New Year Island (53 page)

She’s insane. How did I not see that before? Veronica is fucking psychotic.

Veronica screamed again—a hoarse, liquid sound, more mountain lion than human, echoing off the rocks and distant buildings.

Jordan turned and ran, with Veronica close on her heels.

J
uan levered himself up to balance in a squat at the top of the seawall. He watched Mason stroll through the corridor between the seawall and the factory building, ten feet ahead and eight feet below, seemingly oblivious of Juan’s presence. His nonchalant act wasn’t very convincing, though. Juan half expected him to start whistling. Mason knew perfectly well that someone was behind him.

Juan dropped into the corridor, and Mason turned to face him with an expression of mock surprise.

“Whoops, wrong gun,” he said. “Besides, your paramour already got me.”

“I have a few questions,” Juan said, training the Glock on Mason’s navel. “When did you move here from New York?”

“November 2008.”

“Why?”

“Change of scenery—”

Juan jabbed the gun barrel into his solar plexus, and he doubled over with a grunt.

“Why did you move to San Francisco?”

“Lifestyle choice.” Mason rubbed his midsection. “San Francisco’s nightlife is a great playground for people of my, um, …”—he grinned—”…persuasion.”

“I’m sure.” Juan looked at him closely. “What did your Vita Brevis letter say, Mason?”

“What did
yours
say?”

“Things about me that aren’t common knowledge,” Juan said. “Things that
would
have become common knowledge if I declined Julian’s offer.”

Mason nodded. “The SEC wasn’t the only three-letter government agency interested in my career in New York. My letter was similar to yours.”

J
ordan was frightened. She was a fast runner and had expected to outpace the older woman quickly. Instead, she found herself pushing hard to maintain a slim lead. Veronica came on relentlessly.

Seals scrambled out of Jordan’s way. Birds exploded up from nests at her feet, jetting away in bursts of feathers. Veronica was panting behind her. But not in an exhausted way, Jordan thought.

She sounded excited, actually.

Jordan realized she had made a bad mistake. And by letting herself get chased in the wrong direction, she had just made it worse.

She skidded to a halt, and Veronica did the same, fifteen feet away. A few steps beyond Jordan’s heels, the sandstone bluff dropped straight to the beach twenty feet below. Veronica had her trapped against the cliff.

The two women faced each other, breathing heavily. Veronica wore a carnival funhouse grin, open-mouthed and panting.

Jordan looked over Veronica’s shoulder, scanning the terrain. Mason was gone. There was no one else in sight. She was alone with Veronica.

It would be impossible to get past her.

“You
know
something.” Veronica’s voice was saccharine—cloying and sweet. “You lied to us last night.”

Jordan didn’t answer. She tucked the paintball gun into the waist of her sealskin wrap and grabbed the speargun that hung across her back, leveling it one-handed at Veronica.

Veronica’s funhouse grin only widened.

“You shouldn’t keep secrets from
me,
Jordan. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me.”

Keeping one eye on her, Jordan glanced down at the envelopes. Veronica’s name was printed on one. Jordan slid the target card out far enough to read her own name. No surprise there.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you!” Veronica’s voice rose, harsh and strident. “What didn’t you tell us?”

Jordan looked at the target card inside the second envelope, the one with “Mason” printed on it. His target was now her new target. She read the name and sucked in a sharp breath.
Juan.

The anger was back, like a stone in her heart, burning her eyes, filling her arms and legs with ice. She would make him sorry. She would humiliate him. She would make him suffer.

She would make him wish he had never been born.

Veronica screamed at her. “I asked you a question, Jordan!”

She looked at Veronica, who was wasting Jordan’s time right now.

“I told the truth, you washed-up old hag, but I guess you’re just too fucking senile to understand that. Now, get out of my way.” Jordan raised the speargun.

Veronica charged her.

The speargun discharged, sending its two-foot steel shaft flying toward Veronica.

It arrowed over her shoulder, whizzing through open air inches from her throat. She didn’t even break stride.

Jordan turned, took three running steps, and launched herself off the bluff. She plunged, thick seal cape billowing, legs still taking running steps through the air as the beach rushed up at her from twenty feet below.

Tuck and roll.
Jordan landed hard, and the impact sent sand spraying. She bounced forward into a somersault, rolled, and came out of the tuck to spring upright. Pain exploded through her ankle, and her leg buckled.

Broke it.
Broke my fucking ankle.
She hopped a few steps to regain her balance. Panicked seals, apparently unused to having people fall out of the sky, scrambled away from her.

The sand had been soft. It had absorbed much of the impact. Her injuries could have been a lot worse than a broken ankle. Gritting her teeth, she nocked another shaft into the speargun. She pushed the tip of the barrel into the sand and leaned on it, using it as a crutch while she stretched the elastic charger back to full cock. Reloaded and ready now, she looked up at the top of the bluff.

Veronica stood silhouetted against the sky, watching her. Then she drew back, disappearing from sight.

Jordan bent to pick up her paintball marker, which had been knocked loose in the fall. She shoved it back into the waist of her sealskin wrap and hobbled south, limping between huddled sea lions and elephant seals, poking the speargun into the sand with every step. The elevated walkway and wooden stairs lay ahead. They would take her back up onto the island’s rocky surface. Somewhere up there, her new target lay hidden.

She thought about how he had tricked her, used her, and lied to her, and how she had stupidly let him do it, and the beach blurred in front of her eyes.

Bastard.

Her fist tightened on the speargun.

D
mitry looked out the window of the science station. The situation was degenerating. People were acting strangely, doing things that were hard to understand. He had seen some of the TV people running around outside earlier. He had heard shouts. Angry screams.

The animals, too, were acting unpredictably. The shark that had knocked him out of the water yesterday should not have done that. Seen from below, the shape of his body could have looked nothing like a seal. And the island’s seal population was thinner than it should be at this time of year. Nature’s delicate balance was tipping here, in a direction he couldn’t predict.

Dmitry looked up at the clouds gathering in the darkening sky above. They matched his mood.

He was a realist. He knew that Heather was dead. The criminal tied up next door was a murderer, and Dmitry would see that he paid for what he had done to her. He would guard the criminal until he was in custody, and talk to the police when the time came—tell them everything he could remember, give evidence. But why had the rest of the TV people left the criminal with the scientists? Shouldn’t
they
be responsible for him, rather than Dmitry?

The keys to the chains lay on the table near his hand.

And now Jacob had left him, too. Jacob’s odd behavior was worrisome, but at least Dmitry had some idea what that was about. Not everyone handled danger and stress the same way. Unable to face Heather’s death, the environmental disaster here, and the destruction of their research, Jacob was retreating into his own fantasy world. His complete inability to face the reality of their situation meant that he would be worse than useless. Dmitry was on his own.

The criminal yelled at him from the next room again. He was getting tired of the man’s taunts.

“Hey, Russkie.
Tovarish!
I’m talkin’ to you.
Preev-yet,
man. I know you’re there. You have to untie me. I’m innocent, I swear. I never touched her.”

Dmitry knew how this would be handled in Russia. Criminals were not coddled. He thought about threatening the chained man himself, forcing him to admit what he had done to Heather, what he had done with her body afterward. His arm was injured. He was tall but skinny. Dmitry could probably beat him in a fight.

But then he remembered the man’s cold, snakelike eyes. No, this was for the police to do.

“Okay, tell you what,” the criminal yelled. “Let me go, and I’ll take you to see her—her name’s Heather, right? I know where she is.”

Yob tvayu mat.
Dmitry stood up, face flushed with anger, and grabbed the keys to the chains. He would see what the man had to say, and then he would ask some questions of his own. But there was something he needed first. It would make the criminal more talkative. He remembered seeing it earlier, lying in the dirt just outside the station. Dmitry opened the exterior door and stepped out to fetch it.

The heavy three-foot steel pipe with the thick lump of concrete at one end was sure to be very persuasive.

• • •

Travis stared down at the Russian lying sprawled on the floor of the science station, his bleeding head inches from Travis’s boot. A prod from his toe, and the concrete-plugged steel pipe that lay next to the Russian rolled aside, oscillating in diminishing arcs to come to a stop again.

Travis looked at the keys in his hand, laughed, and dropped them on the floor. It had surprised the hell out of him when they were tossed through the doorway, landing next to his feet.

He now turned his attention to the two objects lying on the cot in front of him: a big plastic toy pistol he recognized as a paintball gun, and a blue envelope with his name printed on it. Picking up the envelope one-handed, he slid out the card, and read the name on it.
That little whore.
He grinned.

Travis scanned the corners of the ceiling until he spotted a likely dark spot, which he figured was a camera. Tucking the envelope under his bad arm, he raised his hand to his forehead and threw an ironic salute toward the camera.

Then he picked up the paintball gun.

With another curious glance at the Russian’s prone form, he left the science station to track down his prey.

T
he clouds above Camilla were thicker now. Their edges had gone gunmetal gray, and the afternoon light had a brittle, flat quality. The air tickled her arms with a staticky stillness that she associated with impending thunderstorms. Lying spread-eagled on her back, she felt the muscles of her left calf tingling—after hours of immobility, the leg had gone to sleep. She stretched her foot and pushed against the brick of the chimney with the toe of her sneaker, working away the cramp. She had spent the afternoon in her rooftop perch, tucked away between the dormers and chimneys of the Victorian house, staying flat, invisible from below. She wondered whether Julian had cameras up here, too. She couldn’t see any, but she figured they were there.

Her strategy was simple. She knew that everyone would have to come back to the houses sooner or later to check scores on the monitor and find out who was still in play. She wasn’t a skilled shooter, she wasn’t the fastest runner here, and she certainly didn’t have the best reflexes—she was actually kind of clumsy when it came to this sort of thing. But what she did have was patience. She would let the other contestants eliminate each other while she stayed hidden and safe. The circle would close. Eventually, there would be only one other player left, looking for her—and also her target, worth fifteen points to Camilla because then she would be the last player standing.

Her rooftop aerie was hidden and had a 360-degree field of view that let her track everyone’s comings and goings. She knew that both houses were empty except for Brent, who hadn’t left the Victorian. Juan had come and gone some time ago—he had given her quite a jolt when she peered over the edge of the roof. At first she hadn’t been sure what she was looking at, her heart pounding with fear as she watched a slick, dark shape with black wings folded across its back, stalking through the shadows. It looked like a giant insect, or a fallen angel from a Renaissance painting. Then she had realized that what she’d mistaken for wings were actually swim fins. Juan didn’t have an air tank on his back, but he probably wouldn’t want to go deep anyway, with the shark out there. He was no doubt using the safer shallows surrounding the island to move about unseen. And right now Juan’s point total put him in second place.

Fifteen minutes ago, Camilla had checked the scoreboard herself. Making sure the coast was clear, she had crawled across the connected rooftops to reach the hole she had widened in the shingles—her own private escape hatch. Dropping through it, she landed back in her own upstairs room in the Greek Revival house. No one was around. She slipped quietly down the stairwell to peer at the monitor in the empty living room, memorizing the current scores. Then she returned to her room and stood her cot on end, leaning it against the wall.

Earlier, she had tied a leftover piece of climbing rope from her backpack around the upper end of the cot’s frame. Now she tucked the loose end of the rope into her belt and climbed up the cot’s wire mesh like a ladder. Thrusting her head and shoulders through the hole in the roof, Camilla pulled herself up. Then, lying on her stomach, she used the rope to lower the cot silently to its original position.

Now, hidden and safe again, she thought about the scores she had seen.