Uncharted (28 page)
Mark looked around but found no answer in the solid blackness. He retreated to the passageway, intending to keep the others from venturing into this cave, but no one stirred in the tunnel.
Whatever happened, his friends must never see the movie playing in this outrageous theater.
Susan opened her eyes and swore she could feel the backs of her eyelids scrape against her eyeballs. Her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth, the skin on the back of her hands as parched as Death Valley.
She was dying of thirst, and no one could do a thing about it.
She sat up and turned toward the entrance to the cavern, hoping to see that someone had filled an empty cola bottle with water, but nothing had changed since she closed her eyes. How many times at parties had she waved away young men who brought her unwanted cups of punch? How many glasses of water, coffee, soda, and wine had she accepted merely to have something to do with her hands? Water flowed freely in her Houston home; when she returned, she would never take it for granted.
If
she returned.
If she could find the courage.
Around her, the others stirred restlessly, their breathing fast and quick. Their faces had assumed a haggard aspect that made boyish Mark look as old as John Watson. Even Kevin, whose face could drive a TV star to envy, had begun to look like he’d been carved of eroding granite.
She shuddered. This place was a cruel joke. The only shelter was this morose cavern, the only water a salty sea and a patch of quicksand.
Wait . . . didn’t Mark say quicksand was nothing but saturated sand? So the stuff held water. The water would be seawater, but perhaps all that sand would filter out some of the salt . . .
Careful not to disturb the others, she rose to her hands and knees, then crept toward the opening of the cavern. Kevin flinched as her shadow crept over his face; she froze until he lay still, then she stood and tiptoed through the tunnel and down the slope of the tide-washed cave.
She slowed as she peered out of the first cavern. The bawling winds had stopped, but heat lay over the beach like a shroud. The sea, shadowed by the thickened cloud bank, had taken on the same dismal shade as the sagging sky.
All aspects of loveliness had been replaced by an air of brooding desolation.
She closed her mind to such thoughts and concentrated on her task. Mark had said the patch of quicksand lay to the west, or left, of the cave. Susan edged forward, inching over rocks and steadily approaching the danger zone. Some fretful voice in her mind couldn’t believe she was leaving the safety of the group, but every cell of her body cried out for hydration.
She sank to her hands and knees, then tapped the sand at the edge of the farthest boulder and felt solid ground beneath her palm. She crept another six inches forward, then another. She remained tentative in her approach, trying to keep most of her weight on her knees, even though they were scraped and raw beneath her skirt.
Finally, she reached out and felt the ground undulate beneath her palm. With only a little more pressure, her hand sank beneath a layer of shimmering sand, vanishing with barely a ripple.
A thin sheen lay over the area—water. After glancing over her shoulder to be sure she was still alone, Susan unwrapped the organza scarf around her head, spread it on the sand, then scooped up a palmful of wet sand and dropped it on the fabric. Gathering the edges, she tipped back her head and held the netted sand above her open mouth.
Instantly, the trickling mixture of sand and seawater sent needling jabs through her lips and gums and tongue. Though the material should have filtered most of the sand, the concoction was a living material that would not be divided. When she swallowed to rid her mouth of the stinging mixture, sand slid down her throat, burning tender tissues until a lump lodged somewhere beneath her breastbone.
Gagging, she hung her head and drew air through a throat that felt seared from the inside. Her breath rattled in her lungs, then a bolus of vomit rose in her esophagus.
After her body had cast out the offending material, Susan teetered on her hands and knees as a coughing spasm wracked her body. She pressed one hand to her chest, but the other hand slipped, propelling her into the pool of quicksand. Before she could draw a breath, her head went under, the viscous material stinging her wounded face and eyelids and exposed nasal cavity; then someone was tugging at her legs, pulling her to safety.
A moment later, coughing and retching, she leaned on a boulder and lifted her gaze to Lisa’s. She fully expected to hear a rebuke, but for once Miss By-the-Book did not deliver a lecture.
“I thought—” Susan pressed her hand to her throat. She wanted to say more, but every word felt like a razor blade slicing her vocal cords.
Lisa propped her elbows on her knees and turned her eyes to the sea. “You’re lucky I came out here.”
When she refused to look in Susan’s direction, Susan remembered that her face was uncovered, her ugliness exposed. She groaned as she hurried to wrap the muddy veiling around her tortured features. She wanted to weep, but her eyes held no more tears.
If this was lucky, she’d rather be cursed.
Unable to sleep, Kevin pulled himself up and moved into the opening to the chamber. When he stepped into the tunnel, he heard women’s voices above the pounding waves. His heart skipped a beat—had rescuers arrived?—then a quick glance over his shoulder revealed that Susan and Lisa were no longer in the cavern.
He found them sitting on the rocks at the mouth of the cave. Susan’s head, swathed in gold fabric, was bowed, her clothing crusty with sand. Lisa wore a somber expression until she saw him, then she managed a quivery smile.
“You girls okay?”
Susan didn’t respond. Lisa frowned and tilted her head toward Susan in a barely discernable gesture.
So—something had happened, and Lisa couldn’t be direct. Pretending to check the knot in his dress-shirt booties, he propped one foot on a rock and bent closer to whisper in Lisa’s ear. “Is she okay?”
Lisa leaned toward him. “She tried to drink the quicksand. Not a good idea.”
He winced at the thought, then touched Lisa’s shoulder in silent sympathy. “Well, keep an eye on her. If there’s water on this island, Mark and I will find it.”
“I know you will.”
Kevin straightened, both challenged and frustrated by the shining look in Lisa’s eye. Karyn had looked at him like that once—back in the days when she believed he could move any mountain he chose to move. She had expected him to be the perfect provider and husband, but when he threw his heart into making sure his family was financially comfortable, she complained that he didn’t support her emotionally.
Now Lisa was giving him that look . . . and he was no closer to understanding women now than when he’d been in college.
He gave Lisa a smile and moved away. After his encounter with the quicksand, he’d forgotten about the item that had lured him to this spot, but now he remembered—he’d seen a twisted chrome bumper lying among the rocks just past the entrance to the cave.
Careful to skirt the treacherous pool, he climbed over the smaller boulders outside the stone formation. In the dull light seeping from the socked-in sky, he could see that the bumper was still wedged between the rocks, twisted but recognizable. One end and an edge were rusty, but the center portion remained in remarkably good condition.
Kevin pulled the metal strip free of the rocks, then grinned as a memory came rushing back. The piece reminded him of a ’57 Chevy Bel Air convertible he’d owned in high school—red and white, with hooded headlights and a shiny chrome grin. The backseat of that car saw more action than an accountant at tax time.
He shook the memory away, then settled the chrome on his shoulder. Mark needed something sharp, and the edge of this strip of steel might make a decent blade. He’d do his best to smash the rusted areas off, and perhaps he and Mark could find a way to break off a piece small enough to handle easily. In any case, this bit of chrome might mean the difference between survival and defeat.
The ’57 convertible had certainly made a difference in his high school years.
After escorting Susan back to the shelter of the cavern, Lisa returned to the mouth of the cave. A regular rhythmic sound echoed among the rocks, so perhaps they were no longer alone in this awful place—
She turned and walked toward the sound, then saw Kevin kneeling between a couple of palmetto bushes. He had wedged a piece of twisted metal between the plants’ stalks and was pounding it with a stone.
Amid the whirring of crickets, she leaned against a rock and tucked herself out of sight, willing to remain hidden so she could feast on the view that met her eyes. How many times in the past twenty years had she yearned to see Kevin Carter? She had pulled old photos out of their albums, spent hours tracing his image with her fingernail. She knew the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips, the way his bangs fell toward his right side even when his hair was wet.
Let the others be miserable in this place; for the moment she was perfectly content. Though her stomach growled and her throat ached with dryness, her eyes and heart were satisfied.
Twenty years of emotional hunger had ended when Kevin walked up at the airport. A lifetime of starvation might end if she could find the courage to declare her feelings.
She lifted her hand, then dropped it as her courage failed. What if he laughed in her face? No, he wouldn’t do that. He’d never been anything but kind to her; harshness was not part of his nature.
So . . . he would be kind. And Lisa couldn’t risk waiting, because Karyn had begun to encroach upon old territory. Even Kevin seemed to have forgotten that K had abandoned him years ago, taking the daughter he adored. That must have crushed him. So why did he smile at Karyn now as if all was forgiven?
Lisa straightened as her determination hardened like a rock. If she and Kevin were to have a chance at happiness, she’d have to move now.
Boldly. Firmly.
Before it was too late.
She lifted her chin, forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile, and approached him. “What on earth are you doing?”
He startled at the sound of her voice. “What? Oh. I’m beating the rust off this old bumper.”
She tilted her head, trying to visualize the mangled chrome on an automobile. “Isn’t that a fender? I mean—it’s not rubber, so it wouldn’t
bump
.”
He laughed. “Rubber has nothing to do with it. Fenders cover the wheel wells. Bumpers run along the front and rear of a car.”
She watched him pound for another minute. “I know we’re all anxious to escape, but I hope you’re not waiting for the rest of the car to show up.”
He snorted. “I’m not even sure how this got here, but I know we can use it. We need something with a sharp edge.”
She crossed her arms and pretended to study the gray blanket of clouds, overhead. “So—couldn’t you sleep?”
He swung his head up to look at her. “Did you?”
“Too . . . too tired, I think. I know that sounds crazy, but—” She managed a hollow laugh as he took another swipe at the bumper. “Too much on my mind. I closed my eyes, but my thoughts were racing. And I couldn’t sleep because I kept . . . thinking.”
“About what?”
“About . . . you.”
He stopped, the rock in his hand, his face blank.