Page 9

Chapter Nine

A bigail sat on her case, curled her legs to the side and stared at the flame fingers twisting together and stretching for the night sky. The coals glowed like bright orange crocodile skin and popping sounds interrupted the silence.

Mackenzie sat cross-legged beside her and the bulge around his calf jogged her memory. “How’s your leg?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Frowning, he rolled up his jeans and unwrapped the T-shirt.

Abigail flinched at the ghastly wound. “Oh my. That looks terrible.”

The cut was in the middle of his calf and more swollen and bruised than it had been earlier. With all the dried blood around the gash, it looked hideous.

“It’s nothing. It looks bad because I haven’t washed it. At least the bleeding has stopped.” He rolled his jeans down and reached for the bean can in the fire.

With a shirt wrapped around her hand she took the charred can from Mackenzie and hesitated before scooping out a couple of beans. The warmth was like a slice of heaven in her mouth, and she grinned at him. “They’re much better warm.”

“I reckon.” His smile was genuine.

The flickering flames made his beard stubble appear thicker, blending it with his olive skin, and she noticed a tiny scar that ran below the left side of his mouth. As if reading her mind, he touched it, and she shifted her eyes back to the fire.

They finished sharing the can and Mackenzie tossed it into the flames creating a frenzy of floating sparks.

As the glowing sparks carved an orange path into the black sky, Mackenzie’s comment about burying the dead invaded her thoughts. “I can’t bury Spencer here. He wouldn’t want that.”

Mackenzie raised an eyebrow. “He might not have a choice. We shouldn’t wait much longer.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow.” She nodded with conviction, although her confidence was waning.

“I’ve been thinking about that. Don’t you think it’s strange we haven’t heard even one plane?”

“No. This forest is so dense we can’t hear anything.”

Mackenzie remained quiet for a moment. “I think we might be here a bit longer than we thought.”

She glared at him. “What? How much longer?”

“A long time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Spencer’s family will never stop looking for us. Ever.”

“It’s not that. We were turning around when we crashed. God knows how far we went off course.”

“The plane tried to turn twice. But surely we didn’t go that far of course?”

Mackenzie shrugged. “Out here, finding two people lost amongst these trees would be like finding a chilli flake in bolognaise sauce.”

Abigail blinked. “You have no idea how to cheer people up.”

“Just being practical.”

A question that had been playing on her mind bubbled to the surface. “Something else has been bothering me.”

“What’s that?” He scratched his stubble again.

“What if our pilot had other plans?”

“You’re talking cryptic.”

“Well, if he was using tourists as a cover for a drug business?—”

Mackenzie rolled his eyes. “I think we’ve already established that!”

“Yes, but what if his documented tourist route is different to his drug running route? There’s a chance we were heading to a completely different place to what was detailed on the flight plan.”

“I don’t think they can do that. There would’ve been checks.”

“Yes, but he might have found a way around it.” The more she thought about it the more she convinced herself this was why they hadn’t been discovered yet. The pilot told authorities he was going one way, when he was actually going another.

“What about tracking devices? How did he get around that?”

Although this was another important point, she believed she already knew the answer. “Maybe that’s what those men were arguing about under the plane.”

A frown creased his forehead. “You think they removed the tracking device on purpose.”

Abigail shrugged. “Maybe.”

His eyes widened and fear rippled his features. “Bloody hell! We’re going to die out here!” He scrambled to his feet and stomped away.

Long after he left her side, his words haunted her.

Are we going to die out here?

All her life she’d played the safe option. . . avoiding risks. . . following rules.

She could recall only one other time when she thought she was going to die and at that point she’d wanted to. She’d only been a child then.

The memory crawled into her mind.

Her father had loomed over her, his eyes as dark and menacing as the double-barrel shotgun over his shoulder. But the grin on his face was more terrifying.

Wisps of smoke drifted from the gun that he’d just used to kill her horse.

Excruciating pain had radiated through her legs, back, arms and her heart as her mother struggled to free her from the tangle of grape vines that the horse had thrown her into.

She had glared at her father, willing him to use the gun on her.

A little piece of her did die that day. . . the scathing words he’d used, that her mother begged him not to say, cut deeper than any wire trellis could.

But it was different now. She didn’t want to die, especially not here.

Mackenzie returned looking lost for words and the sadness in his eyes made her feel terrible. “It’s just a theory,” she said.

“Yes, but it might be right.”

Abigail decided to change the subject. “What should we do tomorrow?”

He stared into the fire. “I’m going to look for the other half of the plane. See if anyone else is alive.”

“Oh God, those other people.” She closed her eyes remembering Charlie’s scream as he fell out of the plane. “Do you think they survived?”

“Probably not.”

Abigail imagined falling from the sky and didn’t want to go looking for Charlie. She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“Do you want a jacket?” His eyes were the colour of raw honey in the firelight.

“No thanks. I’m fine.” She was surprised by how considerate he was and scowled at herself for being so difficult.

Mackenzie stirred the embers with a long stick but the warmth from the fire was of little comfort to her. Not knowing what to do, she stood and feeling Mackenzie’s gaze on her, she walked to her case, unzipped it, and aimlessly rummaged through her clothing.

Her red leather diary flipped open, and she pulled it out and fingered through it. An entry caught her eye, and she could just make out the date in the firelight, January 5th .

She remembered that day well. It was the day before the Governor’s ball and the first time she had hard evidence of Spencer’s infidelities. She’d only overheard his side of the phone conversation, but she could tell he was talking to a woman that she knew. And although the Governor’s ball promised an evening full of decadence and chivalry, she’d spent the whole night wondering just which one of her friends was sleeping with him.

She snapped the diary shut, tossed it into her luggage and stalked back to the fire.

“I’m making coffee. Do you want one?” Mackenzie’s voice startled her. His silhouette against the firelight was like a crouching gargoyle .

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

She marvelled at how much heat the fire gave off in such an open space. And she almost laughed aloud as she recalled complaining on many occasions about the useless marble fireplace in her formal loungeroom at home.

Water bubbled in one bean can as Mackenzie shook grains of coffee into two clean cans. Protecting his hands with a rolled-up shirt, he poured boiling water onto the coffee.

“Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

“Sorry, we’re fresh out of milk.” He smiled as he presented her with the coffee. “Careful, it’ll be hot.”

“Can you put it on the grass? I’ll let it cool for a while.”

As he sipped from his hot can, she admired how relaxed he seemed to be.

When the can was cool enough to hold, she picked it up. “Thank you.” She sipped and the hot liquid stung the inside of her mouth as she forced the disgusting liquid down. “That’s bloody awful!”

He glared at her. “Well, I’m sorry. The cappuccino machine is broken.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re so ungrateful.” Mackenzie took his coffee and returned to the plane, disappearing into the cabin.

She tossed her coffee into the fire creating a dramatic sizzle and a cloud of steam. Replaying the conversation in her mind, she couldn’t fathom why he was so angry at her. She gave up, convinced she’d done nothing wrong.

The coffee’s bitter aftertaste lingered, and she reached for the water, wiped the rim, and drank the rest of the water.

She threw the plastic bottle into the fire, and it shrivelled to a third of its side, turning black. The pungent smell wafted toward her, and she stood to move away from the thick smoke that curled toward the wreckage.

With the dark forest backdrop, the plane dominated the scenery, appearing luminous in the firelight. . . the gaping hole in its side was like a gangrenous wound.

“What the hell’s that smell?” Mackenzie shattered her reverie .

“What?” She stiffened. “The plastic?”

Mackenzie scrambled from the wreckage and stormed toward her with his hands rigid at his sides. “You drank the water?”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Your coffee was your ration of water.”

Her jaw dropped. “I didn’t know we were rationing.”

“Of course you bloody well didn’t. You’re so caught up in your makeup that you still haven’t grasped our fucking situation.”

“Don’t swear at me.”

The tendons in his neck bulged. “Oh my God! Will you listen to me?”

“You’re talking so loud that everyone for miles is listening to you.”

“There is no-one for miles! Just you and me. And now we only have two bottles of water until we’re rescued.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know. From now on you don’t eat or drink anything without asking.”

“I will not ask for permission to eat or drink.”

“Okay then.” He put his fists on his hips. “What do you think we should do?”

Abigail folded her arms across her chest, scrambling for something intelligent to say, to prove her worth. On many occasions, Spencer had told her stories of running out of water or food in one or more of his jungle safaris. For the first time ever, she wished she’d taken more notice.

What would Spencer do?

But she had nothing.

“You’re right.” She sighed, embarrassed that she couldn’t even think of one thing that would be useful. “Spencer knew what to do in these situations. Not me.”

Mackenzie’s tension melted from his shoulders. “I guess we didn’t really discuss it.”

Abigail nodded.

A tiny smile curled at the corners of his lips as he indicated toward the luggage. “Let’s look at what we have, so we both understand.”

He transferred his suitcase contents into Rodney’s bag and then placed the sugar, coffee, flour and the last two water bottles into the empty case. “Hopefully we’ll find water tomorrow in the other half of the plane. ”

“Hopefully.”

“I’ll put this box of beans by the fire, save you from sitting on your case.”

“Oh. . . thank you.” His kindness had tears pooling in her eyes, and she flicked them away. Spencer never handled a disagreement like that. . . he preferred either the silent treatment, or blatant seething.

Arguments were never talked through calmly.

Mackenzie carried the case with ease and Abigail admired his stride. His shoulders were a smooth rhythm as they rocked from side to side with each step. He looked strong and nimble, like a race-ready athlete.

On his return, he ran his fingers through his thick, black hair and it tumbled back into position. “Are you okay?” His intense gaze indicated a genuine interest in her response.

She nodded. Abigail couldn’t remember the last time Spencer had asked about her wellbeing.

“Would you mind taking the first watch?” Mackenzie rolled his head side to side, as if trying to work out a knot in his neck. “I’m going to try to sleep, get this night over with.”

“Sure.” She didn’t think she could sleep anyway.

They resumed their places by the fire and when Mackenzie finally drifted off to sleep, she took the opportunity to change from the clothes she’d worn for two days.

She removed her high heels, massaged her throbbing toes, and slipped on a pair of Taryn Rose loafers. The soft suede was instant relief and she felt stupid for not changing into the flat shoes earlier. She’d always needed to wear high heels next to Spencer’s six-foot-seven frame and felt undressed without them.

Despite the pitch-black surroundings, she still patrolled the tree line before dashing into the bushes to relieve herself. She returned to the fire and tried to get comfortable on the box.

Her life usually consisted of entertaining people or being entertained, and she found the isolation confronting.

The silence screamed in her ears.

Yet the slightest noise from either the fire or the broken body of the plane seemed louder than it really was, almost amplified somehow.

The surrounding bush was an eerie silence.

“So, do you have any kids?”

She jumped at Mackenzie’s voice. “Oh Jeez, I forgot about her.”

Mackenzie gasped. “You have a daughter? How could you forget about her?”

She sighed. “Krystal and I don’t get on. In fact, she hates me. She’s going to be devastated by Spencer’s death.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.”

“She does. She only cares about her father, even though he’s rarely home.”

“How old is she?

“Fifteen.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?”

Abigail agonised over her answer.

Because I’m a manipulative bitch who was determined to stop Spencer’s secret rendezvous and I didn’t want my daughter intruding on my plans.

She lied instead. “Because Spencer wouldn’t let her come. Krystal and I fight so much I guess he wanted a break.”

They were silent for a long time. “I’m sure your daughter loves you.” His voice conveyed both sadness and conviction.

He was wrong. Krystal had stopped loving her years ago.

Just like Spencer.

As Mackenzie’s breathing grew heavier, and the crackling fire released tiny sparks into the air, Abigail pondered who genuinely loved her.

She couldn’t think of a single person.

Not one.