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Lying in his bunk beneath the blankets, Nigel peeled his eyes open as the phone rang. The lantern still hung on its hook, its flame burning very low. A few moths had found their way inside the curtain and danced around the flame they worshiped.
The phone rang again, and he swiped it off the ground, seeing Devi's number. With a tap, he said, "Devi! Have you warned them?"
"Good evening, Rowe."
Nigel's heart stopped and he forgot to breathe. Gator's voice, smooth and happy as a cat about to purr.
"You still there, or you busy dreaming of scorpion fondue?"
Rough masculine laughter multiplied on the other end of the line, but how many? And how had they gotten her phone?
"Do you wish me to send a recipe, Gator, or would you rather follow my fan blog?" Nigel sat up, shoving back the blankets, hoping to clear his thoughts.
"Jessica's right here with me, Nigel, or is her real name Devi? Maybe you want to talk to her before we get down to business?"
"I'd be ever so grateful, yes." He cupped his forehead, his fingers digging into his hair.
"Here you go, Jess. It's your one phone call, make it good."
Nigel shut his eyes, breath held, waiting.
Her voice came on, low and sharp. "Remember the rules, Nigel."
He laughed without sound into the gloom of his isolation. Indeed, she was alive. Indeed, unhappy, as well she would be for whatever trauma it had taken to claim her. "Are you injured?"
"I'm fine. Keep on truckin'." Clipped and almost exasperated.
"So, there's your proof of life. You want her back, you do what we say," Gator recommended. "Gag her. Make it tight. Bind her wrists to her ankles."
Nigel winced as he listened, his shoulders recalling his own binding, not so long ago. Gator intended the message to worry them both. On his end, at least, it worked. He imagined Devi's increasingly dour expression, the one that made him hope she'd never take against him.
"No, wait," said Gator. "Make it her throat. She moves her legs, she chokes herself."
"Got it," Flick answered.
The moths tapped and fluttered against the glass lantern, urgent in their need to die. Nigel's stomach knotted. Horror clogged his throat and made every tiny hair stand up at the back of his neck. Somehow, he found his voice, strained though it must be. "What do you want, Gator? What is the price of her life and freedom?" He kneaded his temples.
"The shipwreck, Rowe. The pirate ship. You're gonna find it for me."
"I can't be sure it's even here, Gator. Please, if it's just the money you want, I can—"
"I don't want money, I want that gold. The old woman gave you a piece, didn't she? It's real and it's close."
"Yes," he whispered.
"Tell me where."
The old woman...they'd already spoken with Hortensia. How much had she told them? "By the road heading south. There's a pictograph panel with a turtle. I'll meet you there and show you the wreck."
"There's a good lad," Gator replied.
"You'll bring Jessica, unharmed. I'll need to see her before we go anywhere."
"Absolutely, Nigel. Pleasure doing business with you."
"Wait! I haven't any transportation. It'll take time for me to get there."
"Sure. If you're not there by dawn, Nigel, then Jessica's gonna find out exactly what happened to Joe. You read me?"
"I do."
The line went dead. Nigel's phone dropped from his nerveless fingers to land on the bedding as he gripped his head with both hands. His bodyguard had been taken. If he failed to reveal the wreck, he'd never see her alive again. But these were men who slew their own comrade—for what? For violating their own version of the rules, rules perhaps not so different from those she dictated for him.
No talking to strangers. No eating their food.
No jumping in.
No rescues.