Vacation to Die For (11 page)

The last thing I need from this maniac is a lesson in nutrition.  I’m almost afraid to look over at Angie because she’s moaning so loudly. 

I look at him instead.

His lips are smeared with something red.

I want to throw up.

He laughs. “Relax. It’s just an extra-spicy rib rub and it’s 
mmmm
 good! I’ve decided to make you the main course, and leave skinny over there for dessert.” He stares over at Angie. She’s finally silent, which means she’s either dead, drugged, or passed out. In any case I’m sure it’s a blessing for her. 

I’ve got my own problems. One is Hannibal’s insatiable appetite.

Just in case he’s concerned about his cholesterol, I think I should remind him, “You called me fat.”

He shrugs. “Let’s just say you’re pleasingly plump.”

“And you’re a sicko.” I try to move my hands, but I can’t. He has them bound behind my back. I’m naked now, except for the silk sash around my throat and around my ankles. The way he jerks on it, he makes sure I know it may also serve as my noose.

In fact, if I try to straighten my legs from a crouching position, I'll choke myself.

He slams my head down, deep into the couch cushion. My head is facing the coffee table. On it, six very sharp instruments are laid out on a towel.

Hannibal picks up the one that looks like a kebab skewer, and very slowly runs it up my spine. I try my damnedest not to shiver.

He slides the skewer to my neck, right below my ear where it meets my jaw. “Did you know there's a pressure point, right here? It reduces your appetite." He pinches my waist. "Guess not, eh?" He giggles as he presses down on the skewer.

The pain is excruciating, but I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming out.

He laughs—and lets up. The skewer clicks against the carving knife as he tosses it back on the coffee table. Then he picks up a bowl filled with something thick and moist. “You know, you and your scrawny little gal pal in there are providing me with a veritable feast! It’s like having an early Thanksgiving at the beach. In fact, while you were out cold, I took the time to make some stuffing. Here, tell me what you think of it.”

He sits me up so that he can slather some on my breasts. After they're covered, he dabs even more to my right nipple. He stops a moment to admire it, then he licks it off. “Wonderful, you find this stimulating! Hey look, me too!” He points at his crotch.

He’s lucky I’m all tied up. Otherwise I’d kick the shit out of him, starting with his tiny wanker.

He shoves some stuffing into my belly button, but stops when he gets to my Brazilian wax job, so that he can scrutinize it. “Well now, that won’t do! I’ll have to shave it all off before I finish stuffing you, my little turkey-lurkey. In the meantime, you can suck on this.” He jabs his stuffing-laden fingers into my mouth.

The fool. I bite down so hard that I can taste the tartness of his blood.

When he’s finished screaming and cursing at me, he tosses my head back down between the seat cushions. While I’m choking, he sticks something long and hard in my hand.

“Zucchini,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s on my diet.” He slaps my ass with it, hard. “Now it’s part of yours, too. Of course, when I get through with you, all your friends will be asking who did your lipo.”

What, now he’s looking for referrals?

 “Like the firmness?” Slowly he slides the vegetable down the small of my back. I feel it moving down toward my crack. “Only twenty calories. A gram and a half of 
dietary fiber
.” He caresses those last two words, as if they are porn.

In his hands, they are.

And in his hands, apparently my ass is delectable. He bites me, and it’s my turn to scream.

I may lose those eight pounds yet.

He yanks the silk sash so hard that I gasp. I can’t black out, not now. 

“
Shhhh
,” he whispers in my ear. “Now the fun part begins.”

I feel his fingers separating my ass cheeks. His thumb slides down my crack, until he finds what he is looking for—

No, it slides even lower, until it enters my vagina. With thumb and finger he widens it, then he places the zucchini on its lips. “I’ll bet you’ve never been fucked with a summer squash.”

He’s got that right.
 

I brace myself for the worst lay of my life.

Instead, I hear the sweetest sound to any victim’s ears: the whoosh of a bullet as it hits your tormentor in the back of the head.

Then the thud of his fall as he lands on top of you, pushing you deeper into a cushion, at an angle that has your bindings choking you.

Then a whisper in your ear, from your savior: “Donna? Oh God, Donna! Are you okay?”

Even a simple nod of your head will take you into darkness, so you wait until your savior has moved the dead body of your captor to one side and unties your bindings before cuddling you in his arms and swearing that he’ll never let anyone hurt you, ever again.

All at once you’re thankful he got to you in time. And you’re embarrassed that he has to see you like this—all tied up, as it were, 
ha ha
—

But seriously, this is no time for jokes, now is it?

He throws a sheet over you and carries you back to your tiki. Then he bundles you up into bed, and lies beside you—

And holds you as if he’ll never let you go, as long as you both shall live.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, you whisper, 
Jack I love you
, over and over again. 

Maybe in the morning you’ll break the news to him that zucchini is off the menu until you can stomach it again, but for now you let him sleep because the best time in the world is when he holds you in his arms.

If you don’t break the spell, perhaps you’ll never have to leave them.

My phone is buzzing its cricket ring tone. 

I open one eye. Jack is still beside me and still deep in slumber. 

I roll over and look at the Caller ID on my cell. It’s Arnie. I click on it. “Speak to me.”

“Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you on the tooth mark, Donna. Ready for this? It belongs to the heir to the Bannaker Steel fortune, a guy named Connor Reems. I guess that makes him wealthy enough to pay to have his rap sheet buried in the bowels of Pittsburgh’s police department’s data archive. No convictions, but Reems has got a propensity for picking up single women who, for the most part, are never seen again. The few who got away have some pretty wild stories to tell, like food fetishes—even cannibalism!”

“Really? Ya think?” Hey, I can’t blame Arnie. I’m the one who put too much on his plate (excuse the pun). 

I’m glad Jack set me straight about that.

“By the way, Donna, Battoo asked me to tell you that your friend, Angie, is safely on her way home. But the other two are ready to partay, as soon as you can break away, they’re there for you.”

Thanks, but no thanks. This isn’t supposed to be a gal pal getaway weekend.

When I hang up, Jack mutters, “Who was that?”

“Arnie. He got around to some reconnaissance I requested.” I flip around so that we’re nose to nose. “I was out of it, but did I hear you say that Abu took care of Angie, and Dominic took care of…whatever is left of Hannibal?”

He nods. “I take it Arnie confirmed he wasn’t our suspect.” 

“No, unfortunately.” I entwine my hand in his. “I’m beginning to feel as if we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Oh well, maybe the tour today will put Mandrake in our laps.”

Jack frowns. “Oh yeah, about that…When I mentioned to Julie that you wanted to tag along, she didn’t seem too keen about it. She’s concerned that Mr. Boarke won’t like it.”

Yeah, right, I’m sure that’s her real concern.

 “Mr. Boarke owes me, big time,” I mutter. “If I have to remind him about it, I will.” One of Boarke’s problems is solved. He’s got a new one—me. 

I yawn. “We barely have time to jump in the shower before we have to meet the Boarke buggy. Love that rich Corinthian leather.”

Jack grins. “We’ll have plenty of time if we shower together.”

“Last one in has to scrub the other’s back.” I roll out of bed. “Oh, I just remembered! If you see a bite mark, just ignore it.”

Jack checks out my backside. “No way. I want to take my time examining you for bruises, then kiss them and make them better.”

I’ve no doubt he will. And I’ll love every minute of it.

Chapter 8

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

One of the joys of traveling is seeing new sights, and making new friends. Here are some tips that will help you expand your horizons in ways you never thought possible:

Tip #1: Travel alone. “Alone” doesn’t mean you’ll be lonely. It means going without your usual BFF, bestie, bro, or SO. Seriously, why do you need an entourage, anyway—to carry your purse, or your suitcase, or your miniature dog? (Just get a bigger dog, and he can drag your suitcase—problem solved!)

Tip #2: Reach out to strangers. You’ll meet so many nice people on planes, trains, or automobiles. Hint: if (a) the selected mode of vehicle is a hippy bus, and (b) drugs are being offered, and (c) everyone on the bus worships a guy named Manson, pass on the lift. Better to keep that thumb in the air. Trust me on this one.

Tip #3: Don’t be afraid to open up. Tell your new friends your name and where you’re from. Give them a glimpse of the real you. However, no need for diarrhea of the mouth. Leave out such info as (a) your home address, (b) your ATM pin number, (c) your Twitter and Facebook passwords, and (d) any sexual peccadilloes or kinky predilections you may have.

Tip #4: Keep your eyes open, and enjoy the view! From the plane. From a mountaintop.  From your hotel room—especially if the couple across the street are going at it, like bonobos in heat. In fact, this alone is a perfect reason why you bring binoculars—

Which can also be carried by your new pack dog.

 “I think it’s just adorable that you two met on the plane to Fantasy Island!” Mr. Boarke’s assistant, Julie bats her lashes so furiously that I wouldn’t be surprised if she took flight.

I’ve been watching her do it all morning. She does it when she talks. She does it as she walks. She does it when she giggles. And she does it as she drives. 

Unfortunately, she hasn’t shut up 
or
 quit giggling since we started our road trip through Fantasy Island. Worse yet, she can barely drive and talk at the same time. I don’t dare test this theory by tempting her with a piece of gum. We may find ourselves hurtling over one of the island’s many shore-hugging cliffs. 

I look straight ahead in the hopes she’ll do the same. “Oh, 
pshaw
! I bet cute meets happen all the time in this lovers’ paradise.” 

“To be honest, yes.”  She blushes. “In fact, thirty-six percent of our guests have found their future spouses at Eden Key.”

“How romantic.” I’m tempted to ask her if there is a statistic for how many guests leave the island in a body bag.

We’ve been touring for the past couple of hours. Already we’ve taken in the highlights of Eden Key—the tricked out huts, the large heart-shaped communal pools with swim-out bars, and of course its infamous nude beach. 

We’ve also seen the joys of Kamp KidStuff, what with its cute family cabins, each with verandas boasting large porch swings. The cabins are set far enough apart that each has its own lawn. While parents indulge in massages, tennis, golf, yoga, and romantic walks on the beach, their children play games of all sorts, supervised by fresh-faced youth advisors (minus two, now that Emma and Arnie are officially ensconced in Eden Key—in separate tree houses, of course). 

While I’m busy talking nonsense with our guide, Jack is listening to a different chatter. Arnie is feeding him Dr. Mandrake’s GPS coordinates through his earbud. 

Suddenly Jack gives me a thumbs-down. I guess that means we’re out of range again. This Mandrake guy is always on the go! I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever catch him.

“Hey, Julie, this tour of the resorts is great, but I was hoping to go off-road, too. You know, see areas of the island that lend themselves to future development. In fact, I have some specific regions in mind.” I guess Jack is worried. Why else would he make his request so directly—