Page 24 of Last Ticket to Paradise

The old man stumbled over a root, and she grabbed him. He smiled and nodded. “Almost there, Miss Lawson.”

She stopped. “How do you know my name?”

He squeezed her arm. “That was my granddaughter in the bookstore, and I do odd jobs for Mr. Jake. I know everything that goes on.”

“Then you know about my sister, Jamie Lawson.”

“You’re not like your sister. You’ll be fine.” He patted her arm.

“Do you know what happened to my sister?” She dug her heels into the sand.

His eyes clouded, and he shrugged again. “I’ll get you the book.”

They broke into a clearing with a few small shacks clumped together. Laundry flapped on a clothesline between two trees, and an old woman sat on her haunches, shelling peas. The smell of smoky bacon and scorched coffee hung in the air.

Georgette wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Jake doesn’t pay you so well, huh?”

The old man spread his hands. “Some of us still prefer the old ways. Wait here. I’ll get the book.”

He ducked into one of the shacks and returned with a worn book bound in dirty red leather. He slipped it into her hands. The hot leather scorched her fingers, and she dropped the book.

The old woman looked up from her task with sightless eyes. “Jaco?”

Jaco scooped up the book and placed it in Georgette’s hands. “Just helping a friend, Corrinda.”

“Go now. Don’t let anyone see the book.” He nudged Georgette’s back.

Georgette slipped the book, still warm from the sun, in the waistband of her shorts, thankful she was wearing one of her old baggy T-shirts instead of one of the new formfitting tops she’d bought with Linda.

She trudged on the path back to the resort, her mind buzzing. Did Jaco know what happened to Jamie? If so, why didn’t he tell her? Was he afraid of offending the Palarosa gods? Or was it that other god of Palumba, Jake Kincaid, he was worried about?

She slid into her cool, darkened room. She flipped on the light and checked the windows. Still locked. She poked her head in the bathroom and the closet. No intruders today.

She plumped up her pillows and stretched out on the bed. The little book creaked as if in protest when she opened it. Black and white sketches of ferocious creatures jumped off the page. The Palarosa gods. One of the creatures, called Lokin, had a huge penis jutting from his body. Georgette snorted. Must be the one who wanted the fallen women.

She scanned the book, which was filled with instructions for casting spells and mixing potions. Pretty standard stuff—revenge, protection, fertility, love. To cast a spell of love, you had to mingle the hair from your object of desire with your own hair, add two drops of coconut oil and a dash of goat’s blood, and light the whole thing on fire while chanting a few words of mumbo jumbo. If it were only that easy. Not that she had anyone in mind for that particular ritual.

The little god with the erect phallus glared from the top of the page where instructions for the ritual sacrifice began. Figured. The show at the Costa Azul pretty much had it down. One fallen woman for each of the months of spring was identified by the community. On the night of the full moon, the woman was stripped naked, placed on a rock with a pile of sticks at her feet, and tied to bamboo poles.

The drums heralded the start of the ritual, and men and women danced around the victim. The runda, or witch doctor, led the chant and then announced the sacrifice. The men grabbed their torches and thrust them at the fallen woman to simulate intercourse. Then all the torches lit the kindling beneath the woman, and she burned to death.

Georgette shivered. Not much different from the way the Puritans had dealt with theirbadwomen.

She kept reading. The sacrifices took place on theSacred Rocks of Palumba, one located on the main island and two others on smaller islands. The book even included a map to the one on the main island. Georgette held the book under the bedside lamp and studied the page, her finger tracing the coastline. She circled the unmistakable two points of the Devil’s Teeth with her fingertip and followed the black squiggle up the coast.

She gasped. The Sacred Rock of Palumba lay right in the middle of Jake’s undeveloped stretch of land.

***

Jake’s gaze darted around the pool. Where was she? He’d had work to do in the morning and missed her at breakfast. He figured after her close call last night, she’d want to take it easy, lounge by the pool. Maybe indulge in a little R&R. A quick check of the appointment calendar at the spa had told him otherwise. Was she resting in her room? He knew she’d had a full buffet breakfast, because he’d seen that on the computer, too.

He rubbed his eyes. Was he reduced to stalking his guests by tracking their movements on his computer? Just this guest.

Who was threatening Georgette and why? If the stories about the Palarosa ritual were true, and Jamie was the second victim, wouldn’t the runda want everyone on the island to know? But if she were the victim of another sort of crime, the perpetrator wouldn’t want her sister down here nosing around.

He pasted a smile on his face as a guest called out a greeting. He didn’t want to get involved. His job down here was to make sure the Palumba Falls was the best damned resort on this island and all the neighboring islands. He knew it rivaled anything the old man had developed.

If every woman who left the island of her own free will suddenly became a Palarosa ritual “victim,” the tourists would stay away in droves. Georgette needed to leave this alone. Her sister would come sauntering back to the island in her own sweet time.

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