New Year Island (31 page)

Jordan was going to be very, very hard to beat, but even if she won, that might be all right, too. If she didn’t care about the money, then maybe Camilla could convince her to care about something else. What if Jordan joined the foundation’s board? What a spokesperson she would make for the kids! And as a journalist, she could get their stories out, find people who wanted to help.

Camilla laid a hand on Jordan’s arm. “I’ve got an idea I’d like you to think about. You don’t have to answer now…”

The room brightened, and Julian appeared on the monitor.

Sitting on Jordan’s other side, Veronica held up a warning hand. “Quiet, everybody.”

Their host smiled at them from the screen, looking relaxed. “I must give my congratulations to today’s winning team,” he said. “You all played very hard out there. A gripping contest—our most exciting day yet. Team spirit was strong.

“But there are also the individual gains and losses.” His eyes roamed the room. “It’s at this point that the winners start to sort themselves from the losers. Look around you, at your fellow players. One of you will walk away with five million dollars. Ask yourselves the question: ‘Will it be me? Or them?’

“The winning team’s points are now secure, and this gives them some advantage in future competitions. But for members of today’s losing team, if you push yourselves, you can easily overcome the edge the other team’s victory has bought them.

“And now, since last night’s contestant profile was such a hit,” Julian said, “we bring you another one. She’s a steadying influence, a quiet source of calm strength for us all. Let’s find out who she is, what she’s had to overcome to become the person we see today.”

Camilla blew out a breath as the screen went blank. She wasn’t ready for this. She could
never
be ready for this. Her thoughts whirled and collided.

Not me, please not me. Let it be anyone but me.

The face that appeared on the screen wasn’t hers. Her pounding heart slowed as she stared in surprise.

On-screen, a teenage girl of 16 or 17 raised a middle finger at the camera. The photograph was slightly faded but still clear enough. A black Goth-rock T-shirt stretched tight across her chest: an image of rock star Marilyn Manson in an obscene pose. Rips and holes tattered the shirt and the cutoff jean shorts she wore, deliberately exposing broad areas of skin. The girl’s hair was tar black and cut short in a spiky wild shag. Pale makeup caked her sneering face, and a half-inch silver hoop pierced one nostril. Thick black eye shadow and mascara surrounded piercing silver-blue eyes that burned with fierce anger. An hour earlier, Camilla had stared into those same eyes and seen that same fury in them.

“Veronica Ross grew up in San Francisco’s Sunset district,” Julian said in a cheery voice. “As a teen, she had frequent run-ins with the law and spent time in several juvenile detention facilities.”

“…about which the court records were sealed. Making this illegal.” Veronica’s voice sounded calm, but her hands were trembling. She stared at the floor and raised her knees to her chest.

Jordan reached over and gripped one of Veronica’s hands. She squeezed back but didn’t look up as Julian continued.

“Unlike many troubled teens, Veronica was able to turn her life around. She found stable employment and built a life for herself, studying toward her nursing degree at night.”

The picture changed to show a waitress in her early twenties taking an order outside a sidewalk café: Camilla recognized the North Beach location. Veronica’s hair was dark blond—her natural color, probably—and her waitress dress was short, showing off her toned legs. Her smile looked genuine.

“Veronica’s first marriage, to Dominic Taylor, was not a happy one.” The monitor showed Veronica in a white wedding dress, standing next to a handsome, dark-haired man in a tuxedo. “Local police found themselves frequent visitors to the Taylor household. Hospitalized twice in what was clearly a pattern of domestic violence, Veronica always refused to press charges.

“One January night in 1998, following a Super Bowl party at the Taylors’, things took a tragic turn. Police officers, summoned by a neighbor’s complaint, found Dominic dead of multiple wounds sustained from a kitchen knife. Veronica required hospitalization for her own extensive injuries and was taken into custody after treatment.” An arrest photo showed Veronica’s bruised face, one eye swollen shut, stitches extending below her hairline. She held the traditional mortarboard with booking number and department information.

“Given the history of abuse that officers could attest to, the judge was very sympathetic to her case. Veronica was charged with involuntary manslaughter. She performed extensive community service at a local women’s shelter and her sentence was suspended.

“There was one happy outcome from her terrible experience. Over the course of the trial, she and one of the police officers from her case became very close. A year later, the young widow married SFPD rising star Leo Cannetti.” A second wedding photo showed a laughing Veronica in a stunning wedding dress, hair longer now, smearing cake into the face of her grinning groom.

Veronica sat watching herself on the screen. She wore a distant, icy expression, but it looked as though she was struggling hard to hold her composure. Tendons stood out on her arms and in her neck, and the hand that Jordan wasn’t holding trembled in her lap.

Despite the way Veronica had treated her yesterday, Camilla hated to see her suffer this way. Julian’s mocking tone was so cruel, making fun of her personal tragedy. This was as bad as Brent’s profile had been, and they were all just sitting here letting it happen.

“I’m turning this off,” Camilla said, standing up.

“Leo and Veronica were married for ten years,” Julian continued. “The life of a police officer is a stressful one, and sometimes that can spill over into family life, but the couple seemed very happy together. It was not to last, however.”

Camilla crossed the room with rapid strides. She inspected the frame of the monitor, but there wasn’t an obvious off switch. Reaching up, she ran her hands along the top and sides but found nothing there, either.

“In December 2010, Leo was killed in the line of duty,” Julian said. “Following up a lead in a current case, he visited a confidential informant after hours. What transpired is unclear, but Leo and his informant were each struck by several shots fired at close range by an unknown assailant. Leo died at San Francisco General without regaining consciousness, and Veronica found herself a widow again. To this day, the case remains unsolved.”

Grabbing the corner of the monitor to yank it down from the wall, Camilla realized she was too late. Julian’s voice trailed off into silence and the screen went dark, so she dropped her arms and faced her teammates once again.

Veronica let out the breath she had been holding. She stared at the blank screen, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Jordan put her other hand on Veronica’s shoulder.

Brent sat staring with a stony expression, his hands in his vest pockets. Camilla was sorry now that she hadn’t supported him yesterday. This was obscene.

“We can’t let Julian treat us like this,” she said. “It has to stop. We need to stand up for each other and tell him—”

There was a loud static pop behind her, and the monitor lit up again.

The scene it now showed was the luxurious salon of the megayacht. Camilla could see herself and the other contestants sitting around the long table, smiling, laughing, joking with one another. The sight jarred her, seeing the excitement and anticipation on all their faces, on her own face grinning wide-eyed from the screen. Everyone looked so happy. Only three days ago, but it already seemed like a distant memory, impossible to reconcile with the depression and misery that weighed her heart now.

The scene shifted to a different view of the same room. Juan and Jordan filled the foreground now, standing next to the bar, dressed in their dinner-party clothes. In the background fifty feet away, Camilla could see herself and everyone else at the table. Juan’s voice was low, but the hidden microphone had amplified the sound well.

“Okay, ready?” he said on-screen. “Let’s make this look good.”

Camilla’s jaw dropped.

The on-screen Jordan giggled quietly, a hand over her mouth. Then she composed her face into an angry expression and put her hands on her hips.

Juan held up a finger and looked toward the table where they all were gathered. A grin was visible on his face, too. Then he turned back and raised his hands.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” he said in a loud voice. “It’s not what I was saying. You didn’t let me finish.” He reached to take Jordan’s arm. “Stop overreacting.”

On the monitor, she shook his hand off violently. “Get your fucking hands off me, asshole! You’re on your own.” She stormed away, toward the table.

The monitor went blank.

Veronica abruptly jerked her hand out of Jordan’s. She didn’t take her eyes off the screen, but her mouth pulled into a thin line. Her nostrils flared. Camilla was afraid of what she might do next if that icy control gave way.

Jordan got up slowly, and Camilla turned to stare at her. Her friend—no, a friend would never do this—the
blonde woman
met her eyes. Jordan looked just as shocked as Camilla felt. A rushing noise rose in her ears, drowning out the sound of Mason’s laughter. She had been stupid, stupid, stupid. So trusting, so gullible.

The scoreboard reappeared.

Jordan’s eyes flitted from face to face.

“Guys,” she said softly, “I think I’m going to go upstairs now.”

“You’re not welcome here anymore,” Camilla said. “Get your bag and leave.”

Brent’s voice was milder. “I do think it would be best if you found somewhere else to stay from now on, Jordan.”

“Guys,” Jordan said. “Listen…”

Veronica’s eyes were still fixed on the blank monitor, but her voice was jagged with broken glass and razor blades.

“
Get out
.”

J
uan was on his feet. So were JT and Lauren. He faced the two of them, watching their expressions but aware of their hands, too. He had to be careful here.

Lauren’s hands bunched into fists, opened, and clenched again.

“I am trying really hard, Juan,” she said. “
Real
hard. But I can’t come up with an innocent explanation for what we just saw. Maybe you can help us out here? Because you gotta admit, it looks pretty bad.”

JT stared with eerie calmness, his features frozen in a mask of mild curiosity, as if he was waiting for Juan to explain something that puzzled him. It was quite scary, actually, because of the way veins bulged on JT’s neck and forehead.

“All day long,” Lauren said. “Back and forth, you and that Barbie-doll bitch racking up the points with your bullshit grudge match. I guess we should have caught on sooner, but hey, we were all a little preoccupied.”

JT shifted positions. Juan watched his shoulders, readying himself to move fast. They were angry, and angry people were unpredictable.

“Tell me,” Lauren asked, “is Travis a part of your little charade, too?”

Without relaxing his guard, he shook his head.

“Don’t say a word.” She pointed at the door. “You want to leave right now, Juan. Before JT kills you.” Her voice cracked. “Or before I do.”

• • •

Juan walked out the front door of the red team’s house, carrying his duffel bag in one hand and his jug of water in the other, with the case containing the EPIRB beacon tucked under his arm. Squinting into the late afternoon brightness, he spotted Jordan waiting in the middle of the yard, her travel bag and a jug at her feet. She raised a hand to shade her eyes, then struck a hipshot pose and stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker.

Juan grinned.

“Come on,” he said. “I know where we can stay.”

She laughed out loud. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

He led her over the seal barricade and past the three warehouse buildings and ruined catchment basin with its dome, to the small concrete blockhouse that stood isolated from the other buildings. The steel door had a solid latch and a heavy padlock. He fished a key from his pocket. Then he stopped and looked at her, thinking.

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.

Unlocking the blockhouse, he stepped inside, pulling the padlock out of the latch as he went by. Why take an unnecessary chance?

Leaving Jordan outside, he swung the door shut. The windowless blockhouse was dark, but it had been even darker the last time, at night. He had memorized the layout.

He slid his hand along the rough wood cabinet top until his fingers closed around the hilt of a dive knife. Feeling along the rough wood, he located a handle and crouched to open the cabinets below.

The dive knife had a flat chisel tip instead of a point. Working by touch alone, Juan used it to pry up one of the cabinet’s floorboards. He probed the six-inch gap between the cabinet’s base and the concrete floor, finding enough space for what he needed.

Still working blind, he opened other cabinets, feeling around inside. He stashed everything he found within the hiding space he had made.