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Is there any such thing as paradise anymore? The fascinating, urban appeal of Mattapan with its vibrant Haitian community, where I held a young man while he bled out. The soaring grandeur of the Wyoming mountains, where I watched my friends get shot, my hands still covered in their blood as I fled for my own life.
I’ve been doing this work for more than a decade. Searching for the missing everyone else has forgotten. I can’t imagine quitting, because if someone like me doesn’t keep looking, then who will? But I also wonder how much more I can take.
I want to feel the joy of this place. But mostly I’m overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding.
“Are you and Aolani dating?” I blurt out, desperate for distraction. “You seem like a couple.”
He doesn’t answer for so long, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then: “I don’t know.”
His words are quiet but raw. I nod. Most of my relationships feel like that, too.
“Why ask me to come with you today? I’m new here. You don’t know me.”
“Yes.”
Once again, his tone is honest. I struggle to understand. “Do you truly think you’ve found long-lost pirate gold?”
He hesitates. “I have found something. I need to dig to understand what. And I need help with that.”
“So you brought me along. You don’t trust your other campmates?”
“It is imperative such a discovery be kept quiet until I know exactly what it is.”
“And you think I won’t gossip? Again, you don’t even know me.”
“I know you weren’t here before.”
“Before what?” Now I’m even more confused.
“Just before. That is good enough.”
I don’t understand, and he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to explain. Once again, I struggle with the dynamics of this strange place. Where everyone is supposed to be open and honest and trust one another, except that Vaughn has already lied to me, and nobody wants to give a clear accounting of what happened to the recently departed Chris. Not to mention Ronin and Aolani’s obviously tense exchange this morning, and Charlie popping up from the bushes like some rabid member of the paparazzi. I scrutinize Ronin, his smooth brown skin, sculpted cheekbones, exotic eyes, willing him to give something—anything—away. But he remains perfectly composed, a man who, even after trekking through an infernally hot and humid jungle, has barely a drop of sweat on his face.
“How did Chris sprain her ankle?” I finally ask.
“I heard she tripped down the stairs.”
“Really? Because I was told she stepped into a crab’s den.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
He smiles faintly. “We should get moving. We’re almost there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Welcome to Pomaikai. Nothing here is as simple as it first appears.”
“And the crew?”
“There is nothing simple about us, either. Just—” He hesitates as if about to say something more. “Trudy and Ann are good souls. You will enjoy working in the kitchen with them.”
I have an uncomfortable feeling that this is Ronin’s way of saying beware of everyone else. But before I can press further, he resumes his trek forward through the jungle.
I have no choice but to follow, beads of sweat streaking down my overheated face even as I shiver from a new and unexpected chill.
CHAPTER 12
