New Year Island (8 page)

At her side, Mason chuckled. “Don’t know how you do it, but it looks like you just made another friend.”

Camilla felt her face split into a big, happy grin. “Come on, banker man,” she said. “It’ll be five on five, so let’s go find the last member of our team.” She glanced again at the climber-chick and her buff buddy in the Hawaiian shirt. But she got the same trouble vibe from them that Mason had, so she moved on.

“What if, for teams, they make it men versus women?” Mason said.

“Then you’ve pretty much lost already, banker man. Because getting a team to work their best together is what I do.” She poked him in the chest. “You can get back to selling those subprime mortgages.”

“Not funny.”

At the far end of the salon, the floor dropped a few steps to lounge seating—all cream-leather couches and chrome. Two women were sitting near a fireplace.
A fireplace!
—Camilla had to remind herself they were on a ship at sea. The older of the two women leaned forward, talking with her hands—a lot of energy there. She was in her late thirties, her stylish dark-blond hair frosted just so with bright salon highlights, wearing jeans and a sweater—a nice cashmere. And expensive-looking running shoes. Suburban soccer mom, Camilla was willing to bet.

The younger woman was really petite, shorter than Camilla, Asian. Soccer Mom had her cornered, it seemed. She was dressed like a teenager, in a gray “SF Academy of Art” hoodie, skinny jeans, and black Converse high-top sneakers. The only thing missing was a backpack slung over one shoulder. She probably cut her own hair, too, from the looks of it. Art student? She looked as though she really wanted to be somewhere else, but Soccer Mom had her trapped.

Soccer Mom was a possibility, Camilla thought. She looked capable. She might be too pushy, though—might not get along with the rest of the team.

A long travertine countertop divided the lounge seating from the upper dining area. It was loaded with platters and appetizer trays—fancy finger food. The last pair of contestants were two men, working their way along the countertop from opposite ends. At one end, a rough-looking blond guy with a sour expression on his face was poking among the platters with his finger. His longish hair was straggly, like straw, and he wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt, knee-ripped jeans, and scuffed boots. Camilla could see a small triangle of beard under his lower lip. His eyes met hers across the room, and he smiled at her.

Snake eyes,
she thought, smiling back. There was something there she didn’t like.

Mason snickered. “He’s looking for the buffalo wings.” Apparently, the guy wasn’t his type, either.

The other guy, loading his plate from the appetizer trays at the far end of the counter, was older. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick neck, his silver hair cut short on a squarish head. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, in good shape for his age. He was dressed like he was going on a camping trip, in a sleeveless pocketed safari vest, khaki dungarees, and high-end hiking boots. His outdoorsy clothes looked brand-new: straight out of the Eddie Bauer or Timberland catalog. Camilla smiled to herself, liking the man already. She got a sense of solidity, dependability, from him—he’d be a steadying influence when things got heated. There would be no ego-driven need to assert his authority or get drawn into the usual alpha-male pissing contests. He reminded Camilla of Reuben, her mentor from work. She was drawn to his calm serenity, but there was also a hint of sadness or hidden pain about him. She wondered what his story was. But here was their fifth team member, she decided.

“Physician,” Mason said. “He’s a doctor.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you get that?”

“In the bathroom.” Mason pantomimed scrubbing his wrists. “I saw how he washed his hands.” He inclined his head toward the other man at the buffet, the snake-eyed blond one. “I can’t tell if that guy’s a doctor, though—he didn’t wash.”

“Oh god, too much information.”

“Always good to have a doctor on your team,” Mason said, grinning. “You never know when you might need one.”

B
rent stepped back from the counter to give the blond man access to the platters. He poked at this and that in apparent dissatisfaction, and Brent noted the scars on his hands and knuckles. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Brent, and lean and wiry. Active lifestyle but poor nutrition, Brent figured. Not a smoker, though—surprising for a guy like that. For the next ten years he’d probably be fine, but after that it would all be bad news. The scars on the man’s hands were the result of poor suturing by indifferent doctors. Sloppy workmanship. Brent knew where he’d seen that particular kind of medicine practiced.

With his back still to Brent, the blond fellow spoke. “What’s the matter, old man? You never seen somebody who works for a living?”

Brent smiled. “Brent Wilson. Pleased to meet you.”

The man turned and met Brent’s eyes steadily. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then he wiped a hand back and forth on his pants leg, the way a mechanic might wipe grease off on his coveralls, and held it out. Brent shook it.

“Travis Hargrave,” the man said. “Why are you here? You get a letter?”

“Looks like everyone here did,” Brent said.

“What’s this all about?”

“Fifteen minutes of fame. Our hosts are late, though, so you might get five to ten instead.”

Travis’s eyes narrowed. “Funny man.” His posture had gone stiff. “I seen some of these shows. No offense intended, but you don’t seem the type.”

Brent laughed. “You may be right about that, Travis. I almost didn’t come. But I have to say, you don’t much seem the type, either.”

Travis rubbed at the little triangle of beard under his chin. “Letter said prize money.” He tilted his head, looked up at Brent. “From what I seen so far around here, old man, there doesn’t appear to be all that much in the way to stop me getting it.”

He turned his back on Brent and went back to picking his way through the appetizers.

Brent tucked his hands into his vest pockets and watched Travis move away.
Self-confidence is a good thing, my friend.
But sometimes too much of it could get you into trouble. The last eight years had been difficult for Brent. Incredibly difficult. He had lost a lot, but he had learned a lot about himself too. He now knew what it meant to be a survivor.

C
amilla had learned Soccer Mom’s name: Veronica Ross. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties. But she looked a little hard, too.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “They’re going to play a
video
for us? That’s it? I went to a lot of trouble to be here. I could be getting work done instead.”

On a Friday night?
Camilla wondered, but she asked, “What kind of work do you do, Veronica?”

The large video monitor on the wall behind the head of the table looked different now. It had been there all along—part of the high-tech decor, displaying colorful abstract-expressionist art. But now the art had faded away. The blank screen seemed to be watching them like a big, dark eye.

Cups rattled on saucers nearby. Dessert forks scraped against fine china. All the contestants had gathered around the long table, except for Jordan and the motorcycle rider, whose name was Juan Álvarez. A dive captain. Camilla was eager for them to join—she wanted to meet the two key members of her dream team. But they were still on the other side of the salon, deep in conversation. In the meantime, Camilla and Mason were getting to know the other contestants. Stewards dressed in white had rolled a dessert cart in and served coffee at the long table covered in elegant white linen. A growing sense of impatience and anticipation hung in the air. The ship had left port almost two hours ago, and so far, there was no sign of their hosts.

Veronica’s jaw tightened in annoyance. “I’m the director for Safe Harbor, a women’s shelter, here in the city.”

Camilla was surprised—seeing the designer-label clothes, salon highlights, and careful makeup, she had trouble picturing Veronica in that role. She looked down at Veronica’s hands. Her French manicure was perfect.

“That’s commendable,” Brent said, and sipped his coffee. “Camilla, you also mentioned that your foundation does some work with orphaned children?”

She nodded. “Our invisible hosts promised some publicity, and a matching grant if I win.”

Veronica was staring at her. Those eyes were her most striking feature: a pale metallic blue that was almost silver, like the glowing eyes one sometimes saw on Siberian huskies, or wolves. Camilla had never seen eyes that intense before, and now they were fixed on her, unblinking. It made her uncomfortable.
Jeez, lady, relax—this isn’t a competition between our charities.
But then again, she realized, that was exactly what this was.

“So what does your husband do?” Mason asked Veronica.

“I’m not married. But let me tell you something.” She set her coffee cup down with a clatter for emphasis. “This is not how it’s supposed to work. Not at all.”

“It’s a new studio,” Camilla said. “Maybe they’re trying something new.”

“Right,” Veronica said, shutting her down. “I asked around, and there are these websites where you apply for the shows you want to try out for, with descriptions of what they’re about. You’re supposed to send in a short video of yourself, where you talk about why you’d be perfect for this show or that show, and then they pick the contestants from those. Natalie was saying she watched…” She looked around, frowning, and snapped her fingers twice. “Where
is
Natalie?”

Natalie must be the art student. Camilla sort of remembered the girl coming to the table, but now she didn’t see her. She scanned the salon, but Natalie seemed to have disappeared somehow.

Veronica looked puzzled, too. She pushed her chair back, and her pale, silvery eyes swept the room for several seconds. Then she relaxed. “There she is.”

Natalie stood over by the appetizer counter. Camilla wasn’t sure how she had missed her the first time she looked. The girl did have a sort of stillness to her—a tendency to disappear into the background, avoiding notice. She now made her way back, holding a Diet Coke. Camilla realized that she had never heard her speak. What an odd choice for a reality-show contestant.

“Natalie, you watch a lot of these shows,” Veronica said.

Natalie dropped into her seat and hunched forward, holding the soft drink can between her hands. The sleeves of her gray hoodie covered her palms so that only her fingers showed. She looked down at the can and rolled it back and forth, not answering at first. Being the center of attention seemed to make her uncomfortable. Camilla watched her with curiosity. Her bangs were long, covering her forehead and eyebrows. She was probably twenty but looked younger, with a cute but oddly expressionless face. Finally she spoke.

“Older ones mostly, I guess.
Survivor, Amazing Race, Apprentice, Big Brother, The Bachelor… Hell’s Kitchen.
The newer ones aren’t as good.”

“Right,” Veronica said. “Did they ever do anything like this?”

Natalie shook her head. “No. People applied to them first, wanting to be contestants.”

Veronica looked at the video monitor again. “Well, for this one, it looks like they just pulled whoever off the street. Incredible waste of time.”

That’s not quite what they did with us
, Camilla wanted to disagree. But then again, how
had
they chosen the ten people now in the room? She looked around, trying to find something that connected them all: Mason, a banker; Lauren, who, it turned out, was a world-class rock climber; JT, an ex-Marine who owned a gym now; Travis, a truck mechanic; Brent, a doctor; Veronica, the director of a women’s shelter; Natalie, an art student; Juan, a dive-boat captain; Jordan, a… What was it she did for a living? Fashion model, maybe? And Camilla herself, an associate producer of animated films.

Her own not-so-secret skill was getting groups of talented artists to set aside their individual egos and work together to make magic. She was good at it. Her teams achieved the kind of success that had won dozens of industry awards for their films. But how did her “specific skills and other qualifications” fit in with the others?

On the surface, the ten contestants had almost nothing in common. But Camilla was picking up something about them all. A similarity—something she found unusual for any group of ten strangers, particularly in a competitive situation. There was no loud, ego-driven grandstanding going on, no insecure posturing and jockeying for position. No idle nervous chatter, despite the strangeness of their circumstances. Instead, throughout the room she could see a general sense of confidence, a calm air of readiness. A quiet alertness, quick glances that missed very little. Familiar behaviors. She felt an odd ripple of anxiety—almost fear.

What exactly was going on here?

J
uan watched the eight contestants who were gathered around the table. He was leaning with his back against the bar, elbows on the bar top, ankles crossed. At his side, Jordan had both hands on his shoulder now. She rested her chin on the backs of her hands, talking into his ear. Her blond locks trailed onto his forearm. It felt nice. He listened to what she was saying, nodded again. He was thinking hard.

Juan was not here for the same reason as the others. He had come for a very specific purpose. He had some questions that needed answering, and he would do whatever he had to, be as ruthless as necessary, to get to those answers.

He raised an eyebrow, looked at Jordan. She lowered her eyelids a little, still smiling, and he came to a decision. He was here for answers, but there was no reason he couldn’t also have a little fun along the way. He tilted his head toward Jordan and hesitated a moment. She might even be offended by what he had in mind.

Would she or wouldn’t she?

There was only one way to find out.

C
amilla looked up as angry voices erupted suddenly from across the room. Problems already?