The Island(15)

She let him try it for a minute.

“It’s not working,” he said.

“She’s dead, Tom.”

“I was driving too fast. That guy spooked me. And I was looking out the window and driving too fast. We have to call the police. An ambulance,” he said.

“It’s too late for all that now. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

Tom stood and tried to get a signal on his phone.

Heather walked to the Porsche, opened the hatchback, and rummaged for the beach blanket. She grabbed it and checked on the kids, who were still fumbling with the airbags and their seat belts. She walked back to Tom and draped the blanket over the woman.

Heather looked up and down the road again. Still empty.

She considered the situation.

What she was thinking now was the wrong thing to do.

Absolutely the wrong thing to do.

Legally.

Morally.

It was a crime called a hit-and-run.

Tom had killed the woman. And now she was going to compound the horror of this act. It felt plain wrong. But all her instincts told her that this was the only option.

She tried to think what her mom would tell her to do.

Her mom, she decided, would tell her to wait for the authorities.

Her dad would tell her to get the hell out of there.

She returned to the Porsche and opened the rear door. She leaned in and unbuckled Olivia’s seat belt.

“Are you OK, honey?” she asked.

Olivia nodded and then shook her head. “My arm hurts.”

“Let me see.”

The seat belt had scraped her arm. It wasn’t broken. “I’ll get a Band-Aid on that in a minute. Let me help you out. Take your water bottle.”

She took Olivia’s hand and tugged her out of the car.

“Wait by the front of the car for a bit while I get your brother.”

“What happened?”

“There’s been an accident. I want you to wait by the front of the car. I know it’s hot. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, still dazed.

Getting Owen out was trickier. He was practically catatonic. He had retreated behind his “wall,” which was a thing he’d been doing since his mother’s death that Heather had never really got a grip on.

“Olivia, you need to help me with Owen.”

“Owen! It’s me! Come on,” Olivia said and they bundled him out together.

Heather walked back to Tom. “I’ve got the kids out of the car. You three can push, and I’ll drive us out of the ditch,” she said.

“At that farm place, they might have a radio. We could call an air ambulance,” Tom suggested.

“No, Tom. The impact killed her, and you…we ran her over. Her lungs and internal organs are crushed. I know you know that. There’s nothing anyone can do now.”

Tom still looked dazed, but he was nodding.

This was the moment.

Heather had to make the decision now. It was her call and she knew Tom would go along with it.

But what was the right course of action?

Her moral compass and survival instincts were swinging in wildly opposite directions.

“Look, honey, you met those people,” she began. “It’s all one family on this island. They control the ferry, which is our only way off. We have no phone service. We can’t get help. We’re entirely dependent on them.”

“So?”

“You heard what Jacko said about the police. He told me they chased someone off the island with shotguns. It sounds like they’re a law unto themselves here.”

“What—what are you suggesting?” Tom asked.

Heather looked at him. Tom was older, yes; he had read more, yes; but he moved in very small circles. He came from money, and his experience of human nature was surprisingly limited. One night sleeping rough in the Tacoma bus station would have taught him more than a thousand books.

“We hide her in the long grass with her bike. We get the car out of the ditch and we drive down to the ferry and get off this island as soon as possible. When we’re safely back on the mainland, we can tell the cops that we may have hit something when we were driving. We thought it was an animal but we’re not sure.”

“You want us—me—to leave the scene of an accident? An accident we caused?”

She looked into his eyes. The pupils were big. His hands were shaking. He was somewhere else again.

“What’s h-happened?” Olivia asked. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d come to see what was going on. Owen was ten feet behind her. “Is that blood?”

Heather turned. “Go back to the front of the car, please, Olivia. Take your brother.”

“Is someone dead?” Olivia said, her hand up against her mouth. She was pale, trembling, scared.

“Damn right someone’s dead,” Tom muttered.

Heather winced, took Olivia by the hand, grabbed Owen by the arm, and escorted them to the front of the Porsche.

“There’s been an accident. You two will have to be brave, OK?” she said softly.

She noticed that there was blood and a dent on the Porsche’s snorkel. They’d have to get that clean before they returned it to the car dealership. The big stainless-steel bumper at the front of the car was dented too; not badly, but it would still need to be explained.