Chapter 19
Staked in front of the staff building was a hand-painted trifold board that read Keep Out Jerk-Offs Only Sales Allowed.
Respectfully, it could have used a little more punctuation for clarity. Was it Keep out, Jerk-offs, or Jerk-offs only? Inquiring minds longed to know.
Rick paced out front, cosplaying Chuck Norris. If Chuck Norris had spent the last decade in a cubicle. Mud and moss clung to the hem of his belted trousers. The sleeves of his pin-striped dress shirt had been torn off. His five-o’clock shadow had five-o’clock shadow.
Strapped around his chest was a horribly concocted weapon of mass destruction—a spear tied to the end of a sawed-off shotgun.
The salesman slung the abomination over his shoulder and greeted Opal and Sheila with varying degrees of success.
Opal went for a handshake when Rick opted for a hug, so they landed somewhere awkwardly in the middle before he turned to the intern.
Meanwhile, Sheila barely acknowledged him at all, breezing in through the open front door and saying something about a Jacuzzi bathtub.
And somewhere inside, they’d find the master key.
“What’s the plan, chief?” Waylon whispered.
She had one, but right now the only thing that came to mind was: I should have listened to Bertram.
He’d initially tried to ice her out, exile her to the jungle to sleep in the staff building, and Fletcher had the gall to be offended.
But this villa was hardly a downgrade from the main manor.
She could have traded every traumatic event from the last forty-eight hours for relaxing in the porch hammock.
At least until Asshole Rick showed up and started man-caving the place.
Bandannas had been strung like pennant banners across the porch, marking his territory.
A few lopsided spears like the one tied to his rifle had been staked in front of the entry stairs, sparkling clean and unused.
He’d probably survived on Keurig coffee and break room snacks, but she had to appreciate the dedication to the bit.
When Opal joined Sheila inside, Rick resumed his patrol. He strode a wide path, eyes glued to the horizon for any oncoming threats. So, the front door was off-limits. This wasn’t going to be the Central Park stroll Fletcher hoped it’d be.
A balcony jutted off the second floor, tempting. But the thought of clinging to a tangle of vines ten feet off the ground while Rick took shots at them sounded worse than sitting through one of Finance’s budget-review meetings.
There had to be windows facing the back, maybe a door if they were lucky. They had options.
Fletcher nodded her head to the left as an unspoken answer to Waylon’s question. Even with her plan in this nebulous state, she knew it could not commence here. One stray glance away from the worn path, and they’d face off with Rick’s makeshift bayonet.
They crept, crouching, and Fletcher guided them toward the flanks of the building where the ceilings sloped lower, the jungle’s presence grew thicker, and their chances of imminent death decreased by at least 20 percent.
“What’s the floor plan like in there?” she asked. Which was code for On a scale of one to ten, how screwed are we, because the number feels high?
“Everyone’s got bedrooms, shared bathrooms. Garages, laundry, and kitchen are off the back. The third floor’s Carlotta’s suite, but the main stairwell off the foyer will take us straight to it if we can make it there.”
Rick about-faced, and in unison, Fletcher and Waylon slammed to the earth.
“Emphasis on the if,” Fletcher muttered after spitting out a mouthful of leafy greens.
They waited until he pivoted again to hop back to their feet. Her body groaned in protest with every cautious step. Waylon, however, clearly hadn’t gotten the memo on sneaking. He trailed behind her, footsteps noisy in the underbrush.
“You could at least try to be quiet.”
He huffed. “I am being quiet.”
Another crunch. And another.
“Try harder,” she said between her teeth. Fletcher ducked beneath a branch as they rounded the corner of the building, nearly out of Rick’s line of sight.
This time, a rustle.
She skidded to a stop, spinning on her heels. “Waylon, I swear to—”
Fletcher’s whole body tensed.
Behind Waylon stood a chimpanzee. Inky black eyes, coarse hair, human enough that, given a briefcase and an ego problem, it could have been Dyer’s four o’clock meeting. It mimicked their every move. When they stepped, it stepped. When they crouched, it crouched.
And Waylon hadn’t seen it yet.
Without thinking, Fletcher slapped her hand over Waylon’s mouth because frankly after the bush baby debacle, she didn’t trust him not to scream. His eyes flew open wide, and as delicately as she could, she said, “Do not look at its thumbs.”
His mouth moved beneath her hand. When she peeled back her fingers, he said, “Whose thumbs?”
“Um, his.” Fletcher pointed.
With only a peek over his shoulder, Waylon jolted, hands coming up next to his face, ready to go three rounds in the ring. Miraculously, he kept his voice to a hoarse hush. “God, no. No! Why is it here?”
“It’s trying to—”
The chimp craned its neck back toward the front of the estate, where the tip of Rick’s spear edged out.
It started to hoot, trying to communicate with them, but all Fletcher could see in her mind’s eye was a very near future where Rick paid homage to Dyer’s creepy decor and had them all stuffed and turned into a real-life depiction of the evolution of man.
Fletcher planted her hands on the chimp’s shoulders and dragged it down into a crouch. Rick’s shadow faded back behind the building, still pacing, unaware of their presence. Phew.
With a shush from her, the chimp smiled, toothy, before making a big show of closing its mouth tight. Then, checking over its hairy shoulder for Rick, it took off toward the back of the house.
“I think it’s trying to help,” Fletcher finished.
Waylon muttered, “I think it’s trying to lure us into a trap where it can ax-murder us.”
When they didn’t immediately follow, the chimp hesitated, mouth forming a confused O. Fletcher reached for Waylon’s hand, hauling him forward. “Come on. If it gets any dicey ideas about ax-murdering, I’ll volunteer to go first so you can say ‘I told you so.’ ”
Fletcher didn’t mention that she was markedly less concerned about ape-related murder schemes compared to human-related ones. Especially as they lurked past windows revealing Opal and Sheila running rampant through the staff building.
Besides, when a knobby branch swung back, nearly slapping Fletcher in the face, the chimp stopped it. (Thank you, opposable thumbs.)
Even Waylon, who kept an impossibly wide distance, owed the chimp his life when it plucked a centipede the size of a hoagie off his back and flung it into the forest. Fletcher had been so terrified by the insect’s Entirely Too Many Legs to do anything besides breathe heavily and mentally plan a lovely funeral service for Waylon.
By the time they made it around the back edge of the property, the chimp had solidified itself as part of the crew.
And then Fletcher’s worst nightmare came true.
Bananas.
A whole crate of them. It teetered next to the edge of the building, near a door that must have led to the kitchen. And it wasn’t alone—there were mangoes and kiwis and dragon fruit, pineapple by the bushel, citrus as far as the eye could see.
The chimpanzee howled. All sense of preservation soared out the window. It broke free from the jungle and loped toward the treasure trove of fruit.
Fletcher waited, muscles seized, for someone to apprehend the chimp. She could practically taste the gunpowder in the air already.
One second passed. Then another. No one came. No Sheila shriek, no shotgun blast.
Because no one questions a chimpanzee in a jungle.
Of course! How hadn’t she thought of it before?
Fletcher swallowed her pride. Took a deep breath.
And whooped like a monkey.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Waylon hissed. “Is this the plan, Spence? Really?”
She bent her legs, imitating the monkey’s gait as she crossed the clearing. The chimp hooted, and so did she. Her eyes met Waylon’s, her lips finding a smiling curve. Daring him.
Waylon’s head hung toward his chest, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. When he looked back up at her, his gaze dripped with enough affection Fletcher could have drowned in it. It pooled in every nook, every cranny. The bottom of her rib cage, the pit of her stomach.
Three howls later, she’d lured Waylon out of the trees.
Unlike Fletcher, who was plagued by constant scruples, Waylon had none.
Totally, blissfully unscrupulous. There were a lot of things Fletcher could say about Waylon, but accusing him of not giving his all wasn’t one of them.
For as long as she’d known him, he had been unapologetically himself, inviting anyone and everyone to fuck off if they didn’t like it.
She did. Like it.
Another horrifying realization to add to the multitude of horrors she’d faced this week.
He crouched low, taking broad steps to catch up with her. Lifting his face to the sky, he let out three wild cries. His fists beat against his chest, and Fletcher fought the blush that crept up her neck at the mere thought of his pectoral muscles.
Normally, Fletcher would have worried about the way her skirt wrinkled, about dirt beneath her fingernails, about being seen as anything less than perfect and proper and prepared.
But here she was, stranded on a private island in the Indian Ocean and impersonating an ape with the bane of her mortal existence who turned out to not actually be that baneful. Normal was a long-forgotten concept.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Opal asked from inside.