The Island(63)

“Are you OK?” Heather asked.

“Yes!”

Heather tossed down the machete and penknife, turned, and began lowering herself down the cliff. She was about to tuck in her knees and let go when her shoulder gave and her hand slipped and she just fell.

One second of drop.

A long second.

The force of the sand shocked her, and her ankle turned as she rolled.

When she got up, she could see the figure of a man a little ways down the beach beyond the mangrove trees.

“Get down,” Heather whispered to Owen as she gathered the knife and machete.

“What’s he doing?” Owen asked.

Heather shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Where’s Olivia?”

Heather looked at Owen.

“He must have seen her! He must have her!” Owen said.

“We’ll see. We’ll have to get close,” Heather said. “He’ll be wary. Don’t make a sound.”

“What are you going to do?”

She put her finger over her lips.

They slunk into the bush and crawled as close to the man as they dared.

He was on the walkie-talkie, breathing hard, laughing. It was Jacko. The man who had tried to rape her.

“Right into my lap, mate. If I don’t win the bloody prize, no one should win any bloody prizes. The little girl said they separated but I don’t know about that. I reckon they must be close. Send Kate in the four-wheeler and then bring the dogs…Yeah, mate, see ya, over and out.”

He sat down on an old oil drum. He had a rifle strapped across his back, and there, sprawled in front of him—that splash of golden hair—was Olivia.

“He found her,” Heather whispered, wondering if she was alive or dead.

“We have to save her!” Owen said.

Heather nodded. “You stay here,” she said.

The breeze was coming in off the water. She would be upwind of him, and Jacko was looking very relaxed. Very pleased with himself. That would help. But he was big and strong and dangerous.

Beyond the mangroves where they were hiding, there was a strip of grass about fifteen yards wide. At the edge of the grass there was a eucalyptus tree she could get behind.

From the tree to where Jacko was sitting on the drum was only twenty feet of beach.

“You should take your sneakers off. They’ve been squeaking a bit,” Owen said.

She slipped out of her shoes and slithered through the grass with the machete, watching Jacko, watching for the drone, listening for the dogs.

A red-tailed cockatoo landed in front of her and began clawing at the sandy soil with its talons.

It caught sight of her, squawked loudly, and flew off over the sea.

Jacko watched the cockatoo, utterly uninterested.

Heather continued on.

Jacko was smoking a cigarette. He was wearing raggedy denim jeans and a Bintang Beer tank top. He’d attached a piece of rope to a rifle and slung it across his back. It looked like an antique weapon, something from World War II or maybe even before.

The wind was blowing toward her, carrying his cigarette smoke and BO, and bringing no smell from her to him.

Jacko was looking at the water. She crawled toward him on her belly. The ground was thick with sand fleas. Flies were landing on her hair and arms and the back of her neck.

She had to go real slow now or else she would make a splashing noise. She looked back at Owen to make sure he was well hidden.

She couldn’t see him at all. Good.

With the machete in her left hand and pulling herself forward with the right, she sidled closer.

She got within ten feet of the eucalyptus tree.

Too late, she discovered it had a crow in it. A crow that might sound an alarm.

But it merely looked at her with an eye that had a peculiar yellow tint to it.

She breathed deeply, crawled to the tree trunk, and stopped for a moment to compose herself. Then she crept past the tree to the edge of the heath.

She was on the beach now. He was close.

She got to her feet, switched the machete from her left hand to her right, and moved slowly toward him.

Jacko stood and took a shot at a shark in the water but evidently missed. He reloaded the rifle and, after a few moments, slung the rifle over his back, sat down on the oil drum, and lit a cigarette.

She was being careful but she accidentally stepped on the edge of a broken bottle. She swallowed down a yell, sat, removed a piece of glass from her heel, stood, and advanced again.

She remembered again that it was Valentine’s Day. Exactly twelve months ago Tom had come in for his first massage-therapy appointment in the clinic in West Seattle. It had been snowing. When he’d lain down on the table, he still had snowflakes in his hair.

What a difference a year made.

She’d been childless then, on the verge of unemployment, living in that damp apartment near Alki Beach. Now she was married and responsible for two children and about to kill a man she barely knew on a different beach on the far side of the world.

She took three more careful steps.





30



Her shadow threw itself in front of Jacko.

He saw it, flinched, turned. “I was bloody right!” he said.

The machete was high in the air. She swung it hard toward his neck but some animal instinct make him swerve to the right just as the heavy blade would have connected with his shoulder.