“You’re safe now,” I say to them. “We’re going to tie him up.”
They ignore me as if I am not there. One of the women, drops to her knees, picks up the rock I used in my attack and slams it down on the thug’s face. I jump back in shock, as the woman slams the rock repeatedly, shrieking in rage, pulverizing his skull to a bloody pulp. The other woman watches dispassionately, hardly blinking.
Finally, the woman drops the rock. Her chests heaves from the sudden rage that overwhelmed her and her breath comes in ragged pants. I help her to her feet.
Nelson whispers in my ear, “I guess we won’t need to tie him up after all.”
We lead the young women to the home where we buried Curtis. Nelson hovers about them like a nervous mother, wiping their dirty faces with a wet cloth, wrapping them in blankets and hastily creating a meal for them. Assured they will be well looked after, I head to the shed.
Nelson joins me there.
“You think they’ll be ok?” He asks.
I place the rope around my shoulders. “They’ve got to be. I’m off to get my wife.”
“Good luck,” he shakes my hand.
“I’ll be back before dawn,” I reply, surprised by my own confidence.
It is after midnight. The climb up the backside of the cliff is gradual and made easier by well-worn goat paths leading to the top. Along with the rope coiled around my shoulder, I carry a lantern to see and a hatchet tucked in my pants. I look across the bay to where I last saw the burning sailboat, but nothing remains but black, endless sea. The fact that I—scrawny Phillip Crane—single handedly eliminated a small army of murderous thugs, still amazes me. I clench my jaw and re-focus on the task. Near the top of the cliff, I extinguish the lantern so that no one patrolling the resort will see the light. Proceeding without the lantern, however, is extremely dangerous. Without a moon in the sky, the stars yield hardly any light to help me see where I am walking. On the other hand, the added darkness will undoubtedly help me sneak into the resort. I move with extreme caution, grabbing hold of every scraggly bush or tree I can. Flat on my belly, I peer over the edge of the cliff down on the resort. From this vantage everything looks like a miniature set. Tiny spots of light indicate where torches burn. A few of the spots of light move from time to time. That would probably be Bob and Dean on their nightly patrol.
I tie one end of the rope around the base of a tree and tug on it several times to ensure it will support my weight and that the knot in the rope will hold. Lying flat on my belly, I inch to the edge. It is not a sheer drop, but rather an uneven precipice, with rocks and trees that jut into the void, and parts where the cliff pulls back like a man sucking in his gut. Gingerly, I turn around and crawl backwards down the cliff face, clinging to every tree, shrub, or stone along the way. Shirtless, sweat covers me. I cannot tell if it is from the strain of my exertion or my terror of falling. I uncoil the rope and climb down another few feet, dangling freely in the air for the first time. Taking a deep breath, I continue on, hand over hand, clinging to the cliff face when I can and hanging from the rope the rest of the time. Progress is slow and arduous. My hands ache. I reach a tree protruding from the cliff face. The tree trunk curves upward to catch the sun. The tree roots form a gnarled web fastening it to this precarious perch. I balance on the tree trunk, testing it first to ensure it will hold me, and gauge how far I descended. There is still so far to go. I am not even halfway down. I rest for a few minutes, and then resume the descent. I squint at my watch. An hour has gone by. This is taking much longer than I expected. Considering how difficult it is to descend the cliff, will I be able to climb back up? Furthermore, will Gwen be able to? I have serious doubts. What to do?
I am not turning back. Not now. Not with Gwen within shouting distance. I keep going until I come, quite literally, to the end of my rope. Dropping to the ground is out of the question. I am still at least forty feet off the ground. Fuck. What now? The cliff face draws away from me. I dangle in midair. The only way down (besides simply dropping to my death) is to climb down the remaining section of the cliff without the security of the rope. I reach for some of the shrubbery jutting out from the side of the cliff. It is too far. Grunting with effort, I spin aimlessly in space. My heart spasms at the thought that at any second the rope will snap. When the spinning subsides, I swing myself like a pendulum towards the face of the cliff. On several passes, I grab for whatever few shrubs and grasses grow from the cliff, but I cannot grip anything and swing back away. Finally, I grab the base of a shrub and hug the cliff face, breathing heavily.
Now I attempt to untie the rope from my waist, but as I do so, the shrub I hold onto suddenly tears free. I swing wildly from the cliff face, while the shrub and a torrent of dirt and stones, falls into the nature preserve below.
Petrified by how close I came to falling, I swing back and forth, arms flailing.
“Over here!” Someone yells. I recognize the voice as Dean’s.
I freeze above the canopy of trees and watch two torches weave through the nature preserve, coming my way. Bob and Dean stop directly below me. I look down on the tops of their heads. If they look up, they will see me.
“It came from over here,” Dean says with that baffled tone of voice he always has.
“I don’t see anything,” Bob gripes, slightly winded, and probably annoyed that Dean made him hustle to the site.
Dean waves his torch around, searching for an intruder in the undergrowth.
“I know I heard something…” Dean mumbles.
Please do not look up. Please do not look up.
Bob waves his torch in the other direction. “I don’t see anything here. Maybe you heard a bird.”
“That would have to be an awfully big bird.”
“I’m sure this island has all kinds of weird creatures,” Bob concludes, the tone of his voice making it obvious he has lost any interest in investigating the matter any further. “I’m heading back.”
Bob walks away. Dean wanders about a while longer, but finding nothing, and probably scared to be alone, he hurries after Bob. I am safe. They did not see me, but I still need to find a way down to the ground. Across from me is the top of a tree. Maybe I can climb down the tree, but first I have to reach it. I swing to the cliff face, and kick off, propelling towards the tree. It takes several tries of swinging back and forth, but I finally grab the top tree branches and hold on tight. The branches bend beneath my weight, but they hold. Hurriedly, I untie the rope and immediately race to the lower, sturdier branches of the tree. In minutes, I touch down on the ground.
The darkness covers me, allowing me to move without any risk of detection. With the stealth of a jaguar, I make my way to Gwen’s bungalow, tiptoe up the back steps and slip inside. Pausing near the entrance, I strain to hear any sound within the bungalow. It is silent. Gwen must be asleep. An image comes unbidden to my mind—that of Gwen, just down the short hall, nude, sleeping peacefully in Conner’s arms. No, I must not think that has happened. But what if it has? What if I find Conner and Gwen in bed together? Will I take the hatchet and split his skull open, or will I slowly retreat, leaving the resort never to return?
Have some faith, Phillip. Don’t succumb to the old doubts and insecurities. Not now. Gwen loves you. She believes Conner killed you. She would not leap into bed with him the very next day.
I pad towards the bed. It is empty. Neither Gwen nor Pamela is here. Where are they? I pray Conner has not killed them. No, he would not do that… at least not Gwen. So where is she?
I leave the bungalow as quietly as I entered it and make my way for Conner’s. On the way to Conner’s bungalow, keeping off the path and moving through the foliage, I pass the open restaurant area. A handful of torches glow in the restaurant. Peering under the wooden rail that encloses the area, I see a pair of slender, very shapely legs I immediately recognize as Gwen’s. She wears a one-piece dress and sits on the floor, hands behind her waist. She is bound to a pole. I cannot see her upper half. I crawl under the railing and under a long table covered by a tablecloth. I see Gwen fully now—head bowed, appearing to be asleep in that uncomfortable position. It enrages me to see her so mistreated.