Page 21 of The Island

But what was the right course of action?

Her moral compass and survival instincts were swinging in wildly opposite directions.

“Look, honey, you met those people,” she began. “It’s all one family on this island. They control the ferry, which is our only way off. We have no phone service. We can’t get help. We’re entirely dependent on them.”

“So?”

“You heard what Jacko said about the police. He told me they chased someone off the island with shotguns. It sounds like they’re a law unto themselves here.”

“What—what are you suggesting?” Tom asked.

Heather looked at him. Tom was older, yes; he had read more, yes; but he moved in very small circles. He came from money, and his experience of human nature was surprisingly limited. One night sleeping rough in the Tacoma bus station would have taught him more than a thousand books.

“We hide her in the long grass with her bike. We get the car out of the ditch and we drive down to the ferry and get off this island as soon as possible. When we’re safely back on the mainland, we can tell the cops that we may have hit something when we were driving. We thought it was an animal but we’re not sure.”

“You want us—me—to leave the scene of an accident? An accident we caused?”

She looked into his eyes. The pupils were big. His hands were shaking. He was somewhere else again.

“What’s h-happened?” Olivia asked. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d come to see what was going on. Owen was ten feet behind her. “Is that blood?”

Heather turned. “Go back to the front of the car, please, Olivia. Take your brother.”

“Is someone dead?” Olivia said, her hand up against her mouth. She was pale, trembling, scared.

“Damn right someone’s dead,” Tom muttered.

Heather winced, took Olivia by the hand, grabbed Owen by the arm, and escorted them to the front of the Porsche.

“There’s been an accident. You two will have to be brave, OK?” she said softly.

She noticed that there was blood and a dent on the Porsche’s snorkel. They’d have to get that clean before they returned it to the car dealership. The big stainless-steel bumper at the front of the car was dented too; not badly, but it would still need to be explained.

Owen shook off her hand. “Dad killed her, didn’t he? He killed her,” he said strangely, distantly, as if from the bottom of a well. Owen, like Olivia, was both older and younger than his years. He was twelve, sometimes going on fifteen, sometimes a scared little boy.

Heather walked back to Tom.

“How are the kids?” he asked.

“The kids are going to be OK. Look, you did your best. You braked. You honked the horn.”

“Yes,” Tom exclaimed. “Yes, I honked the horn. And this wasn’t the car that I wanted. I wanted the other one.”

“You did everything you could. This wasn’t our fault. I think we should go now. I think we should get in the car and get to the ferry as quickly as possible.”

Tom nodded.

“We’ll get the body off the road and drive to the ferry,” Heather said.

“We really shouldn’t do that. It’s a crime,” Tom said.

“I don’t think we have a choice. They’re scary people. They have guns. It’s all one family. Do you trust them to call the cops?”

He thought about it. “I can see what you’re…but this is a huge decision,” Tom said. She noticed that the sweat was pouring off him. And the graze on his forehead was bleeding.

“You know what? It’s my fault, Tom. I’m making the decision,” Heather said. “You banged your head. This is my call, OK? You don’t have to think about any of this right now. All you have to do is help me get the body off the road. We’re going to put her in that long grass over there.”

“You want us to actually move her?”

---