Twenty-Three

I'm running for the house, and I've gone at least a hundred feet before I realize I can't reach Hemlock House this way. Not directly, at least, unless I want to wade across a storm-swollen creek raging with icy water. I either need to go back and around the way I came or continue on to the bridge that Kit and I built our first summer here. I glance over my shoulder. There's no sign of the man giving chase, but I can't see into the forest, and he might be ten feet behind me and running fast.

Keep going. I know this island. I know every inch of it. If he's behind me, I'll get away. I have the advantage.

Do I? If that's the guy who set all this up, then he's rented my island twice, maybe visited even more often. He could know it as well as I do.

He's not behind me—at least not right behind me—and that's all that matters.

I swerve north, away from the house. The bridge is up ahead over a patch of rock. Rock that's slick with dead leaves and pools of rainwater.

Another glance over my shoulder before I let myself slow down enough to get over that rock without falling. Then I'm at the bridge. As I cross, each footfall booms.

That bridge over the creek doesn't seem safe. Are you sure it's safe?

Little Billy jumped off that bridge into the creek and cut his foot on the rocks. Don't you realize what a temptation that is for children?

Why aren't there rails on that bridge? What if someone slips?

Voices of past renters ring in my ears, swirling with the rage of realizing a past renter did all this. Killed Nate. Mutilated his body. Hurt Sadie.

Fuck you. Fuck you all. You are never setting foot on my island again. This is mine, damn it. Mine.

"Not yours."

The whisper sets me stumbling as I hit the end of the bridge, and my ankle twists. My arms windmill as I get my balance and then whip around.

There's no one here. I'm surrounded by twenty feet of open rock on all sides.

A breeze snakes past, seeming to whisper as it does, making me give myself a shake. The wind is picking up, and I'm out here, panicked and alone and hearing voices.

I pause and look around again.

There's no sign of the man who'd been lying on the ground.

Could he have really been hurt?

Damn, I hope so.

Unless…

I wrap my arms around myself and stare back the way I came. Back in the direction of the man. I'd told myself it must be the person who staged all this. John Sinclair, Security Guy. Is that the only answer?

What about the Abbases? The couple who'd been frightened off the island?

No, it couldn't be them, because my boat was still at the Fox Bay dock.

What if they chartered another boat? Got someone to take them back to the island?

I remember the voice I heard on the phone. Dr. Abbas. A Middle Eastern accent, like his surname. The man I just fled from had dark hair and light brown skin.

Oh God.

What if that was Dr. Abbas?

I can't run back to him. I can't take that chance. I just need—

At a blur of motion, I wheel. It's off to my right, away from the house, heading up that bluff toward the gazebo. A figure striding in that direction. Dark skin. Short dark curls and a beard. Light gray hoodie.

"Kit!" I shout, but the wind whips my voice away.

I run toward him. Still going the other way, he breaks into a jog, and then a run, as if he's spotted something on that bluff. I shout louder, but he's too far to see me now.

I pick up speed. Soon I'm at the base of the bluff. The route Kit took is along the edge, and I'm ready to head up the trail and cut him off, but the dirt path is flooded and slick with mud. I pick my way over to his route. It's not as close to the edge as it seemed, and we use it all the time for the view. The rocks here are rough enough that they aren't rain-slick, and I climb easily. I'm nearly at the top when I spot something below.

A boat, tucked into a small bay.

I stop and stare down, as if at a mirage. Then I look up to where Kit disappeared. Is this what he saw? It must be, and he's taking the route down the other side. There's another path here, one I discovered on my own—a safe trail to that little bay, where I could sit on the rocks and write as the water crashed beneath my feet.

I start down. I'll meet Kit at the small bay, and we'll check the boat and pray it has keys. Hell, if it doesn't have keys, we'll grab oars and row it to shore.

From what I can see, it's a small fishing boat with a little motor that makes it undersized for Lake Superior, at least this far out. Does it belong to the people who staged this? They bought or rented this little boat to sneak onto the island? Probably. All that matters now is that it's ours. Our way back.

I'm almost to the bottom when I stop.

There's something dark in the bottom of the boat. I squint down at a spot on the stern. A big dark patch.

I take two more steps along the ledge and then bend to peer down at the boat.

That's not a black spot. It's water. The boat is listing to one side, and the port side of the stern is filled with water. I climb down to the next ledge, and from that spot, there's no mistaking what I'm seeing: a gaping hole in the metal. When I take yet another step, I can see it's more than a hole. There's a rip through the metal all along the port side, with a hole at the stern, as if someone tore along it with the giant can opener.

Rocks tumble down across from me, and I look up, expecting to see Kit having come down the opposite route. It's just a squirrel, peering at me before racing back along the path.

I stand and look for Kit, but there's no sign of him. Is he not down yet? Or did he already see what I did?

I turn around and trudge back up the bluff.

Another boat destroyed. Another way off the island gone.

I speculated that it belonged to the couple who staged this. But they wouldn't trap themselves on this island.

Unless they didn't mean to. What happened to my boats was catastrophic. This is a rip in the hull, the sort you get when you take a tiny metal boat too close to sharp rocks.

Any other time, I'd be chuckling at the irony of that. They trapped us… and got trapped with us. Right now, though, all I can think is that I've lost a chance to get to shore. What if it was damaged after they moored it? What if we'd found the boat sooner? What if I'd looked down when I'd been here in the wee hours of the morning?

I stop short at the top of the bluff. Something sways at the periphery of my vision, and it rockets me back to when I'd come up this hill and seen what looked like a wind chime on the gazebo. Tiny objects swirling on strings, clacking like bamboo wind chimes.

I catch the same motion, and I freeze, my heart hammering with the remembered horror of what I'd seen, that moment of revulsion and fear before my rational brain took over and said it was just feathers and animal bones.

Feathers and animal bones. That's what I remind myself as I turn. If there is something there, that's what it will be, and there might not be anything. A trick of the light. Distant movement of branches behind the gazebo. There could be nothing—

There's something there. In the exact same place where that macabre wind chime had hung. It's another wind chime. Or it seems to be. The last had been constructed of perfectly sized branches, equally spaced and tied with red yarn. Now, knowing what we suspect, I picture Rachel Rossi—or her assistant, more likely—sitting at a desk with a pile of supplies from the nearest craft store, constructing the perfect "outdoorsy" wind chime frame, and then adding the bones to make it appropriately spooky.

This one is different. This one looks like it was made by a kid at summer camp, forced to participate in the daily craft, slapping together something that vaguely approximates a wind chime frame. Randomly sized sticks, still shaggy with tree bark, lashed haphazardly together.

John and Rachel, stranded on my damn island, frantically trying to use the time to scare us even more, forced to build with whatever they have at hand. The "string" hanging from each arm of the chime looks like… kelp? It's thick and white.

As for what they used as chimes… Minnows? Or at least the ones I can see from this angle seem to be minnows. Long and thin and pale. On the far side, they've strung something heavier, making the whole thing tilt, weighed down.

I shake my head. Is that supposed to scare me? Fish tied to seaweed? It makes me wonder whether Sadie isn't the only one who bumped her head.

I continue on, not bothering to get closer to the gazebo. I don't need a closer look at that wind chime. I need to get Kit up here and tell him about the man I saw and decide what to do. If it's John Sinclair and he's actually hurt, I don't give a shit. If it's Dr. Abbas, that's a whole different thing.

I jog to the main path down to my cove. There's no sign of Kit. I frown and peer over the side, where I can see the entire route. He isn't there.

I pause and look around. Where else would he have gone?

I haven't seen him since he disappeared heading up toward the gazebo, when I presumed he headed down the other bluff path. I haven't heard him either. The wind whips around me, but it's not so loud that I shouldn't have heard him make a sound—or that he wouldn't have heard me.

"Kit?" I say. Then, louder, "Kit!"

The wind seems to slide across the back of my neck, ice cold. I hear Sadie's voice earlier, saying she'd seen Kit outside her window last night, that he'd beckoned her down, motioned for her to leave with him. I remember Kit's bewilderment. That wasn't him. I know it wasn't him.

So what did I just see?

Kit leading me up here, onto this bluff, toward the gazebo.

Leading me away from the house.

I whirl and run. I get two steps before movement flickers to my right. It's the wind chimes. The damned—

I stop, feet nearly flying out from under me. I'm on the other side of the chimes now, closer to them, out of the glare of the overcast skies. I'm staring at the minnows tied to the end of the strings of kelp. From the other angle, they'd seemed gray, almost silvery. From this one, they are pink and white, with red tips.

I take a slow step, my gaze fixed on those chimes. With each step, my brain screams for me to run. Just run. Tell myself they are minnows, and get the hell out of here.

I can't do that. I must know what I'm seeing. I must confirm what I think I'm seeing.

I stop as the smell hits me. The stink of rot. My hand flies to my mouth as my gorge rises.

They aren't minnows. They're long, thin, pale fingers with red nail polish. A woman's fingers, ragged, as if ripped off—

I double over, choking on bile. Then I grit my teeth. I need to get back to the house. I brush my hair back as I straighten, and I train my gaze past the fingers, not seeing them, not thinking about them. Move past the chimes and see only the frame—

My hand slams to my mouth as a scream bubbles up in me. I stare, unable to wrench my gaze away, as much as my brain shrieks for me to do exactly that. Don't see. Don't think. Don't process. Don't even try to understand what I am seeing.

I'm looking at the frame of the wind chimes. From a distance, I'd seen rough-hewn sticks covered in dark bark. They are not sticks. They are ribs. Rib bones, streaked with blood and dotted with gore. And the pale kelp hanging from the end of those ribs? It's intestines.

My brain keeps shrieking at me. Telling me I am not seeing what I am seeing. It's sticks and kelp and minnows.

Kelp? Minnows? What the hell kind of sense does that make?

What kind of sense does this make?

I am looking at the remains of a woman. I know that. There is not one second when I can honestly tell myself I'm imagining this. A woman has died, and I am seeing what is left of her.

Partof what is left.

Another image flashes. That bloodied hair on Sadie's pillow. Not her hair. We'd told ourselves it might be Nate's but now I know it is not.

Get back to the house.

Get back to the house now.

I can't move. I'm rooted to this spot, staring at this thing. This thing that used to be a woman.

I don't understand. I do not understand, and I don't want to understand. I don't know who this woman is. I don't want to think of what happened to her. I cannot comprehend what kind of person did this to her. I only know that I need to get back to the house, because whoever did this to her is out here.

Get back to the goddamned house, Laney!

I can't move. I can't—

Madison! Madison is in the house, and you have to get back to her. Get back and put her someplace safe, make absolutely certain she does not set foot outside. Get in the house and lock the doors and stay there. Just stay there until someone realizes you're all missing and comes for you.

Get to Madison.

Take care of Madison.

That's what finally does it. I think of Madison, and the spell breaks, and I'm turning—

One of the fingers moves.

No. It's the wind. Just the wind. Now move—

There is no wind. It's gone. Completely gone, leaving the bluff in still silence.

I turn toward the wind chimes. One finger twitches. I stare at it. Then I step toward it.

What the hell? What the absolute fucking hell are you doing, Laney?

I need to know. I need to understand, because if there is a chance—even the faintest chance—that I am actually seeing that finger move, without wind or insects or any plausible explanation, then it is not a person who did this.

Not a person? What, an animal attacked her and crafted this thing?

No. Not an animal. Not a person. A thing. Something—

Are you hearing yourself? Something?

I silence the screaming voice. I know what I have seen today. I saw Nate move. I saw Kit where Kit could not have been. I saw Sadie running with bone sticking through her flesh. I heard that voice coming from her. I felt those fingers digging into my arms.

Now I am seeing a severed finger move, and I am damned well not leaving until I am sure.

But Madison—

I cannot protect Madison if I don't know what I'm facing.

The finger has gone still. I count to three, and nothing happens. There. I really was just seeing it move in a stray breeze. I can get back to—

The finger curls up at the joint and then falls again. Up and down, as if it is trying to claw the air, slowly and rhythmically.

Like the man lying on the ground.

I'm stepping back when another finger moves, in that same slow clawing. Then another, and another, and I'm tripping over my feet to get away, backpedaling as fast as I can. When I stumble over a rock, I look down to see the circle I'd noticed in the early hours of the morning, when I'd been out with Jayla, before I fell into the crevice. The roughly drawn circle with hatches. The circle drawn in blood. What seemed to be stick figures of two people. A man and woman, holding hands.

I'm backing away from it when I spot something in the long grass behind the circle. My brain says that something is missing. I take a moment, and then I remember there used to be a spindly tree here. We'd always joked about its tenacity, growing in such an inhospitable place. A lone strip of earth that spawned both a tree and a patch of tall grass. Now the tree is gone, but I can make out the stump of it behind the grass. The stump, and something else.

I pull back the grass, and my knees give way. I drop to the rocky ground, the pain barely registering as I stare at the head of a woman. A head jammed onto the remains of that thin tree stump.

She's facing me, her eyes thankfully shut. She has dark hair. Dark hair like the bloody clump left on the pillow, and I can see where that clump and more was ripped from her scalp.

She's white, maybe in her forties. Her head has been ripped from her body, ragged bits of flesh hanging down. I look at her, and I know I should be heaving everything from my stomach, but all I can feel is horror and pity.

Who are you? What the hell happened—

Her eyelids open.