“I thank you for your help, Mr. Pasqualee,” Prig was saying. “You’ve got an impressive operation here. Is it just staff and guests on the island currently? No one else has come here?”
“That’s right, pretty much,” George replied.
Dr. Ruzka rose then, wiping her hands on a disinfectant cloth. “Fortunately, the bullet passed all the way through. Without access to the right equipment, however, I can’t confirm the severity of the damage. Doesn’t seem to have pierced a lung. He’s breathing normally. I’ve cleaned it out and stitched it up. That’s all I can do for the time being. He just needs to rest. We’ll have to monitor him for infection, of course.”
“Thanks for your help, Doctor,” Prig replied.
“That poor woman and child need to be fed,” Dr. Ruzka said, stepping out from behind the cot and pointing into the corner. “They are grossly undernourished. The Marine named Archer said they came from the militia camp. Is that correct?”
Prig briefly, very briefly, made a sour face before replying. “That’s correct. We gave them a little food. They inhaled it. When all hell broke loose with that paramilitary group, we couldn’t see no other choice but to scoop them up and bring them with us. They’re a bit shy around men, so you ladies might have to look after them, if you don’t mind. I can’t get a word out of either of them.”
“I’ll feed them,” George Pasqualee said, scratching furiously at his wild white beard. “Actually, I’ll just feed all of you. I’m sure we can scrounge something up. What do you say?”
He looked past Prig at Elna. Malin could tell by the tension in Elna’s body posture that she wanted to argue with him. Instead, she blew her breath out and shrugged.
“Whatever you think, Pop,” she replied.
“Excellent,” George said, with a big smile, as if he’d just planned a party. “It’s settled then. Lunch is on!”
With the newcomers, there wasn’t enough room around the dining table—not even close—so they all wound up on the veranda. The Dulleses fixed a salad and some sandwiches, and George even produced a couple bottles of wine—he always seemed to have more hidden throughout the guesthouse. To Malin, it all seemed a bit excessive. Why wine and dine a group whose true purpose was still a mystery? Prig, for all his folksy charm, was closed up tighter than a steel drum about anything beyond the finding of the woman and child—who, Malin had learned, were named Miriam and Chloe.
“Interesting how everyone chose to sit,” Elna noted, holding her sandwich but not eating it.
The bread was cut from a crusty loaf that Rita Dulles had baked herself. Tomatoes gushed out of the sides. It looked good, but Malin, like Elna, didn’t have much appetite. It was a bright, crisp, cloudless day, still not quite afternoon. Miriam and Chloe were wolfing down their food at the table in the furthest, shadiest corner. Malin was pretty sure the woman had actually slid the other chairs away from her table to discourage anyone from sitting with them. Joe and Rita Dulles sat together, and they seemed quite intimidated by the presence of the Marines. Malin, Elna, and Norman sat at a table together. Only Norman seemed to have any appetite, though he kept casting furtive glances at their guests.
The Marines proceeded to empty the bottles of wine in record time. At first, they were fairly quiet, offering the occasional polite comment, complimenting the food, the guesthouse, the island, but saying little of substance. However, by the time the bottles were almost empty, they’d started to open up a bit more.
Staff Sergeant Prig and Mentos Boy Spence were seated closest to Elna and Malin. Eventually, Prig backed his chair up so that he was right in between Malin and Elna, and he began to engage in conversation with them as much as with his Marine buddies. The man never tired of bragging about Fish outswimming the shark.
I get it, Malin thought. You admire the guy.
Finally, Malin decided to divert the conversation in a more meaningful direction. The Marines were getting louder and more talkative. Maybe they were also more open to sharing.
“So, you’re really part of the military?” Malin asked, as Prig leaned back in his chair, which practically put him on top of Malin’s plate. “Not a militia.”
“We’re real United States Marines, son,” Prig said. “Can’t you tell real Devil Dogs when you see them?”
“Does that mean there’s still a functioning US government?” Malin asked.
“They’re working on it,” Prig replied, a little more subdued. “Everything’s still kind of messy and disorganized, including the Corps.”
“And were you sent to this island specifically, or did you wind up here inadvertently?” Elna asked.
“Do you have business here, in other words?” Malin added. “It’s a pretty small island. I can’t imagine what the military would be doing here. We don’t have much to offer.”
Prig turned to them then, stone-faced, and said, “That right there is classified, so don’t bother asking.”
He then laughed awkwardly and scooted closer to his own table again, but the Marine named Archer, the woman with a shaved head and dark eyes, mumbled something. Malin didn’t catch most of it, except for the words: “…getting in that bunker.”
Malin glanced at Elna.
What the hell are these people after?
He was utterly baffled.
4
Now that the Marines had dangled a bit of information out in the open, Elna wasn’t about to let it go without taking a big bite. The idea that they’d come to the island intentionally, that they might actually be after something on the island, bothered her so much that she was now determined to get to the bottom of it even if it led to a fight.
She shifted her chair in the direction of Prig’s table.
“Excuse me. You said something about a bunker,” she said, trying to make it sound like a friendly
