Island

I compared them to my own wrinkled fingertips.

I'm no damn forensic pathologist, but it was suddenly obvious that she hadn't been in the water for more than about an hour.

She had probably still been alive while I was above the falls trying to find our battleground.

If I hadn't gotten lost up there (twice) . . .

If I hadn't spent so much time looking around . . .

I might've returned to the lagoon in time to find her being murdered, gutted, stuffed, sunk.

Maybe I could have saved her.

Or maybe I would've gotten myself murdered, gutted . . .

Life and death, a matter of destinations and delays.

Only they don't tell you the right or wrong place to be, or when.

I couldn't bear the thought that I might've missed a chance, by such a slim margin, to save Billie's life.

I turned the woman over.

Glimpsed the terrible chasm down the middle of her torso. Looked a bit longer at her breasts: bruises, welts, scratches, but no stab wounds. Then made myself gaze at her face.

It was gray in the moonlight, etched and pocked with black shadows.

Enough of it showed, though.

This was not Billie's face.

This was the face of a woman I had never seen before, not even in my dreams.

I swam back to the place where I'd left my stuff, found Andrew's lighter, and returned to the body. Kneeling by her side, I studied her by the lighter's small, shaky flame.

She was definitely a stranger.

Physically, she bore a lot of resemblance to Billie. They seemed to be similar in age, size, build, and hair color. Even their faces had much in common. I could see that this wasn't Billie, but it would've been hard to describe the differences. This woman's face had obviously been attractive, even beautiful, before her death.

Her face, by the way, showed no signs of injury.

(Wesley hadn't wanted to spoil her looks, more than likely -- just torture and murder her.)

Before leaving, I dragged her a small distance away from the lagoon. I hid her in among some rocks -- so I'd be spared the sight of her, maybe, if I should return to the lagoon in the near future.

Speculations

I'm now nearly caught up to the present. A good thing, too, because I've only got a few pages left in my notebook.

I've had plenty of time to think about things.

I think the dead woman was probably linked, somehow, to Matt. I think they lived together, here on the island, before our arrival. My guess is that they were married to each other.

Wesley murdered Matt first -- probably just before Thelma came into our camp and told us she'd bashed Wesley's brains in. He would've expected us to go looking for his body as soon as we heard the news, so it would've been in position at the bottom of the chasm on Day Six, waiting for us. That was two days before I got thrown down on top of Matt's remains.

Wesley kept the woman alive, abusing her, and didn't get around to killing her until shortly before I found her body in the lagoon two nights ago.

Obviously, Thelma had a hand in things, too. They're in it together. Partners, allies, accomplices.

Some of this is just speculation, of course.

But it makes sense to me.

I wonder about a lot of things, though.

If I'm right about Matt and the woman being inhabitants of the island, did they live in a house? Is their house the place where Wesley got his hands on such things as the ax and rope?

Where is their house?

If I find it, will I also find Kimberly, Billie and Connie?

I think so.

I think so, yes. If they are still alive, I'll probably find them at the house.

Last Words

Okay. I'm up to date with my journal, now. In fact, I'm done with it. I have no more reason to procrastinate. I can't build my Winchester House of words; there's no more room for words -- or hardly enough to matter.

Tomorrow, I'll set out to search for my women. I don't expect I'll be returning to our beach. I plan to travel light; wearing Connie's towel-vest, Andrew's shorts, and my own socks and shoes. I'll carry the lighter in my pocket, of course. And I'll take along Billie's sun-block, mostly because it reminds me of her and it smells good. My only weapon will be Thelma's straight razor.

I'll take my journal with me in the book bag, along with a couple of pens that haven't yet run out of ink (in case I should stumble upon paper but no writing implement), my swimming trunks (though I haven't worn them since acquiring Andrew's shorts), the pink blouse that Billie gave me (though I now prefer to wear Connie's vest), and a few remaining items of food.

I'll leave just about everything else behind. Including Andrew's camera. I haven't used it yet, so I can't see a good reason to lug it around.

The less I have to carry, the better.

I do wish that I had something of Kimberly's, though. Her Swiss Army knife (Andrew's before it came into her possession) would have been a great treasure. I haven't been able to find it anywhere, though.

I have nothing of Kimberly's to carry with me.

Only my memories of her.

With luck, though, I'll be with all three of my women soon.

If I can find the mystery house, they'll be nearby. I'd bet on it.

Whether or not I find them alive, I'll take care of Wesley and Thelma.

I'll make it hard for them, too.

Very hard.

Bet on it.

I'll make them pay for every hurt they've done to my women.

Which sounds like a mean-spirited, brutal way to end my journal. But so be it.

Obviously, I'll tell the rest of my story if I'm able. To do that, I'll need to find a new source of paper. And I'll have to still be alive.

Both good tricks.

So long.

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The Rest Of The Story

-----------------------

My Quest For The Mystery House

I've gotten hold of a new notebook.

A lot has happened since my last entry.

I'll take my time, though, and tell about it in the proper sequence -- starting with the morning when I went off to hunt for the house.

The island obviously had no shortage of vacant beachfront property, so nobody in their right mind would've built a house somewhere deep in the jungle. You'd want an ocean view. You'd want easy access to the water.

If I just followed the shoreline, I was almost certain to spot the home of Matt and the dead woman.

I started out early in the morning. After a light breakfast of smoked fish, I filled an empty booze bottle with water from the stream (just in case), put the bottle in my book bag, shouldered the bag and set off, heading north.

This had been our route on the morning of the "last stand," until Kimberly ran off without us.

Now, I was alone as I hiked the beach.

Though I started my journey with eagerness, sure of success, my optimism dwindled along the way. There might not be any house. Its existence was nothing more than a theory of mine.

For all I knew at the time (I've found out plenty since), Matt and the woman hadn't necessarily been residents of the island. They might've come to it for a brief visit -- parked their boat and come ashore to do some exploring, have a picnic, who knows? Or they might've been castaways: survivors from a boat wreck or airplane crash. If so, I was searching for a home that didn't exist.

No, no, I told myself. There has to be a house. If not, where did Wesley get his hands on the ax, the rope, the machetes, the sheath knives he wore on his belt, the belt itself . . . ?

That argument comforted me for a while.

But then I remembered how, within a day or two after being marooned, Billie and I had come up with the theory that Wesley must've made a prior visit to the island.

He had obviously toured the region to search for a good island to use. Just as obviously, he would've taken steps to avoid becoming a victim of his own plot. That is, he planned to maroon the bunch of us, but he sure didn't want to find himself trapped on an island without the means to ensure his own survival.