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“I saw Ronin with a machete,” I prod.
“In terms of blades, there are plenty, from pocketknives to hacksaws to utility blades. Hard to do much work around here without one.”
“That is not going to help me sleep better at night. Speaking of which, do you have a night watch?”
“No, just twenty-four-hour coverage of the radios. I always have one; Charlie, Ronin, and AO take turns with the second.”
“What about starting some kind of nighttime security measures…?”
“Would probably raise a bunch of questions and concerns I don’t want raised right now.”
“What about asking someone like Charlie?”
“I can’t ask the man to work all night, then save our asses repairing broken items all day.”
I nod. “When MacManus gets here, tell him it’s time to mine those deep pockets and pony up for extra help. Or when the police arrive to inspect the grave… They might have something to offer. But if your suspicions are correct, you could use more resources. You’re the project manager. Manage.”
Vaughn rolls his eyes again. He’s back to his mussed hair, preoccupied expression. He is carrying the weight of this camp on his shoulders. He seems to take the responsibility seriously.
He rises to standing. “Thanks for the pep talk.” His tone might be sarcastic. “I’ve kept you from the movie long enough.”
I nod, then find myself saying, “Look, I’m no expert, but I have some relevant experience. If you want to even… just talk… you know, whatever. Whenever.” I should shut up. And still the words pour out. “I’m here for you.”
Night or day seems implied. It’s the faint undertone of dressed or undressed that has me horrified. Though I don’t take it back. It’s been a while. And he’s a good-looking guy, in a super fit, brilliant blue eyes sort of way.
“Drinks,” he says.
“Right now?” Well, so much for having to wonder.
“Beer and wine. For movie night. You’re in charge, remember?”
Belatedly, I recall my job description. “Umm, yes. One drink apiece. Where’s the stash?”
Vaughn points to a European-size fridge churning away in a darkened corner, producing a chain dangling beneath his shirt that bears several keys. As he selects one to unlock the fridge, he rattles off: “Don’t underestimate the inmates in the asylum. Ronin doesn’t drink at all. AO only drinks on occasion. The rest of them, you better keep count. Especially Trudy and Ann. They like to do this trick where they pretend to be fetching a drink for someone else, except they’re not. Apparently, they think if someone passes on their designated drink, that beer is now available for them, versus that whole ‘one drink per person,’ means they are the person who only gets one drink.”
I can almost follow that. Vaughn pulls out two boxes of wine, one red, one white, then piles a six-pack on top. Given all my years as a bartender, the size and weight of the load doesn’t faze me. Given all my years as a hardcore drinker, it also makes me a little giddy.
Now would be a good time to mention I’m a friend of Bill. And yet I don’t. I’m playing with fire. I can’t even say why I’m so anxious to burn.
I depart the office with my illicit stash. Outside it’s still pouring but so much warmer than the bone-biting air-conditioning that I actually welcome it. It’s only a short distance to the rec hall. When I appear with an armful of booze, people literally cheer. Just like that, I’m one of the cool kids.
I pass out booze, feeling very much in my element, while Aolani starts fiddling with some device that appears to house every movie ever made as a computer file. Except for the good ones, Trudy informs me with a wink as she snags a beer. Then again, when stranded on a deserted island, is there such a thing as a bad movie?
I stay in the back, not just to monitor/moon over the booze but because I remember the second boon of the night—Wi-Fi access. As Twanow had anticipated, I haven’t had enough reception to call. But with the gift of Wi-Fi, I can at least attempt my first check-in via text. I start with:
“Hi mom! Made it safe and sound. Already met some nice people, with new friends arriving tomorrow.”
That sounds innocuous enough. I think of the morning’s events, from the grave to Lea’s note. I’m not sure how to communicate all that without giving too much away in case I am being monitored. I finally go with:
“Sad start to the day. Archaeologist made a discovery that might not be historic. Police will arrive later in the week to determine. We could all use answers to what happened. Feeling a little concerned right now. Is this the right choice for me? I and some of my friends might want to come home sooner versus later.”
Too vague? I honestly don’t know. I’ve never tried coded communiqués before. And compared to the Get me the hell off this island command I truly want to send, this feels tame.
I hit send, stuff my phone back in my pocket, then settle in to count heads and bottles/glasses of booze while watching some movie involving Betty White and a supersize prehistoric alligator. It engenders equal parts laughs and gasps, the right notes for a group of people dealing with news no one is talking about and yet everyone is worrying over.
The only staff members missing are Vaughn and Charlie. As the two busiest men in camp, maybe they can’t afford such luxuries. The rest of us enjoy it in their stead.
Afterward, I cart the leftover booze to Vaughn’s office. He’s left his key on the desk. I take it and, without giving myself a chance to think, unlock the fridge, refill, relock, then stash the key in the center drawer and flee without a backward glance.
