The Voice inside My Head Page 3

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should be the one comforting you.”

  “No,” I say quickly and glance at the door again. “I’m good.” Is there no one else staffing this damn place?

  “You’re so nice.” She stands up and steps toward me. I back up an equal distance and bump into the wall. The shop seems to have shrunk.

  “Would you like to see my room?” Her pink skin turns three shades darker. “I mean Tricia’s room?”

  “Maybe later.” I take a couple of casual sideways steps along the wall until she’s no longer between me and the exit. “I really just wanted to ask if there’s anything you could tell me about her.”

  “There’s so much I could tell you.” Her eyes start filling again.

  “Maybe when you’re feeling better,” I say over my shoulder, as I make a break for the door I came in.

  “I’d love to talk to you about her.” She’s right behind me. I speed up.

  “G’day, shark lover!” We’re both halted in our tracks by a cheerful voice reverberating off the walls. A stocky, completely bald giant chooses this moment, when I’m less than a yard from freedom, to swagger out from the back door and hustle over to plant himself between me and the exit.

  “Have ya signed up for a trip, mate?” he grins, showing a mouthful of strong white teeth in a tanned, leathery face. I get from the accent that he’s Australian. Zach was right about Utila being a hodgepodge of nationalities. I figure Tracy for American.

  “Dr. Jake,” says Tracy, moving to stand beside him, “this is Luke, Tricia’s brother.”

  “Ah, I see.” He holds out a hand, which I take, and he claps his other hand on my shoulder. “We were all very fond of your sister. It was a bad business, that. I gave your parents the report we got from the police. It seemed pretty cut-and-dried, I’m afraid. They found her clothes on a dock on the outskirts of town. We figure she’d gone out swimming a bit too deep and an undertow took her. She’d been drinking as well, you see.” The bluster that filled him moments before has leaked out, but the hand that grips my shoulder is firm. “I’m sorry, son.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  I remember it was this man who sent the first e-mail when Pat didn’t show up for work. At that point, she’d been missing less than twelve hours. My parents made a show of scoffing at the childless man who was so quick to worry about one missed shift.

  “Imagine if we worried every time you stayed out all night and missed a day of school?” said Dad, but his brow furrowed exactly the way it does every time I stay out all night and miss school. My dad talks a good game, but if anyone knows bad things happen to good people, he does.

  Two days later, this man wrote again. He’d been to the police, but they said it was too early to investigate.

  “Of course it is,” Mom snapped, knocking back her Chardonnay and refilling her glass. “She probably just met someone and is having a bit of fun.”

  She didn’t say anything more, but it was obvious she was scared. Not because she was drinking — it’s rare Mom doesn’t have a drink in her hand — but we all knew Pat wasn’t the kind of girl to disappear with some random guy. She herself was the product of Mom’s bit of fun in eleventh grade. By the time Pat had incubated for nine months on a steady diet of nachos and wine spritzers, she’d had all the fun she could take.

  The third e-mail confirmed Pat officially missing, but by then Mom had already gotten me booking their flights on the Internet. I would have gone with them, but we were borrowing cash from Mom’s parents for their tickets and Pat hates it when we accept anything from the grandparents. It just gives them one more excuse to remind Mom she threw her life away when she got pregnant and married Dad.

  I was sure they’d find Pat and the whole thing would turn out to be some crazy misunderstanding. Maybe she’d gone over to the mainland for a couple of days and left word with someone who forgot to pass on the message to her boss. Having now met her roommate, Tracy, I could definitely see her doing something like that. It wasn’t until my parents returned after only forty-eight hours, with nothing but resignation and an obviously bogus police report, that I realized there was something seriously wrong and I’d have to go after Pat myself. It took all my summer earnings and another loan from Mom’s parents, but I don’t even care if Pat gets pissed this time. It’s not like she’s left me any choice. She’s either in trouble or being a total flake. Either way, I need to find her.

  I draw in a shaky breath and force myself to look Dr. Jake in the eye. “We appreciate all your help, sir,” I say politely, though a million questions crowd my brain. How could anyone who knew my sister really believe she could get swept away by a rogue current, so intoxicated she couldn’t swim? Even if she has started drinking, and I still doubt that, Pat has as much chance of death by drowning as the whale sharks she’s so in love with. I’d really like to know how this man could spend so much time with my sister and not understand the first thing about her. I remind myself that he’s only trying to help. And it doesn’t matter what he thinks, anyway. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving without my sister.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’m in a small, sparsely furnished room with two single beds and a wooden desk. Dr. Jake insisted I stay in one of the dozen or so identical rooms behind the shop that are used by research interns and backpackers, who aren’t satisfied risking their lives once in shark-infested waters but want to stay on and do it repeatedly. He wouldn’t let me pay. I didn’t argue because I’m short on cash and who knows how long I’ll need to survive here while I search for my sister. He even said I should come to him if I need anything else. He said it like he meant it, and it occurred to me it’s the first time in my life anyone’s ever made me an offer like that. Of course, my parents would do anything for me if they could, but drinking takes up a lot of Mom’s time and looking after her takes up most of Dad’s.

  I’m lying on one of the beds, the contents of my pack strewn on the other. The ceiling fan is pushing sweltering air around the room without providing any relief, but I find the predictability of its steadily rotating wings comforting. I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring up at it. I need a shower. Dr. Jake pointed out the communal washrooms when he showed me to the room. He even gave me a towel and plastic flip-flops. I know I need to get back to work investigating Pat’s disappearance, but I feel like I’m glued to this bed. I never thought it would be this hard.

  ME: You should have warned me.

  PAT: About what?

  ME: These people. All of them mourning you, like you’re actually dead. How many more are there? Am I going to keep tripping over them like landmines?

  PAT: Is that what you’re really worried about? Or are you starting to wonder if they might be right about me?

  ME:

  I stand up, slide on the flip-flops, grab the towel and slam the door on my way out, not bothering to lock it. I don’t own anything worth stealing.

  There’s no hot water in the shower, but it feels good to let the cool water run down my body, washing away the grime of the last twenty-four hours. I raise my face into the stream and start as I notice a freaking huge tarantula just above the showerhead. Drops of water glisten on its hairy body. I wonder if this is why Dr. Jake gave me the flip-flops. I take one off and raise it threateningly, but the spider doesn’t budge. I sigh, turn off the shower, quickly dry off and wrap the towel around my waist. Opening the door onto the narrow paved walkway that leads to the rooms in one direction and to the sea in the other, I don’t have to look far before I come across a plastic pail. It takes longer to find something flat, and I finally go back to my room for a piece of paper. Ready for business, I return to find the spider has advanced down the wall like he was coming to find me.

  “You have to understand, buddy, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that you’re butt-ugly and I can’t leave you here for some girl to find. Most girls are irrational when it comes to spiders. I’m doing you a favor. Trust me.”

  I cover him with the pail and slide
the paper underneath. I flip it fast, expecting him to drop to the bottom, but he clings to the paper so I feel his body, larger than my hand, clinging to the other side. I step out of the shower and gently jiggle him as I take a few steps down the path, walking away from the rooms. He continues hanging on to the paper, but seems calm as he waits for my next move.

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you, Spidey?”

  “What you got there?” I jump and almost drop the pail as a girl about my own age steps out of the next washroom with a cleaning brush in her hand. Her black hair is woven tightly to her head, finishing in short braids that peter out to nothing, like they’ve given up. But the light in her dark eyes is compelling, as if there’s a whole long story unfolding behind them.

  “What you doing with my bucket?” she demands.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  She raises an eyebrow. “You got something in that bucket?”

  I think about that for a moment. I’ve already made one girl cry today and while something tells me it would take a lot to make this one break down, there’s only so much crying a guy can take in one day. I’ve reached my limit.

  “A frog,” I say, looking at her steadily.

  “Let me see,” she says. “I’m from the island. Maybe I can tell you what kinda frog you got.” She glances at the bucket, then back at me.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” I pause. “It’s a poison frog.”

  “A poison frog?” She gives me a hard look, then bites her lip as if she’s struggling not to smile.

  “Yes, there are many poison frogs in Central America. You’re a native. You should know that.”

  “I’ve never seen a poison frog on Utila.”

  “Have you ever seen a huge hairy tarantula on Utila?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter o’ fact I have, and I can’t say I’m partial to ’em.”

  “Exactly. Now if you’ll just step aside, I need to take my poison frog for a little walk. Do you have any suggestions where he might like to go?”

  “Down the toilet,” she says flatly. “And flush ’im twice.”

  “Thank you for your suggestion, but my poison frog would rather return to his natural habitat.”

  “Then you need to turn yourself around and go straight on outta here.” She points with her cleaning brush for emphasis. “You’re heading to the dock. You need to take him in the other direction, turn either way when you get to the road, take the first turn and head up the hill, walk for ten minutes till you get past all the houses. Then you’ll come to some pastures; keep walking another five minutes till you get to the forest. I expect your poison frog will be very happy there.”

  “Perhaps it has escaped your attention that I’m only wearing a towel and flip-flops.”

  “Good thing you got your flip-flops. That road gets rough.”

  I try to stare her down, but she meets my glare with a determined one of her own. My best bet is to take him in the direction of the dock behind her. There’s a spindly tree at the edge of the seawall. I could put him on it. Spidey shifts restlessly under my hand. He’s been upside down for a while now. All the blood is probably rushing to his spidey-head.

  “So you gonna hand over that ugly thing or what?” Setting down the cleaning brush, she puts out her hands and beckons impatiently.

  “You want my poison frog?” I’m certain I’ve misunderstood.

  “No, I want your ugly-ass spider. Gah, I hate those things!”

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I’m gonna throw him a party,” she snaps. “The Good Lord was taking a nap when you were born, wasn’t He? Give it here.” She steps closer and snatches the pail out of my hands. “Damn tourists,” she mutters as she pushes past me and stomps down the path, past the rooms, to the front of the property. It’s a short walk. She passes under the entrance arch, with its crumbling cement and exposed iron rods, and disappears around the corner.

  I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should follow her. She’s probably going to kill him the second she’s out of sight, but Pat’s the animal lover, not me. I don’t suppose one less tarantula is going to do anyone any harm.

  Back in my room, I throw on some clothes and head out to the shop to look for Tracy and Dr. Jake. I still haven’t questioned either of them about my sister. I enter through the back, which is an office behind the shop, and emerge from the door that Tracy and I were staring at this morning. I find her sitting behind the counter, chatting with a guy I haven’t met. Dr. Jake is nowhere in sight.

  “Luke!” Tracy exclaims. She hops off her stool and rushes over to grab my arm and drag me along to the other guy.

  “This is Pete,” she says. She doesn’t say who I am.

  “Hey, man.” Pete holds out a hand for me to shake, which I do. “We’re all really sorry about your sister. Tricia was a great girl, and smart. I thought for sure she’d be running this place someday. She had a real affinity with the fish, like she could see inside their heads. You know?”

  “Yeah, I know. I always wished I had fins and a tail.”

  Pete chuckles.

  I try to look like I’m joking, but it’s so not a joke I don’t know where to begin.

  “So I was wondering what you guys could tell me about her last days. Was she acting strange at all?”

  Pete and Tracy exchange looks. The silence extends beyond awkward.

  “What?” I prompt.

  “Well, you know your sister.” Pete smiles, glances at Tracy and stops.

  “Yeah, I know my sister.” I’m starting to feel annoyed.

  “What about her?”

  “Well, she was kind of wild, man. No offense or anything.”

  “She wasn’t a skank,” Tracy interjects.

  I turn to stare at her.

  “No, not a skank, really,” Pete agrees slowly.

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” I demand. “Who are you talking about?”

  They exchange looks again. I’m not much of a brawler, but I size up Fishboy for the first time. I could easily take him. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I don’t know what you’re implying, but my sister does not sleep around.” I struggle to keep my voice even.

  Tracy takes a sudden interest in a thread that’s come loose on her T-shirt.

  “Maybe you should talk to her boyfriend,” Pete says.

  “Mark?” This is the weirdest conversation I’ve had about my sister yet.

  Tracy snaps to attention. “Who’s Mark?”

  “Her boyfriend since eighth grade, but she broke up with him before she came down here.” I want to add “What’s it to you?” because she seems way too interested and is now sending so many messages to Fishboy with her raised brows and rolling eyes that they might as well be tapping out Morse code.

  “Jamie,” says Pete.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “She was going out with a local boy, Jamie Greenfield.”

  “So she’s a skank because she had one boyfriend?” I choose to ignore the sting that Pat didn’t bother to mention her new boyfriend. Things were a little strained between us just before she left home, but Pat and I have always been close. Having messed-up parents will do that for you.

  “Well, he was the most recent,” Tracy explains carefully and steps away from me when I whip round to glare at her.

  “Look, maybe we’re wrong.” Pete holds up both palms. “You should talk to Jamie. But Tricia was a pretty girl, and she always had a ton of guys hanging around her. That’s all we’re saying.… ”

  He turns to Tracy for confirmation and she gives a small nod.

  “Where does Jamie live?” I demand.

  “It’s a blue house up the hill from the fire station. Just ask for Miss Bertie — she’s his grandmother. Any local can direct you. But there’s no point going until this evening. He works pretty much 24/7, and he’s a carpenter so he’s all over the island and the little cays. He won’t be home much before seven or eight.”

&nb
sp; “Thanks,” I say more politely than I’m feeling and stalk out to the street. These two are so far off base about my sister, it’s laughable.

  I check my watch and realize I have a few hours to kill while I wait for Pat’s boyfriend to come home. I could walk around seeing who else on this island knew her, but it’s been a long day and I have a sudden and overpowering need to get high. I know it’s the last thing I should be thinking about at a time like this, but Pat’s the responsible one in our family, not me. She took care of all of us, even more than Dad, sweet guy though he is. He’s a photographer, so he doesn’t make great money and often has to work long hours, which left Pat making sure dinner got made and Mom’s car keys were hidden when she’d had too much to drink, which was practically every night. Pat held it all together and was surprisingly good at making it all look easy.

  I knew, though. Always having to be vigilant cost her, and sooner or later something was bound to go drastically wrong. The cracks were beginning to show, even before Mom did what she did and Pat took off to Honduras. I wasn’t expecting Pat to completely disappear off the radar, but for ages I’d been anticipating disaster, like a Mayan awaiting the apocalypse. Maybe that’s why I like to get high. When I’m stoned is about the only time I don’t feel scared. And right now, in this moment, when everything I hear about my sister makes her sound like a stranger and no one can tell me where she is, the fear is suffocating.

  I just need a couple of hours of peace. But where am I going to score weed on an island where I don’t know a soul?

  And then it comes to me.

  Zach.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Dude, are you sure they said Miss Bertie’s house?”

  I slow down for a minute to tug on Zach, who’s stalled again in the middle of the road. We’ve passed out of the main part of town. It’s dark, with no streetlights, and the houses, crouching in overgrown yards, are dimly lit or shuttered and empty. Massive trees, with thick leafy branches and hanging vines, cast shadows that seem to move with a life of their own. Bats swoop overhead, and the occasional scuttling noises make us both jump; but something else, beyond the obvious creep factor, is freaking Zach out. He did try to explain when we were a few hours into the weed, but I couldn’t follow his logic then, and now I’m no longer interested. We’re going to find Miss Bertie’s house. End of story.