Uncharted (32 page)
Starting a fire was easy in bright sunlight, but too many clouds blocked the sun here. Though he’d watched the sky for what felt like hours, not once had the clouds parted.
A puff of wind scattered the bits of paper beneath his palm. He cursed softly and looked up at the glowering sky. “What is wrong with this place? With this kind of wind, those clouds ought to be moving.”
“Won’t the lens work?” Susan asked, her voice quavering.
“Ought to.” He held the glass rectangle directly above the shredded paper. “It’s all a matter of angling the lens until the sun shines on the tinder. Works like a charm . . . usually.”
He could feel the heat of Susan’s veiled eyes as she stared at the lens between his fingers. “And the fire—once we get it going, you think someone will see it?”
“They have to,” he said with a conviction he didn’t quite feel. “The Marshall Islands are well traveled by planes, fishermen, and tourists, not to mention the U.S. military. Someone is bound to see our fire once we get it going.”
The women watched him for a long while, then Karyn murmured something to Susan and began to look through the stack of books she’d dumped earlier. Susan hugged her bent knees and propped her head on her arms. Through the veiling Mark could see her eyes trained on the lens,
willing
it to make fire.
He waited, his fingers holding the lens in position, until his hand grew numb. Frustrated, he closed his fist around the glass, wishing he could crush it, but Susan grasped his wrist. “You can’t give up, Mark.”
“It’s not working. The dang sun won’t shine.”
“Maybe you need to hold it just a while longer—”
“Susan, the sun’s not bright enough.”
“How do you know? I’m baking out here, so the sun
is
shining—”
“We need a ray, a direct beam. It ain’t happenin’.”
She released his arm, but from the set of her shoulders, he knew she wasn’t happy.
“Listen,” he said, wishing he had held her attention this easily when she was young and pretty, “you can hold the lens if you want, but I’m moving on. With so much junk washing up on the beach, there has to be something else we can use.”
She lifted a trembling hand. “Will you show me how?”
“You bet.” He placed the lens in her hand, then helped her position the glass over the pile of paper. “If the sun starts to shine, catch a beam and direct it onto the paper. Hold it steady until the paper begins to smolder. If it does, blow on it gently, keeping the lens in place, until you see a flame. Then yell like mad and feed the fire, okay?”
“Feed it what?”
He pointed toward a paperback in the sand. “Try that. Anything that’ll burn.”
Karyn lifted her head. “I’ll help. Nothing else to do.”
Susan nodded and leaned forward, digging her raw elbows into the sand for support.
Mark exhaled as he stood and walked toward the piece of twisted chrome Kevin had found. Metal could be useful, but the bumper was too big and bulky for any practical use. If they could break off a piece, they might be able to scrape it against a stone and produce a spark, but the only stone Mark had seen on this island wasn’t hard enough to withstand the scrape of steel. The bumper may not be any use at all—
“Hey!” Mark looked up as Kevin approached from the beach with something in his hands. “I found a battery in the dump! And wire!”
Mark propped a fist on his hip as his confidence returned. Hot-wiring a battery was a long shot, but if any life remained in that cell—and salt water hadn’t corroded the contacts—he might be able to raise a spark and ignite some paper.
Mark knelt when Kevin lowered the black battery to the sand. It was a twelve-volt, the size used to run a go-cart or maybe a kids’ car, but it should work . . . if it had any juice at all.
Kevin pulled a tangle of wire from his pocket. “I fished this out of the water, but I think it’s all right. I found the battery on the sand, high and dry.”
Mark untangled the wire and let it dangle. After biting through the salty plastic sheathing, he twisted the copper strands until they snapped. Kevin worked on exposing the copper wire at the end of one length while Mark stripped the broken end of the other.
When four ends of copper wire were exposed, Mark cleaned the terminals and attached one wire to each, then dropped a handful of shredded paper next to the battery. Karyn edged closer while Susan watched from behind her golden veil.
“Now . . . let’s hope for the best.” Scooting to the left to shelter the bits of paper from the wind, Mark brought the bare ends of the two wires together—
Nothing. No spark, no sizzle, no contact.
“Dead.” He swallowed hard and hoped the others wouldn’t see his disappointment. “No juice left at all.”
Kevin propped his hands on his belt. “Nothing?”
“Not even a buzz. Did you see anything else in the area where you found this?”
Kevin shook his head. “What else you got up your sleeve?”
Mark sat back on his haunches. “Flint and steel will make a fire, but we’ve got no flint—and the rock here is soft. The only other thing that might work is a fire saw, but that’ll take time.”
“Time we have.” Kevin sank next to Mark. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll help.”
Mark spread his hands. “We’ll need a bamboo stalk that’s two or three inches in diameter and between two and three feet long. We’ll have to split it lengthwise—”
“How are we supposed to do that?”
Mark gestured to the twisted strip of steel. “It won’t be easy, but I think we can slice it with the edge of your bumper.”
Kevin stared at the piece of chrome. “You’re sure this fire saw thing will work?”
“No. But what other choice do we have?”
“Okay.” Kevin stood and wiped his hands on his khakis. “You clean up the edge of that bumper. I’ll go look for a decent stalk of bamboo.”
Mark glanced toward the women, then halted, stunned by sheer disbelief at the expression on Karyn’s face. If he wasn’t mistaken, her eyes were glowing with admiration—something he had certainly never expected from the women of
this
group.
“What?” he asked, looking at her.
She leaned her cheek on her palm and gave him a slow smile. “I was just thinking that you might be the one who gets us out of here. If you do, I’ll love you forever, Mark Morris.”
He looked away as his face grew hot. A man shouldn’t let a woman rattle him, and a man shouldn’t depend on women for happiness. His mother certainly never gave him anything to be happy about.
Still . . . imagine Karyn Hall admiring
him
.
He stood and walked to the steel bumper, picked it up, and inhaled a long, quivering breath, mastering the emotion that shook him.
Weary of waiting for direct sunlight, Susan rose and stumbled toward the cave. Her body cried out for rest, water, and food, but none of those things were available. The skull might be creepy, but at least it offered shelter and shade.
She gimped her way across the wet sand, then clung to the rough wall of the stone formation as she stepped over the slick rocks. The tide must have come in while they worked at the fire pit; she had to wait for a surge of foamy wave wash to recede before she could enter the cave.
Once inside, she climbed the slope and breathed deeply in the stillness. Her mouth still stung from her mishap with the quicksand, but the pain was receding. If she could find fresh water, perhaps the pain would vanish altogether.
At the top of the wave-washed floor, she studied the passageway that branched from the mouth of the cave. The others had investigated it without finding water, but perhaps they hadn’t explored every cranny. She was more patient than the others, and she was smaller. Perhaps she could slip through an opening the others had missed.
Determined to do her best, she followed the curving finger of the passageway that wound through the caverns. She trailed her hand against the tunnel wall, then winced when her palm began to bleed. No wonder—the walls glistened with the same glittery sand that covered the beach.
Holding her scraped palm to her chest, she followed the tunnel, turning sideways when it narrowed, ducking when the ceiling lowered. She came to one fork and went left; at another she moved right. For an instant she worried about getting lost, but desperate thirst overrode her anxiety. Her feet, now numb to pain, trudged forward almost of their own accord, then halted when she reached an opening so low she had to lie on her back and shimmy through a gap between the sand and a shining black stone.
She slid into a chamber taller and wider than any she had yet seen. The ragged sound of her breathing vibrated in the cavernous space as she pulled her legs into the cave and twisted to survey her surroundings. She startled, feeling the
whoosh
of her blood rushing through all the veins of her body when the silence of the shadows was broken by an echoing
plop
.
Water
. She had crawled into a dimly lit cavern with a pool.
Thirst propelled her forward; dehydration drove her to her knees. Without thinking she tore the gauzy veil from her head, then dipped both hands into the shimmering liquid.
Surprise siphoned the blood from her head when she realized something was wrong. The silvery material sat on her palms in a jiggly lump, like some misbegotten and odd-colored Jell-O. This wasn’t water, but it might be edible.
She touched her tongue to the stuff and grimaced at the bitter taste. The substance was nastier than unflavored gelatin, more bitter than salt water.
She flung the goop away and wiped her sticky fingers on her skirt. What sort of cruel trick was this? From a distance the stuff shimmered like water; it even
smelled
like water . . .
Swallowing the sob that rose in her throat, she leaned closer to breathe in the ozonic scent and glimpsed the glimmer of blond hair in the reflective surface. Her gaze automatically shifted to her face, then her heart stopped.
The features that used to smile from Zeta Phi Beta postcards and once graced the cover of the “Women of FSU” calendar were barely recognizable. Something had scraped a patch of skin from her forehead, and an ugly green bruise had discolored her right jaw. Her eyes peered out from sockets like caves of bone, and her hair was a matted tangle. But most hideous by far was the slash that had split her left cheek and stolen half her nose.
She had felt the cut; she knew it was bad. But
repulsive
was too gentle a word for this ugliness.
Revulsion snaked down her spine and coiled in her belly as the image in the pool mocked her. How had the others been able to even look in her direction? The veil was almost transparent; they had to know what a horror she was . . . just as they had to know this injury might not be correctable.
She reeled from the reflected reality and hugged herself in the silence, barely noticing when the silver substance began to ripple. But when a gurgling sound arrested her attention, she looked into the pool again and saw that the reflection had changed. No longer did she see herself and the cavern ceiling, but a beautifully furnished hotel lobby.
Her mind went blank with shock. What was this? She must be hallucinating—either that or she was experiencing some kind of mental breakdown.
A chill black silence surrounded her as she leaned forward to study the scene. The lobby was thickly paved with plush red carpeting. A blond woman sat with legs crossed until a man stepped from the elevator. The woman rose and greeted him with open arms, then they headed toward the restaurant.
Susan blinked as the image grew larger and more focused. She was staring at the back of the woman’s head now, close enough to reach out and touch her blond hair. Susan recognized the woman’s handbag—a Coach—and then the woman turned.
Susan shuddered. She was watching herself with an old friend; she was reliving the weekend he came to Houston for a convention.
A dark premonition held Susan still as a waiter led the couple to a corner booth. They began the evening like friendly acquaintances, but the blond was wearing a dress designed to attract attention, and the man did not disappoint. As they shared pleasant conversation and a shrimp cocktail, Susan watched in horror as the blond’s fingers grew long and fuzzy, and her lips pulled away from her gums, revealing fangs beneath a vicious smile. She was a spider, spinning her web, enticing him to her side, sure to ensnare him before dessert. Once she had him in her grasp, she would hold him close and drain him of joy and fidelity and hope—not because she could retain those qualities, but because she could not bear for him to possess them while she did not.
An icy quiver ascended Susan’s spine as the silvery screen rippled and cleared. Why was an episode from her life playing in this pool? Insanity was the only reasonable answer. She pressed her hand to the back of her neck as fear of the unknown knotted and writhed in her stomach.
The silver rippled again; against her will, her eyes turned to watch the screen. She saw a hotel room, a simple space with one bed, a wardrobe, a desk. The luggage rack was open and empty, but a man’s briefcase sat on the dresser.
She took a wincing breath. A name tag dangled from the briefcase; she recognized the convention logo. Her nerves tightened when the door latch clicked. A stream of light sliced into the dimly lit room, followed by the darkened silhouettes of the woman and the man.
