CHAPTER 8

LEANNE WASN’T SICK. NOT A cough, not a sneeze. So why the hell is she wearing a face mask? Julia tries to find an alternate theory, fails. None of the church members wear a mask, none of the returning guests. If there had been an outbreak here, swine flu, avian flu, something like that, they’d probably be wearing them too—unless that would make for bad PR, which it would. A quarantine would be bad for business. But everyone seems so damn healthy, even the churchwomen in smocks, weird as they are.

What did the pilot say, something about rat-lung disease? Didn’t sound fun, and how do you catch that?

Julia looks to see where her suitcase is—finds it’s precariously situated on top of the others on the dolly, being pulled toward the pop-up tent. One of the women has a hand on it to keep it steady. Julia imagines the suitcase falling off as it’s bounced and jostled along the way, cracking open to reveal what she’s smuggling in. Wonders whether they’d send her packing on the return flight or if they’d quietly take her into the jungle and push her off a cliff.

Terminally naive, Ethan whispers.

Stop it, Julia. She’s not going to make it two days, let alone seven, if she lets her imagination get the best of her. When she’d been working at the paper, she’d had nerves of steel, which she’d needed to interrupt powerful executives at press conferences with pointed questions or to meet whistleblowers afraid for their lives. But motherhood had softened her, then the divorce, the aftermath, the lean times wrecking her. She’s going to have to resurrect her old self—or at least a reasonable facsimile—if she’s going to get through this.

It doesn’t take long for the returning guests to finish boarding; the baggage handler starts to load their luggage into the cargo compartment while the churchwomen under the tent sift through the purses, fanny packs, and suitcases with the efficiency of factory workers. Zip, dig, unfold, shake, refold. Not a single word exchanged between them. Not a single look. So very, very strange.

The line moves quickly, and soon it’s Julia’s turn to hand over her purse to the young woman with red hair hanging over her face. Don’t look suspicious. Don’t think about the phone in your shoe. Impossible not to, when the damn thing feels like a rock. Her foot is already throbbing.

The young woman takes the purse, and Julia gets a glimpse of her jaw—skin poorly healed from what must have been a third-degree burn. Her lips appear to be silently moving, although it’s hard to tell for sure.

“Beautiful weather,” says Julia.

The woman doesn’t respond, doesn’t react, just puts the purse in a plastic bin. Something furtive in her movements. It reminds Julia of a woman she once interviewed at a shelter for battered women, the same twitchy kind of nervousness. She wonders if this church is more cult than congregation.

Julia puts her hand on the bin. “I forgot, I need to show my ID, right?”

The woman pauses.

So she can hear me all right.

Julia reaches out for her purse and then pretends to knock the bin onto the ground by accident. The woman crouches down to retrieve it, and Julia crouches down too, ostensibly to help, if anyone’s watching.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just a big klutz,” Julia says warmly, reaching for her wallet, which has fallen out onto the ground.

The woman looks at her—the strangest eye Julia has ever seen in her life, so gray that it’s almost white, with jagged green daggers radiating out from the iris. She whispers, “I spy with my little eye. . . . I spy with my little eye. . . .”

That was in my dream. Julia hears the crunch of shoes on pebbles behind her. The woman looks down immediately, grabs the purse, and clutches it to her chest, like an animal expecting a blow.

“Is everything all right here?”

Julia looks up. Isaac again. His straw hat, backlit by the sun, forms a shadow halo around his head. In his hand, a lei.

“Other than me knocking over everything in sight, yes,” says Julia, getting to her feet. “I forgot you needed to see our ID, and was just trying to get it.”

Isaac smiles widely, something forced about it. “Oh, there’s no need for an ID, not for you, Miss Greer. We’d recognize you anywhere. Welcome to Kapu.”

They’d recognize her anywhere? What the hell . . . ? It makes no sense, but he holds up the lei with both hands, and there’s no choice really but to bow her head and allow him to place it around her neck, although the whole thing feels unbearably uncomfortable. A subtext at play that she doesn’t understand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Julia sees an older churchwoman hoist her suitcase onto one of the folding tables. She unzips it. Julia’s heart starts to pound so loudly it’s amazing no one can hear.

She swallows, smiles at Isaac. “I’m so glad to be here.”

“Well then, let’s get you settled in.”

After a last, lingering glance behind her—she sees the redhead push the older churchwoman out of the way, somewhat forcefully, then grab Julia’s suitcase—they head to join the others gathered under the portico.

All the way there, Julia half expects to hear one of the churchwomen call out, announce the discovery of all the very incriminating gear she has hidden in the false bottom of her luggage. Or at least notice her odd gait as she struggles to walk normally with a phone in her shoe. But none do, and they reach the others that have gathered under the shade—they’ve all effectively traded places with the tourists now on the plane. The roof of the portico is dramatically steep, with supporting beams made of bamboo and dried thatch. There’s a wonderful view of the beach from one side, a small trail leading into the jungle from the other. A fresh breeze blows through.

Isaac, clipboard pressed against his chest, steps past her and up onto a slightly elevated platform. Julia notes sweat stains radiating out from under his arms. Everyone’s sweating now, for different reasons.

Isaac coughs to clear his throat, and raises his head slightly.

“Welcome, everyone. We at the Church of Eternal Light thank you for choosing Kapu for your island paradise vacation. We will endeavor to make your stay here as enjoyable, and as unforgettable, as possible.” He runs through this quickly, like it’s an overrehearsed spiel.

There are shared, highly irritated glances. The unexpected property search has not gone over well.

He ignores the rancor and continues, “Before I hand out cottage assignments, I’d like to review the rules and responsibilities that you should have received in your welcome packet. Did everyone receive the welcome packet?”

There’s a general murmur of consensus. Julia eyes the other guests. In addition to Noah, who seems to have attached himself to a young couple now—newlyweds maybe? They beam at each other and hold hands lightly—there’s the middle-aged couple, Roger and Lois in the golf visor. Lois seems somewhat appeased, or maybe she’s just silently tallying up everything that’s wrong so she can threaten a lawsuit and get reimbursed afterward.

When did I get so cynical?

“The first thing I’d like to cover is that there is to be no talking to any other members of the Church of Eternal Light. They are happy to serve you, but we have our own way of life and religious beliefs, which we strive to preserve. Should you need something, please come to me directly and I will assist you.”

A trio of women smirk—thirty-something trying to look twenty-something with artificially sculpted cheekbones and meticulously shaped eyebrows. One whispers, “I don’t think he could assist me with anything.” Blond, blond, brunette, hair extensions across the board, waxed legs and arms. A couple of younger men—college students?—surreptitiously glance at them.

“Kapu has a fragile ecosystem, and we appreciate your effort to protect it. Please use the trash receptacles in your cabin or within the resort to dispose of rubbish. Some of the plant, animal, and fish species you will encounter are extremely rare and can only be found on this island. While it might be tempting to pick a flower or touch a fish while snorkeling, please refrain from doing so. Not only would that violate the terms of agreement you signed, but some species are poisonous to the touch. It goes without saying that you may not bring anything from the island home with you on the return flight. No souvenirs. No rocks, no flowers, nothing from the island is to be taken at all. Your bags will be inspected before you leave.”

He pauses a moment to let that sink in.

Standing slightly apart from the rest, in a spot where she can see everyone and everything, is a tall woman with an athletic build, muscular shoulders, tightly braided black cornrows. Something powerful about her. A fierce intelligence.

“You will find well-marked trails that create a hiking loop that takes you by a beautiful waterfall; we strongly recommend staying on the trails at all times. Snorkeling gear, hammocks, body boards, and other equipment will be available for your use here in the portico. Please return them here when you’re done with them. If you plan to swim in the waterfall, please take a shower prior using no soap, and refrain from applying sunscreen before you head out. Even small quantities of chemicals can damage the native species here. Keep an eye on the peak before you enter the waterfall. If there are clouds near the peak, don’t go in. We get flash floods, even when it’s not raining on other parts of the island.”

Which ones are real tourists, and which ones, like Julia, are on a different mission? Athletic Woman is an obvious candidate, but it’s too early to rule anyone out. Julia catches Noah mid-yawn. He sees her looking and makes a let’s wind this up motion with his fingers.

“There is a lava-rock wall surrounding the eco-resort. Do not, and I cannot emphasize this enough, do not go beyond the rock wall. Anyone caught beyond the rock wall will be sequestered in their cabin for the remainder of their time here, and will have to pay a significant penalty, as outlined in your agreement.”

Suddenly there’s a rumble as the jet’s engine starts up. Isaac casts a glance over at the pop-up tent—the churchwomen are now lining up the purses and suitcases just in front of the table. A heap of plastic bags containing what Julia assumes are the confiscated items are laid out on top.

This appears to satisfy him. He pulls a small walkie-talkie from his back pocket. “Delta A, please stand by.”

There’s a crackle of static and a deep voice replies, “Roger that.”

Julia looks to see if the baggage handler is still there, but he’s gone.

Isaac stands up a little straighter. “Finally, I would like to remind you that the church is not liable for injury or, God forbid, death. This is not Disneyland. This is not Hawaii. We are five hundred miles from the nearest hospital. There are no lifeguards, no helicopters, no doctors on the island. Every cabin is equipped with a rudimentary first-aid kit, which you will find under your bathroom sink. In the event of a medical emergency, we will call for a plane, but there is no guarantee that transport will be able to leave immediately. We have been fortunate that there have only been a couple of minor injuries. . . . However, there was once a fatality in transit to a hospital after a guest picked up a venomous cone snail. Remember: Look, don’t touch, and don’t leave the boundary of the rock wall. If anyone has second thoughts, please raise your hand. You can take the return flight now. However, you will not be reimbursed for your expenses.”

It’s such a strange island, with such strange people, and undertones that feel more cult than quaint. Julia thinks about the woman with the scarred face. She doesn’t seem like the others. Is she a tourist who converted? Or is she a captive here, under duress? And then there were Leanne and the baggage handler, both wearing face masks.

But Evie. Thousands of miles of ocean and land between them, and Julia can almost picture her daughter, a ghost, standing there. The longing to hold her again almost drops Julia to her knees.

I will bring you back to me, whatever the cost.

No one else speaks up either. Bragging rights trump all.

“Excellent,” says Isaac. He clicks on his walkie-talkie. “Delta A, you are cleared for takeoff.”

“Roger that.”

The plane starts to taxi down to a circle at the other end of the runway.

“You can now retrieve your bags, and please sign out your confiscated items,” says Isaac. “You will then receive your cabin assignment. Dinner starts promptly at six thirty p.m. in the dining pavilion, over there.” He points to an even larger bamboo building with a steeply sloped thatched roof that’s perched on a small cliff.

The plane is at the end of the runway now, turning in a wide loop. The rumble of the engine turns into a roar, and it accelerates back down the tarmac.

I made it. No one flagged her suitcase. Whether or not that’s a lucky or unlucky break remains to be seen.

The plane lifts off. Julia feels the rush of warm wind it leaves in its wake.

Julia is assigned one of the bungalows nestled into the jungle hillside, with a wide lanai that overlooks the ocean. It’s a huge relief to get inside, close the door behind her. The interior design is a surprise. Luxe-rustic, Zen yet primitive, with bamboo poles and beams, highly finished dark wood flooring, a platform bed and coverlet with a modern, abstract print. Nothing on the walls except grass-weave paper. A minimalist desk with a wooden chair . . . for what? It’s not like everyone’s got their laptop and will be slipping in some work on vacation. A couple of rattan chairs in front of a glass coffee table. Large picture windows with paradise views overlooking the lanai, and the ocean beyond. Simple muslin shades. Not a design the churchwomen could pull off. She makes a mental note to do some digging for her book proposal when she gets back, find the designer. There’s a story there, for sure.

Julia lets her suitcase and purse drop to the floor. Breathes. She can hear the low rush of the waves breaking in the distance, a bird whistling nearby. Stresses ease, somewhat. In the end, after all that worrying, her suitcase sailed through the inspection, no discovery of the hidden panel, no items confiscated and bagged. A miracle. Although she can’t imagine what the other women are going to do for clothing storage—no closet in the bungalow, just an armoire, a single bureau. And no attempt to hide the Bible in a drawer—it’s centered on the bureau next to a white ceramic vase holding a small clutch of tropical flowers. Maybe the church hopes to snag a few converts, not that it’s likely with this lot. The private bathroom is a decent size though, with a tub and shower jets, a glass-bowl cabinet sink. White fluffy towels. Small bars of what look like handmade soap. She lifts one to her nose—it smells like orchids, and rolled oats. There is, as Isaac promised, a small first-aid box under the sink, extra rolls of toilet paper.

Also under the sink are strand-like filaments of what looks like a white mold running along the back of the cabinet. It smells mildewy too. Probably the humidity.

She heads back into the bedroom, pulls the lei over her head, and drops it on the bureau, then draws the muslin curtains closed. God, wouldn’t it be amazing to take a short nap before dinner? She kicks off her sneakers.

Oh, right, the phone.

Every cell in her body longs for the bed, but instead she grabs the phone out of her sneaker, sits down by the suitcase, and pops open the latches. Pulls out all her clothes and drops them on the floor. It takes a moment for her fingers to find the hidden latch—she’d practiced for a good hour before she’d packed it, undoing the latch, popping out the false bottom, re-latching it, but for some reason—maybe the fatigue, the stress—her fingers are clumsy. Finally she hears the soft click, and the bottom cracks open.

It’s all still there, exactly the way she packed it. The pills, the satellite phone, the charger for the satellite phone. The seven mini Jack Daniel’s bottles from the hotel fridge, just in case she needs something to help her sleep, one for each day.

She picks up the satellite phone, presses the power button, sees that it’s only at about fifty percent. Damn, I must have left it on. She probably should call Aunt Liddy but can’t quite bring herself to. Instead, she presses the button on the color display for the GPS, clicks the map where a red pin for Irene’s camp ostensibly is. A digital compass floats over the screen, pointing the way, along with the estimated time, distance. Five miles—not ideal, but doable in a day. She powers it off so she doesn’t lose any more of the battery, puts it back in the suitcase along with her smuggled, SIM-less cell phone, and the brochure with the new number.

What time did Isaac say dinner was?

Oh, right, six thirty. But there aren’t any clocks. Not on the wall, not next to the bed. So how are they supposed to know when anything is? She’s about to close the lid when she remembers the pills—she should take one, right? Don’t miss a dose, Bailey had said. If you get sick and we have to extract you before you complete the terms, the deal is off. She reads the back label again—yes, she’s overdue, she didn’t take one that morning.

She doesn’t like it—she doesn’t trust Aunt Liddy farther than she could proverbially throw her—but the sight of Leanne and the baggage handler wearing face masks was sobering. And what she can count on is that Aunt Liddy desperately wants the flower and the DNA, which means she needs Julia in good enough health to get back, which means the pills are a means to that end.

Maybe she’ll take half of one, see how it makes her feel before taking the full dose.

Julia pops one out of the package, bites it in half, then grabs one of the small Jack Daniel’s, untwists the cap. Knocks it back with a good swallow. The whiskey settles her, takes off the edge. She presses the other half of the pill back into the tinfoil package, and her eyes land on the copy of Irene’s notebook. She could squeeze in a few minutes looking through it again. The churchwomen are so incredibly strange, and Julia wonders whether that’s a new development, or if it had been part of the culture when Irene was here. There could be a reference she missed.

She grabs the notebook, but just then there’s a sharp rap, rap, rap on the door. Julia looks up at the window—through the muslin she can see the shadow of a male figure.

Goddamn. Probably Noah. She’s only had what, about ten minutes free of him?

She screws the cap back on the Jack Daniel’s, tosses it in the suitcase, piles her clothes back over the hidden panel, stands, realizes she’s still holding the pills in her hand, looks for somewhere to stash them—rap, rap, rap—slips them in her jeans pocket instead, heads for the door, barefoot.

But when she opens it, she finds Isaac, not Noah. His face and neck glisten with sweat—the tie must be insufferable in the humidity. He holds a bundle wrapped in plain white muslin, bound with a twisted green vine.

“I hope you’re enjoying the accommodations.” He smiles, not very convincingly.

She feels him looking past her, into the room.

“I am,” she says. “It’s refreshing to be completely offline.” She wonders if he even knows what that means, offline. Or if he can smell whiskey on her breath, because he hesitates a few seconds too long.

“I’m pleased to hear that. The Reverend would like to see you tomorrow to take you to your great-aunt’s grave and discuss the disinterment. First thing in the morning after breakfast?”

A question that’s not really a question.

“Perfect,” she says. “Please let him know that our family deeply appreciates being able to bring Aunt Irene home to rest in peace with her family.”

“I will. No guest has ever been allowed near our village, so I hope you appreciate the exception we’re making in your case. The same rules for non-interaction apply, and we ask that you wear this dress to minimize the overt disruption to our community.”

He presents her with the bundle, and since she really has no choice in the matter, she takes it.

“Of course,” she says. It feels heavy and looks like it itches.

He nods. She sees his gaze wander behind her, land on the notebook.

Goddammit. She steps in front of his view. “One question. You said dinner would be served promptly at six thirty p.m., but I didn’t bring a watch, and I don’t see a clock. How are we supposed to know when it’s time?”

“We’ll blow a conch shell. The sound carries well—you can even hear it up by the waterfall. But you’ll also find that the island has its own circadian rhythm. Soon . . . you’ll just know when it’s time.”

This doesn’t seem likely, but she nods like it does. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”

There’s another awkward pause, two seconds, five, ten. She wonders if she committed a misstep somewhere, or if he’s trying to build the courage to push past her, grab the notebook.

Just as she’s about to close the door, he says, “Ordinarily it would be sacrilege for us to disturb the rest of the dead. But the Reverend says that since your great-aunt ended her own life, her soul will never be at rest.”

It’s like the thought has been eating away at him for a while.

“You probably don’t believe in such things,” he continues. “Not many people without a spiritual life do. But you might find that perspective challenged in the days to come. I wouldn’t recommend wandering off the path, not if I were a Greer.”

A warning, then, like he suspects there’s more to her trip than just bringing Irene’s body home. Did one of the women run across something while inspecting her luggage?

He touches a finger to his hat brim. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he turns and walks away, such an incongruous figure in shiny black shoes, black pants, white shirt and black tie in the midst of sand, turquoise waters, and waving palm trees.

His clothes an act of defiance against all that seems innocent, and natural, and beautiful.

The operating word there being seems, Julia thinks.