Uncharted (31 page)

His heart skipped a beat as Kevin Carter—as
he
—handed Harold Jewell a manila envelope. The older man thanked the secretary who gave him a cup of coffee, then offhandedly opened the package.

Sitting across the table, the dark-suited Kevin Carter smiled.

The old man slid a half dozen black-and-white photographs from the envelope, then bent as one slipped from his grasp. He didn’t look at the pictures in his hand; he didn’t even notice the subject of the shot he picked up from the floor.

Jewell didn’t realize what he was holding until he straightened and put on his glasses. Then a change came over his features, a sudden shock of sick realization. He pulled the photos to his chest as a tremor touched his lips, his brows drew together, and sweat beaded in tiny pearls on his forehead.

The second hand of the huge clock on the conference room wall seemed to be mired in the white space between two black dashes on the dial’s perimeter. As time slowed to a crawl, Jewell looked across the table and eyed Kevin Carter as if he were a bad smell.

Carter—the
other
Carter—leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle on his knee in the attitude of a confident executive.

After a long moment, Harold Jewell’s face closed. He stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and read the brief note. At the other end of the table, Tom Barton was laughing with the IT guy, oblivious to the drama taking place only a few feet away.

As Barton asked for reports from the sales department, Jewell’s posture crumpled like a used tissue.

Scott Wheeler, president of the ad agency they’d recently hired, presented the campaign for Easter-egg bubble-gum balls to everyone’s approval. After reports from marketing and production, Barton asked if anyone else wanted to discuss new business.

Harold Jewell lifted his hand. “I’d like to take this opportunity”— the old man’s voice quaked—“to announce my resignation. I leave this company with nothing but fond memories and best wishes for your future.”

Barton leaned forward, his face idiotic with surprise. “Are you kidding, Harold?”

“It’s a personal matter.” Jewell lowered his gaze. “A family matter. I’m afraid my decision is irrevocable.”

Barton wasn’t happy, but after a long moment, he folded his hands. “All right, Harold. I’m sure you have your reasons. Any suggestion as to who might best fill your shoes?”

Jewell didn’t look up. “Carter is undoubtedly the best candidate, but you’ll have to make your own decision.”

Across the table, the Armani-clad Carter managed to look surprised, humbled, and pleased.

“I’ll certainly take your opinion into consideration,” Barton said, “because you know how I’ve always respected you. We’ll miss you, Harold. We’ll miss your integrity.”

Kevin gripped the rock wall and turned away, unable to watch any more. Harold Jewell
was
a man of integrity; that’s why he would be so easy to manipulate. With only a few revealing photographs of Jessica Kroner, Kevin’s assistant and Jewell’s precious niece, Kevin could be CFO. And it wouldn’t be hard to obtain the pictures. When women of all ages found you attractive, anything was possible.

Kevin raked his hand through his hair as his cheeks flushed against the cool air of the cave. No one at the company had even an inkling about his tentative plan, not even Jessica. So why was he seeing the outcome of his idea as if it were a fait accompli?

He pressed the meaty part of his palm to his forehead and tried to concentrate. A dream. He had to be sleepwalking through a shadowy realm one rung below full wakefulness. He’d endured a lot in the last several hours, and sleep deprivation could render any man susceptible to the suggestion of a guilty conscience.

Because this couldn’t be real. No one in the world knew what he’d been planning, and no one else
could
know.

Not ever.

33

Karyn stumped through the brush and wondered if anyone was looking for their group. They’d left Los Angeles on Tuesday, flown out of Guam on Wednesday—or was it Thursday? The International Date Line confused her. It had been late afternoon when they’d boarded Captain Weza’s boat, and the storm came up that night, so all of them must have passed the remainder of the night in an exhausted stupor. So this had to be Friday, though it was the longest weekday she had ever experienced.

She glanced again at the useless watch on her wrist. What time was it in New York? What was Sarah doing? Had Molly told her that her parents were missing? Did Molly even
know
the boat had gone down? This was all John’s fault; they should have spent the night on Majuro and flown into Kwajalein the next day.

She felt a stab of regret as her thoughts turned to Sarah. Her precocious daughter liked to think of herself as a savvy Manhattanite, but she’d lost a lot of her bravado on September 11, 2001. She’d been in sixth grade the day the twin towers fell. Her private school had evacuated; the teachers herded scores of terrified children up Riverside Drive and over the Cross Bronx Expressway Bridge into New Jersey.

Karyn’s most vivid memory of that day was watching the towers fall on television, then looking out to see gray darkness pressing against the wide studio windows like some murderous beast prowling the city streets. Like hundreds of other New Yorkers, she’d been trapped, unable to do anything but tremble and pray.

Because of the mass confusion that reigned over Manhattan, Karyn wasn’t able to reach Sarah until late the next day. As she held her sobbing daughter in her arms, Karyn threaded her fingers through Sarah’s hair and murmured promises that felt as empty as air. That day had proven that the unthinkable could happen. Life could—and sometimes did—turn in a heartbeat.

It had turned on Captain Weza’s boat, and again Karyn had been caught unprepared.

What must Sarah be thinking now? The poor kid had to be frightened out of her wits.

Karyn hesitated, wavering between blame and regret. As much as she wanted to rail at John Watson, the situation was
her
fault; she should have found a better caregiver than Molly, who had probably freaked the instant she heard Karyn and her friends were missing. Or she should have stayed in New York. What a fool she’d been, leaving Sarah with a ditzy actress while she traipsed around the world in the hope of gaining good publicity and losing a few pounds!

Whatever she suffered here, it wouldn’t be enough.

The air around her vibrated softly with the hum of unseen insects. She walked up to a clump of growing stalks and remembered what Mark said about the bamboo being dry. But this plant was green, and young sprouts had budded at its base.

She tugged on a stalk, but though the clump shuddered, the plant didn’t loosen. A wave of apprehension swept through her as the leaves rustled—what sort of animal life might she be disturbing? When thirst overruled her anxiety, she shifted her efforts to a thinner stalk, one barely three feet high. It clung to the earth with amazing tenacity but finally gave way, revealing short yellow roots spreading only a few inches in all directions.

She wanted to crow with satisfaction, but she couldn’t celebrate until she was certain she’d found water . . . and taken a drink. Surely the risk taker had the right to drink first. She gripped the stalk with both hands, then brought it down across her bent knee.

As she’d hoped, the branch snapped and a stream of liquid spilled from the breach, vanishing into the sandy soil.

Alarm and anger rippled along Karyn’s spine as she cursed the plant, the island, and her own stupidity. How could she be so careless?

She brought the stalks to an upright position and peered into their narrow tubes, but she couldn’t see anything. She knelt and ran her fingers over the damp splatter on the ground, but not a drop of water remained. The other bamboo stalks were too thick to break with her bare hands. She could do nothing, then, but suck on the hollow bamboo and hope a few drops of liquid remained.

“Please, God.” She lifted the first broken stalk, the piece with the roots. “Please, just a drop?”

She tilted her head back and tipped the broken end toward her mouth, then touched her tongue to the ragged opening. A slightly bitter aroma filled her nostrils, but nothing dampened her parched flesh.

Desperate, she dropped the root end and tipped the leafy stalk into her mouth. Perhaps the small branches would send water trickling down the main stem; even a drop would help ease her thirst. She waited, desperate with frustration, until something tickled her lips.

Her senses leapt as a tide of sensations swept across her tongue. Was this water? Sap? Any kind of moisture would be wonderful; she’d drink first and ask questions later—

Something stung the roof of her mouth, sending a shower of lights sparking through her head like a swarm of fireflies. She flung the bamboo away and coughed, realizing too late that her hand and arm were crawling with ants.

Terror blew down the back of her neck as she swiped at her hand and arm and face. Mark had warned them about ants in the bamboo; why hadn’t she listened?

She coughed and slapped at herself as she staggered toward the beach. She didn’t have enough saliva to spit the insects from her mouth. The invaders were everywhere, wriggling under her blouse, crawling beneath her cotton slacks, creeping between her breasts. One ant dangled from her lashes, drawn, no doubt, by the moisture in the slick orb of her eye.

Like a madwoman she ran, blindly stumbling into trees and bamboo and palmettos before collapsing in a stand of grass. Her nails shredded her dehydrated skin; her lips swelled from the ant bites. She scraped up a handful of dirt and stuffed it into her mouth, hoping to suffocate the creatures before they attacked the tender tissues of her throat and closed off her airways.

Still the ants attacked. A cry of pain clawed in her throat, trapped by her paralyzed muscles. She could think of only one other option—

She rushed toward the sea on legs that trembled with shock and pain. Her heart was beating heavily; she felt each thump like a blow to the chest. Her wide eyes saw nothing but gray sea and sky.

At the shore, she waded into the water, fell to her knees, spat the mud from her lips, then splashed handfuls of seawater over her tongue. Gravity prevented the water from accomplishing its cleansing work, so she lowered herself into the surf and opened her mouth. Over and over, she took in water and spat it out, resisting a rising tide of pain as she waited for the liquid to flush away the poisonous toxins.

When the agony became unbearable and her arms felt as weak as squeezed-out rags, she crawled back toward the black beach and lay in the shallows, her eyes open to the tantalizing water, her mouth agape so the tide could roll in and out, out and in.

She couldn’t endure much longer. If she didn’t find fresh water soon, she wouldn’t survive to make her way back to Sarah.

God, have mercy, please. Can’t You send rain?

She turned her head and lifted her gaze to the sky, where the sun remained hidden behind an opaque gray mantle.

Mark straightened as Karyn stumbled up from the beach and fell to the sand beside Susan. Her skin was caked with sea salt, her clothing drenched, her hair straggling lank around her head. Bloody scratches marred her arms, neck, and face.

His tongue clucked behind his teeth. How far the star had fallen . . .

Susan gasped behind her veil. “Goodness, K! What happened to you?”

Karyn propped her elbow on her bent knee, then rested her head on her hand and closed her eyes. “I’m a fool.”

Mark lifted a brow. “How so?”

Karyn blinked at him. “I found water in a bamboo stalk, but I couldn’t catch it before it spilled. Then the ants found me. I’ve never felt so stupid in my life . . . but maybe I’m getting what I deserve.” Her voice broke. “I shouldn’t have left Sarah.”

Susan said nothing but draped an arm around Karyn’s wet shoulders.

Mark left the women to console each other and turned his attention back to the prepared fire pit. His right hand held the lens from the pair of broken glasses Susan had found; his left hand was cupped over a pile of torn paper strips. He’d have to wait for the wind to die down before he could try to start a fire.

He’d learned how to start a fire during an exhaustive foray into the St. John’s River basin—the one and only time he turned one of his women loose for a little hunting practice. By the time Mark brought his quarry down, he’d wandered too far into the swamp to make it out before sunset. He’d started a fire with the lens from his binoculars, then spent the night feeding the flames to ward off alligators.