  Her: She did something. She poisoned him. And I think that’s why he was acting that way. Because it wasn’t like him.

  Him: It wasn’t like Miles to behave erratically, as everyone in the villa that night reported? It wasn’t like Miles to threaten people, to foster an environment of tyranny, to manipulate?

  Her: You don’t know him! You don’t know him the way I do. [A sob.] Did know him. And to think that I warned her! To think I tried to help her! I told her to hide because I wanted her to be safe. I knew if he hurt her, our entire future could be put into jeopardy. And she’d drugged him! It was her fault he was so volatile that night! Or—mine, for being so foolish. For trusting someone like her, even for one minute.

  Him: What exactly are you saying?

  Her: She gave me a water bottle. She suggested I give it to Miles. It’s his favorite, she reminded me. The alkaline water, and it was the last bottle left. I was touched. It gave me pause. I thought maybe she did care for him after all, and I admired her for it. But I also thought of all the times she took credit for things. I wanted the credit for this, so when I gave it to him I didn’t say it was from her. I realize now he never would have drunk it if he’d known it came from her. I was so desperate for his attention I became blind to everything else. But he knew exactly what she was up to, because there was never any way for her to hide from him, no matter how hard she tried. He drank that water because he trusted me. And that’s the moment everything changed. [A long pause.] But that’s not what killed him. Whatever she put in that water didn’t kill him. It made him stronger.

  Day Seven

  Night

  A tap at the door of the small office Grace was sitting in, alone, watchful, waiting, unsure of what to do or where to go. It hadn’t worked. That much was clear. No, Miles was wide-awake, roaming the halls, talking to himself and to others. Grace wasn’t sure what he was saying but had seen the strange looks on some of the guests’ faces. “Maybe he’s really freaked out,” one of them had said. “Best to just check in with Ruth. Let him alone.”

  He hadn’t found her yet. But Grace knew he was looking.

  “Grace?”

  She looked up, startled. Just Ruth. Her face was pale under the makeup, and her eyes were afraid. “Something is very wrong with Miles.”

  A surge of relief. It had worked. Finally. One of the wonders of the human body was that your heart could be pounding, your blood flowing through your veins like rushing white water—but on the outside, you could remain completely composed. Miles had been doing it for years. They both had.

  “I’m sure it’s all right, Ruth. Let him sleep. He’s probably just exhausted. This is a stressful situation. It’s getting late. Maybe he just needs to rest.”

  Ruth stepped closer. They’d lost power a few hours before, and the generator hadn’t lasted very long. Now their only light came from lanterns from the hurricane kits, which the two women had placed in as many areas in the basement of the main villa as possible. As they had worked so silently and efficiently together, Grace had thought about how different things could have been.

  The light gave Ruth’s face an eerie glow. “No,” she said. “He’s not tired. He’s not calm. He’s not asleep. He’s scaring me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m trying to get him to stay in one of the boardrooms because he’s been scaring the others, too, saying strange things to guests when he passes them. About serpents and apples, about heaven and hell. His eyes are wild. Like he—like maybe he took something?”

  Now Grace stared down at the table, thinking about what she may have done, inadvertently. The wrong pills. Damn it.

  “We both know he’s had his problems in the past and I forgive him, I forgive him, Grace, because if he faltered now, who could blame him? But he’s saying things. Talking about—well, he’s talking about killing people. I don’t know who, he just keeps using the name Jezebel.”

  Grace’s legs had started to go numb. She thought she might be sick. She gripped the table.

  “I think it’s you,” Ruth said. “I think you’re the Jezebel, aren’t you?” But for once, there was no judgment in her voice. “I came here to tell you to hide. Now. If he does anything to you, it will ruin everything. We’ll never be able to...” But then, she shook her head. “Just hide. Please. Go up to my quarters. I don’t think he’ll look up there.”

  Grace’s heart was still racing: she felt pulled along, powerless. She had made a mistake. A terrible one. She had been so nervous when she was mixing the pills into the water that she had reached into the wrong pocket, chosen the wrong pills—she must have. What had she been thinking, taking some of Cleo’s pills anyway? She’d had it in her head that they could be a gift for Johanna. When everything was over, maybe they could have some kind of memorial, bury those pills and Cleo along with them.

  Admit it. You’re jealous. You wanted to find a way to bury Cleo’s memory, make Johanna forget about her. And now look what you’ve done. Not sleeping pills, no. You gave him something else. Something that isn’t going to make him tired. Something that’s making him worse.

  “Up in your quarters?” she said. “But—we’re supposed to stay down here. Where it’s safe.”

  “You’re not safe down here, Grace. I think you know that.” Just as Ruth said that, there was a commotion in the hallway. “I’ll distract him.” Ruth moved toward the door. “Count to ten, and then, run.”

  “Colin?” Shell said.

  But he was breathing slowly and deeply. He had been asleep for a little while, like a child beside her on the blanket on the floor of the office they had closed themselves within. She felt such tenderness toward him. She touched his forehead, his cheek. He made her feel safe.

  But she needed to use the washroom. She had delayed it as long as she could. She didn’t want to go alone—she had heard Miles’s voice a little while earlier, and she couldn’t risk running into him again—but she also didn’t want to wake Colin. He needed his rest. She thought of Grace Markell, who had warned her to be careful. But she’d be all right. There were so many people around, asleep in the common area or lounging in hallways. She’d be fine. Miles couldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t dare, not with all these people around.

  She stood. She left the room and walked down the hall. Aside from the continuous howl of the wind, which had become like white noise to her now, it was quieter than she had anticipated. She was alone.

  But then, shadows and sound up ahead; she froze and pulled herself into the darkness. She heard Miles’s voice, loud, angry, strange—was he slurring? And Ruth, her tone gentle and afraid and angry, too. She pressed herself against the wall and tried to make herself disappear into the darkness.

  “Please,” she heard Ruth say, her voice rising. “Don’t hit me. Not tonight.” Miles had his hand raised above her face. Shell moved forward. She imagined pulling his arm down and away,
saw herself stopping Miles from hurting someone else. She would do it, this time.

  But she lost her nerve, she faltered. She fell back into the shadows as Ruth cried out, “No, stop it, you’re hurting me!” Then Miles was gone, moving quickly in the other direction. Ruth slumped against the wall and sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking like the wings of a wounded bird.

  Grace had been sitting on Ruth’s bed, lost in her thoughts, when she heard the pounding footsteps on the stairs—she hadn’t been paying attention. No, no, please, no. She slid to the floor, panicked, and rolled under the bed as the door to the room burst open. She had the small paring knife in her hand. She pressed her body back into the shadows. There was no bed skirt. It was a terrible hiding place. It reminded her of the times she would play hide-and-seek with her brother and her hiding spot would be so weak that he’d walk into a room and see her immediately. And they’d start to laugh.

  But there would be no laughing with Miles.

  Right now, all she could see were his feet.

  “Are you in here, Jezebel? Do you think you can hide from me?” His voice was thick. “Hell-oo-oo?” he wheedled and she watched his feet and the bottom of his legs as he turned in a slow circle. Had she left an imprint on the duvet when she was sitting on the bed? Would he be able to see it in the dim light of the battery-powered lantern in the room? She tried not to breathe, then found herself needing to gasp for air. She opened her mouth and released the air as slowly as she could. The wind screeched above and she felt grateful for it, instead of afraid of it. Imagine being less afraid of a hurricane than you are of your own husband.

  “Oh, darling,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I wish you’d just come out of your hiding place.” She heard him open a closet, riffle through hangers. “You’d make this so much easier. All I want is to talk to you. It shouldn’t have to be like this. What went wrong with us? We could have had it all.” She was reminded of those first moments in the church basement, when he was the only person she had been sure she could trust. It didn’t matter that she’d been so mistaken; her body and soul always had this reaction to him. Like a curse, like a spell, cast on her decades ago.

  But it didn’t last. She thought of Johanna. She heard her voice. The adrenaline flooded her body again.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

  His feet in his polished leather lace-ups were right in front of the bed. She could see across the room, to the oval standing mirror Ruth had in one corner. It was tilted down slightly—and, she realized with alarm, she could see herself in it, could see her own terrified face pressed against the floor under the bed. No. No. No. He was holding a bottle of vodka, almost empty. A sloshing sound as he took a swig. And she saw it in her mind’s eye: Cleo’s pill bottle, and the bold letters that had been on it. Warning. Do not consume with alcohol. May cause hallucinations.

  If he looked in the mirror, he was going to see her. It was just a matter of time before he did. When it happened, she had to be ready.

  But he didn’t look, not yet. He walked into the other room in Ruth’s suite, the room she used as an office. Through the shouts of the wind she could hear him opening and closing doors and muttering to himself. The door to the staircase was ajar. She could run, now. But what if he caught her on the stairs, or worse, just as she was coming out from under the bed?

  It was too late anyway; he was back in the room already. She kept her eyes on the mirror, her hand wrapped around the paring knife. Finally, he approached the glass and gazed into it. She waited for him to see her.

  But he was looking only at himself. He took another swig of vodka, then let the bottle drop to the floor. She could smell the alcohol as it spilled, close to where she hid. If he bent down to pick it up, he’d see her for sure.

  He reached up one hand, as if he could caress his own skin through the mirror. “You’re a good boy, Miles,” he said in a strange voice, touching the glass with his fingertips. It was almost feminine, and so unlike him. She felt the bile rising in her throat, fought back a scream. She didn’t want to be watching this. No one needed to see this. “I love you, Miles,” he said. “You’re a good, good boy.”

  His left arm was dangling down at his side. She saw it now, what he had in his hand. His hunting knife. It was the only thing of his father’s he had. It was old and battered and normally sheathed in leather, but not now. Now it was out of its sheath and glinting at her in the light of the lantern reflecting off the mirror.

  She felt an awful twinge of empathy for a damaged, abused, unloved boy. But she stayed still. He lifted the hand with the knife. As if in a trance, he made a cut. Blood dripped down onto the carpet. She watched it dripping, slowly and steadily. It smelled like rust. It smelled like death. “This is my blood, shed for you,” he said. The sound of his voice, delirious, deranged, whatever had been in those pills stripping him of any last vestiges of sanity, like a sheath removed from a knife revealing nothing but cold and unreasonable deadliness. And the vodka—the vodka was like gas poured on a flame.

  His voice had changed. He turned. “If you’re in here, my Jezebel, I want you to come out, and I want you to come downstairs because it’s not safe up here. It’s not safe,” he repeated. He moved toward the door. “The strongest part of the storm will reach us in a few hours and then, you never know, this tower might just get ripped right off the building.” A pause, a soft chuckle. “It might, you know. And if you’re still up here, you might be making it very easy for me. Less messy. Freeing me up to deal with...other things.” She could see him in the mirror, putting the sheath back on the knife and sliding it down into his pocket. It still stuck out. He turned away. This could have been her moment. She could have found the strength, the speed, the agility, the bravery, to roll out from under the bed and stab him in the back with the little knife she held in her own hand.

  But her fear, as it had for so many years, held her captive. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

  He closed the door behind him, and he was gone.

  Shell stepped out of the shadows. “Ruth?” she said softly. “Ruth? Are you all right?”

  Ruth looked up. Her face was tearstained. Shell could see bruises, even in the poor lighting. Poor thing. She needed help.

  But she didn’t want help. Not from Shell. “You. Get away from me. This is your fault, all of it! And hers! All of you! I hate you!” Ruth turned but then stopped. She faced Shell again. “You deserved it,” she whispered. “Everything bad that has ever happened to you. You deserved it. And you deserve everything that will.” Ruth walked away from her, her footsteps echoing and receding down the hallway. Shell couldn’t move.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there.

  The wind was so loud she didn’t hear him coming.

  Feet pounding down a staircase. Shouting in the hallway. A scuffle. A woman’s voice, and then him.

  Miles. His voice reminded Johanna of Ivan’s, when he’d had too much of everything. She felt a chill move through her veins, but the cold quickly turned to hot anger as she imagined the bruises on her mother. The bruises on Cleo. The Möbius strip of women with bruises like that, inflicted by people like Ivan, like Chad Von Hahn, like Miles. By people who had been hurt and so they hurt others, in return.

  Johanna had to do something. The storm outside was becoming a storm inside of her. She slid her hand into her pocket and felt the lava rock there. She had kept it after she and Grace had talked out on the beach, that last time, when she had told her everything. It was smooth in some areas, sharp in others. She heard Grace’s voice, the first time they talked. It’s supposed to make anyone who touches it stronger.

  Johanna stood up and opened the door. She started to walk toward the sound of his voice. She wasn’t out looking for Miles, she told herself. She had promised Grace she’d stay as far away from him as possible. All she wanted was to maybe catch a glimpse of Grace, whom she had
n’t seen in too many hours now. Make sure she was okay. As she walked, she held the rock tight in her fist.

  Was that a scream, from up ahead? Was it the sound of Miles’s voice, saying to shut up, be quiet, just shut the fuck up? She didn’t want it to be, but she knew what she was hearing. She clicked off her flashlight and listened. It was Ivan all over again and Chad, too; it was that awful afternoon in her office, it was the cold of the gun against her neck and the words, “You fucking dyke, you should be dead,” banging into one another inside her head.

  You’re right, you’re right, you’ve always been right.

  But then, a new voice in her head: No. No. No. It almost seemed to be coming from above. The next day, when she was gone, when she and Grace were gone together—because she had to believe they were all going to get through this—what would become of Miles? Would he just get to stay here, having this life, hurting more women, yelling at them the way he was yelling at someone now? Hurting and hitting when he didn’t get his way, or simply when he felt like it? Weren’t there ever consequences, for men like this? Because she knew Grace would bear the consequence of him, wear it like a mantle, no matter how far she ran. And she also knew that she couldn’t sit still anymore. Their plan hadn’t worked. Miles wasn’t asleep. He was roaring around the villa, and he was going to hurt someone—and Grace was going to end up in his path, Johanna knew it. If he hadn’t already, he would hunt her down. Maybe he already had her.

  Johanna followed the sound of Miles’s voice, and the sound of a scream. She rushed ahead and pushed open the door. She remembered the missive, under the door. Do not go outside during the storm, under any circumstances.

  But he had led her here. She had no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  Miles was dragging a woman through the wind and rain, toward the restaurant stairs. Johanna imagined the sharp drop, the rocks that would await anyone flung down there, and she felt the panic in her veins. Grace. It had to be. He had her—but Johanna wasn’t going to let him hurt her. She felt strength flow through her body—strength, anger, love. She started to run. She wasn’t going to let anything stop her.