Vacation to Die For (30 page)

“So much for fun and games,” Dominic mutters as he bangs on the recessed lock holding the key.

It locks the cell holding the little Middle Eastern girl. She sobs uncontrollably. Having watched the others escape, she wonders out loud why Allah has forsaken her.

I want to hold her to tell her that he has not.

Without thinking, I jam my hand into my vest pocket. Inside is the key ring holding the jeep’s car key.

In fact, it holds all sorts of keys—

Including the brass one we need—Julie’s original key.

I whoop as I turn the locks of the cages still holding prisoners—

—Including the missing Montrose boy who almost went too far with Mary. 
How did he end up here?

He glances back at me, but only for a second. His survival instincts keep him moving forward with the others, who are running for the exit. 

The only cage I can’t open belongs to the little girl. 

My hand is just small enough to slip into the recess, and my nails are just long enough to lift the broken tip of the key, very slowly, through the key hole—

It comes out.

I insert Julie’s key in its place and the door swings open.

The girl runs out. She is so happy that she leaps onto me in delirious gratitude. Together we topple to the floor. Her hugs are tight, and her kisses are furious. 

Realizing we’ve got only seconds to go, Dominic picks her up and runs out with her. 

I’m on his heels—

But that’s still not fast enough. It’s exactly ten-thirty. The steel doors slide shut, just as I reach them.

It’s going to be interesting to see how long I can hold my breath.

Chapter 19

Repeat after me:

“There’s no place like home…”

Whenever one goes on vacation, inevitably there comes a time when homesickness kicks in. One of the most heartfelt scenes in The Wizard of Oz is about just that: 

Dorothy wants to go home.

Ah, if only it were so easy to click your heels three times and end up in your own bed. But since you don’t own a pair of ruby slippers, here’s how to make the trip home, safely and soundly:

First, don’t hitchhike. The guy who picks you up may be a good Samaritan. On the other hand, he may be a perv. Your odds are fifty-fifty. Those aren’t good odds in any game of chance, so cough up the price of a Greyhound ticket and away you go.

Next, double your estimated time of arrival, or ETA. No one ever gets anywhere on time. Los Angeles traffic is proof of that, as is the Atlanta International Airport, or as it's known in the business world, “the seventh circle of hell.”

And finally, not everyone will welcome you home with open arms—and that’s okay. Remember, you went away for a reason. Now that you’re rested, you’ve probably come back with a plan. 

Stick with it. Or find a new home. And a good pair of ruby slippers.

I can breathe.

But I can’t see.

And I can’t move.

Am I dead?

No. From what I can tell, I am blindfolded. My arms are shackled over my head, while the bindings on my legs leave them spread apart. 

My legs and arms ache. How long have I been hanging here?

As if reading my mind, Boarke laughs heartily. “Ah, Mrs. Stone, after almost a full day, you are finally awake!”

My shock at the lost time comes with an involuntary spasm. 

“Very soon, you’ll regret missing your flight.” The tone of his voice is as dark as Hell. “But you’ll be pleased to know that between Mandrake’s chicanery and your little stunt with the prisoners, I was almost ruined. When word gets out of the prisoners’ escape, no country will do business with me again.”

I try not to smile at the news that the others got off the island. Then I remember that I’ll never again see Jack or my children, and my heart sinks to the pit of my gut.

At least the blindfold keeps my tears from rolling down my face.

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I know I have to. “What do you mean, ‘Mandrake’s chicanery’?”

“Why do you think you’re even alive, you little bitch? The plague bacteria sample he brought with him was a fake!”

Well, what do you know.

I can’t help myself. I laugh, even through my tears. 

Boarke slaps me hard, across the face. When I flinch, he laughs.

 “You pig,” I mutter. “You had children in here—a little girl, even a teenage boy who was one of your guests.”

“You can make an enemy at any age. You of all people must know that.”

I spit blood in the direction of his voice. I guess it hit its mark because he slaps me again. “You think you’re so funny?”

I steel myself for another smack.

 “As it turns out, your pretty little head”—even as he says this, he presses my forehead into the wall—“has a high price on it.” He chuckles. “At least, to two of my benefactors.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It seems you are to be my collateral for Fantasy Island. By selling you to the highest bidder, I’ve secured my loan.” His face is so close to mine that he sprays me with his joyous declaration. “I can only imagine what the winner will do with you. I know what I would have done, had I kept you.”

I’m glad I’ll never find out. And he should be happy he’ll never find out what I’d do in return. 

“I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers. Who were my bidders, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. You met one of them during your stay here—Mr. Chiffray.”

Lee
. 

With what I’ve seen about him, the offer might have been made out of pity or kindness. He was helpful in locating Mary, and certainly kind to Trisha. Should he hang in with silly Babette, we may even be neighbors—that is, if he had the highest bid.

If so, they’ll have free babysitting for life, not to mention all the pie they can stomach.

“The other is an old acquaintance: Carl.”

Oh
.

Fuck
.

The look on my face sends him into a convulsion of laughter. “Ah, then it looks like I made the right choice! Mr. Chiffray was very disappointed. But from what I can see, that coquette, Babette, certainly knows how to make it up to him. What do I care at this point? I own my island free and clear! And I owe it all to you.” 

His hand encircles my neck. For just a moment his fingers tighten around me—

No air…I’m about to black out.

He releases me.

As I slump against the wall, I hear him shout to the guards, “Put her in the Presidential suite…No, not the one at Eden Key, you idiots! That one is reserved for President Putin. He doesn’t need to buy his sluts. They crawl out of the woodwork. That Super Bowl ring is quite an aphrodisiac. Take this one upstairs, here, to the Hunt Club’s penthouse suite. And tell the pygmies to prepare for a hunt tomorrow evening.”

The guards have too much fun with me. They rip off my tunic and threaten to ‘give me what I deserve’ in every orifice, but they don’t dare touch the merchandise. Apparently they’ve witnessed the wrath of Carl. I guess a tweak of my breast isn’t worth losing a hand over.

Works for me.

With my blindfold on, I can’t see him when he enters, but the click of the door and his footsteps tell me he is now here, in front of me.

I can hear him breathing. 

I’ve only got my ears in which to gauge his distance from me. I know his height and build well enough that if my legs weren’t cuffed together, I’d kick him in the nutsack.

Yes, as far as we’re concerned, the rose is off the bloom.

I feel him walking around me. Is he admiring me, or imagining ways to make me scream out in pain until I beg him to stop whatever fresh hell he has planned for me?

It will never happen. He has no intention of stopping.

Until I am a corpse.

For Carl Stone, revenge is pleasurable, but never sweet.

 I feel his hand touching my hair. The other one falls onto my shoulder. It nudges my hair to one side, exposing my neck. I brace myself for what is to come next. Will he bite me and laugh as I bleed? Will he strangle me until a death rattle rises from my throat?

No. Instead, he kisses it gently.

Then he unties my blindfold.

I stare into his eyes. There is no smirk on his face. It is blank, fathomless.

His eyes are even greener than I remembered them. However, his face seems off-kilter. It is obvious he has had plastic surgery. His forehead is relaxed, the lines of tension and anger smoothed from it.

As he lifts his arms, I brace myself for his punch, his slap—

For his touch.

But instead of taking me, he grabs his face—

And pulls it off.

He’s wearing…a mask?

My captor is Jack.

I’m so stunned that I drop to the floor, shaking. 

When he reaches down to take me in his arms, I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or beat him to a bloody pulp. 

“I know, I know,” he whispers to me as he holds me. “Worst joke ever.”

“That’s putting it mildly!” My voice is shaking so hard because my teeth are still rattling.  “What the hell, Jack?”

“I took a chance that Boarke knows—or knew—Carl. It was the only way I could get back on the island without being shot.”

“The fact that you weren't thrown in a cage means Carl is still alive.” The very thought has me slumping out of Jack’s hug.

“Not necessarily. Quite frankly, he seemed shocked to see me, as if he’d seen a ghost. But he was too shaken up to question what was before his eyes, let alone to deny me any request”—Jack’s smile promises the moon—“which was you, on a silver platter.”

“That’s what scared me—the thought of what Carl would do with me, should he still be alive.” I shudder. “Jack, what happens if Boarke calls some of his Quorum buddies for verification?”

“He can’t. Arnie figured a way to block all satellite, cell and cable transmissions within a fifty-mile radius of the island. But we don’t have much time. The block is scheduled to be lifted just as we’re wheels down in Los Angeles. Thank goodness you woke up when you did.”  

“I hear you paid a pretty penny for me. What did you do, take a second mortgage on our house?”

“Are you kidding? That wouldn’t have bought your pinky, let alone all of your bodacious bod. Instead, Arnie robbed a bank—sort of. The funds wired to Boarke’s Swiss bank account were really transferred from another account inside the same institution. This little ‘accounting mistake,’ has already been discovered, and rectified. Not that Boarke is aware of it yet. He won’t be, until he can get access to a phone. By then, we’ll be long gone.” He pulls me back up on my feet. “Come on, let’s blow this joint. I’ve got us seats on the next flight out.” 

 “Good because I’ve had enough fantasy. I want the real world.” 

And my real life. With the 
real
 love of my life. 

Jack is my home.

And I am his.

It’s time to go home.

But I’ve got one more task to complete.

“Wait here for me,” I murmur to Jack through a kiss.

He wants to ask what trouble I’m up to, but he won’t. 

Smart man.

In this case, don’t ask don’t tell is a good thing.