Page 89 of The Island

Matt climbed down off the porch and looked at the ground for a minute or two. He dipped his fingers into the soil and examined them. He stared into the dark and rubbed his chin.

“I think you did hit her, mate. With a couple of pellets, at least,” Matt said.

“Good on you, Rory!” Jacko said.

“Yeah, she’s fast as Shergar, the, uh, Derby winner, but I gave her a good go,” Rory said.

“She won’t stand a chance tomorrow,” Jacko said.

“With the dogs?” Rory asked.

“Yeah, Davey Schooner’s dogs. Trains ’em for the cops. Kelpie-hound crosses. They’ll find them all in a couple of hours. They don’t smell like anything else on this island,” Jacko said.

“Bloody bitch. I knew she was bad news,” Kate muttered.

“Nah, no worries, Kate. Bit of fun and games. She’ll be right in the end,” Ivan said.

“Well, we should go. Lock your windows and doors, Rory. Board up that top window. I doubt she’ll be back, but you never know. I’ll tell Ma you did OK. She’ll be proud of you, mate,” Matt said.

“Thanks, Matt.”

“If you see so much as a bloody shadow, shoot first, ask questions later,” Kate said.

“I will do. She’ll not get the drop on me twice.”

Kate, Ivan, Matt, and Jacko got back in the Jeep.

Rory waved to them and then sat down on the rocking chair on the veranda. The shotgun was across his lap.

He sat there rocking himself back and forth until the taillights of the Jeep were long gone.

When it was quiet, he stood.

“I know you’re out there,” he said.

Heather flattened herself in the dirt.

“I’m going to leave this bag of water bottles here. I’m going to bring it in in the morning. So if you want it, you’re going to have to take it tonight. Do you hear me?”

Heather said nothing.

“Smart. Keep being smart. If you ever come back here again, you’re a dead woman. I will blow your bloody brains all over the place. This is your one Get Out of Jail Free card. Everybody is entitled to one and this is yours. Just one, mind. I will shoot you. I can’t afford to miss again. Not with them lot. Not with Ma.” Rory put the shotgun over his shoulder, opened the front door, and went inside.

A few moments later the house lights went off.

Heather waited.

And waited.

Then she began crawling, fast, through the long grass. The red soil was dry and rough, and she had to be careful not to kick up too much dust.

She crawled as carefully and as quickly as she could, circling the house. Checking the windows, checking the lights. In ten minutes, she was facing the front porch again. The grass was lower and the cover was sparser.

With scraped knees and hands, with her left shoulder hurting and bleeding and her left arm on fire, she inched her way back to the house.

The bag was sitting there with all that precious water.

Dust trail ghosting her.

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