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I can feel my anxiety thrumming through my entire body now. I focus harder on the work at hand. Inhale, snap a photo. Exhale, snap a photo. I will not grow hysterical. I will not become a victim of the past.
This is not that.
Ronin removes a final few stones. He sucks in his breath.
A glimmer of light, like the bones are shiny. Then, as Ronin slowly clears a larger hole, an explosion of sparkling red dots where no sparkling red dots should be.
He glances at me immediately, his expression apologetic.
He doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to.
And I don’t make any comments of my own, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to start screaming, and once I start I doubt I’ll be able to stop.
I lift the camera. I point it at our macabre discovery. I snap away.
Then I close my eyes and offer my own prayer for this poor young woman who once upon a time came to a tropical paradise and never made it home again.
“WE SHOULDN’T DISTURB anything else,” Ronin says, slowly straightening.
“Okay.”
“I have another tarp. We’ll cover everything, return to camp. Vaughn will have to contact Honolulu for assistance.”
“Okay.”
I can’t seem to move or look away. Through the small opening is the perfectly shaped lower portion of a human skull, attached to a skeletal neck and pillowed against long, dark hair. The jawbone is no longer bright white but a dark, mottled gray. A sign the remains have been interred for a while? But then there’s the matter of the sparkling red dots, the sun reflecting off a cluster of red sequins forming a flower dotting the exposed top. If the skeleton is old, her outfit appears shockingly new, as if she just threw it on for a night of dinner and dancing.
These are definitely not the remains of a European explorer or Polynesian sailor or peg-legged pirate. And they’re definitely not historic, based on the sequins alone.
“Frankie,” Ronin says quietly. He’s staring at me with concern.
Which is when I finally notice my knuckles have turned white on the camera.
Ronin steps forward, gently removing the Nikon from my grasp.
“We should go back to our vehicle. You can sit there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“It’s only natural to be upset. This isn’t what I expected.”
I wrap my arms tight around my waist, scouring the woods with my gaze. I’m looking for a glint of light, I realize. A rifle scope. Because that’s what comes next. The crack of a rifle. A spray of blood.
“This is not that,” I state out loud, fighting against the pull of the past.
“What isn’t that?”
“This. This is not that.”
Gnarled Pisonia tree. White angel tern. Green ferns. Dark rocks. Red flowered top. I dig my nails into my side to stop the spiraling.
“This is not that,” Ronin repeats soothingly. “Whatever that was, this is not that.”
“That was worse.”
“Okay.”
“So many bodies. And I’ve never been any good with blood.” I stare at my hands because I can still see the red staining my fingertips. I’ll always be able to see it. Did this woman have blood on her hands? Did she fight back? Or did she succumb to the exhaustion that follows endless terror?
