Uncharted (34 page)

She found Sarah in her bedroom—the purple-and-violet decorating nightmare that was Sarah’s pride and joy. The walls were covered with glossy posters of a blond pop singer whose name Karyn had never bothered to learn. The small bulletin board above Sarah’s bureau was adorned with dried flowers, photographs of her friends, and snapshots of Kevin.

Sarah stood at the bureau, running her fingertip over a five-by-seven portrait Kevin had had taken for his company prospectus. A tear trickled down her cheek.

“Sweetheart,” Karyn whispered, but her voice could not penetrate the thickened air. She tried to touch her weeping daughter’s shoulder, but her hand could not penetrate the shimmering boundary between dream and reality.

Karyn pressed her fist against her mouth as her heart twisted. Sarah’s face was streaked with tears, her nose chapped, her lips swollen. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her bed looked as though it hadn’t been made in days—

Was she sick? Where was Molly? Good grief, who was taking care of her daughter?

“Sarah?” Karyn’s voice stirred no air, created no vibration in the room. A part of her brain recognized that she was seeing a vision, but a mother’s love should span the oceans, penetrate fear, and infiltrate dreams . . .

“You almost ready?” A stranger’s voice edged into the room. Karyn turned to see a woman with dark hair and a thin face move into the doorway. The woman’s hands were folded around the handle of a leather briefcase. “Sarah, honey, we need to go.”

Sarah, who usually bounded through a room, walked slowly forward, eyes downcast, hair hanging like a curtain between herself and the world. The woman in the doorway clicked her tongue. “We need to hurry, Sarah; the Bensons are waiting.”

Sarah lifted her head the merest fraction of an inch as she moved toward the dresser. She trailed her fingers over the dusty edge, then reached for the fabric-covered box embroidered in pink flowers. Her hand hovered over the lid, then her shoulders rose in what looked like a supreme concentration of effort.

Karyn caught her breath as her daughter lifted the lid. She’d given the little box to Sarah last Christmas, along with a locket containing photographs of herself and Kevin. Never in her wildest dreams did she believe Sarah would actually
wear
the necklace, but a locket was one of those things a girl ought to have, like a cameo, a hope chest, and a college savings plan . . .

Sarah lifted the locket by its chain and let it dangle in a stream of sunlight. Dust motes danced like fireflies around the last gift Karyn had given her daughter.

Without speaking, Sarah unhooked the clasp and fastened the locket around her neck. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes, but Sarah swiped them away and reached under her pillow for the nearly threadbare blanket she’d slept with since infancy. Then she nodded and moved past her mother, an action that left Karyn gasping for breath.

The thin-faced woman pulled a tissue from her pocket and offered it to Sarah. “Are you sure you have everything? We can’t come back. We don’t want to make things difficult for your foster parents.”

Sarah bent to pick up a suitcase by the closet. “I have everything I need—wait!”

Karyn’s chin quivered as Sarah darted toward an old photograph of a family outing to Six Flags. In the photo, Karyn and Kevin stood before a roller coaster with Sarah between them, all three smiling in a rare moment of camaraderie.

Sarah pressed the photo to her lips, then slipped the picture frame into her pocket and took a deep, unsteady breath. “Okay.”

As Sarah followed the woman into the hall, Karyn trailed after them, calling out encouragement. “This is only for a little while, honey. We’re coming back. Don’t worry. We’re not giving up, and neither should you.”

Sarah followed the woman with the briefcase, then Karyn saw her daughter’s slender shoulders twitch as she adjusted her courage like an invisible cape.

Karyn’s eyes flew open when the apartment door slammed. She wasn’t in Manhattan; she was on a deserted island, a polluted tropical paradise.

She closed her eyes again.
Lord, please get us home
.

Never had she prayed so sincerely.

Kevin cursed softly and ran the back of his hand across his burning brow. In this heat he ought to be sweating like a New York waiter, but his cracked skin had become as brittle as sun-dried leather.

He held up a warning finger, then bent from the waist and propped his hands on his knees.

“Dizzy?” Mark asked.

“I need a minute. I’m a little light-headed.”

Instead of complaining, Mark rested his hands on his hips and hung his head.

Dehydration was getting to all of them. The sticky heat was intensifying a severe situation, and Kevin was beginning to wonder if they could build a raft in time to save themselves. That poor Florida woman had lasted thirteen days without food and water, but she didn’t spend those thirteen days attacking jungle growth with the rusty bumper of a ’57 Chevy. Though they were trying to conserve their strength, he didn’t think anyone had managed to sleep in this awful place.

Kevin stood, felt the blood leave his head, and waited until his surroundings came back into focus. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to Mark. “One cane down, two dozen to go.”

Mark grunted in dry humor, then picked up one of the bamboo stalks they’d cut. Though working with a bent bumper had proven difficult, the length made it possible to attack an entire clump at once, provided the men applied enough pressure. The length of the steel also enabled them to remain a safe distance from the ants. It was backbreaking work, but Mark and Kevin had managed to cut two good-sized stalks for the raft.

Mark wrapped his arm around a ribbed trunk. “Let’s haul these to the beach. If the women have started braiding the rope, we can show them how to lash the poles together.”

After checking for ants, Kevin silently pulled the other stalk under his arm, then followed Mark over the path they’d recently trampled. The bamboo was heavier than it looked, and the trailing leaves tended to catch on every protruding root and limb.

Why in the world had he fallen for John Watson’s pitch? Guilt, probably, but now he couldn’t imagine a more worthless reason to do anything. Guilt should be reserved for suckers, sad sacks, and spineless ne’er-do-wells.

He should have ignored John’s invitation. He should have said David was crazy for giving up his hard-earned vacation to build a school for kids who didn’t know what they were missing. He should have insisted that anyone who volunteered for this trip was as nutty as a Georgia fruitcake.

A geyser of anger boiled at his core, firing his veins and fueling the energy he needed for the push toward the beach. When they made it off this island, he planned to write Julia Lawson Payne and tell her what a cockamamie plan this was. If she thought it was such a good idea, why didn’t she come along? Bad enough that John Watson was fool enough to sign on—a man of his age should sit in an office and
oversee
charitable work, not go traipsing into the wilderness. But John wanted to do the admirable thing, and what happened? A nice old man became fish food, along with that poor captain and his kid.

He stopped to get a better grip on the bamboo. No, he never should have come. He wasn’t cut out for the wilderness, and he had to get back to the office.

His breath burned in his throat when he thought of what might be happening in his absence. Because David Payne possessed an indefatigable sense of sacrifice,
Kevin’s
work was suffering. Once word got out that he’d gone missing, people would start jockeying for his position and lining up for his office.

And what about Sarah? She had to be wondering if she’d ever see her parents again.

He groaned when he remembered all the times the company lawyer had urged him to draw up a will. Kevin had postponed the chore again and again, but now he was missing, and no one would know what to do with Sarah. He hoped Karyn’s mother would have sense enough to take the girl in, but seventy-year-old Eunice Hall lived in a retirement facility, not the best place for a fifteen-year-old kid, even temporarily.

No matter where Sarah was, he would find her. No matter how tired or thirsty or aggravated he became, he would find a way off this island. No matter how much Mark annoyed him or Karyn chided him, he would persevere.

They’d finish the raft today, tomorrow at the latest, and they’d set out. And as soon as they reached civilization, he would call Atlanta and tell them he was on his way back. Then he’d call New York, track Sarah down, and let her know she wasn’t an orphan. Not by a long shot.

As long as he had breath in his body, Kevin wasn’t about to quit.

In a burst of determination, he dragged the bamboo another ten feet, then dropped it on the beach beside Mark’s thick cane. Karyn looked up, a faint smile on her lips. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be, not yet. We still have to cut a dozen more.”

Her expression softened as she searched his face. “Are you okay?”

He frowned, then understood. She’d always been able to read him. And now she had to see the anger in his eyes; she knew he was about to explode—

“I’m okay.” He exhaled slowly, willing the tension out of his neck and shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

Mark pressed his hands to the small of his back and stretched, oblivious to Karyn’s concern and Kevin’s state of mind. “The project is doable, though, and that’s the important thing.” He glanced at the fire, which was fervently producing a cloud of gray smoke, then looked at Karyn. “Susan okay to mind the fire?”

She nodded. “She went off to get some more palm branches. Lisa’s in the cave, I think.”

“Seen anything on the horizon?”

“Nothing yet.”

Mark bent forward, cracking his back, then turned to Kevin. “Ready for another round?”

Kevin swallowed his frustration, then held out his hand. “After you.”

35

Karyn watched the men trudge back into the vegetation, then shifted her gaze to the horizon and shielded her eyes from the glare. Nothing moved over the vast sea, not even a wisp of cloud. The gray mantle that had drifted in soon after their arrival had spread over the island like the low-slung roof of a tent.

She closed her eyes and tried to impose order on her thoughts. Why wouldn’t the sun set? Surely darkness should have fallen by now. The Marshall Islands weren’t in the northern hemisphere, so there was no reason the gloomy sky should remain backlit after so many hours.

She stood, brushing sand and debris from her slacks, and winced when a splinter bit into the soft skin of her palm. She lifted her hand and ran a finger over her lifeline, catching her breath when her fingertip nudged the almost-invisible sliver. She licked the pad of her finger and dragged it over her skin, hoping to catch the splinter, but her tongue held no moisture and the pain persisted.

The splinter would have to wait. Maybe she could find a toiletries case on the beach. She’d give anything for a pair of tweezers . . .
or
a pot
.

A smile trembled over her lips when she remembered Kevin’s first attempt to find water. Now that they had a fire, they could boil water and trap the steam with fabric, couldn’t they? The wet fabrics, when wrung out, would produce drinkable water.

She couldn’t help snapping her fingers and doing a little dance as excitement rose in her chest. They had fabrics; she only needed a container. Surely someone had left a battered pot or pan or kettle amid all that junk.

She walked to the closest trash pile and began to pick through the refuse, tossing aside cracked chairs, picture frames, and moldy curtains. Litter marked the waterline of the beach—piles of clothing, bits of waterlogged paper, a lamp shade, and several pieces of broken china.

She found a plunger, a rusty wrench, a bright yellow Tupperware egg separator. A broken lamp, a crushed lightbulb, an old garden hose, and an entire mountain of old trophies and plaques. She waded through piles of old newspapers, flattened cereal boxes, empty milk bottles, and a broken pitcher from a kitchen blender. She was surprised to see that the newspapers and cereal boxes were written in English; then she remembered that the Marshall Islands were a protectorate of the United States.

She stopped before one heavily littered section of beach and picked her way through bicycle parts, a lawn mower, and an iron chaise lounge that looked skeletal without its cushions. “Where”— she scratched her head—“did they dump the kitchen equipment?”