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He wondered which guests would be leaving on the noon ferry tomorrow. He was tempted to board it himself. But the terms of the agreement he and Octavia had signed were strict. They had committed to not leaving the island for the duration of the contract. If they bailed before the end they would forfeit the money the Institute was depositing in their bank accounts every month, and it was alotof money.
Oliver Skinner was the first to get up. He went to the table where a variety of after-dinner liqueurs and small pastries had been set out. Marcella Earle followed him.
This was not good. Clive reminded himself that he had a job to do. The guests were supposed to be paying attention to his spiel. He needed to inject some energy into the welcome pitch. The problem was that he had been using the same script since the start of the gig, six months ago. It was similar to the one he had worked with for nearly four years in various locations. He needed new material.
Just one more month until the contract was completed. One more month. There was so much money waiting. He would never have to run another con. He could retire to a real island, the kind that had palm trees, beaches, and warm seas. Just one more month.
“...You will discover the secrets of true mindfulness—not the weak versions that have been made popular by apps and podcasts,” he continued. “The Venner System is a very different method of centering yourself. You will train your mind to be in the moment—not just for a short break, but all the time. You will discover that this practice will provide you with deep, restful sleep and the ability to concentrate. But most of all it will give you a deep, abiding sense of inner balance...”
Three of the guests who had arrived that day fit the standard retreat profile, Clive thought. In addition to Skinner, the tightly wound tech worker, and Earle, the intense real estate agent, there was Draper, the jaded travel blogger. It was the couple that had booked separate cabins who raised a red flag. There was something off about them. The claim that their couples therapist had recommended two cabins didn’t ring true. He had been running cons and scams his whole life. His survival instincts were well honed.
He reminded himself that Rand and March were not his problem.He was in charge of maintaining the aboveground illusion. As far as the outside world was concerned, he was just another smooth-talking meditation and mindfulness instructor running a retreat for the overstressed, the overanxious, and the overworked. What happened underground, stayed underground. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, enjoy a few short-term liaisons with some of the more attractive female guests when the opportunity arose, and take the money when the gig was completed.
One more month.
“...You will begin your quest to find your best self tomorrow morning,” he continued. “I will awaken you with the gong. Together we will walk the labyrinth path in the gardens before breakfast. And now I bid you all a night of dreams that enlighten and expand your inner universe.”
He rose from the meditation cushion, trying not to let the stiffness in his knees and hips show. The loose-fitting, pajama-like trousers and long-sleeved shirt provided good camouflage, but he had to face the facts—there was no graceful way for a man his age to get to his feet after sitting cross-legged on the floor for extended periods of time, cushion or no cushion. Tomorrow he would start using a chair.
A movement in the arched opening between the lobby and the small dining room made him glance across the rustic space. He saw Octavia. She was drying her hands on a kitchen towel. He knew she had been observing his lackluster performance. It was her fault the script had gotten old. She was the one who had written it.
The script wasn’t the only thing that was showing its age, he thought. Octavia was in her midthirties now, no longer the ethereal young beauty who had started out as an adoring acolyte and lover and had eventually become his business partner.
She had ceased believing he was a serious meditation and lifestyleguide a long time ago and demanded a cut of the profits. There was no getting around the fact that she was a damned good cook. As one of the online reviews said, “Go for the tech-free experience, stay for baked polenta with cheese and the salted chocolate caramel tart.” Food, it turned out, was a bigger draw than the prospect of living without a phone for a few days. Who knew?
So, yes, Octavia had brought in the business, but at the end of this gig he would no longer need her.
He put his palms together, bowed to the small group, and left the firelit lobby, heading for the cabin he and Octavia shared. He would pour a large glass or two of whiskey. The free booze and the money were the only reasons he was still on the island.
The trek through the gardens to the cabin gave him chills, as usual. The damned plants gave off an eerie glow after dark. The technical word for it wasbioluminescence, according to Keever, the assistant gardener, but it was creepy. The weird light had gotten stronger during the past two months. The atmosphere was gradually warming and the storms were more frequent.
Octavia was convinced the changes were caused by whatever was happening underground. He had dismissed her theories at first, but now he was sure she was right. He reminded himself that whatever the Institute was up to down below was not his business and not his problem.
One more month.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The plants weregetting scarier. Unpredictable. Dangerous. But it was the fungi that worried him the most.
Eddy Keever clutched the vintage flashlight-shaped device and hurried through the radiant underworld jungle. He took great care not to step off the glowing stones of the path. He had a healthy respect for the plants down here in the old lab.
Forget healthy respect. He was terrified of the specimens.
When he had accepted the offer of employment as an assistant gardener he had been told that the plants and fungi were the same species as those in the conservatory but had been genetically modified by decades of exposure to the violet and green radiation that emanated from the walls and ceiling of the underground tunnels.
The plants, especially the fungi, had fascinated him at first. The position as assistant to the Night Gardener had offered him the opportunity to continue his work with mushrooms. After the string of disasters that had ruined his life, the job with the Institute had seemed too good to be true. And, of course, it was.
But he knew too much now. He had to get off the island anddisappear. He could no longer pretend that his boss’s undeniable brilliance excused the fits of rage, the strange experiments, and the insistence on secrecy. He was pretty sure now that the Night Gardener was certifiably insane.
Back in the twentieth century the underground gardens had been cultivated as a clandestine botanical experiment run by the government. But at some point the project had been abandoned. The lab had been shut down. The specimens had been left untended. They should have died. Instead, they had flourished.
Nature had found a new niche, and, as nature always did, it had taken over, establishing a self-sustaining ecosystem. Now, years later, the bizarre mushrooms, snakelike vines, creepers, leaves, and fronds choked the main tunnel and some of the side corridors. The path through the greenery was still clear, thanks to the energy in the stones, but he wasn’t sure how much longer that would be true. In the end, nature was always stronger than any human-made barrier that was intended to control it.
The Night Gardener had laughed at him when he had asked if any of the plants were carnivorous. He had been assured that, while the soil had the same natural composting properties as the surface gardens and could absorb the nutrients of dead insects or the occasional rat, the plants were not meat eaters.
But he no longer believed that. Two weeks ago he had seen the remains of the dead test subject in one of the mushroom forests. Forty-eight hours later there had been nothing left except bones. Ultimately, they would disappear, too.
Now there was another test subject in the lab. The woman had been drugged into a state of semiconsciousness. The Night Gardener claimed the subject was suffering from a rare disease and hadvolunteered for the experimental treatment. It was her only hope, the Night Gardener said. Maybe. But Keever was pretty sure that if things went wrong the underground gardens would once again devour the evidence.
