I found none in her buttocks.
But I made a startling discovery there—something I might’ve noticed right away if my attention hadn’t been focused so completely on her injuries.
Bruises and lash-marks aside, her buttocks were the same pale shade of gray as her lower back and her thighs.
Where was her tan line?
Billie, I knew, had stark borders between her tanned skin and the parts covered by her bikini. Where she wasn’t tawny, she was as pale as milk.
With her black bikini pants gone, she would certainly look as if she’d changed into a new, white pair.
She shouldn’t be all one shade, like this.
For a few moments, I knew this wasn’t Billie. Then doubts came.
Not enough time had passed, since I’d seen her last, for her tan to fade so completely. But several days had gone by. If she’d spent them naked in the sun, the white of her buttocks might’ve darkened enough to match the rest of her.
And what about being submerged in the lagoon? Over a period of time, the water might’ve done something to her skin color.
She hadn’t been in it very long, though.
Not very long at all.
From the start, I’d been vaguely aware that she seemed to be in decent shape for a dead person. I hadn’t given the matter much thought, though, except to be thankful that she wasn’t as repulsive as she might be. That is, she didn’t feel slimy or stiff or rotten.
(Compared to Matt, she was a regular Sleeping Beauty.)
Suddenly, it dawned on me that she was extremely fresh.
I picked up one of her hands. Holding it close to my face, I studied the fingertips. They were pruned, all right. But not that much.
I compared them to my own wrinkled fingertips.
I’m no damn forensic pathologist, but it was suddenly obvious that she hadn’t been in the water for more than about an hour.
She had probably still been alive while I was above the falls trying to find our battleground.
If I hadn’t gotten lost up there (twice)…
If I hadn’t spent so much time looking around…
I might’ve returned to the lagoon in time to find her being murdered, gutted, stuffed, sunk.
Maybe I could have saved her.
Or maybe I would’ve gotten myself murdered, gutted…
Life and death, a matter of destinations and delays.
Only they don’t tell you the right or wrong place to be, or when.
I couldn’t bear the thought that I might’ve missed a chance, by such a slim margin, to save Billie’s life.
I turned the woman over.
Glimpsed the terrible chasm down the middle of her torso. Looked a bit longer at her breasts: bruises, welts, scratches, but no stab wounds. Then made myself gaze at her face.
It was gray in the moonlight, etched and pocked with black shadows.
Enough of it showed, though.
This was not Billie’s face.
This was the face of a woman I had never seen before, not even in my dreams.
I swam back to the place where I’d left my stuff, found Andrew’s lighter, and returned to the body. Kneeling by her side, I studied her by the lighter’s small, shaky flame.
She was definitely a stranger.
Physically, she bore a lot of resemblance to Billie. They seemed to be similar in age, size, build, and hair color. Even their faces had much in common. I could see that this wasn’t Billie, but it would’ve been hard to describe the differences. This woman’s face had obviously been attractive, even beautiful, before her death.
Her face, by the way, showed no signs of injury.
(Wesley hadn’t wanted to spoil her looks, more than likely—just torture and murder her.)
Before leaving, I dragged her a small distance away from the lagoon. I hid her in among some rocks—so I’d be spared the sight of her, maybe, if I should return to the lagoon in the near future.
Speculations
I’m now nearly caught up to the present. A good thing, too, because I’ve only got a few pages left in my notebook.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about things.
I think the dead woman was probably linked, somehow, to Matt. I think they lived together, here on the island, before our arrival. My guess is that they were married to each other.
Wesley murdered Matt first—probably just before Thelma came into our camp and told us she’d bashed Wesley’s brains in. He would’ve expected us to go looking for his body as soon as we heard the news, so it would’ve been in position at the bottom of the chasm on Day Six, waiting for us. That was two days before I got thrown down on top of Matt’s remains.
Wesley kept the woman alive, abusing her, and didn’t get around to killing her until shortly before I found her body in the lagoon two nights ago.
Obviously, Thelma had a hand in things, too. They’re in it together. Partners, allies, accomplices.
Some of this is just speculation, of course.
But it makes sense to me.
I wonder about a lot of things, though.
If I’m right about Matt and the woman being inhabitants of the island, did they live in a house? Is their house the place where Wesley got his hands on such things as the ax and rope?
Where is their house?
If I find it, will I also find Kimberly, Billie and Connie?
I think so.
I think so, yes. If they are still alive, I’ll probably find them at the house.
Last Words
Okay. I’m up to date with my journal, now. In fact, I’m done with it. I have no more reason to procrastinate. I can’t build my Winchester House of words; there’s no more room for words—or hardly enough to matter.
Tomorrow, I’ll set out to search for my women. I don’t expect I’ll be returning to our beach. I plan to travel light; wearing Connie’s towel-vest, Andrew’s shorts, and my own socks and shoes. I’ll carry the lighter in my pocket, of course. And I’ll take along Billie’s sun-block, mostly because it reminds me of her and it smells good. My only weapon will be Thelma’s straight razor.
I’ll take my journal with me in the book bag, along with a couple of pens that haven’t yet run out of ink (in case I should stumble upon paper but no writing implement), my swimming trunks (though I haven’t worn them since acquiring Andrew’s shorts), the pink blouse that Billie gave me (though I now prefer to wear Connie’s vest), and a few remaining items of food.
I’ll leave just about everything else behind. Including Andrew’s camera. I haven’t used it yet, so I can’t see a good reason to lug it around.
The less I have to carry, the better.
I do wish that I had something of Kimberly’s, though. Her Swiss Army knife (Andrew’s before it came into
