Sadie Walker Is Stranded (18 page)

For one wavering moment I was absolutely certain he was about to kiss me.

Then I felt a cold nip at my wrist and heard the sound of metal clinking against metal. My eyes flew to the left-hand corner of the cot. Whelan had secured me to the frame with a pair of purple fuzzy handcuffs.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I shouted, testing the strength of the cuffs. They didn’t budge, Conan the Barbarian in a tutu.
Damn
. They bit too. Whelan grinned, pulling back. It was all a clever trick.

“You had better let me out of here,” I said, dropping my voice to a dangerous register. Whelan stood and shrugged, folding his arms up like a genie.

“Nope.”

“Let me out!” I tested the cuffs again. Useless.

“Sorry.”

“You let me go,” I seethed. “You let me out or I will seriously get Madmartigan on your ass.”

His wide eyebrows jumped. “Big words…” He made a pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger. “… Tiny woman.”

You know that expression, seeing red? Well I was doing it. Or maybe I was just seeing blood, his blood, the blood I was going to drench myself in after I cut him to pieces. I felt a surge like a tidal wave move through my veins, culminating in my fists.

“You’ll thank me,” he said, interpreting my enraged silence. “Might not seem like it now, but you will. There’s no moon tonight. You’d never make it back. You’d be out to sea and up shit creek faster than you can say ‘a three-hour tour.’”

“You do that a lot,” I muttered, bitter.

“Do what?”

“‘Faster than’ whatever. Faster than you can say ‘appetizer.’ Faster than you can say ‘a three-hour tour.’”

Whelan smiled crookedly. “So you actually do listen then? Coulda fooled me.”

He returned to the cot, bringing his concerned expression with him. I had a mind to tell him just exactly where he could stuff that phony empathy. Whelan sat down next to me and I laughed, shaking my head hard from side to side.

“If you try to sleep in this bed I will chew your testicles off and that is a promise.”

Whelan nodded, sadly, and stood. His dark head nearly brushed the ceiling. “You saved my life and I’m
trying
to pay you back,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to keep you safe. It’s called reciprocity, a concept that shouldn’t be altogether alien to you.”

“One man’s reciprocity is another man’s kidnapping—which is a felony, by the way. You’re a cop, right? You would know.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “We’ll take the canoe and I’ll bring you back to your friends.”

This time, he took the lantern with him.

TEN

I dreamed about a drive-in movie theater. Sitting in a car I didn’t recognize, I watched my life on the screen. My parents and Kat came and went, my childhood apartment scrolled by. I saw friends from high school and the art studio that had become my home away from home during college. Then there was seeing my illustrations in print for the first time and early adulthood with halfhearted bar hopping, drawing away from college friends I had never expected to lose and Jason, my editor, talking to me late at night on the phone. He would do that often, just to keep me company.

Everything came to a screeching halt just before The Outbreak. Apparently that was when my life stopped.

Now I had Shane and I was apparently doomed to fail him at least once a day.

In the morning I woke up alone. Overnight, pain in my feet had subsided. I’d be able to walk carefully for short distances. Feeling drained and groggy, I rubbed my face with both hands. Both hands. The handcuff swung, limp and open, one half still attached to the cot’s frame. Sometime in the night my hand had been released.

I opened the cabin door and walked out into pearly morning sunlight. I’d head out on my own if Whelan reneged and tried to handcuff me again.

In this part of the world the clouds have a way of stretching into gauzy sheets, just thick enough to dampen the light and turn the sky silver. The camp bustled with activity, fires crackling cheerfully, makeshift spits balancing black pots over the flames. I spotted Nate down by the water, his dark head bent over a net contraption. A man I didn’t recognize sat with him. He had spiky hair, olive skin and a thin build. Banana and a woman I hadn’t met yet stood outside the cabin next to mine—
Whelan’s
—talking. Something smelled delicious.

Banana hurried over, her friend coming with her. A polka-dotted handkerchief held Banana’s hair off her forehead. She wore a too-big navy sweatshirt and gray leggings and looked like a pin-up girl just before makeup and wardrobe. I saw the tin camping kettle in her hand and felt the fog of waking up abate at once.

“Coffee?” Banana offered brightly.

At the sight and smell of instant coffee I just about broke down into tears of ecstasy. Even in the Citadel, coffee was notoriously hard to get. Once the pre-Outbreak supply ran out, finding a packet of even the cheapest instant stuff was like finding the Holy Grail, and it went for exorbitant prices.

“Oh, my God,” I said, momentarily forgetting that I had spent the night chained up to a cot in a stranger’s cabin.
“Coffee.”
The way Banana handed me the cup and smiled sheepishly told me she was sorry about something. It all started to make a kind of sense—the cuffs were probably hers.

“Did you free me?” I asked. For a minute, I just stuck my nose down into the coffee cup and breathed. Heaven. Pure, sweet, roasty heaven.

“A’course, hot cakes,” she said. “Whelan’s a brute,” she added, “but he’s a smart brute. What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be staying off your feet.”

“Can’t. No time. Gotta get back.”

Banana’s companion, I realized with a jolt, was glaring at me. It was a feat to cram that much disdain into one pair of eyes. Her hair was raven black and French braided down her back. Her tiny nose had the characteristic, too-pointed slope of rhinoplasty. She had the biggest, fakest tits I had ever seen outside of a porno. I hoped the surprise and shock weren’t showing on my face. I glanced nervously at Banana. What was
her
name, I wondered with a mental smirk—Melons?

“Sadie, this is Danielle,” Banana said, following my gaze. I shook Danielle’s slender hand, feeling the bite of long, sharp nails that belonged on a Bengal tiger. Banana had clearly lost the dancer name lottery. And by dancer, I was starting to think stripper. Maybe she had done something to anger the stripping gods and brought shame down upon her family. Although in a weird way the name Banana
did
suit her. Her huge smile and liquid eyes brought to mind sun-drenched beaches, cabana boys and piña coladas …

Danielle, on the other hand, reminded me of cheap, watered-down Tequila Sunrises and sweaty one-dollar bills. The Olive Garden of strippers. She wore a sunflower yellow, cutoff belly shirt and baggy sweatpants slung low on her narrow hips. I wouldn’t have been surprised if, when she turned,
JUICY
—the international word for tasteless—would be splashed across her butt.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Danielle rolled her dark eyes and shrugged. Banana, maybe as an apology for her friend’s manners, refilled my coffee cup. I was trying to piece together just what I had done to make Danielle instantly hate me when Whelan jogged up to us. He had brought the missing canoe paddles. Danielle’s cold expression melted into a simpering smile.

My, my, my. That’s a Bingo.

“You’re up,” Whelan observed brightly. He thoroughly checked me over from head to toe, despite the fact that my injuries were confined to one quite specific area. “How are you feeling? Did you, um, manage to get any sleep?”

That frigid expression of Danielle’s returned and she puckered up her lips as if she’d just been punched in the face with a lemon.

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. He had, after all, handcuffed me to a cot for the night. I glanced at Danielle and decided to test my theory. “You know,” I said, smirking, “next time you could at least buy me dinner before handcuffing me to the bed. It’s only polite.”

I had crossed a line. At once, Danielle took a giant and awkward step toward Whelan and looped her arm through his. She may as well have dug a flag into the top of his head with her name on it. Banana coughed and shot me a look.

“Joke,” I said, sipping my coffee. “It was a joke.”

Whelan glanced down at Danielle and I could imagine him wearing that same wide-eyed expression if an anaconda wrapped itself around his elbow. Several conflicting emotions crossed his face until he settled on total bafflement. I finished the coffee and handed Banana the cup.

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate your hospitality.”

“Any time, sweet pea,” Banana said with a smirk. Danielle unwound herself from Whelan. Good timing—he had begun to squirm in place.

“We should get going,” Whelan announced. His voice came out a little too loud.

“You sure you have to go?” Banana asked. She held out her hand to me and I took it. With a little shake of her shoulders, she pouted, apparently sad to see me go. Danielle, by contrast, seemed positively candescent. She fluffed her hair and bounced her boobs around, for whose benefit I wasn’t sure. Whelan certainly wasn’t watching. He studied the horizon, flattening his hand over his eyes like a visor.

“Good wind today,” he said. “Not too strong.”

Banana gave me a tight, squeezing hug. “Later, dominator,” she said. “Take care of Whelan.” At that, both of Whelan’s eyebrows arched and a slow, crooked smile brightened his eyes.

“I guess I owe him one,” I added.

“No,” he said, starting down the slope toward the dock with the paddles tucked beneath his right arm. “We’re even.” He saluted Banana and Danielle and then nodded toward the water’s edge. Time to go. Danielle blew him a kiss. I saw a fleeting look of panic cross his face. I gave him a wry smile that said: Yes, I saw that and no, I don’t give a shit. Nate waved good-bye to us from his post down the beach.

“Your friends are cool,” I said. That was about all I could manage—just getting down the hill made my feet explode into pins and needles. Whelan offered his arm but I ignored it.

“Is it just the five of you?” I asked. Together, we untied the knot securing the canoe to the dock. It was a two-person canoe, durable plastic and in brand-new condition. The nose bobbed up and down in the rolling waves.

“No, seven,” he replied. “The others are probably still sleeping.”

He seemed distracted as he held onto the edge of the canoe, keeping it steady while I winced and wheezed my way onto the front bench. At some point that morning, Whelan had already loaded my shoes and bow into the boat. Apparently it was a camp full of early-risers. He waded into the shallows and carefully lifted himself over the edge and onto the backseat. A paddle nudged my shoulder and I took it, trying to recall proper canoeing technique. Dad usually did most of the heavy paddling on our trips.

With Whelan doing most of the maneuvering and paddling, we floated out away from the shore and the camp. I watched the fire pits blazing, thin trails of smoke disappearing into the gray sky. Something like regret lodged in my throat. They had it good here, even if they did also have Danielle.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. We were riding the current, the camp disappearing behind the bend and the edge of the forest. “I didn’t want you to try escaping again.”

“It’s okay,” I said, not at all meaning it. My feet had gotten wet and the salt water stung through my bandages. “We’re just straight south,” I said. Changing the topic away from last night felt like a winning idea. “I suppose we must be on the opposite end of the island.”

Whelan either couldn’t think of anything to say or he decided to plunge headlong into thoughtful silence. The only indication that he hadn’t died was the swift, rhythmic sound of his paddle cutting through the water. I regretted not eating before we left. The coffee soured in my stomach, turning to acid. Whelan didn’t comment on the fact that my half of the paddling was, decidedly, lame. I rested often, distracted by the sensation of hellfire bleeding up my ankles to my knees. Overnight the ache in my arms had intensified and now I felt like I had spent the day before power-lifting buffalos. A yoke of tension spread from shoulder to shoulder and down my spine.

The day grew hotter and we took an increasing number of breaks, letting the current carry us south. Spurts of wind were the only relief from the sun, which now sat bright and terrible directly overhead, bearing down on us and cutting directly through the chill air. At one point I heard Whelan rest his paddle on the edges of the canoe and pull off his sweater. It was around then that the silence became too much for me.

“Where’d you grow up?”

“California,” he said. He was quick on the draw, as if he’d been waiting all along for me to speak up. “Glendale and then L.A. and then … well, all over the place until Seattle.”

“How did you meet the others?” I asked. “Banana and Nate?”

“We all wanted a way out of the city,” he said. “Nate had the boat and I knew the area. I’d been up this way before to camp and sail. This is a state preserve, a wildlife park.” I pictured him gesturing to the little island we now called home. “We pooled our resources, invested in some camping equipment and left town. We timed it right, left just before the barrier came down.”

“Lucky,” I said. Very lucky. “We got out the day of. There was no destination in mind—or, well, there might have been. Our captain died on the way. None of us knew much about sailing a ship and then there was this massive storm.”

“The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed?”

I heard him chuckle behind me and then hum the rest of the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song. I quelled the urge to take my paddle and smack him upside the head.

“Sure,” I said, humoring him, “but I wouldn’t call us fearless
or
courageous. Mostly it was just dumb luck that we didn’t all end up dead.”

“And now here you are.”

“Dumb luck,” I reiterated.

“Or fate,” he replied with a sinister cackle. “Dun-dun-DUN.”