Chapter Sixty-Six Holly
Chapter Sixty-six
HOLLY
Fitzwilliam and I are deep into the jungle, swatting an endless cloud of bugs.
‘You’ve been on paradise islands before, right?’ I ask him, pushing a branch from my face. ‘Is there some technique for this?’
‘You wouldn’t usually trek off into the jungle,’ he says. ‘Unless you were on an early-morning nature-spotting excursion with a guide.’
‘Do you miss it?’ I ask. ‘The luxury lifestyle?’
He considers. ‘Not so much the lifestyle, but being dropped from the world I was raised for was tiring at first. I had no idea how to act in the police locker room or on the firing range. It was like a whole language I had to learn to speak.’
I consider this. ‘How do your parents feel about you becoming a cop?’
‘My dad pretty much cut me off,’ he says.
‘Are you serious?’
He shrugs. ‘Less yelling. But I get sad about it sometimes.’
‘Least you know your father.’ I decide, straightening up and leaning back to fill my lungs. ‘My mom’s family disowned her for running away with a musician to a New York squat, and he repaid her loyalty by leaving her, just after I was born.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ His tanned forehead puckers as he sets off at a walk. ‘Explains your rejection issues.’ Fitzwilliam is striding ahead.
‘What rejection issues?’ I stop talking since he has come to a halt in front of me. There’s a small cinderblock guard hut, almost out of sight in the jungle. It disgorges an angry-looking man, wearing the security uniform of Elysium.
‘Hey!’ He seems unaccountably furious. ‘You can’t come this way. Miss Kensington told all the guests not to come this way,’ he continues.
‘Sorry,’ I begin, holding my hands up in a placating gesture. ‘We didn’t—’
‘Police,’ says Fitzwilliam in a highbrow authoritative tone I’ve never heard him use before. He holds out his NYPD badge. ‘We’re here to look around, following the death of Silky Eversfield.’
The man’s face is caught between anger and confusion.
‘I need to check with Miss Kensington.’
‘Go ahead,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘We’ll wait here.’
The guard nods, turns on his heel and vanishes inside the hut. As he does, Fitzwilliam takes two strides forward, closes the door, and snaps shut an open padlock, hanging on the outside.
‘Fitzwilliam …’
‘I don’t think that will hold him for long,’ he says. ‘And he’ll call for help. If they don’t realize you’re loose in the jungle, they will soon. I think we should run,’ he adds, after a moment’s reflection.
We pelt off into the trees, me in an ungainly arm-flapping run, Fitzwilliam adopting the controlled jog of a man who runs on his free time.
We stick to the trail, and before long, break into a wider clearing, filled with old dilapidated buildings. I pause for a moment, hunched over, breathing hard, my blue hair falling forward.
‘Wow,’ I say, after I catch my breath. ‘I never heard you use that voice before … That was …’ I take more air. ‘Kind of scary.’
‘I based it on how my father used to talk to the housekeeper,’ says Fitzwilliam, taking in our location. ‘Not the nicest of men,’ he adds, coming to a halt where the path splits off in two directions.
‘Which way?’ he ponders aloud.
I take careful stock of the surrounding jungle. It only takes me a few minutes before my eyes light on a palm tree, leaning hard to one side.
‘This tree has been struck by something large passing by,’ I say. ‘A vehicle. Or something like it.’
‘Then let’s go this way.’
I follow him around the next corner, and buildings come into view. ‘What is this place?’ I’m looking around.
‘Looks like this was the original resort,’ he says. ‘Back when Leopold Kensington ran things. It’s dated, but I guess this counted for high-end. Jungle’s got it now though,’ he adds with a note of sadness.
‘This is so weird,’ I say.
We come to an outdoor tiled terrace area, complete with a huge swimming pool.
It’s still filled with water, but the jungle has reclaimed it.
Creepers grow around the edges, and underwater plants bloom on a rotting tree trunk that has fallen into the depths.
Chunks of rubble at the bottom have become home to tiny swimming creatures.
I take in the overgrown frontage of a large building. I’m guessing it would have once been white, with faux-Grecian columns standing grandly either side of a large double-doored entrance. But the paint is peeling away, and jungle creepers have forked giant cracks in the render.
I put a hand to the flaking paint on the outside. ‘Not so long ago this was abandoned,’ I say. ‘In humid conditions like these, you’d expect exterior paint to be entirely degraded after a few years. Should we take a look inside?’
We approach silently, entering through the open doorway. It’s cool, with a strong smell of mold and soil. What was once a roof has rained down in broken chunks onto the floor beneath our feet, leaving it open to the elements.
‘Is it an old spa complex?’ I suggest, taking in the crumbling decor. The floor is studded with a carpet of tiny mosaic tiles, classical white stone columns punctuating the doorways. We pass archways leading to open pools of water. They are lined with debris and dirt from the fallen roof.
‘Roman bath style,’ I murmur. ‘Leopold Kensington?’
‘I can imagine him playing the part of Nero,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Maybe they just let this fall to ruin when the family left after Adrianna’s kidnap.’
‘Why abandon it though?’ I say. ‘Surely you’d just refurbish?’
Fitzwilliam nods. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he agrees. ‘It would cost millions more to start from scratch. All the good beaches are here too. Why pour away money for no reason?’
My eyes land on a huge crack on one of the exterior walls.
‘Maybe some kind of underpinning issue?’ I suggest. ‘Looks like the ground beneath might not be so stable.’
A rumbling sound stops us in our tracks.
‘It’s coming from a little deeper in the jungle,’ I say.
‘Sounds like construction work.’ Fitzwilliam nods. ‘Maybe they’re rebuilding.’
We follow the sound, using the outside jungle track, passing more abandoned buildings. Suddenly, Fitzwilliam flattens himself against a wall and gestures I do the same.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Take a look.’ His eyes are wide. ‘Just make sure they don’t see you.’
I follow his lead, snatching a glance. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.
It’s a huge pit. The width and length of an apartment building. An open chasm of rich tropical soil, with a thick loamy scent.
The pit’s ragged edges are dotted with spade-wielding men, and two small excavators. I count ten workers in all. Streaked with sweat, dressed in grimy construction clothing and heavy boots.
My eyes track to an excavator parked at the edge, engine turned off, its bucket raised high.
Hanging from the teeth of the excavator is a human ribcage.