Page 86 of The Island

“If you touch that bloody bag, I’m going to blow your bloody head off. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you. You’re not going to shoot me, Rory.”

“Believe me, I will.”

She took a deep breath. She had to make him see that letting her go was the win-win solution.

“The cops are going to show up here eventually,” she said. “And when they do, they are going to be asking lots of questions. My husband was a well-known man. There are going to be cops all over this island looking for evidence of what happened to us. They’re going to take you in for questioning.”

“I can handle cops.”

She looked at him. “Why do you stay here? What’s here, Rory?”

“Peace, quiet, birds. Lots of birds.”

“My dad likes birds too.”

“Shearwaters are my favorite. Burrows all over the southern dunes. They fly here from Alaska, if you can believe it.”

She smiled. “You’re not a murderer, Rory. You’re not like them. You’re not part of this yet. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re police.”

“Maybe you’re right about all of that,” Rory said after a long pause. “Maybe I don’t want to kill you. But I don’t have to. I can shoot this thing at your legs. You’ll be singing a different tune when I blow your kneecaps off. Is that what you want? I’ll bloody do it. Now, sit back down again.”

She felt the sights settle on her lower body.

Shit, he was really going to do it.

His bluff had beaten her bluff.

She wasn’t good at this.

“I’m sitting down,” she said.

Rory rested the shotgun on his lap, picked up the walkie-talkie, and found the right channel. “Oi, Matt are you around?” Static. “Matt?”

“Yes, this is Matt. Who’s this?”

“Rory. You’ll never believe who just walked into my house.”

“Who?”

“The American.”

“You’re kidding! She with the kids?”

“Just her.”

“Are you pulling me leg?” Matt asked.

“Nope. I got her here.”

“Well done, mate! Hold the fort! Me and Kate will be right there. Over and out!”

Rory put down the walkie-talkie, picked up the gun, and grinned at Heather. “Out of my hands now, love. Out of my hands,” he said. “I’m done talking. If you make one more sound I’ll give you both barrels. Let’s just sit here in peace and wait for the others.”

23

Sweat under her ass. Shotgun pointing at her knees. Two 30-watt bulbs eking out a ration of rancid-butter-yellow light. Dust. Three moths. Four flies. Rory’s cracked lips and grim razor-blade smile.

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