Chapter 19
19
Ben reaches out to touch one of the blooms. Hypnotized, I watch as his fingertip brushes the delicate edges of night-pale petals. Slowly, almost hesitant, as if worried he might bolt, the flower coils around his finger, its stem elongating like a tendrilous vine. More flowers join it, a bouquet encircling his fingers until his entire hand is covered in blooms.
A thought comes to me from far, far away: This is what happened to Julian .
Do something, Jill .
But I can’t. I, too, am enraptured. My skin buzzes, my nipples harden. Desire drenches me again, and I can’t help it.
“Are you seeing this?” Ben breathes, and I realize distantly that he’s not afraid. He’s in awe. “The flowers. They’re so beautiful. Perfect. Like a painting.”
The words snap me back to reality. Everything sharpens.
“No,” I blurt, clambering off Ben and scrambling to my feet, pulling at the flowers. Still-warm cum drips down my inner thigh. “Don’t touch him.” I crush soft petals in my hands, ripping at the stems, frantic, until Ben’s hand is free.
I stand there, shaking, naked amongst the hateful blooms.
“Jones?” Ben says, still half-lying in the flower-scalded grass, raised up on his elbows.
“Get dressed,” I order, trying to sound brave, my voice betraying me. “Now. And don’t touch the flowers.”
He frowns, opens his mouth as if to question, then changes his mind. He nods once and begins to pick himself up. I’m already half-dressed, my jacket gone in the thicket of flowers. I give it up for lost, shoving my feet into my boots, not bothering to lace them. As soon as Ben’s feet are in his boots, his jacket hanging from one arm, I grab him by the hand and drag him back toward camp.
He follows, obedient, still sex-addled or something else. I’m afraid to know. My heart beats a staccato in my throat, and I refuse to think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been there. If Ben had been alone in the grass.
Why did I bring us out here?
He stops me on the way to Julian’s tent, squeezing my hand and pulling me back to him.
“Jones, what’s going on?”
I stare up at him. “I need to make sure Julian’s okay.”
He shakes his head, blinking, gazing into the dark. “Those flowers… They came out of nowhere. It was—”
“If you say perfect like a painting , I’m going to shoot you with your own gun,” I snap.
His expression turns serious. “Did I miss something?”
I grab him by the collar and pull him close, savoring his warmth, his smell. He holds me with his gaze, sweet and sinful, like he wants to take care of me, like he wants to ravage me. His pupils are still a little dilated, a little too dark.
“Fuck,” I hiss. Not him. Leave him alone. Why not me instead?
“What’s wrong, Jones?” he asks, tucking my hair behind my ear. He leans in, kissing my ear. “So beautiful.”
“Ben,” I say, gritting out my words, trying to remain calm, sane, functional. “Do me a favor and get me some water? I’m gonna check on Julian.”
“Right,” says Ben, blinking, and I think his pupils might be getting smaller.
Thank God.
He turns to go.
“Don’t leave camp,” I add, hating how small and scared I sound. “Please.”
He shoots me a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
I don’t want him to leave, but I have to talk to Julian. I need to know what they know about my fucking mom. “Just hurry.”
Ben throws up a hand, an acknowledgment, and disappears into the night.
Julian’s tent is empty.
I stand there for a moment, hoping they’ll appear before me. Hoping I made some mistake, went into the wrong tent. But I didn’t. And Julian is gone.
Then I see it: their walkie, discarded on the floor.
“Goddamn it, Jules.” I bend to pick it up, but something’s not right. It’s not Julian’s walkie. It’s my mother’s. But how…
The thought peters out and dissolves to nothing. I turn the walkie in my hand, and something catches my eye. Something I didn’t notice before I discarded the thing under my bed. There’s a triangular notch on the walkie’s side, carved in the plastic, right at the seam. Curious, I dig my fingernail between the seams. There’s a bit of resistance, and then the back half of the walkie loosens, coming away from the rest of the device.
I hold the two halves in my palms, their insides facing me, wires and battery pack, technological intestines. Did my mom make that notch? What am I looking for?
Then I see it — something against the inside of the walkie’s back panel. Something I’m pretty sure shouldn’t be there. I drop the other half of the radio; it clatters dully to the canvas floor. A torn piece of duct tape holds two objects against the back panel. One is bright pink and rectangular, garish in the night. The other is a metal half-sphere, with a pale, pulsing light at its center. I peel away the tape, taking the items in my fingers.
I immediately know what the half sphere is. One side of it is sticky, meant to adhere to any surface, but it’s been out here for thirty-two years. The adhesive is weak. If it hadn’t been taped to the walkie, it would have long since fallen free. I can’t believe it’s still working after all this time, that Ben’s watch picked up on it. It’s a locator beacon.
My mouth goes bone dry.
I hold up the other item, the pink rectangle, delicately between my fingers. It’s a mini tape.
My heart races.
This was my mother’s tape. She left it with the intention to be found.
For who? For me?
“Julian?” I say, tremulously. What, like they put this here? Like they’re hiding under the bed, ready to jump out and declare that I’m on a prank show?
I sit on the cot, wracking my brain. I need a tablet, but only Ben has one. And he— wait. My watch.
I’m barely breathing as I slide the tape into the tiny hatch in my watch. The screen flickers and goes black. Then a vid starts to play. And I know immediately where this is. It’s the forest. There’s no sound; just grainy, dark footage of a writhing form. The vid is too small to identify who it is, but I know her.
It’s Andrews.
And she’s wrapped in vines, embraced from head to toe, suspended in the air between trees like she’s being displayed. Crucified, worshiped, destroyed. The vines roil around her, and she shudders. Agony? Ecstasy?
The video gets blurry, like whoever’s filming is moving fast. And then it’s suddenly much closer. I see her face, even in the low-quality video on the tiny screen. Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back, her mouth wide open in what looks like orgasmic pleasure.
A single white flower blooms from her mouth.
The video jostles again, then cuts out.
There are a few seconds of staticky blackness, and then another recording begins. This time, it’s the waterfall. The white flow of water looks like salt or snow.
The video cuts out.
That’s all there is.
Fingers shaking almost uncontrollably, I eject the tape and shove it into one of my cargo pockets. I’m struck by something I can’t deny. I feel it in my gut, in the flow of my blood, my very DNA: my mother left this tape for me. She left the walkie for me. She knew she would have a child just like her. And she somehow knew, even if she would have done everything in her power to stop her if she could, that her daughter would come back here one day.
Hurried and clumsy, I lace my boots. There’s no time to grab a jacket, no time for a light. I know where I need to go next. The waterfall.