Vacation to Die For (22 page)

“By that, you mean the gun.”

“Yes, in part.”

“And the night goggles.”

“Certainly both are an advantage—but not the only ones.” He rises and moves behind me. I feel his eyes studying me. “A face-to-face allows the hunter to size up his prey. Even in his sleep the night before, he dreams up ways in which to beat a quarry that knows all too well why it has been caged in the first place. Finally, when it is tracked and cornered, one’s eyes fill with resignation, the other with resolve.” He proffers his hand to lift me out of my chair.  Can you guess whose is which?”

“It’s not hard at all. I’ve seen your trophy room.” I take his hand.

His laughter leaves me hollow. “Such a quick wit you are, Mrs. Stone! Now, to our private stockyard.”

He guides me out of the dining room, to a small side elevator that needs a brass key, which he pulls from his hanky pocket. It could be a twin of the one Julie wears around her neck. “I’m glad you will be accompanying your husband, Mrs. Stone. Men live to share their victories with those most dear to them. I look forward to your inspirations on my behalf, as well.”

I’d like to think Boarke is talking about his loan, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

The elevator drops us deep below the Hunt Club's casino, into a long hallway that seems to go on forever. Every twenty feet or so is a guard, dressed in mufti, with a gun and a whip on his hip.

At the far end of the hall is an elegant iron door. The lock is recessed, but it opens with a hydraulic hiss when Boarke's brass key is inserted.

Does it smell like a livestock yard? No. 

Fear has a unique stench of its own—not at all surprising when you’re housing about a hundred people in thick Plexiglass cages. 

There are both men and women here. From what I can tell, some are old enough to have grandchildren, whereas others are as young as Mary.

They are of all nationalities, colors, and races. The only thing they have in common is their prison garb: thin white cotton vests and loose pants. 

A badge on each vest sports a Hunt Club logo, as if these people are its employees, not its prey. In the middle of the logo is a number but no name, as if reinforcing their place on the island’s food chain. 

An Asian man cowers in the corner of his pristine cage, babbling prayers to a God who doesn’t seem to hear him through industrial strength plastic. Another man, with a shock of white blond hair and deep blue eyes, bangs and shouts angrily when he sees us, but the walls are too thick for us to hear his curses. I blink away my own tears when we come across a girl—Middle Eastern, perhaps?—who sobs uncontrollably as she dances around in circles. 

Some of the prisoners are spread-eagled and shackled by all fours, on the farthest wall of their cells. Their eyes have darkened with the realization that the rest of their wretched lives will be spent in these pristine cages until the anointed moment of their release—

In which they will be hunted down and killed like wild animals.

Wretched
 is a relative term. The prisoners are clean and groomed. They show no bruises, and it is obvious they are well fed.

In other words, they are the perfect prey.

I keep my voice as level as possible as I ask, “Where did you get them?” 

“As you might guess, they are from all over the world. We are the ‘last resort’—do you like my little pun, Mrs. Stone? Miss Julie thought of it, so I must give her the credit—of countries seeking the most extraordinary rendition imaginable.” Boarke shrugs. “We are truly killing two birds with one stone—so sorry that the puns are running rampant today! But yes, our VIP hunt seems to fill two unique niches. A country wishes to remove political undesirables from its shores. At the same time, world class hunters seek the ultimate prey. Humans are just that, are they not? Maybe not as strong as an elephant or as fast as a jaguar, but certainly as cunning as the hunter.”

I stare at the people in front of me. “And how do you keep the righteous tourist from finding out The Hunt Club’s politically incorrect secret?”

He puts a finger to his lips, as if to hush me. “For one thing, it’s why no reporters are allowed on the island. And for another, all VIP reserve guests must put up a large deposit, via a Swiss bank account.” He laughs at my surprise. “It is held in trust for their heirs, and released upon their deaths. Yes, it’s true, we buy their silence—with their own money, no less! On the upside, the interest is generous. Best of all, it’s tax-free.” He shakes his head proudly. “Such financial incentives easily assuage any untoward remorse, I can assure you.”

I smile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, Mr. Boarke?”

“I really shouldn’t take all the credit. Again, it was Miss Julie’s idea—not to mention her marketing skills are second to none! The Hunt Club has an annual occupancy of one hundred percent. In fact, we’re booked solid for the next three years. Best of all, advertising costs are nil, as it is all word of mouth.”  He nudges me down the hall. “How about you? Is your preference something easy”—He points to the Middle Eastern girl—“or something that will give you a run for your—I mean, for 
my
 money? Oh, and please don’t worry about a deposit. Should you or your husband be struck with qualms of guilt, your equity stake in Fantasy Island will be leaked to the press.”

“No worries there. I presume Miss Julie has assured you he has no conscience at all, particularly when a sure bet is involved.”

He purses his lips, but just for a moment. “It would be gentlemanly to presume that her discretion in the matter is the better part of valor, but then I know her too well.  She too enjoys ‘collecting scalps,’ as they say. I assure you, if Miss Julie had been making headway with Mr. Stone, we wouldn’t be standing here, Mrs. Stone.”

I hope to hide my relief regarding Jack’s fidelity by changing the subject. “Considering the success of the Hunt Club, I’m surprised you need any additional financing at all.”

Boarke grimaces. “Our largest note comes due very soon, and our investors are anxious to move their money into less unorthodox ventures. At the same time, we’d like to expand the VIP reserve program.” He holds his arms wide, toward the seemingly ongoing rows of prisoner bays. “Unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, the human is not yet an endangered species. We’ve had to turn away some potential client countries. It works to our advantage that we’re the only game—another pun, do excuse me!—in town, and we’d like to keep it that way. Other resort management companies have been snooping around, eager to learn our success. But I’d be shocked if their stockholders would fully appreciate this concept.” He moves in and whispers, “A more obliging partner would be welcomed with open arms.”

I avoid his hint by easing away. I start down the aisle slowly, glancing into the cages on both sides of me. Boarke doesn’t realize it but he’s also put me in a box. Obviously, Jack and I can’t—we 
won’t
—shoot a prisoner. Frankly, I’d like to see how fast Boarke could run through the jungle with me tracking him.

Or Miss Julie. Especially in the Louboutins she was sporting tonight. The faux leopard fabric would provide a bit of camo, but not much. 

Better yet, just let the prisoners have a go at them—

At least one prisoner.

Sasquatch
.

He is two cells in front of me, on the right. They’ve got him shackled to a wall. His eyes are closed against the bright lights coming up from the floors on all sides of the cage.  With his long hair, he looks almost medieval. 

He opens one eye. At first my face doesn’t register with him. When it does, he strains against the iron wristbands that hold him back from charging at us.

“That one,” I say, just loud enough for Boarke to hear me.

Boarke’s eyes grow large. “He…he may not be the best choice. Only recently he was put in the stockyard—”

“It’s him, or I tell my husband I’m bored with this joint, and that it’s time to call it a day. Not the best customer satisfaction review, wouldn’t you say?”

Boarke’s stutter dies in his throat. “No, of course not. Yes, alright, your fantasy is my desire. But so that it doesn’t turn into a nightmare, I insist on sending you along with a trusted guide.”

He must mean Battoo.

“Works for me,” I murmur. “May I…would you mind if I touched him?”

Boarke doesn’t speak at once. When he does, his tone is slick, even as his words are crisp. “But of course. His shackles will hold.”

“What a shame,” I purr. “I can just imagine the fun if they didn’t.” Sasquatch, loosened from his bindings, could snap Boarke like a twig. 

And I’d enjoy watching him do it.

Boarke’s key fits into the keyhole to the side of the cage. Soundlessly a door, built into the front wall, slides to one side.

I stand directly in front of Sasquatch. His grin curls into a snarl, but he stays silent and doesn’t move as I lay my hand on his belly. My left index finger meanders up his firm abs, then over to a nipple. It is already taut before I flick it with my tongue.

He shudders at my touch. 

“Does he meet your approval?” Boarke’s tone is derisive. Yes, he is jealous.

“He is perfect, thank you. What’s the saying? Oh yes, ‘one good turn deserves another.’ You’re a lifesaver. And you’ll be duly rewarded.”

 I keep my voice jovial, but my eyes on Sasquatch. Only he can see the look in my eyes: 
I will get you out of here.

Sasquatch gets it. He winks then looks away.

The door hisses again as it closes behind me.

Chapter 15

Island Fever

Bored in Paradise? It happens. 

Endless days of sun, surf and sand aren’t stimulating enough for a brain that seeks to be challenged. Or a mind that must be entertained. Or a heart that longs for provocation. Here’s how you know when it’s time to start packing up:

Telltale Sign Number 1: Whereas once the thought of a jaunt to Paris had you cursing “Merde,” now you think, “Mais oui,” and spend hours devising the quickest and cheapest routes from your isle du jour to Ille de Louis;

Telltale Sign Number 2: Whereas once you poo-pooed any interaction with those tourists who refused to learn the local lingo or eat at local boîtes, you now cling to the ankles of homeward-bound travelers, begging and pleading them to “Take me with you, oh please pretty please.” A sure sign the local charm is not so charming anymore.

Telltale Sign Number 3: Whereas once you delighted in hearing the resort staff constantly wishing you a “pleasant day,” now you force yourself to smile and bite your tongue to keep from shouting, “What, are you kidding? Not at these rates!” 

Because too much of a good thing is not such a good thing after all.

I can’t leave Boarke quickly enough to find Jack. Where the hell is he?

After meandering through the Hunt Club lobby where a gaggle of arm charms sport ’ho couture that would rock the Adult Entertainment Expo’s fashion runway, I get the bright idea to sneak a peek in the casino. 

There he is, up in the casino’s mezzanine, bent over the balcony as he watches the action below, in the main gallery.  His eyes follow me as I climb the curved staircase toward him, but he doesn’t move when I reach his side.

Okay, time to eat crow. “It seems I owe you an apology.” 

He turns his head toward me. “How do you figure that?”

I lean in next to him. “You left me with the impression that you’d do whatever it took to get Julie to do our bidding.”

“And by that you thought I meant falling for her bullshit come-ons, and hitting the sack with her.”

“Yes…of course I did.”

“Because fucking to gather intel is part of our job.” He frowns. “And if the shoe were on the other foot, you too would screw whomever it takes, if the mission calls for it.”

Shame weighs so heavy on me that I drop my head. Below me is the poker table. The distraction is not great enough for me to ignore what is happening here, right now, with Jack:

Our moment of truth.

“I avoid it, whenever possible. You know that.” I think back upon my missions since I met Jack. “In fact since our ‘marriage’, except for a little heavy petting on the suspect’s part I’ve been as pure as driven snow. Granted, it’s helped that I’ve slipped a mickey or two. Or three.”