16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Stay Close
Luca
I hear my name.
It sounds distant, as though I’m standing at the edge of a cliff while someone calls to me from the ocean below.
Soft.
Melodic.
A siren drawing me toward the water.
I know the voice.
I would follow it anywhere.
I move closer to the edge, searching for her through the darkness. She calls again, and I take one final step.
Then I fall.
My eyes snap open.
The rock shelter surrounds me. The air is cold, the ground hard beneath my back.
And Simone is straddling my hips.
“Jesus Christ, Luca.”
She grips my shoulder and shakes me again.
“You sleep like the dead.”
My body reacts before my mind does.
Her thighs press against my sides. Her hair falls around her face, and the jacket I covered her with hangs open at her chest.
For one confused second, my hands want to close around her waist and pull her down.
Then I hear the fear in her voice.
I sit up.
The sudden movement sends pain through the back of my skull and across my ribs.
“What happened?”
Simone climbs off me, taking her warmth with her.
“I heard something outside.”
She lowers her voice.
“Footsteps, I think. Near the beach.”
Every trace of sleep disappears.
I reach toward the survival case beside the entrance and retrieve my pistol and flashlight.
“Stay here.”
Her expression hardens.
“No.”
“Simone.”
“I’m not waiting alone in a dark hole while you go toward whatever might be outside.”
“There may be an armed man on this island.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn’t an argument in your favor.”
She folds her arms.
“I’m coming.”
There’s no time to debate.
I check the weapon, then hand her the flashlight.
“Stay directly behind me. Keep the light pointed at the ground unless I tell you otherwise.”
She accepts it.
“And if I tell you to run?”
“I run.”
“Toward the beach. Not the forest.”
“I remember.”
I catch her gaze.
“Stay close.”
Something passes across her face.
Then she nods.
We move out of the shelter.
The sky is still dark, though the faintest gray line has appeared above the water. It can’t be later than five in the morning.
Wind travels across the beach with enough force to cut through my trousers and Simone’s ruined stage costume.
She pulls my jacket tighter around herself.
I move quietly, keeping her behind my right shoulder while I scan the rocks, shoreline, and edge of the forest.
The pilot’s tracks disappeared inland yesterday.
If he returned during the night, he could have approached from almost any direction.
The sound comes again.
A scrape against stone.
Then footsteps.
I raise one fist.
Simone stops so abruptly that her body brushes mine.
“What?” she whispers beside my ear.
I point toward the far end of the beach.
A narrow beam of light moves between the rocks.
Someone is walking toward us.
Human.
Male, judging by the size and movement.
He carries something over one shoulder.
I position Simone behind me and lower my center of gravity.
“Stay there.”
The beam swings toward us.
I raise my weapon.
“Stop.”
The man freezes.
His flashlight illuminates damp boots, heavy trousers, and the edge of a fishing net thrown across one shoulder.
He lifts both hands slowly.
“I mean no harm.”
The English is heavily accented.
French.
He’s in his fifties, perhaps older. Wind and sun have weathered his face. A thick beard covers his jaw, and a metal bucket hangs from one hand.
Fishing line, floats, and a folded net rest against his back.
He looks wary.
Not surprised enough for my liking.
“Set down the bucket,” I tell him.
He complies.
“Now the light.”
He places it on the sand beside his feet.
“I saw the smoke,” he says. “The fire.”
His gaze moves toward the blackened wreckage farther down the coast.
“I came to see.”
“Why now?”
“Dark before. Dangerous rocks.”
He gestures toward the water.
“I fish before sunrise.”
Simone shifts behind me.
The man’s eyes flick toward the movement.
I step farther into his line of sight.
“Look at me.”
He does.
“Who are you?”
He answers in French this time.
“My name is Brock Leclair. I live in the village beyond the hill. I’m a fisherman.”
His shoulders ease slightly when I respond in the same language.
“You live on this island?”
“Yes. My family has lived here for generations.”
“How many people?”
“Perhaps sixty. Fewer in winter.”
“Is there a police station?”
His mouth tightens.
“No.”
“Doctor?”
“A nurse. She trained on the mainland.”
“Telephone?”
“The landline cable failed months ago. There is no cellular service.”
Of course there isn’t.
“What about a radio?”
Brock hesitates.
“There’s a marine radio at the harbor office, but last week’s wind damaged the antenna.”
“When will it be repaired?”
“The supply boat is expected in three days. It brings the replacement.”
Three days.
Behind me, Simone releases a whispered collection of curses.
Brock glances toward her.
“She doesn’t understand French?”
“Not enough for this conversation.”
I switch to English.
“He’s from a village on the other side of the hill. There’s no cell service, and their marine radio is damaged. A supply boat is due in three days.”
“Three days?”
Her voice rises.
Brock understands that much.
He nods apologetically.
“The sea is bad now. No small boats leave.”
Simone stares toward the dark water.
“We survived a plane crash only to be defeated by inconvenient weather.”
“It’s better than having no village,” I tell her.
She looks toward Brock.
“Did anyone else come through here last night?”
I translate.
His expression changes.
“A man?”
I step closer.
“You saw someone?”
“Footprints near the northern path.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday. Before the fire.”
My grip tightens around the weapon.
“What direction?”
“Toward the old observation station.”
“Describe him.”
Brock shakes his head.
“I didn’t see his face. Only tracks. One person.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Something heavy. Long.”
The drag mark.
Simone’s fingers close around the back of my shirt.
I don’t acknowledge the touch, but every instinct sharpens.
“The pilot,” she whispers.
“Possibly.”
Brock looks between us.
“Your aircraft?”
“The pilot disappeared after the crash,” I explain. “We believe he may be armed.”
Brock immediately reaches for the knife attached to his belt.
Not threatening us.
Preparing himself.
“The old station is abandoned,” he says. “No one should be there.”
“Can it be reached from the village?”
“Yes. Many paths.”
That complicates everything.
If the pilot has access to the village, he may also have food, shelter, transportation, and the ability to move among people who don’t know he caused the crash.
“Take us there,” I say.
“To the station?”
“The village.”
Brock studies my weapon.
“You expect trouble.”
“I expect nothing and prepare for everything.”
He seems to accept that.
“The villagers may not welcome strangers.”
“Why?”
“People come to ?le des Vents because they value privacy.”
“Tourists?”
“Not tourists.”
His gaze becomes guarded.
“Some come to disappear.”
That statement raises more questions than I have time to ask.
Brock retrieves his flashlight and bucket.
“Stay near me. We go quietly.”
I turn toward Simone.
She’s watching the forest.
Her face is pale beneath the dirt and fading stage makeup.
“You heard him.”
She looks at me.
“Stay close.”
“I’m practically attached to you.”
“Keep it that way.”
Brock leads us toward a narrow path cut between the rocks.
Before following, I take one final look at the shelter.
We leave it intact.
If the pilot returns, I want him to believe we may still be nearby.
The trail enters the forest and climbs steadily.
The soil is damp beneath our feet. Wind moves through the branches overhead with a hollow whistle.
“?le des Vents,” Brock says, gesturing toward the trees.
“Island of Winds,” I translate for Simone.
A stronger gust bends the branches above us. She pulls my jacket tighter around herself.
“Accurate.”
Brock walks with the confidence of someone who knows every root, stone, and turn in the path. His flashlight remains low, illuminating only enough ground to keep us from falling.
I stay several paces behind him with Simone between us.
She moves carefully, favoring her injured arm.
Every few minutes, I glance back toward the darkness.
Nothing follows.
That doesn’t mean we’re alone.
Brock says something over his shoulder.
“What did he say?” Simone asks.
“That the wind keeps away people who don’t belong.”
“That’s welcoming.”
“He didn’t name us specifically.”
“He thought it.”
I almost smile.
Brock glances back at her.
“She has fire.”
“That was definitely about me,” Simone says.
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you have too much of it.”
She glares.
I turn away before she notices the movement at the corner of my mouth.
The path grows steeper.
Simone’s breathing becomes heavier, though she refuses to complain.
I slow my pace.
She notices.
“You don’t have to walk like an elderly tour guide.”
“You’re injured.”
“It’s my arm, not my legs.”
“You also hit your head.”
“So did you.”
“I’m aware.”
“You were unconscious when I woke you.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You looked dead.”
“I’m sorry my resting state alarmed you.”
“It was disturbing.”
Her voice is dry, but she moves closer to me when something rustles in the brush.
Brock laughs quietly.
Simone glares at his back.
“What was that?”
“A bird,” I tell her.
“You don’t know that.”
“It had wings.”
“Bats have wings.”
“It was daytime when we crashed. You handled that better than a bird in the dark?”
“I was in shock.”
“You still are.”
“Your bedside manner is terrible.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Thank God.”
Despite everything, the exchange settles something inside me.
She’s speaking to me again.
Arguing.
Provoking.
Alive.
I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.
After nearly half an hour, a dim yellow glow appears through the trees.
The path reaches the top of the hill.
Below us, a village occupies a sheltered valley opening toward a narrow harbor.
Stone cottages with dark roofs stand unevenly along winding paths. Moss covers low walls, and several fishing boats rest above the tide line.
A small chapel rises near the center.