Didn’t do him much good, Malin thought. If he’d been swimming just a tiny bit slower, he would be a snack by now. Then again, who knew how many other sharks had stayed away.
It was clear that the man didn’t have a limitless supply of energy. He trudged his way through the shallow water, clambered up the rocks, and collapsed on his face with a groan.
“Get him, Spence,” Prig said, gesturing at the greasy-haired Mentos addict.
Spence tucked the pack of mints in his shirt pocket and picked his way down the rocks to Fish’s side.
“Sergeant Jim Grisham,” Prig said to Elna, gesturing at the swimmer. “We call him Fish because…well, you know why.” He then strode forward and clapped Fish on the back. “Kid, you just outswam a damned shark.”
“Just did my best, sir,” Fish replied.
“Belay that sir garbage, Marine. I work for a living.” Prig then turned to Elna and gestured with a little flip of his hand. “Mind leading us where the others went? This boy needs to rest.”
Elna seemed on the verge of saying something. She had a scowl on her face, though Malin could tell she was trying to contain her real feelings. Finally, she nodded and turned, stepping down from the rocks and starting up the road toward the guesthouse. As the group followed, Fish leaning heavily on Spence, Malin fell in beside the one called Prig. As staff sergeant, he seemed to be the highest ranked Marine in the group, so he would know the most—even if he might not be entirely willing to open up. Still, it was worth a try.
Elna’s either playing nice or trying to figure out how best to handle the situation, Malin thought. I’ll do some of the dirty work for her. I don’t need to be liked by these people.
“So, hey there, Sarge,” Malin said, trying to sound as friendly, and casual, as possible.
“No, no, call me Prig,” the man replied.
“If you insist. So, how’d you guys wind up on the bridge like that? The militia had you cornered. There must be an interesting story behind it all.”
Prig gave a weird little laugh, clearly forced, and hesitated a second before answering. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Things didn’t go exactly as planned, but Devil Dogs improvise. I’d like to say we didn’t lose a man, but we’ll have to see. They got Ant good.”
“Fingers crossed for Ant,” Malin replied. “So, how’d you get the militia on your tail like that?”
Prig gave that weird laugh again. “Let’s just maybe talk about that later. There’s some things I’m not at liberty to say.”
“It was a military operation then?” Malin asked. “Classified? Top secret? Spec-ops, maybe?”
To this, Prig said absolutely nothing. Instead, he glanced from Malin to Elna and back, then said, “How many people currently reside on this island?”
Malin might have answered—the population wasn’t some big secret, after all—but Elna gave him a sudden stern look. Don’t say a word. That’s what the look meant, he assumed.
“The population changes,” Elna said, after a moment. “It’s seasonal.” She left it at that.
Prig grunted at this. The folksy charm evaporated, and he fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Even the slightly goofy smile went away, leaving only a blank, grim expression that seemed to transform the Southern boy into a true soldier before Malin’s eyes. He decided to drop the subject.
When they reached the veranda at the front of the guesthouse, they found Raymond and Daniel seated quietly at a table. As they approached the front door, George Pasqualee stepped outside, looking shriveled as an unstuffed scarecrow in his vest and pants. Prig hurried forward to shake his hand, though it was a bit more vigorous than necessary. George winced.
“You’re the man who owns this place,” Prig said. Not a question. “Where did you take Ant and Cat?”
“Your injured friends are in a back room,” George said. “Come on. I’ll show you the way.”
For some reason, instead of going through the front door, George led them around the building, through the gap between the guesthouse and winery, and to a back door. Malin had never been through this particular door.
“So, this is a working vineyard then?” Prig asked. “You’re still growing grapes and producing wine?”
“We’re getting to that point, slowly but surely,” George replied. He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. “Your people are right in here.”
Prig, Spence, and Fish went first. Malin and Elna held back, trading another wary glance before passing through the door. As it turned out, the back door led to a dusty old storage room near the family hallway. A row of cots had been set up along one wall, and most of the boxes and crates had been pushed to the far side.
Dr. Ruzka and Selene were currently seated on stools on either side of a cot, bent over the injured Marine named Ant. They’d removed his shirt and peeled back the bandages to tend to the gunshot wound. The other injured Marine was lying on a cot nearby, her hands tucked behind her head. They’d split the seam of her pants to reveal the wound, and it seemed to have been cleaned, slathered in some orange-red medication, and bandaged.
The woman and the little girl had found a space in an unused corner and sat down. They looked traumatized to Malin, and neither of them had said a word, except for the child’s occasional crying. Sniffy approached the child at one point. The dog looked like he wanted to be petted, but the child grimaced and turned away.
“So, what is this room?” Malin asked Elna, trying to speak quietly. “I’ve never been in here.”
“Just storage space,” she said. “It was crammed with junk for years, mostly stacks of empty crates, but I cleared it out
