Sacrifice Island
Authors: Kristin Dearborn
Table of Contents
First Edition
Sacrifice Island
© 2013 by Kristin Dearborn
All Rights Reserved.
A DarkFuse Release
Twitter:
@darkfuse
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/darkfuse
Newsletter:
http://eepurl.com/jOH5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To Steve B, who decided that two weeks in Palawan was an excellent idea. And also for being a most excellent friend.
Acknowledgements
First round of thanks go to Steve B, Ruban, and Warren, who were with me on an inspirational adventure to the Philippines. Steve meticulously planned our routes and travel, so all I had to do was show up and enjoy.
The next round goes to my beta readers: Mom, Christina, Brian, Steve and Mac. They read the book before you did, and pointed out parts that maybe didn’t work so well. Thanks to Dave at DarkFuse, who taught me the difference between “that” and “which.” I’ve taken your Post-It suggestion to heart.
Thanks to supportive friends, who stand by as I write, and to everyone at Seton Hill, who have always pushed me to be better. Thank you to Scott, the strongest, bravest guy I know. Thanks to Karen, for letting me use her name. Finally, thank you to Steve M, for a seemingly endless reserve of patience.
Prologue
“How about the special tour? After dark only.”
Marissa’s head spun and she giggled. Colored light spilled from the bar to illuminate their patch of beach. Reds, greens, and blues winked on the calm seawater.
Her companion, a tall German whose name she couldn’t remember, asked, “What is this special tour?”
The boatman’s white smile glowed in the moonlight. Marissa remembered him—he’d been her guide this afternoon. Low on personality, high on competence.
“He was my guide this afternoon, he’s cool,” she whispered to the German. He hushed her.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred pesos.”
“The price is steep. Where do you take us?”
“Past Helicopter Island. To a beach not on any of the maps.”
“Why isn’t it on the maps?” Marissa asked.
She and Suzanne spent ten and a half months planning this trip. Marissa saved and scrimped to get here, but Suzanne’s dad paid her way. Marissa’d pushed for the Caribbean—much closer (and cheaper), or for Thailand—more developed, more to do. But Suzanne convinced her, and she’d gotten a night job. She deposited all the proceeds in a jar marked “Palawan.”
And now they were here. It was every bit as beautiful as Suzanne had assured her it would be. Six daiquiris later, she couldn’t feel her sunburn anymore. She’d loved the limestone islands by day, towering karst cliffs and jagged rocks, beaches with sand as white and fine as flour. The best part? Palawan was still mostly off the beaten path, a South Pacific paradise. It wasn’t trashed like the beaches in Thailand. She couldn’t help wonder…what would those same islands look like in the moonlight?
The guide answered her question. “It’s not on any maps because it is a special place. Tourists bring litter and damage the corals.”
“Can we do a night dive?” Marissa asked.
“You’re drunk.” The German kissed the top of her head. They met on the bus from Puerto Princesa yesterday afternoon.
“So’re you.”
“Let’s just go for a swim.”
“A swim on a secret island. Let’s go.”
The German frowned at the guide. “The price is high.”
“I’ll pay for it. I want to go.” She leaned in, close to his ear. “I bet he won’t care if we fuck on the beach.” If only she could remember his name. It wasn’t a super-German name like Hans, or Lars…what was it?
“If you want to.” He carefully pronounced the words against alcohol. “I don’t have so much money left.”
“Don’t worry about it.” To the guide she said, “We’ll go.”
The guide grinned wide in the moonlight. “Bring a sweatshirt. The ride across the bay can be a little cold at night.”
* * *
Marissa hadn’t brought a sweatshirt, but her German did, and they both huddled inside it, stretching the material. The ocean spray, refreshing in the ninety-degree afternoon sunlight, chilled her in the glow of the moon.
“Don’t worry,” the guide said from behind them, where he sat by the loud motor. Flimsy pontoons jutted from either side of the boat. It was painted white with a seafoam green interior that became dark in the moonlight. The name
Baby Roxanne
stood out on the hull in fuchsia paint
.
All vehicles here—trikes, boats, trucks—were named, and half of the names seemed to include
Baby
. Crowded in with eleven people, the boat felt cramped and claustrophobic. Now it seemed massive, as she and the German (
what, what, what was his name?
) huddled on one of the long, empty benches.
This afternoon’s ride took almost an hour coming back against the wind. Tonight’s would be farther. Marissa shivered, thankful for the German’s warmth. She wished she wore more than her bikini and a sarong converted into a halter dress. Back at the beachfront bar she’d been plenty warm.
She resisted the urge to ask the guide how much farther. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. She suspected Suzanne wasn’t shivering. When Marissa last saw her at the bar, she’d been flirting with an Australian surfer and a redheaded British girl. Marissa leaned into her German.
* * *
Marissa woke to a sudden silence as the guide killed
Baby Roxanne
’s engine.
“We’re here.”
She must have dozed off. He dropped the wooden stairs into the water with a splash. The
Baby Roxanne
rocked in gentle waves, moored in a cove protected from the wind. Here the sea lapped a luminous beach with gentle kisses. The moon pulled all color from the vista, but replaced it with a blue filter that gave everything a magical mood. With no light pollution, a million stars glittered in the sky, the thick band of the Milky Way clearly visible. She saw Orion, just like at home.
Warm calf-deep water, still heated from a day in the baking tropical sun, lapped at Marissa’s legs. She waded to shore, and sunk her toes into the cool sand. Her German followed.
Their guide, perched on the seafoam green bow of the boat, pointed behind them.
They turned. So beautiful! Nestled in a shallow cave stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, her hands holding a giant clam, eyes demurely lowered. Her marble edifice seemed to glow with its own light.
“There’s more.” The guide pointed at the dark jungle. He lit a cigarette and settled onto his haunches.
Squinting in the moonlight, Marissa saw more marble, dappled with shadows. She took the German’s hand and squeezed. He smiled at her. They went forward to explore.
* * *
The guide watched them go. He took a long pull on his cigarette and rubbed at his chin. The girl’s peal of loud laugher rolled across the water.
They spoke to each other in hushed tones. He couldn’t make out words, but he heard her voice, then his, then hers again…back and forth. Sound carried far on a calm night like this one.
From a ways off, the girl gasped. The sound echoed up the limestone cliffs. The guide smiled. Not a gasp of pleasure—he’d heard them discuss having relations on the beach. Neither of them would ever have relations again.
Not even enough time to smoke a full cigarette.
She
was hungry tonight. The German shouted, terror in his voice, and the girl screamed, a high, pure sound.
“No, no, no!”
The sound rolled across the water. The girl’s voice was lovely. The guide carefully extinguished his cigarette so he could finish it later, and tucked the remnants behind his ear.
As the man’s screams joined the woman’s, the guide poled away from the beach, into deeper water. With two good tugs, he started the outboard motor. The roar almost drowned out the screams. They were fading, anyway. He turned into the breeze, and headed for home.
1
The piano paused as Alex let himself into the apartment. He plopped down in an overstuffed chair to listen. Jemma sat at her piano, dressed in black, her rod-straight back to him. He didn’t recognize the piece; something classical, impossibly complex-sounding. He, a Luddite, would never even hope to play like she did. He’d never progressed much past “Heart and Soul”—both parts—on the piano.
She’d left him a voice mail, breathless and excited. He should come over after he got out of work: she’d found the fourth chapter for the book.
Gray light from the window made her pale skin glow. He watched her long, thin fingers, her skinny wrists. Watched the way her hands peeked out of baggy sleeves to flit over the piano keys. She wore a long, flowing black garment; from here he couldn’t tell if it was pants or a skirt. Her shirt was more of the same. Believe it or not, this was an improvement. She bought a pair of jeans recently. She didn’t dare wear them, but she owned them, and he was proud of her.
She finished with no flourish. She would never be a great pianist because she didn’t insert any of herself into the music. She could recreate the sounds perfectly, but Jemma Labasan was never present in the melodies.
“I know what we’ll do for the last chapter.” She beamed at him from behind a shank of black, silky hair. She wore it long, a fence between herself and the world. Her few years growing up in Britain, as well as her parents’ accents, left the slightest lilt to her words as she spoke.
“Great!” Alex also dug up a pretty great last chapter, right here in New York.
“I found a journal,” she said.
So far, off to a good start. Journals made for good beginnings.
“Her name was Rebecca St. Germaine. She had an abusive husband, but he died—”