Chapter Fourteen #7
Clay’s eyes flick to the kitchen, the legs of Bosch just visible through the doorway.
“I’ll deal with it,” I say.
Clay shakes his head, flexes his muscles like he’s trying to stand, but I quickly push myself from the floor and place a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how well those stiches will hold, that thread isn’t meant for sutures.”
I can see he wants to argue, jaw tense.
“And we don’t know how bad the damage is,” I tell him, releasing my hand from his shoulder. “If you don’t let your body heal, this could get a lot worse… fast. And if you die, I’ll be alone. So you stay put… and try to live.”
He grabs my hand, pulls me to him, and kisses me.
We’re both still soaked, and I know I need to start a fire, keep hypothermia at bay. But I have to deal with the bodies first. I can’t leave them in the kitchen any longer.
I prop open the back door with the metal bucket I use for collecting eggs, and rain blows onto the kitchen floor.
Bosch is a thin man, bony and angular, and I’m able to drag him easily enough, pulling him out the door, then down the steps, leaving him in the dirt.
But Kochek is heavier, more awkward. His forearms are wide, and it’s hard to get a good grip.
I drop him several times before I get him out the door, his leaden body thudding down the steps to the ground.
His head slumps to the side and I can see the blood clotting his hair, the blackened wound at the back of his skull.
He and Clay fought, and it may have been the bullet in his upper chest that killed him, or the trauma to his skull.
What Clay did, battling this man, face-to-face, watching him die, will surely haunt him. Even if he did it to save us.
One at a time, I drag them down the path, leaving bloody scars in the dirt, the heels of their boots digging in and making trenches. At the rocks, I push them over the slope and let their weight tumble down to the waterline. It’s an awful sight, and I cringe, watching the flapping of their limbs.
At the water, I shove their bloating bodies into the shallows.
But they are pushed right back onto the rocky beach—just like the thousands of dead fish that dotted our shores.
So I wade into the water, until I’m up to my chest, then set them out onto the waves.
This time, the current catches them, and they are carried like driftwood out to sea. More mercy than they deserve.
I stand for a minute, watching them, making sure, and in the distance, the ship is still perched on the horizon.
I can make out several men along the stern, and I think they’re looking back at me.
If they have binoculars, they can surely see the bodies I’ve just given to the ocean.
The rowboat drifting just off our shore, another body inside.
They will know something terrible has happened.
A crime has been committed on the island.
But they have no idea how many people are on our island, or what happened. We could be the villain in this story—an island of murderers. A dozen of us, bloodthirsty, willing to kill to protect what’s ours.
The rain pauses briefly, the air stills. I tilt my eyes to the sky, and the wind changes direction, begins blowing from the steep side of the island. When I drop my gaze, I watch several of the men disappear into a doorway, vanishing inside.
I wait for another small rowboat to be lowered from the side of the ship. More men to come. And if they do, I will sprint up to the house, I will warn Clay. He’s injured, can barely stand, but I know he won’t let them take me. No matter what.
I watch, and I hold my breath.
More men appear at the side of the ship, I think I see one of them pointing to the island. My heart races, preparing myself, ready to run.
But a moment later… the ship begins to turn, slowly, with effort.
The bow swivels, pointing toward the setting sun, and the vessel begins making its way west—away from the island.
Air sputters from my lips and I almost sink down into the water—a wave of relief and exhaustion pouring through me.
Maybe they didn’t think it was worth the risk, sending more men our way. They’ve already lost three. I wonder who they really were—if they had once been a naval crew, or if they are the traders that Kochek warned about. Marauders. Pirates thieving anything they can find.
I wade back to shore, feeling numb from the icy water, feeling like I might cry. But when the ship is just a speck on the horizon, and I’m certain it won’t return, I stagger back up the hill to the house.
Clay is barely awake on the couch, head tipped back. But when I step through the door, his hand goes to the wound, and he jerks upright.
“They’re leaving,” I tell him, dropping to my knees in front of him, pressing my forehead to his legs.
I hear him breathe. I feel the tears pushing against my eyes.
He touches my cheek, slides his fingers through my hair, and I sit up, leaning forward to sink my lips against his.
“I love ye,” he whispers.
But I don’t have any words. All I have left are tears.