45

Finney called an early end to the card game and ran everyone out of his condo by eleven. He couldn’t help glancing up at the cameras a time or two as he got ready for bed. He put on his baggy nylon swim shorts and took off his T-shirt. He grabbed a cigar and padded out to his patio, where he kicked back in a lounger and lit up.

Finney estimated the temperature to be about seventy-five or eighty, with a warm southeasterly wind that was in the ten- to fifteen-knot range. The moon was nearly full, reflecting off the ocean to illuminate the night, along with who knew how many billions of stars. This would be a nearly perfect night for visibility . . . which could cut both ways.

He tried to keep his mind focused on the plan, but he couldn’t help thinking about the broader possibilities. Were the show’s producers just messing with the heads of the contestants, using one of the contestants to spread misinformation? If so, they were doing such a good job that they were about to have a full-scale revolt on their hands. Had somebody in the show’s production team really decided that a spectacular conclusion would require some type of catastrophe for the show’s runner-up—something that would look like divine intervention? If so, was it motivated by a desire to get ratings or a desire to rig the results? And if somebody was trying to rig the show, was it for religious reasons?

As he pondered these issues and blew smoke into the night, Finney thought about his own reasons for being here. At fifty-nine years of age and battling lung cancer, Finney didn’t need this. He was here not because he wanted fame or adventure, but out of a sense of duty. He was willing to put his life on the line for the cause of Christ. The other contestants on the island obviously felt the same about their own religions.

How many wars had been fought over religion? How many men and women had willingly died for their faith? Maybe he had written off a religious motivation too quickly. Though he still thought there might be some connection with the speedy-trial cases that Nikki just hadn’t found yet, he couldn’t rule out religion entirely. What if somebody involved in the production or financing of the show had recently converted to Islam or Hinduism or Buddhism? Or even Christianity? What if this were some misguided attempt to recreate a modern-day version of Elijah’s showdown with the prophets of Baal? The nation worships the winner’s god and the losing prophet dies.

Why hadn’t he focused more on this angle before?

Finney snuffed out his cigar, checked his Ironman wristwatch, and slipped inside to log on to his computer. He had just enough time to get a message out through Westlaw. But this was chapter 3 in his book, featuring a cipher so complicated that he couldn’t remember the key off the top of his head. He grabbed the copy of Cross Examination that he had checked out from the island’s library on the first day in order to keep the other contestants from getting their hands on it. He remembered the hidden message conveyed by the code in chapter 3—“Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.” Using this, he headed into the bathroom, away from the prying eyes of the camera, and worked backward to determine the key for the chapter 3 code.

Armed with the key, he logged on to Westlaw and entered the searches necessary to convey his message. He logged off at precisely 11:20. He brushed his teeth and threw some dirty clothes on the bed and began folding them. When he was halfway done, he pushed them aside and crawled under the covers.

Five minutes later, with the room completely dark, he began pulling some of the clothes under the covers with him. He piled them in a long line next to where he was lying, then pulled the covers over his head. He was pretty sure that anybody monitoring the cameras wouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

As quietly as possible, he slid out of bed and onto the floor. He reached up onto the bed and rearranged things a little so that the clothes would look as much like a sleeping body as possible. Then, recalling the camera angles he had been studying for the last few days, he crawled across the bedroom floor, slid along the dining room wall, and darted across the one spot where the cameras couldn’t be avoided.

He slid through his patio door, grabbed the John Deere cap he had left on the lounger, and slipped into his docksiders, then climbed over his railing into the bushes. Peering out of the bushes, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows of the moonlit night and scanned the resort property for signs of life. Gus and Horace had told Finney about a few of the fixed security cameras mounted at various spots on the property, and Finney could easily avoid them. He was more concerned with the ever-present security guards who patrolled the property. Finney had met at least six different guards during his time on the island.

Lights shone from the windows of a few other condos, but there didn’t seem to be anybody milling around. Finney moved cautiously from bush to bush, staying in the shadows and bending at the waist as he jogged from one spot to the next. A few times he thought he heard a noise and stopped in his tracks. But the only sound was the steady breaking of the small ocean waves and the distant echo of music. He made it unnoticed to a small grove of trees maybe fifty yards from the beach where the Hobie Cat and the WaveRunners were located. Finney took one final look around, crouched over, and ran down to the boats.

He checked the WaveRunners first and confirmed that the ignition keys were missing. That didn’t surprise Finney. But the next discovery did. The WaveRunners were secured by a metal chain and padlock. The chain connected them to the Hobie Cat.

He crawled over and took a seat in the sand on the opposite side of the Hobie from the condos, peering over one of the boat’s hulls and the canvas trampoline that served as the boat’s deck. He detected no movement on the resort premises and started inspecting the metal chain that somebody had woven around the hull of the Hobie, through a canvas strap, and around the shaft of the mainsail. The chain then snaked across the sand and looked like it was anchored to the shed. Another chain connected the Hobie with the WaveRunners.

He had never seen these chains before. Must be the security guards unlocked the boats at sunrise. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble, unless they were worried about the contestants escaping.

Escaping from what? Theoretically, any of the contestants should be free to quit the game at any moment. So why were the people running the show so paranoid about the contestants getting off this island—or at least away from this resort?

He could ponder those questions later. For now, he fingered the padlock securing the first chain around the Hobie and considered his options. If he had a knife, he could slit the canvas strap on the hull, but the boat would still be locked because of the way the chain wound around the hull and mainsail shaft. He tried pulling on the chain anchored to the shed, but it held fast. Even if he could somehow undo that chain, the Hobie would still be chained to the WaveRunners.

He scanned the condos again—still quiet. He remembered the surf kayak they had shown the contestants on the first day, leaning against the shed. Nobody had bothered to use it yet because it was too much work. With the kayak, Finney certainly wouldn’t be able to go as far or as fast. But he was running out of options.

He pulled his wristwatch close to his chest and pressed the button to illuminate the display: 11:52. Not much time.

Staying low, he moved quickly across the open sand to the shadows of the shed. The surf kayak and paddle were still there, leaning against the shed, unlocked. He felt his heart pounding, his breathing hard and uneven, as he hoisted the kayak over his right shoulder and grabbed the paddle in his left hand.

He walked calmly across the sand toward the water. How could he sneak around carrying a kayak? If he got spotted, he would act like this was the most natural thing in the world. A midnight kayaking expedition. Didn’t everybody do that once in a while?

He kicked his docksiders off in the sand and carried the kayak into the breaking surf until the water was thigh deep. He climbed on top of the board, locked his feet into the canvas straps, and took one final glance over his shoulder. The coast was still clear as Finney started paddling. It was approaching midnight, he knew.

He cut diagonally across the small breaking waves, alternating paddle strokes as he distanced himself from the shore. The exertion, or maybe it was the tension, brought on a small coughing fit, but Finney managed to keep it under control. He looked back over his shoulder again at the fading beach area. He was probably one hundred feet away now, hunched over as he paddled, as if that somehow might make him less visible.

He could have gone faster, but he concentrated on making every stroke as quiet as possible, slipping the paddle in and out of the water at just the right angle. Still, each splash of water sounded exaggerated to Finney, and the moon felt like a spotlight shining overhead.

He turned for another furtive glance, nearly losing his balance as he did so. This time, as if they had appeared from nowhere, he saw two figures walking on the path along the beach. They were looking straight ahead and talking, but Finney stopped the boat and braced, using his paddle, then turned the kayak parallel to the shore. They were male and female figures; the silhouettes looked like those of Victoria Kline and Bryce McCormack. They took a few more steps and turned toward the water, directly in line with Finney and his kayak.

Finney saw the female point and knew he had been spotted. He turned the kayak toward the mouth of the bay and started paddling faster. He heard a few shouts from the shore but didn’t look back. He forced his arms to act like pistons, pounding out the rhythm of a steady stroke, no longer hunched over but sitting up straight. He angled his kayak to the right so he could make a long swinging turn past the coral reef that separated this cove from the next. His lungs started aching and he coughed as he paddled.

Lactic acid quickly invaded his muscles, tightening his arms. The blood flowing to his forearms made them feel swollen like Popeye’s, and now they were binding up. He had to back off the pace, and he risked another glance toward shore.

The figures were more distant now, but there was no mistaking what was happening. Two large males—muscled security guards—were unlocking the WaveRunners and dragging them into the water.

Finney spit some phlegm into the ocean, turned around, and started paddling faster.