68

“Victoria.”

“Are you okay?”

Finney stood, blinking at the hallucination. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I had to come back,” she said simply. She had her hair in a tight ponytail, the way she wore it when they sailed. Her beautiful eyes were wary, melting away some of Finney’s defensiveness. Still, she had misled him the entire time. He couldn’t just pretend it hadn’t happened.

“More lies?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“Are we alone?”

“Yes.”

Finney relaxed a little and moved to the stone wall. He had never learned to fear her and felt no trepidation even now. If she had wanted to harm him, she had just passed up an excellent chance.

Victoria joined him at the wall.

“It’s a reality show, Victoria. We signed a release that practically guaranteed deception. I immediately suspected every contestant. Then I narrowed it down to the two contestants who didn’t fit the mold—you and Kareem.”

“Kareem?”

“The rest of us had terminal illnesses before we were selected. During the first few days on the island, they explained that those illnesses were part of our qualifications. But Kareem told us his liver failure was only diagnosed about a month ago, after he got a call from a plaintiffs law firm that had obtained a list of patients taking an antidepressant. My guess is that the show selected each of us a few months prior to the show, before they even told us. That’s how they orchestrated my temptation. Kareem’s illness didn’t fit the mold. I’m not even sure he’s sick.”

Finney could tell by the puzzled look on Victoria’s face that she hadn’t considered this before. She had been looking down the mountain, avoiding eye contact with him. But now she turned to him, squinting into the setting sun. “How did you know it was me?”

“The Galápagos, Victoria. During our first conversation on the island, you said that you thought we were somewhere near the Galápagos. But when I read Darwin’s journal, I realized that couldn’t possibly be right. The direction of the breezes, the prevailing trade winds—here we have warm trade winds blowing from the equator; in the Galápagos they have cool trade winds blowing in from the Arctic. A sailor notices those things. The vegetation, the color of the sand—it was all wrong. A scientist would have to know that, Victoria. Especially after I highlighted it in open court.”

She gave Finney a thin and apologetic smile. “Guilty.” She looked down and nudged a small rock with her sandal. “Yet still you sailed with me.”

“I figured you wouldn’t shoot me in broad daylight on the ocean,” Finney said. “Plus, it was the best way to gain information.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“No,” Finney admitted. He found a small rock from the wall to keep his hands occupied. “I actually valued the time together.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“It was a reality show. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

She looked at him again. “Yes, I do. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Finney took a deep and awkward breath. “What are you doing here now?”

“I came to tell you what’s really going on,” she said. “And to make my apologies.”

“Apology accepted,” Finney said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I can’t believe you’re going to unveil for me the great mystery behind the Faith on Trial show and they’re not even going to film it?”

“It’s just us, Oliver. I promise.” Victoria thought for a moment, looking at the horizon. “The threats have all just been a reality show setup,” she continued, and Finney wanted to believe her. “Just to see if the contestants would try to make the finals even if they faced danger.”

“Fake death threats,” Finney said, more to himself than Victoria. On the one hand, he was relieved to hear Victoria say that. But on the other hand, if it was true, it was an arrow to his pride. How could Finney the code specialist be so wrong? “I thought that myself for a while.”

“Until?”

“Our clever little escape plan,” Finney explained. “I knew by then that you were lying to me, and I figured that you would tell your partners about our plan. If it was just part of the show, I expected both the Swami and Kareem to find something on the computers they checked. When Kareem found something on Murphy’s computer, but the Swami didn’t find anything on McCormack’s, I figured that Murphy had been set up. And why do you need a fall guy if there’s not some seriously bad stuff getting ready to happen?”

Finney turned the rock over a few times in his hand and tossed it down the cliff. He noticed a sly smile worm its way onto Kline’s face.

“Actually, that was a mistake,” she said. “The Swami was supposed to find e-mails on McCormack’s computer too, but Bryce forgot that the password protection for his Outlook folder kicks in ten minutes after the machine is dormant. Murphy was smart enough to remember that, so he made his machine hibernate, which doesn’t generate password protection.”

The irony of it struck Finney. He knew of hundreds of stories of cryptanalysts who had been thwarted because the person writing the code had made a mistake. It was an eternal problem—how could you factor in the endless variations caused by human error?

Victoria allowed him to think for a moment and then spoke softly, her voice matching the warm hues of the disappearing sun. “Can I ask you another question?”

“You can ask,” Finney said in a tone that made it clear he had no obligation to answer.

“Did you somehow tip off Nikki Moreno about Preston Randolph’s involvement?”

Finney mulled this question over, and his suspicions kicked in. Was he really out of danger? Or was somebody still out to get him and just needed to know how much he had communicated with Nikki? Could he fully trust Victoria? Or was she on a scouting mission for his enemy?

“Why do you need to know?”

“Nikki Moreno went to a television station, and they ran an exposé tonight on the show, including Randolph’s involvement,” Victoria explained. “How did you know about Randolph’s part in this?”

Finney’s mind flashed to the coded message he had received from Wellington and Nikki about the location of the island. Randolph had supposedly triangulated a phone call to McCormack that proved the island was near the Galápagos chain. That’s when Finney knew.

“Your question assumes a fact not yet in evidence,” Finney said. “It assumes I communicated with Nikki.”

“No, it is in evidence,” Victoria said. “Nikki told Randolph you had communicated with her using codes. But that’s really not important. I only asked because there was something in the exposé that didn’t make sense, and it’s one of the reasons the show’s producers allowed me to talk with you tonight.”

Finney raised an eyebrow. Could things get any more convoluted on this island? “Which was?”

“Some of the e-mails to Randolph about this fake plot to eliminate the contestants weren’t written by any of us who were part of the plot.”

“What did they say?”

“Weird stuff, like ‘I assume the baptism is still a go for Saturday.’ Another one said, ‘Nobody suspects us.’ That type of thing.” Victoria shrugged. “We decided that if there was any hint of real danger, even the most remote hint, we ought to tell the contestants.”

Finney tried to follow her reasoning. “So you’re thinking that maybe Randolph really is going to kill somebody.”

“No,” Victoria answered, but before she could explain further, her logic dawned on Finney.

“You’re thinking that somebody might be trying to make it look like Randolph is involved in murder in order to cover up the real killer?”

“That sounds pretty dramatic,” she responded. “I’m just trying to touch all the bases. It has me a little worried—that’s all.” She tried to shrug it off, but Finney could see the apprehension etched in her elegant brow. He wanted to put her at ease. Plus, the fascination of an unsolved mystery had its usual allure.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll bite. Let’s think about this. Do you have any idea which computer generated those e-mails? Is there any possible connection with the young lady killed by Antonio Demarco, the speedy-trial defendant they asked me about?”

Kline’s face became determined, wearing the look Finney had seen on mothers forced to testify against their own sons. For some reason, he had hit a nerve. She swallowed and turned to face him. “They were signed under the code name Azrael, but nobody knows who—”

“Azrael?” Finney interrupted. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Yes. And as for the young lady who died . . .” Victoria hesitated and looked past him, then sighed. “That’s a lie too, Oliver. Demarco sold drugs again, but he didn’t kill anybody.”

Finney could have strangled her, but his mind raced on ahead. He would deal with his own emotions later. “Azrael?” he asked again.