New Year Island (81 page)

• • •

The convulsions lessened, then stopped. Brent opened his eyes. He couldn’t see anything. His brain felt fuzzy, his thoughts muddled.

Modafinil.

He slid his fingers along the ground, locating foil pill packs. In the dark, there was no telling what they were, but with his built-up tolerance, that wouldn’t be an issue.
Some
of them were modafinil. Tearing each pack he found open with his teeth, he dumped the pills into his mouth and chewed them, until his fingers could locate no more.

The modafinil cleared his head quickly. Brent chuckled to himself. Now that he could think again, there was no reason to remain blind. He slid two fingers into another chest pocket and pulled out a waterproof penlight. Turning it on, he waved it around, craning his neck to see his surroundings.

His situation was worse than he had thought. Broken concrete and smashed pipes and boilers trapped him on all sides. Wedged upside down between two massive blocks of machinery, still chained to the valve wheel, he used his free hand to play the penlight beam over his own body.

Brent realized that being trapped was the least of his problems. Holding the penlight in his teeth, he tilted his chin to shine it on his injuries while probing with the fingers of his free hand.

Polytrauma.

He began a triage assessment.

His left forearm disappeared into the quarter-inch crack separating the machinery and the edge of the wheel.

Acute crush injury to upper limb. Comminuted radial-ulnar fractures. Unsalvageable.

Tucking his chin into his chest and aiming the penlight with his teeth, he could see his wet-suited thigh through the shadowy gap between the machinery and the wheel. Sharp bone glowed white from a split in the neoprene.

Compound distal fracture of femur.

He turned his neck to look on his other side. The machinery pressed tightly into his chest and abdomen there. Soft, lumpy shapes gleamed wetly in the gap alongside his torso.

Evisceration secondary to peritoneal cavity rupture. Probable omental rupture, also.

Brent took the penlight out of his mouth and flicked it off. Further assessment was unnecessary to make a diagnosis. In darkness again, he thought about his wife Mary.

He tried to picture her face, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember what she looked like.

She would never approve of what he had done here, but he hoped she would at least understand why he had done it. He wished he could speak to her one last time.

It isn’t right that survivors are lionized and turned into celebrities, while the ones they trample under their feet—good, innocent,
normal
people like our son—are forgotten. Where’s the justice in that, Mary? And
her
—why couldn’t you keep him away from her? Twenty years of tracking survivors, and she was the worst I ever saw. She destroyed our boy, and she didn’t even care.

He thought about his son. Memories flooded the darkness: Jonathan as a toddler, laughing while Brent pulled him in a wagon; Jonathan at nine or ten, working on a model airplane they were building together; a teenage Jonathan, swinging at the baseballs Brent pitched him. His son’s face was always turned away from him.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the back of Jonathan’s head, the line of his jaw, his forehead, but nothing more. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall his son’s face, but all he could summon was a frustrating oval blankness.

Thanks to the modafinil, Brent’s thinking was all too clear now. Mercilessly clear. He longed for the earlier fuzziness. Had he really done this for his son? Or for himself? Out of bitterness, spite, and misplaced pride?

He knew that his death would be a long, drawn-out one. Even though he couldn’t feel pain, he didn’t like that idea at all. Too much time for recrimination. Too much time to think.

He turned on the penlight again and stuck it in his mouth.

Craning his neck, he pointed his chin at the ground. He stretched out his free arm, again reaching for the scattered syringes, but looking for different ones this time. Thicker ones.

He gathered six of the larger syringes together in a tight bundle, gripping them in his fist. He held his arm as far from his body as he could, with the needles pointed toward the center of his chest. Then he stabbed his fist inward, driving all six needles through the wet suit, penetrating his sternum. With his palm, he pressed the plungers, sending the contents of all six syringes into his heart.

Opening his mouth, Brent let the penlight fall from his teeth. He let his body sag and closed his eyes, waiting for what he had injected to take effect.

T
he light danced and sparkled like a firefly, gradually intruding on her awareness. Her eyes stared sightlessly, but a tiny part of her watched it with wonder. The waves of gentle white light washed across her tear- and soot-stained cheeks, bathing them with rippling, pulsating patterns.

She couldn’t remember where she was—only that it was a place of unhappiness and pain. She couldn’t remember
who
she was, either, but that didn’t matter anymore. She looked at the shimmering radiance, and the knots inside her loosened. The light danced just out of reach, beckoning.

It was so beautiful.

The small part of her mind that was aware watched it with delight. She knew the light was out of place down here. It didn’t belong, and it couldn’t stay long.

She unwrapped one arm from her body and held out her hand, stretching her fingers toward the light.

It floated back, staying just out of reach.

She had to follow the light somewhere else. It had come for her. Come to take her away.

It was time at last.

Uncurling her body, she crawled toward the light. It receded, guiding her forward, drawing her into a narrow tunnel that led up. At the end of the tunnel, radiance pulsated, sparkling white.

Camilla crawled up the tunnel, drawn toward the light. All her pain and confusion fell away, dropping from her like cut coils of rope. She left them behind. She shed her sorrow and her terror like a butterfly pulling free of its constricting cocoon.

Calm contentment washed over her. She smiled with joy.

She drew nearer, and the white light expanded to aching brightness, filling her view. A gentle, welcoming breeze caressed her face.

She was at peace.

She remembered now. The light had been there for her twenty-three years ago. It sang to her when she was a frightened child. It had always been there for her.

It was a part of her.

She closed her eyes against the blinding brightness and pushed forward.

Camilla went into the light.

E
yes still closed, Camilla raised her face to the warm sun. The coastal wind lifted her hair and made it dance around her cheeks. On her hands and knees, she took a deep breath of cool ocean-scented air.

She smiled to herself in pure contentment, wrapped in the sheer joy of being alive. Crossing her legs under her, she sat back on her haunches. Leaning back on her hands, she opened her eyes wide and looked around her, taking it all in.

Birds swooped through the blue sky overhead. Seals swarmed on the rocky slopes in front of her and the beach down below. A cacophonous symphony of animal noises greeted her ears: the sounds of life. She felt a deep connection to the vitality all around her, filling her heart and running through her veins, bathing her in warmth. She was a part of this, and she always would be. She didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Kneeling on the island’s highest point, next to the wreckage of the lighthouse tower, she looked back at the circular opening behind her. The metal fog whistle lay close by, fallen on its side. She stared in wide-eyed wonder at the tunnel’s narrow mouth. She had crawled through the steam pipe that they had cleaned and refitted—all of them working together to rebuild Año Nuevo’s fog signal. Her eyes followed the pipe down the hill to the flattened wreckage of the fog signal buildings. The buildings had been leveled completely, slumping into the massive crater that now deformed the island’s surface.

Her joy turned bittersweet. Dmitry was still down there. And Brent.

She would track down their families, the families of all the dead. She would share their grief with them. But that wasn’t the only unhappy duty she had to attend to now. Looking at the empty chair that stood nearby, she shook her head sadly.

“You should turn yourself in,” she called out. “A judge might count that in your favor.”

A grinning Mason limped out from behind the wreckage of the tower.

“First Juan crawls out from under a rock, and now you do, too,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, by now. It looks like there’s something to all this ‘survivor’ nonsense after all.”

Camilla stood and walked over to Mason. She didn’t like the way his smile had changed when he said Juan’s name. Narrowing her eyes, she prodded him in the chest.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

He looked away.

“Where
is
he?”

“Well, he was in pretty bad shape already—”

“Mason!”

“So I let him get some rest.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hurt your precious hero. I left him down there, in the shade next to the blockhouse.”

She shoved past Mason and scrambled down the slope, rounding the corner of the blockhouse. A wet suit-clad body lay sprawled on the ground. Black dive fins splayed from beneath his shoulders, like broken wings.

She dropped to her knees by Juan’s side and touched his face. Mason hadn’t been joking. He looked terrible: bruised and bloody. He was breathing, though. She closed her eyes in relief.

“I think your boy toy is broken,” Mason said, leaning over her shoulder. “He doesn’t hear so well anymore.”

Then his face turned thoughtful. He pulled Brent’s phone out of his pocket and tilted it toward Camilla. “I saw him on here, you know. Juan was still down below when everything blew up. I think he managed to disarm a lot of the explosives before it did. It could have been a lot worse.”

Camilla brushed her hair behind her ear and stared down at Juan’s pallid, unconscious face.

“He did it for us, Mason.” She blinked back tears. “He was willing to sacrifice himself to save us.”

Mason stiffened at her side.

Then the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

A familiar velvety voice, edged with ragged steel, froze her in place.

“Jesus Christ, how very fucking touching,” it said. “I’m getting all watery eyed, listening to you idiots.”

Veronica stepped out of the blockhouse.

V
eronica walked with a hitch, holding her back with an odd stiffness. Blood ran from her hairline and encrusted her forehead. One of her eyes was a crimson, bloodshot orb.

“Young lady,” she said, “you’ve made some poor decisions about the company you choose to keep.”

Mason was no longer at Camilla’s side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him back away, limping.

Veronica turned toward him. “How’s the knee?” she asked sweetly.

Leaning forward, Camilla grabbed Juan’s shoulders and shook him, hard.

His eyes opened. His hand clutched at his thigh and came up with the Glock. He shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes narrowed, and he sat up fast, aiming the gun at Veronica.

“Where’s JT?” he asked her.

“Oh, he couldn’t make it,” Veronica said. “But he says hi.”

Juan looked at Camilla, and the confusion on his face sent a pang through her chest. He had no idea what Veronica had said.

He couldn’t
hear
.

She shook her head at him slowly. Sadness flickered across his face, and a weight seemed to settle over his shoulders. He held the gun on Veronica.

“Put that away, you cretin,” she said. “I’m not interested in you right now.” She pointed a chipped fingernail at Mason. “It’s
that
animal I need to talk to. About Natalie.”

Frowning, Juan rolled to his feet with feline grace, despite his injuries. His gaze followed Veronica’s finger to the retreating Mason, who grinned.

Juan turned back to face Veronica and spoke with the exaggerated diction of the deaf.

“I can’t hear you,” he said, “but I think you’re confused. This was all Brent’s doing.”

She growled a throaty noise of frustration. “Morons. Why do I even bother talking to you? It’s a waste of time.” She stalked toward them with hitching steps.

Holding the gun on Veronica, Juan took Camilla’s arm with the other hand and tried to tug her away. She gently pulled free and stood her ground.

“Mason didn’t take Natalie,” she said to Veronica. Then she hesitated. “Well, okay, the first time it was him. And he
did
kill Heather…”

“Thanks a lot, Camilla.” Mason said.

“…but the second time, it was
Brent
that took Natalie. Not Mason…” Her voice trailed off, because Veronica was staring at her with an incredulous expression.

Camilla swallowed.

“What the fuck is
wrong
with you people?” Veronica asked. “I swear to God, you’re
all
fucking crazy.”

Juan gripped Camilla’s arm again, and she turned to see wide-eyed surprise on his face. His gaze swung between her and Mason, and she realized he had caught some of the conversation. Juan gave her arm a squeeze and tilted his head toward her, questioning.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

He looked at Mason, then back at her again, and shrugged. Then his gun hand moved, panning back and forth between Mason and Veronica.

“Get out of my way,” Veronica said, shoving past them.

“Don’t kill him,” Camilla called after her. “I want him to turn himself in.”

Mason laughed. “Not very likely. Sorry, Camilla.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill him.” Veronica stalked after Mason with hitching strides. “No, I’ll just finish the job on your knee, Mason. I’ll destroy your other knee, too. I’ll break your elbows, hyperextend them backward. And then I’ll break your back.”