25

It takes both Ben and Anthony to pull Mads back up to his feet. He can barely do it. When he tries putting weight on his injured leg, he nearly collapses to the ground. Between them, the two men manage to keep him upright. “My knee,” Mads gasps. His whole body convulses, and his pain vibrates in his voice. “I can’t—”

“Focus, Mads,” Anthony tells him, his voice strained, too, as he practically carries him up the porch stairs. Ben grunts as Mads lurches into him.

“I can’t,” Mads says, shaking his head. The color drains from his face so quickly, it looks like he’s going to faint. He needs medical care. A hospital.

Anthony tightens his grip around his waist as he maneuvers him inside. “Don’t black out,” he says. “Just a few more steps.” Then, once he deposits him on the couch: “What does the pain feel like?”

Mads practically wails as he lifts the injured leg onto the pillows. “It hurts,” he says.

“We’ll get you some ice,” Ben tells him, trying to sound soothing, but he’s out of breath from the exertion, and his voice comes out irritated.

Mads sweats like he’s run a marathon. Veins bulge in his forehead. Purple splotches color his face. His eyes roll, reminding me of a wounded horse. When he finally examines the injury, he lets out another howl. The wounded joint doesn’t look like a knee. It’s an angry, throbbing, swollen sac of flesh dividing his calf from his thigh. “We have to—,” he starts. Then: “Doctor.” He directs those rolling eyes at Anthony. “I need a doctor, man.” And then at me, when Anthony doesn’t respond: “Tell him, Betty. I need a doctor. He’s got to get me to a hospital.”

Ben returns from the kitchen with a couple packs of frozen peas. “Here,” he says, shoving them into Mads’s hands. When he starts to rearrange the pillows under Mads’s knee, Mads doesn’t just flinch. He bucks, then grabs Ben by the collar and gives him a shove.

“Bro,” Ben whines. “I’m just trying to help.”

“These aren’t even frozen,” Mads barks, tossing the peas back at Ben. “And don’t touch me. This is bad, Ben.” He’s hyperventilating, but he manages to slow himself down. “Real bad. I’m fucked.”

I’ve lost track of Anthony. I can’t do anything except stare at Mads. There’s blood trickling down his neck, from a small wound above his ear. Probably from a sharp piece of gravel when Sammy brought him crashing to the ground. Tears stain his cheeks. He’s trembling with the pain. But I don’t think he’s in a state of shock. To me, he looks scared. I don’t think he will be able to walk out of here. That is, if and when we do manage to leave. Sammy stranded us here, on this island, deliberately, with no boat. Our phone line is down, our cell phones don’t work. Mads isn’t alone. I’m scared, too.

I walk down the hallway to Anthony’s room. I grab the phone, hold it up to my ear, praying for a dial tone. I feel as though I could will the device back to life. But there’s only silence, and the faint echo of Mads’s heavy breathing down the hall. I crumple onto the mattress, cradling my head in my hands. Don’t worry, Sammy had said. I’ll be back. A shiver climbs my spine. He’s not finished with us yet.

Outside, the storm has settled all around us. Rain finally begins to fall, plunking down in thick, rhythmic drops on the roof at first, then lashing the sides of the house in bursts of wind that rattle the windows and even the shingles, before crashing down on us in a torrent. The thick wall of trees surrounding the house reverberates with different tones that sound almost like notes blown from the pipes of an old cathedral organ. I lie back on Anthony’s bed and close my eyes. I’m not tired, but sleep begins to overtake me anyway. It’s another means of escape, I guess. And that’s all I want right now, to find a way off this island.

“Don’t!” Ben’s voice pierces through the house, like a lightning bolt, jolting me awake. There’s a flurry of rustling, of pained gasps and venomous whispers. Something crashes to the floor and Ben shouts: “Anthony!”

Footsteps thunder down the hall, punctuated by an odd clattering thunk for every second step. Ben’s voice gets closer. “Don’t, Mads. You’ll—”

“Get out of my way,” Mads tells him. They’re right outside the door. “I need to talk to Anthony.”

My head is still reeling from the surprise. I take a deep, shuddering breath and push myself up. In the hallway, I find Mads, leaning heavily on an upturned broom, which he’s using as a makeshift crutch, one hand steadying himself on the wall, face red from exertion. Ben is behind him, practically in tears. He can see how much pain Mads is in. He knows he shouldn’t be on his feet. But he’s helpless. Even in this, there’s nothing he can do.

By the time Anthony emerges from the office, the color is draining from Mads’s face again. “You need to lie back down,” Anthony tells him.

“What I need,” Mads says, “is to get off this island. Now, Anthony. What I need is to see a doctor.”

The lights flicker as the wind roars overhead. Behind Mads, Ben glances up at the ceiling, like he’s worried it will fall down on him. Anthony, though, only sighs. “What do you want me to do about it?” he asks Mads. “We can’t get out of here until the storm has passed. We don’t have any way to call the mainland, and even if we could, we wouldn’t be able to make it across the channel.” His voice is so calm, I know he’s faking it, and I feel goose bumps prick my arms and tickle the back of my neck.

It hadn’t yet occurred to me: He’s scared, too. Anthony Marino is scared. There’s something magical about him. So long as Anthony Marino was here, so long as I was stranded here with this larger-than-life director, it’s felt to me as if nothing bad could happen. Not to me. Not to any of us. Nothing fatal, at least. He had everything under control. But it turns out he’s not larger-than-life after all. He’s in over his head, too, like the rest of us. Scared to death of this situation he’s created. This beast he’s poked, who’s now out there somewhere, circling, figuring out how to attack us.

Mads sticks a finger in Anthony’s face. “You get me off this island,” he says. “I swear to God, Anthony, you get me out of here. Now. That psycho broke my goddamned leg.”

Anthony splays his hands. “Mads, I—”

“No,” Mads says. “He wrecked my knee.” The anger leaks from his voice. “Don’t you understand what that means? I can’t help you. I can’t do anything. I can’t protect Betty if he decides he doesn’t need to ask her permission to take her off this island. I can’t even walk without this goddamn broom.” He shifts his weight off it, then swings it against the wall with a thwack that makes Anthony wince. “The movie is over, Anthony. Done.”

Ben nods his head solemnly. “He’s right, Anthony.”

“I want off this island,” Mads continues.

Ben’s voice chimes in again, softer. “He’s right.”

“Before he comes back. Do you hear me?”

“He’s not going to—,” Anthony starts, but it doesn’t seem like he can convince even himself. He runs both hands through his hair. “It’s not my fault,” he says. Then, so quietly I can barely hear him: “You knew what you were signing up for.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mads continues. “You’re not that clueless, right? Don’t you see what’s happening here? This guy is fucked-up. He wants to hurt you.”

“He sabotaged the boat,” Ben says. Mads tries to turn around, to catch Ben’s eye, but the pain won’t let him. His knee isn’t the only injury he sustained in that fight. He landed straight on his spine, on a bed of gravel. I saw the bruises. He’s having trouble breathing, like his ribs might be broken. I don’t know how he can still stand.

“What makes you say that?” Mads asks. “Ben? What are you saying, man?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ben retorts. To Anthony: “There was no problem with the motor on the way over to the mainland.”

My own voice surprises me. “He probably cut the phone line, too.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Anthony says. But his eyes are on mine, too wide. Wounded. Like I’ve turned against him, and he never, ever imagined I would. “You’re giving him too much credit.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I’m not. This is what you wanted, Anthony. To rile him up. To turn him into a monster. And now—” A wave of dizziness washes over me. This is too much to bear. I can’t shake the image of Sammy’s grim smile. That promise. Don’t worry. I’ll be back. How he so effortlessly destroyed Mads. Those bulbous eyes on me. The genuine pain he felt when I rejected him. What is he going to do when he comes back? Mads is wrong about one thing. It’s me he’s after. Not Anthony. I can feel it.

“We can’t turn on each other,” Anthony says, trying to regain some control over the group. “Mads, you have to lie down. He didn’t break your leg. He twisted your knee. Right now there’s nothing we can do, except the obvious, which is what a doctor would probably tell you anyway. Ice and elevate. So that’s what we’ll do.” To Ben: “We can’t fall apart here. We’re going to hunker down. Wait out the storm. Everything will feel better tomorrow, when the sun is out.” Then, finally, to me: “It’ll be okay.” It looks like the energy has drained out of him, all at once, like a leaky balloon.

“Jesus,” Mads says. He’s angry. He’s been angry. But there’s something else in this exclamation that demands our attention, and all three of us raise our eyes to look at him. He’s had an epiphany, and it’s winded him.

“What?” Anthony finally prods him.

“You’re still thinking about the movie,” Mads says, gawking at him. His face is as white as a sheet. I don’t want to believe him at first, because the accusation is too ugly. But then I catch Anthony’s reaction—his own cheeks color, and if only for an instant, his gaze flickers to the floor—and I realize Mads is right. This is precisely what Anthony wanted. The cameras are still rolling. This chaos, this uncertainty, this moment of crisis when no one knows what will happen next or whether we will even survive another night—this—is the film Anthony plotted. This is Fear.

“Don’t be crazy,” Ben says, putting a hand on Mads’s shoulder.

“Panicking isn’t going to help,” Anthony tells him.

“Isn’t that what you want?” Mads counters. He’s looking at Anthony like he’s never seen him before. “For us to panic?”

“We have to keep our heads,” Anthony says. “Work together.”

Mads shakes his head. “You’re insane,” he says finally. Like he means it, literally. “You know that? You know what you’ve done, Anthony? You’ve ruined my career. You’ve hurt me, okay? This is over. It’s bullshit. I don’t want anything more to do with it.”

Ben puts a hand on his shoulder again, and then, when Mads lets him, he grabs his side. “Let’s go, dude,” he says, pulling him away. He shoots Anthony an unreadable glance, but then he has to concentrate on shepherding the large man down the hallway.

When we’re alone, in the dark hallway, listening to Ben’s reassuring murmurs, Anthony turns to me. “Betty,” he begins, like he’s pleading with me. “It isn’t like—”

“Don’t,” I tell him, interrupting him. I step away from him before he can reach for me. “I have to think.”

Suddenly, he looks like the fourteen-year-old I saw on film. Vulnerable. Out of his depth.

I have to turn away. This is the first time he has needed me more than I need him. But right now I can’t deal with this. I’m overwhelmed. I can’t just fall into his arms and pretend like nothing has happened today. Or that nothing will happen later, whenever Sammy decides to exact his revenge. Because that is what is actually going on here. As much as I want to believe this is about Anthony, the real star of this movie is Sammy. And he’s coming back. I need space. I need to think. To clear my head. I need to remind myself exactly who I am in all this.

“Wait,” Anthony says, stopping me in place. I’m already halfway down the hall. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back,” I say automatically, and my blood runs cold. I speak quickly, as if to erase my own echo of Sammy’s words from the air. “I’m going to shower in my cottage. And then we can talk.” Before he can respond, I hurry down the hallway, then through the living room, ignoring Ben and Mads, who are huddled on the couch like two kids on time-out, into the kitchen, to the back door. When my hand connects with the doorknob, I hesitate. It feels for an instant as if I must be dreaming, as if the ocean will flood into the house the second I crack the door. The storm howls. There’s so much water on the window I can’t see outside. I’m the type of person who runs away. I ran away from home. I ran away from Mom, all the way out here. And now the only place I can run to here is the cottage. Upon this threshold, in between the safety and comfort of the main house and the maelstrom outside, between Anthony and my own fears, I wonder, briefly, what it would be like if I were different. If I were braver. If I could just turn around and go to Anthony and help him. The way he wants me to. The way I want to. But the moment passes, and I twist the knob, and dash into the rush of wind and rain and hail and freedom.

When I finally reach the cottage, I’m soaked to the bone. The trees above and around me rattle and sway, as fluid as marionettes dancing on their loose joints. I yank the door open and step inside, letting a blast of water and cold air into the small cabin. I’m charging toward the bathroom, to get out of my wet clothes. I can’t wait to be under the warm spray in the shower. But I come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room. Rainwater drips to the floor beneath me, pooling like drops of blood in the shadows. I don’t know what has stopped me. Maybe it’s the smell in here, which I don’t immediately recognize. Like seaweed and brine. Maybe it’s the trail of dark footprints on the wooden floor, which don’t belong to me. My heart pounds in my chest so hard, it feels as if I’m going to faint. Blood pulses through my ears with the steady roar of a freight train. Out of the corner of my eye, without turning my head, I begin to make sense of the bundle of shapes in the corner.

It’s exactly like my dream. And for a second, I wonder if I really am asleep. If I am back in Anthony’s bed, curled in his arms, unaware of this particular nightmare now waiting for me. If this were a dream, though, I would know what to do. I would cleave my tongue from the roof of my mouth, wet my lips, and say, softly, “Dad?”

But this isn’t a dream. Because in my dreams, the silhouette beside me cannot approach me. And I’m paralyzed. The single thing I am able to do is reconstruct this silhouette. Not into a ghost this time. But a man. Despite how dim the light is, I’m able to discern his features. I know this face so well now. I wish I didn’t. But I do. The eyes especially. Those sad, all-seeing, unblinking, reptilian eyes. Those desperate, those hungry eyes.

“Sammy,” I say, in barely more than a whisper. Sammy.