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“So, how was the hen party?” Walter smiled at the nervous young woman climbing in the passenger seat of his truck. He picked her up a block from Gertie’s house after she stepped out of a shrub. Behind her, Fortune waved at him and then disappeared.
Mercy didn’t reply. After settling, she gripped Ida Belle’s backpack tightly and craned her head to look out the back window.
“There’s no one behind us except Fortune. You won’t see her. And no one will make it past her,” he quietly assured her.
“Ida Belle mentioned her law enforcement background.” Mercy relaxed slightly at Walter’s confident tone of voice and his assertion that Fortune had their backs. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and asked, “What did you say when I got in?”
“I asked how Gertie’s party went. I’ll wager it’s been a long time since any Catholic ladies crossed her threshold. But it sounds like she had a full house.”
“She ran out of places to seat them. I’m sure Francine’s dessert had something to do with the turnout,” Mercy said. “But I got the impression the ladies were disappointed it wasn’t banana pudding. I think Gertie may have misled them.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Walter said as he checked his rearview mirror and parked the vehicle after the short drive. He came around to the passenger door and took the backpack before helping her out. “Follow me.” He led her across a short stretch of land to a boat pulled up onto the shore. “Stay back from the water’s edge,” he warned after tossing the backpack into the boat.
Mercy scrambled across the front of the small craft and landed next to the bag while Walter untied the boat and gave it a push before hopping on. He moved past Mercy and took the seat at the back to operate the motor, heading into the bayou at a slow pace. Once the shore behind them was out of sight, he turned on the boat’s running lights and set out for the island. As they traveled, he told Mercy the story Fortune was using to cover her real CIA background.
“Well, that explains a lot,” Mercy said. “How long has she lived in Sinful?”
Walter made small talk and Mercy relaxed as the boat moved through the water. Eventually, he slowed the motor.
“What’s that smell?” Mercy wheezed, holding her hand over her nose as they approached the dark land mass. “Did something die?”
“They told you about Number Two, didn’t they? I assumed you knew since you’re wearing boots.” Walter let off the throttle and eased the front of the boat to the muddy shore. He crossed her and jumped out the front, pulling the boat a little before securing it to a pylon. He held a flashlight and waited for Mercy and the bag. “Come on,” he urged.
“Something’s wrong with this place,” Mercy said, pinching her nose. “I can’t stay here.”
“Sure you can. You’ll get used to it,” Walter said as he wiggled his fingers. Mercy reluctantly tossed the bag and then accepted his help to get out of the boat.
She tapped his arm, her eyes huge with dismay. “So Number Two got its name—”
“Because it smells like the dumping ground for portable toilets.” He gave her a puzzled look. “You didn’t know this?” She shook her head, and he said, “I’d have brought menthol rub if I’d known. A little dab between the upper lip and nose helps cover the odor.”
“Why would anyone have a camp here?” Mercy followed as he took her bag and led the way. “This is like a penal colony, the kind that civilized countries outlaw.”
“The fishing is good, and I’m pretty sure most of the fellas who have camps here just come to get away from their wives,” Walter explained.
As they walked, all she could see was trees, but eventually Walter slowed as a large dark shape loomed in front of them. His flashlight revealed the rough exterior of a building that he identified as his camp. He opened the door, and Mercy swallowed hard, forcing herself to remember the situation in Sinful. And Walter wouldn’t bring her here if it wasn’t safe, would he?
Inside, Walter lit a kerosene lamp, and she saw it wasn’t as bad as she had feared. The building was sound, though probably not totally waterproof. Along one wall was a cot covered with a sheet, which he removed to reveal neatly folded bedding. Mercy saw a small table with a crate for seating next to a shelving unit which held a variety of items; canned food, basic utensils, a first aid kit, bug spray, and a package of toilet paper.
Her brow furrowed when she spotted the TP. Where was she going to use that? Yikes! Where was she going to go? Walter saw her expression and chuckled. Then he showed her a five-gallon bucket he had converted into a portable toilet. It had a seat with a lid, a plastic liner, and kitty litter inside the liner. She gave him a toothy grin after checking it out.
“Don’t forget the bug spray,” he said.
“I sprayed before we came,” she told him. “But I’ll put on more before I go to bed.”
He rubbed his neck and turned red. “Uh, I mean—”
Her dark eyes got big, and she glanced at the makeshift toilet. “Oh-h-h. Heh, heh. I didn’t think about that.” Note to self—spray your bottom with bug stuff ASAP.
“You will if a mosquito bites your bum,” he warned. “And don’t wander off to explore. It’s not a big island, but you could still get lost or suffer dehydration.”
“Is there a walkie-talkie or something?” she asked. “I’m a little nervous being out here by myself.”
“We’re out of range, but don’t worry.” Walter patted her hand. “There’s no need to leave my camp, and while it’s not the epitome of comfort, you have everything you need. And I showed you how to use the emergency flares.” His brows lowered. “You realize breaking a nail isn’t an emergency, don’t you?”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “Sunburn doesn’t count?”
He grinned. “Just make sure you have a good reason to use one, because Ida Belle won’t be happy if she rushes out here to find you stubbed your toe. I’m heading back now.”
She shyly patted his arm. “Thank you for saving my life.”
He looked pleased but brushed it off. “I don’t know about that, but when someone shoots at pretty women, I can’t sit by and do nothing.” With that he left and shut the door behind him.
Mercy closed her eyes and counted until she was sure Walter had time to reach the boat and leave. It was her way of ensuring she wouldn’t run after him and make a fool of herself by begging him not to leave her alone on a deserted island.
Aloud she said, “I wonder if this is how everyone on the SS Minnow felt when their three-hour tour left them stranded.” Then she mentally slapped herself. “They didn’t have ready provisions, dummy.” Don’t be an idiot! “Well, I can’t help it because they at least had each other to talk to!” Yes, but you don’t notice the smell, anymore, right? Grr, now I do—thanks for that.
Mercy quickly realized the need to quiet her wild thoughts, lest she drive herself crazy. She discovered Walter had a couple books and a deck of cards, so she sat at the table and played solitaire until her bottom was sore. And that reminded her of the insect spray. Grabbing the can, she aimed the spray down the seat of her pants and wiggled her bottom to spread it around. There, that was better.
After seeing what Ida Belle kept in the backpack, she made the bed and hooked a mosquito net on wall splinters, draping it over the bed frame. It wasn’t pretty, but it would do. Beads of sweat rolled down her back, and Mercy wondered if she would ever adjust to the heat and humidity.
With a yawn, she grabbed a water pouch and flashlight from Ida Belle’s kit before diving under the mosquito net still wearing her clothes. It was impossible to get comfortable, and every whisper of breeze, creaking board, flutter of leaves, and buzzing insect distracted her. Two hours later, the water pouch was empty and she still couldn’t sleep. When streaks of early morning light came through the cracks in the cabin, she dozed off.
***
Mercy woke herself up with a snort, her mouth hanging open and drool running down her cheek. She groaned and wondered what time it was, reaching for the edge of the mosquito net to lift it. And then she heard it—the noise. Unless Walter was wrong, and there were animals on the island, what she heard was someone moving toward the cabin. Maybe Ida Belle and Gertie were checking on her like they had promised.
She rolled out of bed and found the small battery operated clock from Ida Belle’s bag. It was nearly ten, and she didn’t expect them so soon. Not that she was complaining. Perhaps they had come to tell her everything was okay and she could go home.
The cracking and snapping became louder, and Mercy threw open the door, prepared to welcome her rescuers. Except no one was there. Then she saw a shadowy figure moving through the trees and the sun glinted off the object in his hand. It was shiny and—shiny? Like a gun! Somehow the sniper had found her and by the time her friends arrived, it would be too late.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she looked around desperately. The cabin was a death trap, so there was no choice but to run and find a place to hide. She took one last look at the pursuer before tearing out through the trees behind Walter’s cabin.
Mercy paid no mind to her bruised feet or the branches that scratched her face and arms as she ran. Even the thought of poison ivy didn’t stop her progress as she weaved through the trees, hoping her pursuer was as clueless about the island’s geography as she was.
Sweat poured down her face and body, and still she ran, passing other camps along the way. None of them offered safety, and she wondered if there was any place on the island she could hide, like a hollow log or leaf filled pit. But she saw nothing except more trees, mud, and scattered camps.
Just when she thought her lungs would explode, she tripped and fell headlong into a mud hole, raising her head from the slime with a gasp of shock. She briefly wondered if she could hide there before she came to her senses and crawled out. Standing, Mercy tried to wipe the thick dark goo from her body, but a crash behind her made her pivot. She tripped on a tree root and fell.
By the time she quit rolling, Mercy was no longer on the ridge where she had been standing, but a dozen yards away. Under other circumstances, she’d either curse or laugh, but not now. From her position on the ground she saw the man closer this time, bobbing back and forth as he searched for her. Suddenly, he paused.
He spotted you! Mercy hoped she was wrong and that he’d move on, but he didn’t, so she got to her feet and slowly raised her arms in surrender. Then he screamed. Surprised, she screamed. They stared at each other, then each of them ran. Mercy vaulted a fallen tree and didn’t look back. She kept moving until she was out of adrenaline, finally collapsing against a small shack. She decided if he caught up to her, she’d just let him put her out of her misery.
It took a while to regain her breath, and even longer to realize he hadn’t pursued her. Why? She rubbed her forehead and felt the crumbs of dried mud, twigs, and leaves stuck to her. Then she looked down at her body and saw it wasn’t any better.
Knowing she’d never find her way back to Walter’s cabin, she forced the old plywood covering the shack doorway. Whoever owned this place didn’t have Walter’s tidiness or his forethought. The supplies were limited, but she found a can opener and helped herself to a can of peaches before sitting down to assess her situation. That just depressed her, so she flopped back on the bare cot and hoped the mud would keep the bugs away. Then she decided slapping bugs would at least be a distraction from waiting for help to arrive so she paced and waited. She lay down and waited. She looked out the open doorway and waited. She circled the cabin and waited.
“Where the hell are you?” she eventually shouted in frustration. When someone replied, “Right here,” she screamed in terror. He was back!
“Oh, my God! Do those lungs come with a warning?”
Mercy whirled around, wearing a scowl. Why him? Aren’t things bad enough?
“Cat got your tongue?” Spence asked. “Or is it just covered in—what are you covered with?”
“Why are you here?” Mercy scowled, sending sprinkles of debris down her face when the mud cracked.
Spencer tipped his head and stepped back to examine her. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Mercy looked down at the mud caked to her clothes and arms. “Yeah, about this?” She waved her arm dismissively. “I can explain.”
“Sunbathing gone wrong?”
“Sunbathing?” she exclaimed. “Hardly! I’m wearing my clothes.”
“So that’s not—never mind.” Spence took a whistle from his pocket and gave a loud blast.
“Why did you do that?” she asked. “What if he returns? I hope you brought a gun.”
“I signaled so the rescue team can quit looking for you. And of course, I have a gun. So tell me—do you always dress like that for company?” he drawled.
“This isn’t funny,” she said. “The hitman tracked me down out here, and I had to run for my life.”
“Mercy, there was no hitman, just a local resident who decided he needed a few days away from his wife,” he explained. “But I guess it explains why Walter’s camp was empty when Ida Belle and Gertie came to check on you not long ago.”
“A local resident was here?” she yelled. “No one else is supposed to be on this island!”
“I’m sure he thought the same thing,” he said. Dropping the backpack, Spencer moved the plywood over the door and secured it. He reached for the bag and paused when he saw her bare feet. “You weren’t kidding about running, were you?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a bottle of water from the bag and handed it to her.
Mercy drained the bottle and wiped her mouth with her arm. Then she made a face and pushed her gritty tongue between her teeth. “I forgot about the mud.”
His brows rose as he pointed and said, “This way.”
Mercy shook her head and waved for him to take the lead while she followed and tried not to yell. Her bruised feet felt like battered bananas, the brown ones marked down to rock-bottom prices and whose final destination was a dumpster. She limped and hobbled, falling farther behind Spencer as he continued ahead of her. Eventually, she stopped to rest her feet.
“Here.” The bag landed with a thump next to her, and she looked up to see he’d come back.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Put on the backpack, because I can’t carry you both,” he said.
Mercy hesitated. Did he just say carry?
“You’re a little big to carry like a baby. So either you walk or ride piggyback.” His blue eyes sparkled mischievously, but Mercy felt foolish.
“Uhm, I’m a little dirty.”
“I noticed.” He picked up the bag and put it over her shoulders before crouching. “Come on, what are you waiting for?” He angled his head back at her hesitation. “Or is this too lowbrow for you?”
That made her snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Yeah, me too. But I don’t think it’s something you need to practice. Now hop on, Mercy, or the rescue team will come looking for both of us.”
She cautiously climbed onto his back, and he stood while she gripped his shoulders. He shifted her weight, and she worried he might drop her, but then he settled. “All set?”
Mercy nodded with her head close to his. Twenty minutes later, he paused for a break and let her down. “Just how much do you weigh?” he asked after catching his breath and sipping water.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked indignantly. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“It’s hard to tell with all that mud you’re wearing. But now I understand why your feet took such a beating,” he remarked.
“Well—well, blame it on Francine,” she huffed.
“She doesn’t serve salads?”
Mercy laughed. “Who eats salad when the menu is like a symphony of fat, sugar, and carbs, all playing my favorite song?”
“Just one?”
“It’s more like a Top 40 playlist, with all my favorites.” She sighed dreamily, lost in the thought of Francine’s cooking. Fried chicken, macaroni and cheese—Spence cleared his throat, and she shook her head. “What?”
“Are you ready or do you plan to keep daydreaming?” He turned and crouched.
She hopped onto his back and shifted her weight until she felt settled. Humph! She didn’t weigh that much. Beneath her, Spencer chuckled, and she growled, “Keep laughing, because now you’re hauling my ass all the way to the boat.”
“It might be dragging on the ground by the time we get there.”
“You think my butt droops?” Her grip tightened ominously.
Again, she felt him shake with laughter, and she grabbed a fistful of his dark hair. She gave it a tug after he said, “I just meant you might slip off by then. Because of the mud.”
“Uh, huh. You might be bald by then,” she threatened.
“I’ll hide the spot with mud. It covers a multitude of sins.”
Her arms moved from his shoulders to his neck, and she squeezed it. “Would you care to repeat that?”
“No,” he wheezed, and she released his throat.
“Home, Monty. Or to Walter’s camp, at least,” she commanded. He didn’t budge, so she added, “Please.”
“Please what?” he demanded.
“Spencer.” She grinned, knowing he hated being called Monty.
“That’s better.”