Authors: Lynette Eason
He squeaked it open. Inside was a six-pack of pineapple juice. He resisted the urge to whoop for joy. Continued prowling produced a plastic jar of peanuts, which plunked against his shins as he waded around. With the seal still intact, the contents were neatly preserved. Though his mouth watered at the thought of food, he stacked the treasure on the kitchen counter and stripped the saturated cushions off of a wooden chair, setting it into position by the front window and climbing up, seating himself cross-legged to keep his feet out of the water. The only thing he could find to offer for protection besides the knife in its sheath on his belt was a broken chair rail, and he laid this across his lap. Though he meant to keep watch for the slightest sign of Martin's approach, his gaze kept wandering to Antonia.
Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and he hoped she was not dreaming about what had happened in the past few days. His thoughts drifted back to his brother for the first time since he'd left the lighthouse. His stomach clenched in anger. Though Reuben had tried to ignore the truth, Hector saw it clear as sunriseâReuben had never stopped loving Antonia.
Hector exploited that vulnerability in his brother to save his own skin. And what was the cost of his decision? Gavin was shot. Reuben's boats ruined. A sadistic gangster roved the ruins, determined to pursue them at any cost.
In the distance he could just make out the broken outline of the Isla Marsopa Hotel, his mother's dream, reduced to rubble. Suddenly none of it mattered, and he could not remember why he had fought so hard to keep things intact. Maybe it was the pride he felt, the aura of righteousness at holding together something of their mother's. He'd gone through the motions, the money, the toil to try to save a buildingâa collection of wooden beams and nails, nothing moreâwhen the one thing he'd wanted, craved, in fact, was to save his brother. How he'd prayed, how he'd scolded, reprimanded, pleaded and berated. For nothing.
People don't save people, do they, Lord? Salvation is Yours to give and Yours alone.
Something like peace settled into his soul at that moment. He would love his brother until his dying breath, and he would pray that Hector would earnestly repent, but it was Hector's choice to make and he would have to decide what kind of man he was going to be if they survived.
Reuben's choice, his only choice, was to ask God to intercede and keep Antonia alive.
With one last look at her face, relaxed and peaceful in sleep, he clenched his hands in prayer.
EIGHTEEN
A
ntonia didn't remember climbing up onto that mattress or falling asleep, but sunlight on her face awakened her what must have been several hours later. Her lashes felt gummy, her mouth dry, and for a moment she did not recall how she'd gotten to be napping on a stripped mattress with water sloshing gently around her. Rays of golden light peeked through the window where the storm shutter had been partially opened, dispelling some of the gloom in the bungalow.
Reuben sat on a wooden chair, a piece of rail across his lap, staring out the window. Seeing him there brought a crush of emotions all at once. What did he see as he gazed out at what was left of Isla? Ruined dreams? The betrayal of a brother he'd trusted steadfastly? She could not read the expression on his face, but she thought it might have been sorrow, and the need to comfort blossomed in her heart, strong and solid. Before the hurricane she would have ignored the feeling. Now, it seemed, the hurricane had stripped away some of the hardness that calloused her, but she did not know quite how to act on the strange feelings. “Still raining?”
He jerked toward her, a smile now transforming his face. “Hey, there. I'm glad you're awake. The rain has stopped finally, winds are dying down and somehow the island isn't totally underwater. We made it through Tony.”
“I wonder if we'll make it through Leland,” she couldn't help but add.
“We'll make it, but one thing at a time.” He wedged the chair against the door and waded to the kitchen, returning and presenting her with a can of pineapple juice and a jar of peanuts. “Ta-da!” he trumpeted.
She goggled. “You found food!” It came out in a high-pitched squeal.
“Didn't you order room service, madam?” He feigned confusion. “I'm sorry. I'll just take this back to the kitchen.”
“No way,” she giggled, snatching the peanuts from his hands.
They popped the tops off the pineapple juice and drained two cans each. He peeled off the foil seal of the peanut jar and poured her a massive handful before filling his own palm. They gobbled the salty nuts, eating until they had emptied the container.
Antonia's eyes closed in pleasure. “Of all the meals I've eaten in my life, I think that was the best.”
“Certainly the finest company,” he added.
She blushed. “Considering we're stranded on an island with only a few other people, several of whom are killers, that's not saying much.”
He laughed and held a pineapple can out in a toast. “To the finest meal the Isla Hotel has ever produced. And the last,” he added, more quietly.
Her smile dimmed as she clinked his can with hers. “Can it be restored, do you think? Isla, I mean?”
His lips pressed together and something went dull in his eyes. “You know the answer to that.”
She did and it pained her deep down so she sought another subject. “Is there any more food?”
“What, still hungry?” he said, hopping off the mattress and splashing into the kitchen.
“Not now, but I will be soon,” she said.
He dumped the contents of a small grocery bag onto the counter. “I found a couple of useful things. Two granola bars,” he said, wiggling them for her to see. “A box of matches, which looks to be relatively dry. Three bandages and a flashlight that doesn't work right now but might once it dries out.” He regarded her triumphantly. “What do you think?”
“Not as magnificent as the peanuts, but those granola bars will come in handy later.” She shivered. “I'd give a pretty penny to have some dry clothes right about now.”
“Sorry, can't help you with that one. The washer and dryer have done their last loads.” He stopped, then shook his head. “Thought I heard a helicopter. Wishful thinking.”
“When do you think the coast guard will come back?”
He drifted to the window and peered out. “Not anytime soon unless we can convince them there's an emergency situation here. They've got plenty bigger priorities right now.”
Dread kindled inside her. “How will we do that? Are the phones working?”
“No, but I've been thinking if I could get to the skimmer, providing it's still afloat, there's a radio in it. If it's intact, I could call for help.”
The thought of going back to that spot in the lagoon where she'd been marched out to drown made her feel sick. She swallowed hard. “Okay. I'm in.”
“No. I'll go myself, but first we need to regroup for a while and maybe get Silvio and Paula back here if we can. They'll need to rest, and Silvio can help secure the doors. Either that or we get you to the lighthouse and wait for help there. Neither place is great, but it's all that's still standing except for the boathouse.”
“What about Hector and Gavin?” she asked softly. “They were headed to the boathouse.”
“I don't know what to do about that.” He looked at her. “I don't know how to help my brother. I never did.”
“You loved him the best way you could.”
He didn't answer, turning instead to gaze out the window again.
The light picked up the deep shadows on his face, lines of fatigue engraving his forehead. “Reuben, why don't you lie down now? I'll take a turn watching.”
“I'm okay.”
“No, you're not. You're exhausted and you need to rest. I had my turn, it's yours now.” She hopped off the bed and sloshed over to him. “Rest, just for a few minutes. Please.”
He shook his head. “I want to be ready if he comes.”
She touched a finger to a long scratch on his temple, tracing the line down the side of his face. His eyes closed and he caught her hand in his, pressing it to his face, lips seeking the place at her wrist where her pulse hammered at his touch. Then she was in his arms, holding him close, stroking his back as if she could smooth away the past and restore what had been taken from him, from them both.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, “that everything is ruined here on Isla.”
He sighed, warm breath ruffling her hair. “I wasn't meant to be here, running this hotel, Nee. My pride told me I was the one, the only one who could save it, and that gave me some kind of self-importance, I guess. God wants me in an orange field, tending those trees. He's been telling me that all along. I should have listened.” He pressed his face into the crook of her neck. “I should have listened to a lot of things.”
They clung to each other. “I've made mistakes, too, Reuben.”
He raised his head then, and she saw moisture glimmering in his eyes. “But your mistakes didn't wreck things.”
Didn't they? Hadn't her relentless need to expose Hector's failings driven further the wedge between them? Her decision to support her sister's flight, helping her keep Gracie away from Hector, had also removed the little girl from Reuben, from this uncle who loved her desperately. Had running been the only answer? But at the very core of her being she knew her greatest sinâthat she had not wanted Hector proved innocent, but condemned.
“If it means anything at all,” Reuben said, “my brother said he has been clean for the past five years. He was blackmailed back in by the Garzas. They threatened him with prison and never seeing Gracie again if he didn't deliver Isla.”
And you believe that?
The thought sprang to her mind, but she swallowed it. “I'm sorry. I know you love your brother.”
He gave her a startled look, followed by the sweetest smile she had ever seen, one that went right past her defenses, the regret and condemnation straight into her soul. She stroked his cheek, and he pressed close to her, his mouth inches from her own.
A snap sounded from outside.
Reuben raced to the front window and she crowded next to him.
“I don't see anything,” she whispered.
“I don't, either, but that noise was close. We'd better move.”
Stuffing the last two cans of juice into his pockets along with the granola bars, he pushed her toward the back door, which hung crookedly on its hinges, wedged in place against the concrete porch step. The gap was only a scant twelve inches across, and though Antonia slipped easily through, Reuben's broad shoulders wedged.
“Go,” he hissed. “Run to the woods along the creek. Head for the lighthouse.”
“No way. You're coming, or I'm not going,” she whispered back.
“Nee, move it,” he commanded.
She did not budge except to take his hand and yank as hard as she could until he finally stumbled clear of the door. Then they were running, heads down, as quietly as they could manage into the cover of the mangled palms and trees.
Pushing through the wet branches brought them close to the swollen banks of the creek, which lapped the very top and spilled over. The ground was treacherous with debris and slippery rocks, but they kept up a quick pace until they were a good fifty yards from the bungalow. Ahead on the ridge sat the wreck of the hotel, some patches of white paint shining oddly in the sunlight. Panting and scratched they slowed to a halt.
Antonia pressed a hand to her cramping side. If she hadn't had a small rest and something to eat and drink, she never would have completed the run. As it was she was still fighting fatigue, her muscles rubbery and weak and her bare feet painfully battered. She wondered how Reuben was holding up.
He pulled her to the dripping canopy of an oak tree and climbed on a rock to peer back at the bungalow.
It was hard to know if they had made a reasonable choice fleeing from their only shelter. Were they both suffering from paranoia? Or had Martin found his way out of the mangroves and tracked them to the bungalow?
“I don't see any sign of him,” Reuben said. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“No you weren't,” Martin said, stepping from the shrubbery and firing his gun at Reuben.
* * *
The sound of the gunshot nearly deafened Reuben, and he felt the hot metal skimming by his shirtsleeve. Antonia screamed. Grabbing a stout, fallen branch, he swung it at Martin. “Run, Antonia,” he hollered. “Get away from here.”
Instead of running, she picked up a rock and heaved it, missing Martin by several feet. She picked up another and another, hurling them at him with rapid-fire motion, eyes wild and hair flying. Martin batted most of them away with his free hand, but one or two struck his shoulder and he swung the gun at her.
It was as if Reuben were in the grip of a living nightmare. There was a gun pointed at Antonia. It was the most vicious, ugly scenario he could imagine, and it filled him with pure fury that scorched a white-hot path from his gut throughout every muscle in his body. Swinging the makeshift club with strength born of rage, he advanced on Martin, hitting him so hard the gun spiraled loose and skittered away into the mud.
Antonia scrambled after it, searching desperately through the grass with outstretched hands.
Martin howled, his face going red as Reuben readied for another strike with the branch. “What do you think you're doing, boy?” Martin rasped. “Think you're going to take me down with that stick?”
“That's exactly what I think,” Reuben snarled.
“All right then. Let's see what you've got.”
Reuben swung again, and Martin danced to the side before launching himself stomach down at Reuben's ankles. Sidestepping, Reuben meant to leap over Martin, but he skidded on the mucky ground and went down on one knee. Martin rolled over and grabbed Reuben's waist, bringing them both to the mud.
They grappled and rolled. Reuben tried to reach for the knife sheathed at his waist, but Martin's hands went around his throat and he had to apply all his strength to keep from being choked.
Antonia looked frantically from Reuben to the grass where she was still pawing for Martin's gun.
Finally able to pry Martin's fingers loose, Reuben shoved his foot into Martin's chest and sent him backward. Martin landed on his back, panting, sweat beading on his forehead. Slowly he rolled over and stood.
“Not bad for a farmer,” Martin said. “But you're going to die anyway.”
Reuben's heart pounded so hard the vibrations shuddered through his body. “Yep, but it's not going to be today,” he breathed. “Not here and not now.”
Martin smiled and hurled himself again at Reuben. This time, Reuben did avoid the collision, moving just enough that Martin stumbled to his knees. Reaching out, Reuben knew this time he could use his advantage to get around behind the guy and press him facedown to the ground.
His miscalculation became clear a moment later. Time seemed to slow as he realized that Martin had pulled a knife from his belt. There was no time to react as his arm arced and he plunged the knife forward. Reuben felt it grating against his ribs a second before the explosive pain. Through an excruciating haze he saw Antonia, who looked up just as the knife slid home, horror infusing her beautiful face, an odd contrast to the ugly triumph on display on Martin's.
Run, Nee,
he wanted to shout, but he could not force his mouth to give voice to the words.
He staggered back and then he was falling, spiraling backward, hitting the swollen creek with a harsh smack. Water closed over his head, and through the silted depths he caught one more glimpse of Antonia before the creek whisked him away.