Until the Day I Die(57)

The wind carries with it a whiff of a fire. Old or new, I don’t know. But it does make me remember what Grigore told me. Erdman International owns Hidden Sands and three-quarters of Ile Saint Sigo. But there are a few people still living up here, farmers, he said, and fishermen. It sure would be great to run into one right about now. Unless, of course, they turn out to be working for Antonia.

We take turns peeing; then I take a minute, reorienting my inner compass. I notice Jess is looking at me with an odd expression.

“You’ve got blood all over your shirt,” she says, her voice edged with horror. “And on your neck. It’s her blood.” She pulls out her shirt, then splays her hands out. “Oh my God. It’s under my nails! He shot her in the heart!”

“Jess. We need to go.”

She covers her face with her hands. I think she may be crying.

I touch her shoulder. “The more we stay on the move, the better our chances of avoiding Lach.”

She wipes her eyes and gulps in air. “Okay. I’m good. Let’s go.”

We search for a path, but it turns out we don’t need one, because almost immediately the jungle opens up to reveal that I was spot-on in my speculations last night. There is indeed a jewel in the crown of the former plantation that probably used to rule every social, economic, and political aspect of this island. The big house. From our hiding place under the tree, we’d been less than a quarter of a mile away from it.

An imposing white coral stone building with a red tile roof, the centuries-old structure is studded with balconies and porticoes and awnings. A series of stone stairs zigzag up the hill and then onto the foundation walls to the grand front entrance. The place looms over the surrounding fields, a vast, honest-to-God mansion, sun bleached and windswept. It’s not pretty—it’s actually kind of ungainly and forbidding—but I think that’s kind of the point. It looks the way it does to send a message, one of uncontested privilege. Of timeless wealth and permanence. A worshipful monument to the horrors of colonial exploitation and entitlement.

Jess studies the place, arms folded. “Fuck this place.”

I nod. “Yes. Absolutely. Fuck it times a thousand. But we need a computer so I can contact my daughter and the FBI and get the hell off this island, so we’ve got to go in.”

She squints into the sun. “Do you think anyone’s home?”

“No idea. Ten to one, though, whoever is in there is connected to Antonia. So we better be invisible.” My gaze sweeps over the facade. The numerous windows opening into numerous rooms. The house is huge. I don’t know how we’re going to sneak through it undetected. Especially in broad daylight. But anything could happen between now and when the sun goes down. We can’t risk wasting any more time.

We creep around to the back of the house in search of a more unobtrusive entrance than the grand front door. Sure enough, on the far side, we find stairs leading up to a back portico. I notice a small dish affixed to a railing. Satellite internet. Perfect.

A back door lets us into a wide central hall, and pressed against the back wall, we listen for activity. We’re rewarded with the sounds of a door slam and the clacking of heels above us. Hopefully, they’ll stay upstairs.

I take in our surroundings. The house, with its rows and rows of wavy-glassed windows, is sun drenched but only minimally decorated. A few antique sofas and tables line the walls of the wide hallway. A scarred, sun-bleached wood floor. Walls papered in faded golds and blues and greens. Carved cornices, heavy moldings, columns, and medallions adorn doorways and the soaring central staircase.

Jess and I creep down the hall, poking our heads into each room. One room, the floor-to-ceiling windows hung with puddling panels of blue silk, seems to be a living room. There’s an old carved sofa, an inlaid wardrobe, a long wood table, and a few other scattered pieces of furniture. The room next to it is neatly stacked with clear plastic tubs, some empty, others filled with paper towels, toilet paper, and other sundries.

Jess pulls out a bottle of green bath gel. “Oh my God. Look at this.” She touches the smears of blood on her neck and chest. “We could be in and out in five minutes. Just get the blood off.”

“Jess, no,” I say. “No shower.”

I motion her to follow me down the hall. We find an improvised pantry, fitted with shelves stocked with every kind of canned good imaginable. We grab a couple of bananas and some jerky, and at the front door, loop around and check the other side of the hall, cramming our mouths with the food. At the end of the hall, we find a closed door. It’s unlocked.

I peek in. It’s empty. I give Jess a thumbs-up and whisper, “Keep an eye out, okay?”

She nods and I slip inside. The room’s been converted into an office. There’s a console with a printer and fax machine, as well as four modular desks. A sleek desktop computer sits on the desk near the window. It’s playing soft jazz. Beside the computer sits a framed, autographed eight-by-ten glossy headshot. It’s that actress I saw when I arrived at Hidden Sands. I read the Sharpie-scrawled inscription.

For Zara ~ love, light & limoncello!

Zara can’t be far. In fact, that’s probably her clacking around upstairs. I scoot behind the desk and wake up the computer. Instantly a series of spreadsheets fill the screen with columns labeled Hidden Sands, L’élu I, L’élu II, L’élu III.