Sacrifice Island (11 page)

Jemma felt he knew the answer to that already. “No. He doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s frightening.”

Terry nodded. Then he sighed. “My wife lived there. In the early nineties.”

Jemma did the math. The island closed down in 1994 after Rebecca and three other girls killed themselves. “Did she know Rebecca St. Germaine?”

“How do you know that name?” Terry set his fresh drink down on the table. He looked scared.

“I have her journal. It’s what brought us here.”

“She left a journal?”

“Yes, I have it in my cabin.”

“I haven’t thought of Ms. St. Germaine in a long time.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Like what?”

“I only have her journal, where it seems as though she’s going mad. What was she like? Was she close to your wife?”

“My wife’s name is Virginia. Virginia Weston, back then. They weren’t especially close, but they both spent a long time on the island, so they knew each other. They were friends. Rebecca seemed pleasant enough. But she was in pain all the time, and never let anyone get close to her.”

“Her diary describes an affliction, but she never says what kind.”

“He—her husband—destroyed her left hand.” Jemma thought of the lovely script from the diary, and imagined what she would do if she lost her hand. Lucky Rebecca that he didn’t take her dominant hand. “I’m not sure how much you know about her.”

“Please tell me,” Jemma said.

“She married young. She was seventeen, her husband thirty-four. She was British—titled, after the marriage. Lady St. Germaine. But she wouldn’t hear of her title being used. He died in a hunting accident. Virginia always said she hoped Rebecca killed him. He did awful things to her, and because of it, she wouldn’t trust anyone.”

Jemma knew the feeling well. Understood it.

“He crushed her hand when she disobeyed him.”

Jemma wanted to know how he’d done it. Specifics. But she only nodded.

“None of it healed right. Left her with a mangled claw. She kept it covered, it made her extremely self-conscious. Who can blame her?”

Jemma thought about the mangled hand, never mentioned in the diary. If one carried a physical token of torture, people wouldn’t assume one was better simply because time had passed. The pain never went away. In a way, Jemma envied Rebecca’s twisted claw.

“Did she like the island?” Jemma knew the answer to this after reading the diary. But she wanted to hear what Terry had to say.

“Loved it. Said she’d finally come home. In a way, I’m glad she died there, though I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

“How did she die? I know she killed herself…” Jemma also knew she hadn’t been part of the self-immolations.

“She died from blood loss.”

“She slit her wrists?”

“Not precisely. Her throat.”

“Do you have any pictures of her?” Jemma imagined her own image, influenced by Daphne Du Marier’s novel. Long brown hair, glowing smile, a mangled hand and none of the fictional character’s confidence. But she did have her own kind of self-assurance as she went through with suicide.

Terry sucked on the end of his mustache. “I do. Wait here and I’ll get them.”

Jemma settled into her wooden chair. When Terry came back, he scared off the basking lizard. It skittered soundlessly over the edge of the balcony.

He handed her a stack of three-and-a-half-by-five photographs, the corners curled from the humidity.

The first picture featured a classic beauty—yes, just as Jemma imagined! The fortysomething woman in the picture was still beautiful. Thick auburn hair, lovely tanned skin. Jemma studied her. The smile shone too radiantly. And this woman clasped her hands in front of her. She flirted with the photographer.

This wasn’t her.

Terry seemed to read her thoughts, and pointed to the background. Caught by accident, she saw a short blonde woman, with glasses and thinning hair. She wore all black, shapeless garments, and black cloth covered her left hand. Not beautiful at all.

“She looks so sad. How long did she live on the island?”

Terry took a moment to answer. “Three years.”

“This is Virginia, then?”

Terry nodded. In all the pictures, Rebecca appeared as an afterthought, Virginia the main subject.

“May I ask what happened to Virginia?”

Terry picked up one of the photos. Studied his late wife. He set his jaw. “In 2007 she was diagnosed with cancer. It started in her ovaries—we were never able to have children—and by the time they caught it, it had spread. In 2008 she was gone.” Terry collected his photographs. “Thank you for listening. I have to get some work done.” He cleared his throat. “I think—I think you’d better leave. Go back to New York.”

“What? I thought you wanted us to write the book?”

“I changed my mind. Go now, while you still have the option.”

And Terry shuffled away.

Jemma smiled. The headmaster at the Connecticut school warned them off days before they learned he’d sexually assaulted five girls in his care. It meant they were close.

14

Terry always seemed to forget Mr. Lucky’s massive size until he stood next to him. Terry found him in the late afternoon, hauling the day’s catch of fish off the
Baby Roxanne
. Not enough to sell, but enough to feed his family.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to let you know I talked with the woman. With Ms. Labasan.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about any of them. You understand?”

“But she’s not all bad—”

“She is exploring the island. She is going to find your wife. She’s going to write a book about her. And everyone will know about the
Aswang
.”

“Maybe…” Terry let his voice fade away. Maybe what? Maybe Jemma wouldn’t find the secret they harbored on the island? Maybe she wouldn’t write the book after all? Not bloody likely.

“And every time they go out there? She smells it. She gets hungry. And if I don’t keep her fed, she comes here, to the town. And you know what she likes to eat.”

Terry nodded, but Mr. Lucky went on.

“Sabu’s wife is pregnant. I won’t risk it. I have to find something to feed her tonight.”

“I’ll send them away,” Terry said.

Mr. Lucky shook his head.

“Then they go to White Sands resort next door. Or rent a room in El Nido.”

“We won’t take them to the island. No one on the island will rent them a boat.”

Mr. Lucky nodded. “Maybe. Maybe if we don’t take them, and we tell the people in town not to rent them any of the boats.”

“We’ll try it.”

“If they go to the island again, I will kill them.” Mr. Lucky paused to light up a cigarette. The last fish in the bucket stopped flopping and splashing. “Karen told me they found where she sleeps.”

“God.”

“I mean it. I will kill them. I should bring them to her tonight, and then we be done with it. Let it go back to the simple ways. My father talks about what things were like as a boy, back before the tourists ever came. The
Aswang
ate well when the war was on.”

“See to it she eats well tonight. Tomorrow I want to talk to her.”

“No.” Mr. Lucky picked up the fish and headed inland.

“I’ll take my own damn boat if you won’t take me.”

“You go tomorrow then I have to go back and feed her again.”

“I’ll bring her a dog.”

Mr. Lucky’s laugh rumbled. “She don’t like dogs. You know that.”

Goddammit. Mr. Lucky was right about everything. He didn’t want to send them to their deaths. By a set of irrational double standards, the deaths of two people he’d met bothered him more than Mr. Lucky collecting drunk tourists and taking them to the island.

“Will you find someone at the bar tonight?”

Mr. Lucky stopped and shook his head. “Paulo’s grandmother is very sick. We’d agreed she would be the next tribute, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“Why not take—”

“Leave me to it. This is my job I must do. Karen will watch the man.”

“Alex. His name is Alex.”

“Mr. Brenton. I do not give a damn what their names are. To me? They are only food for our monster.”

“She isn’t a monster,” Terry said weakly.

“You can lie to yourself all you want.”

Mr. Lucky left Terry alone on the beach. He started to wish he’d never come here, but reminded himself he met Virginia on this island. A silver lining to everything. He loved her. They’d had so many great years together. Nothing could change that, no matter what she’d become.

He’d apologize sincerely and tell them he could not find a boatman to take them to the island tomorrow. Mr. Lucky would put the word out tonight; Terry would telephone Karen and make sure she knew. No more trips to the island.

They’d find a way, though. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and plodded back to his resort on sand as white and fine as flour.

15

“Why didn’t you go with her?” Jemma asked. Karen had called, asking them both out to dinner. Alex declined.

“I felt bad about yesterday. I wanted to hang out with you.”

“I’m not going to be hanging out. I want to examine these pictures and do some writing.”

Alex sighed. “You could hang out.”

“I’m not here to enjoy the beach.”

Alex decided to push forward. He needed her to let him know he meant something to her.

“Can I check out the pictures with you?”

“Fine,” Jemma said.

The water sparkled in the sun, and everything smelled crisp and clean. Jemma turned and took the camera to her cabin.

Alex offered to open the windows since they didn’t have power in the stifling room, but Jemma declined. He suggested they go up to the restaurant, which had a nice cross breeze.

“It’s not dark enough for the pictures.”

They both sat on the bed, with plenty of space between them. Jemma set the camera down and pulled the memory card out. Alex gave her the three from the recorders as well.

Alex picked up the camera and water ran out of it. Fucking hell, what was he doing here, other than throwing the University of Oregon’s money away? If he didn’t need to replace the lenses, he could maybe replace the body of the camera for seven hundred bucks. While Jemma loaded the pictures on her laptop, he carefully took the whole thing apart and set the pieces out to dry. At least it wasn’t saltwater.

She turned the screen so they both could see. A lot of green and a lot of gray crowded the images. She paused on each image, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Orbs were usually dust—though pouring rain would cut down on the dust particles. She didn’t use a flash, because the light reflecting off raindrops would create false orbs. It wasn’t cold enough and no one was smoking, so any ectoplasm pictures would most likely be real. No funnel-shaped vortices, no dark shadows. That Jemma potentially killed the expensive camera almost made him want to cry. The whole trip made him want to cry. He scrutinized the faux-thatched ceiling (real thatch work and air conditioning don’t go together) and heard Jemma suck in her breath.

“Right there,” she said. It took Alex a half second to register and shake off his melancholy.

Jemma jabbed a gloved finger at the screen.

“Look!”

Something moved through the rainy jungle, captured in white.
That’s not a ghost.
“Is that whoever’s living in the basement?”