Sacrifice Island (2 page)

Alex studied her. Would this hit too close to home?

“—and after his death she went to an island. It wasn’t a convent, not exactly, but it is a holy Catholic place, with shrines and a dormitory. The journal shows her slowly going mad and being enticed by spirits on the island! Then she killed herself!”

Alex listened and it all sounded promising. He could tell, though, this wasn’t the whole story.

“Where’s the island?” he asked.

“The book is called
Spirits Around the World
, right?”

Where did she want them to go? They’d been to England, to Canada, up to New England for chapters. Her evasiveness suggested somewhere more exotic.

Jemma drifted to the table to get her laptop. She never merely walked anywhere. She moved with the grace of a dancer, and the way her clothes flowed around her made her seem to float. She handed the computer to him, careful their hands didn’t touch.

He saw images of palm trees, cerulean skies, turquoise water, and white sand. Beautiful. Hell yes he wanted to go there. But…

“You hate the heat. And the sun. And you hate bugs. Jem, are you sure this is a good idea? Where is this?”

“The island is called Palawan. In the Philippines.”

“Jesus, that’s like, twenty-four hours on an airplane. Security’s going to touch you.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed, though he remembered what happened when they had.

Outside, sleet tinged against the window of Jemma’s cozy one-bedroom apartment. Wet slush and ice drenched New York. Alex allowed himself to fantasize about tropical sunlight baking his skin, the feel of hot sand under his bare feet, and bathwater warm seas. He’d been to Florida once, and couldn’t imagine what this paradise would be like. He clicked through some more pictures. Heaven.

Jemma’s hands, porcelain white and painfully thin, would burn in tropical sun.

“Can you fund it?” She peered at him, unable to keep a smile off her lips.

Alex could write a grant better than anyone she knew. He bragged he could fund anything, and so far he’d never been proven wrong. “Of course I can get funding.”

“I want to go for a month.”

He breathed out a puff of air. “Okay, start at the top. What’s the ghost?”

In Connecticut, they visited a haunted boarding school. In Canada, a haunted forest that turned out to be a hoax. For the England trip they visited a haunted castle, which would sound like a cliché, but actually had been the stuff nightmares were made of.

“Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows shrine on Sakripisiyuhin Island.”

“What island?”

“It’s a mouthful, eh? Means ‘Sacrifice’ in Tagalog. People used to go there to pray and feel closer to God. Rebecca and four other women killed themselves there in ’94. It closed, and tourists stopped visiting. Locals won’t go near it.”

“And ghosts?”

“How can there not be ghosts?”

“You want to head to the other side of the world because there are probably ghosts there?” To be fair, there probably were ghosts there.

She lighted on the chair opposite him.

“In her diary she described spirits coaxing her to do sinful things.”

Alex wondered what kind of sinful things, and if maybe Jemma simply stumbled onto some kind of weird
Letters to Penthouse.

“It’s every bit as sordid as you’re imagining.”

Alex chuckled. How well she knew him.

“Have you found recent intel on this?”

“No, no one goes there.”

“What if we don’t find anything?”

Alex wanted to go, simply because he’d love to have a trip to a place like this, like Palawan. But he didn’t much look forward to getting there, finding nothing of interest to Jemma, and heading back early.

“You’re going to hate it, you know?” He decided to be blunt. “People will think you dress funny.”

“I do dress funny. Read the diary,” she said. She studied him with big brown eyes. “And it’ll be a wonderful holiday for you. We can come back before a month if we need to. I feel—I really think this will be good. That it will make a good addition to the book.”

“All right,” Alex said. Canada had been similar; Jemma insisted they go. He’d had a hard time finding anything about the place she’d chosen. Yes, the ghost part wound up being a hoax, but their investigation provided key details that helped solve a park ranger’s murder. Jemma was
sensitive
, and if she said they needed to go to the Philippines, then he believed her. She’d never led him astray.

Yet.

2

Terry Brenton made his way down the crowded side street, breathing dust and dodging vehicles. A trike—the
Carla-Baby
—nearly struck him as it wove around a parked delivery truck. A couple nearly walked into him, an average-looking middle-aged white man and a pixielike Filipino girl. Terry used to love El Nido, but sometimes…

He pushed away fantasies of leaving, of heading back to the UK. He didn’t have children there, or any family left, but it was home. Sometimes even the hot air and the palm trees and the cerulean seas all made him miss the drab, gray, dreary weather he grew up with.

All around him stood buildings converted to guest houses, painted in bright colors to attract backpackers. He passed massage parlors (some of them reputable, some of them not), stalls that sold bootleg DVDs and cheap plastic toys, little restaurants, the signs all in English. Like it or not, this was home now.

He paused in front of Louie’s Backyard, the best place to get a drink on the island. Downstairs hosted a gift shop packed with expensive Palawan and El Nido souvenirs, upstairs sat the bar and café. Terry trotted up the stairs. Even five years ago such an endeavor wouldn’t have made his heart pound. He felt old.

The owner of Louie’s Backyard was no Louie, but an American named Erica. She sat at the edge of the balcony, a sloe gin fizz parked in front of her. She rarely could be found without one, never drunk, always sipping.

“Terry! Just the man I wanted to see,” she called, her voice a welcoming smoker’s growl.

He waved, ordered an old-fashioned from a shy Filipina at the bar, then made his way to the balcony to join Erica. She hailed from Cleveland or someplace comparably dreadful.

“Good afternoon.” Terry dropped into a plastic chair.

“There’s a pair of paranormal investigators on their way up here from Puerto Princesa.”

“Paranormal whats?”

“Ghost hunters. They’re going to check out the island. They got some kind of a grant from the University of Oregon.”

Terry’s drink came. His heart pounded. Goddammit. He couldn’t have people out there, poking around.

“Made me think of Virginia.”

Terry’s chest clenched—a merciful heart attack? Then he wouldn’t need to worry about any of this.

He plastered a smile on his face.

“Where will they stay?”

“Not sure. Maria down in Puerto said they took the eleven o’clock up here, so they’ll arrive sometime in the next”—she checked a thin, expensive watch—“half hour? Hour? Depends on the roads and how the lunch stop went.”

Terry hoped no one could see his sweat. He had the van; he could be at the bus terminal to meet them when their Jeepney arrived.

“Do you want to host the ghost hunters? Have some problems at the resort?” She laughed at her own joke, but her eyes remained serious.

“I’ll keep them in line,” he said.

“Is there anyone still around who was there in the nineties?”

“Not that I know of.” Most of them had gone home. Not Virginia. She stayed, and they opened a resort together. Had many wonderful years on the beach.

A pair of tattooed Australian girls trotted up the stairs. Erica saw her bartender had vanished and hefted herself up from her patch of sun to tend to them.

“Have fun with the ghost hunters. Keep a good eye on them, Terry.”

Terry waved and hurried down to his van. He racked his brain about whether there were rooms available. He pulled out his cell phone and called the resort restaurant. Anna answered, his right-hand woman.

She spoke, always, in a polite, accented monotone. She ran the kitchen and all the housekeeping for the past three years, and the entire resort would have been defunct without her.

“What’re the best cabins we have available?”

Any of the other staff would have had to go and check. Anna paused for a split second. “Two and six,” she said.

“Keep them empty until I get back.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

He used to think she mocked him with her monotone and aggressive use of “sir” and “ma’am.” He’d come to accept her way of being polite.

Terry parked at the El Nido bus terminal. A Crayola spread of color painted the sky. A wonderful first impression of the Vista Breeze resort.

Terry watched and waited.

3

The Jeepney arrived in El Nido at dusk. As soon as the brightly colored vehicle came to a stop, passengers flooded out onto the dusty parking lot: the El Nido bus terminal. Alex sat tight and waited for them all to go. He shielded Jemma, who sat hunched as close to the wall as she could manage, her straw purse held as a barrier between them. He never imagined so many people could pack themselves into a vehicle this size. For a few miles from the middle of nowhere to Roxas, there had even been three men hanging on the outside.

Jemma disembarked last. She watched as two native men hefted her black Pelican cases from the roof of the van. The cases contained their gear: laptops, recording devices, ectometers.

If Alex was hot—and he was—Jemma must be dying. She wore a loose-fitting long-sleeved black T-shirt and flowing black pants that hid the fact she even had two legs. On her head she wore a wide straw hat. She allowed Alex to talk her out of getting a black one. Her big, dark sunglasses made her look like she was trying to hide from someone.

“Pardon me?”

The voice sounded like C-3PO: a neat, prissy, insufferable British accent. Alex ignored it, certain the chap couldn’t possibly be talking to them.

“Do these crates belong to you?” he went on, caught Jemma’s eye, and pointed at the cases around her feet.

“Yes,” she said, barely more than mumbling.

The speaker was tall and thin, with sandy hair heading over to white and a bristly mustache. He wore a light cotton shirt, red and blue plaid faded to pastel. He coupled it with khaki shorts.

The man perused Alex and Jemma. “Are you folks the…” His voice trailed off. “Are you here to…” He pursed his lips and made a little sucking sound. Alex grinned. Uncomfortable people were so much fun.

“Are you here to visit the island?” he asked.

“We are,” said Jemma. Alex laughed.

The Brit extended his hand to Jemma, but Alex intercepted for her and introduced them.

“I’m Terry Brenton. Pleased to meet you.” Terry shook hands with a tentative, dry grip. “I’m the proprietor of Vista Breeze resort. Have you found accommodations here in El Nido?”

Jemma deferred to Alex. He’d read about this place online. There were loads of boardinghouses and resorts in the area, but he seemed to recall this one came highly recommended.

“I don’t want to swindle you, or put one over on you. I have a certain interest in Sakripisiyuhin Island, and hoped I could be of some help to your project.”

Jemma lifted her chin. Alex hoped Vista Breeze—and what the hell kind of name was that, anyway?—sat on the more affordable end of the spectrum.

“All right,” Jemma said.

“I have two cottages available—or do you only need one?”

Alex and Jemma stepped away from each other. “Two, please,” they said in unison.