The Calibans: An Island Thriller

The Calibans

The Purgatorium Series, Book Three

Published by Green Press

Copyright 2014 Eva Pohler

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Eva Pohler is a USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels in multiple genres, including mysteries, thrillers, and young adult paranormal romance. Her books have been described as addictive and sure to thrill—Kirkus Reviews.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: Scorpion Anchorage

Chapter Two: A Surprise in the Woods

Chapter Three: Giovanni’s Warning

Chapter Four: A New Friend at Camp Del Norte

Chapter Five: A Close Call in Central Valley

Chapter Six: Abduction at Prisoners Harbor

Chapter Seven: On the Run to Smugglers Cove

Chapter Eight: Love and Intimidation in Scorpion Valley

Chapter Nine: Mission Impossible

Chapter Ten: Malcolm Gray’s Journal

Chapter Eleven: Mary Ellen Rose

Chapter Twelve: Goodbye at Prisoners Harbor

Chapter Thirteen: An Unexpected Welcome

Chapter Fourteen: Subject Number Six

Chapter Fifteen: Coma

Chapter Sixteen: The Plan

Chapter Seventeen: Live Performance

Chapter Eighteen: Ventura

Chapter Nineteen: The Best Laid Plans

Chapter Twenty: Stuck in San Antonio

Chapter Twenty-One: Mayhem

Chapter Twenty-Two: Aftermath

Chapter Twenty-Three: Ghost Island

Chapter Twenty-Four: Follow Your Heart

Chapter Twenty-Five: Living Art

Chapter One: Scorpion Anchorage

Daphne had come all this way, had deceived just about everyone she knew to make it happen, and she couldn’t even climb out of the dang boat onto the pier at Scorpion Anchorage.

Her backpack was too heavy. How did she expect to traipse around the entire island with it? Another wave of panic shimmied down her spine, and that voice that had been haunting her since she had made her decision to return repeated its mantra: You don’t know what you’re doing.

A flock of seagulls cried out overhead, as though they were laughing at her.

She frowned at the captain as he handed over her propane canister, which had been stored on the ride over.

Great. One more thing to add to her load.

I’m gonna have to leave some things here, I guess—if that’s okay. She squinted against the bright sun.

He didn’t reply, but since he didn’t say no, she eased the pack down on a bench, pulled her arms free, and began the frustrating process of deciding which lifesaving items she could live without.

She wasn’t going to give up her sleeping bag. She’d rather starve. Her new Jetboil stove was another item she couldn’t do without. Plus it was small—just a two-cup mug that attached to a small propane canister. The beef jerky, oatmeal packs, protein bars, and dried pasta mixes weren’t heavy. Should she chuck some of the canned goods? Hmmm. Maybe she really didn’t need all these beans and canned chicken.

No. She could imagine Kara shaking a finger: Scaling the bluffs and trudging along in the elements required protein.

The portable phone chargers had to stay. How else would she capture the evidence she needed to bring this place down?

What about her poetry journal? No. She couldn’t live without it. It would stay in the pack.

She had bought a tent large enough for two people, because she couldn’t stand the coffin-like feeling of a one-person tent. She could probably go without it, but it was the only place where she could ever be sure she wasn’t on camera. Her hand circled around the hammer she planned to use to drive in the stakes. It was pretty darn heavy. Maybe she could use rocks instead.

She handed it over to the captain. You can have this.

He took the hammer without comment as she rummaged around for something else to leave behind.

The captain eyed her jugs of water. There’s fresh water on the campgrounds.

She knew that, but what the captain didn’t know was that she wasn’t going to be staying on the campgrounds for long.

The water is your heaviest weight, the captain said. Dump those, and you’ll manage better.

As she was considering the captain’s advice, another boat approached the harbor. Daphne nearly shrieked when she saw Dr. Hortense Gray standing among the passengers, holding onto the railing and looking out to shore, like a spider on the edge of its web.

Daphne dropped to her knees and hid behind the side of the catamaran.

The chances of being recognized by Dr. Gray and her staff were pretty slim. Daphne had dyed her hair blonde and was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Her brother Joey’s baggy sweatshirt and jeans helped to hide her physique. Besides, no one would be looking for Daphne. No one was expecting her. She blended with the other campers and hikers just fine. But she didn’t want to take any chances—especially before she’d even gotten off the boat.

The captain’s brows slanted together.

I don’t want to be seen by that woman, Daphne explained. Please don’t give me away. Please?

I’m on a tight schedule, miss, the captain said.

All of the other passengers had already gone ashore.

I’ll give you fifty bucks, Daphne said.

His eyes lit up. Fifty bucks?

Daphne fished in her back pocket for her wallet, nearly dropping her phone. She pulled out two twenties and a ten and handed them over, considering it money well spent. No way was she going to let this mission be spoiled before it ever began. Too much time, money, and energy had already been put into it.

Fine. The captain took the cash and returned to his cockpit.

Daphne listened for the other boat to pull away from the pier. Dr. Gray would be circling around to Prisoners Harbor and docking there, which is exactly why Daphne was getting off here.

Even Greg didn’t know Daphne was returning to the island.

When he’d called her in January, she was at first shocked, then suspicious, and, finally, sympathetic. She had agreed to meet him at a small café one Saturday afternoon, as long as she could bring Brock. It had been a week before Christmas.

Greg was seated at a corner booth when she and Brock walked in. Greg looked thin, nervous, and tired. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes.

Thanks for coming, he said.

Glad to see you, man. Brock offered Greg a fist-bump.

My God. Daphne slid into the booth across from him, unable to peel her eyes away from his gaunt face.

Brock sat next to her. You don’t look so good.

Greg gave them a half smile and shrugged. No, I guess not.

How did you get off the island? Daphne asked.

He had refused to tell her anything over the phone.

When I found out about Emma… he stopped for a minute to collect himself.

Daphne bit her lip, feeling awkward. I never got to tell you how sorry I was for your loss.

Me, too, man, Brock added.

So you know. Greg wiped his eyes, which had filled with tears. Well, I had no reason to stay. I left, right after you did, I guess. Had to beg for transportation, but I got away.

A waitress asked if she could get them something to drink. They all ordered water.

What about your mom? Daphne asked, when the waitress had left.

Like I said on the phone, I don’t want her to know where I am.

Have you talked to her since you left? Brock asked.

No. And you have to promise not to say anything to her.

Daphne was worried about how agitated he’d become. We promise. We won’t say a word.

You don’t have to worry about me, Brock assured him. I never see her.

"But you do, Greg said to Daphne. She comes to treat your brother. Does she ever talk about me?"

Daphne shook her head. Dr. Gray had come to see Joey twice: once in September and again in November. She was due to return in two weeks. Whenever I ask how you are, she says you’re fine.

Greg laughed, but it wasn’t pleasant. The sound from his throat was more a like a cackle. It sounded both evil and heartbreaking.

I’m sorry, she added, feeling guilty for having allowed herself to forget about the traumas of the Purgatorium. Her brother, Joey, seemed almost like his old self—like before he had accidentally killed their grandfather. Daphne had gone back to school. Her parents were happier. She and Brock were getting along great.

It had been easy to forget.

The waitress returned with their water and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Daphne and Brock ordered the special—chicken-fried steak.

I don’t have any money. Greg looked down at his hands.

It’s on us, Brock said. Get whatever you want.

Greg thanked them and ordered the special, too.

Daphne peeked over the rail of the catamaran to confirm that the other boat had left. She sighed with relief. It was gone.

I’m going to be late to my next stop, the captain complained from his cockpit.

Deciding to take his advice, she left the water jugs on the floor of the boat. She had two liters in the bladder of her backpack and lots of iodine tablets for when she got to the stream in Central Valley. She slipped her arms through the straps, hefted the beast onto her back, and climbed onto the pier.

It was time to begin.

With the sun beating down on her from high noon, the shade trees and flat dirt path were a relief as she walked the half- mile trek to her campsite. The park office in Ventura had assigned her to number thirteen. It had been an easy number to remember, because it had been Kara’s age when she died.

On the way to her site, Daphne passed two families with younger children, a couple in their twenties, and two groups of men. It was the first Saturday of spring break, so she had expected there would be people, and that was good, because it helped her to blend in.

Her new boots felt comfortable, but the waterproof socks made her hot, and she wanted out of her sweatshirt now that she was off the boat. The wind wasn’t nearly as bad here as she remembered it being on the other side of the island. She dropped her pack on a picnic table at a vacant site and stripped off the shirt, having remembered to dress in layers. In fact, she wore a one-piece bathing suit beneath her clothes so she could easily bathe in the stream without stripping down. Then she lathered some sunscreen on her arms. She’d learned her lesson from the last trip.

As she continued on her way, she sipped the water from the tubing that led to the plastic bladder in her pack and thought more about her conversation with Greg at the café back in San Antonio.

I came here for three reasons, Greg said, once the waitress had left to fill their order. First, to tell you about Emma. I wasn’t sure if you knew.

We were there when they found her, Daphne said, recalling that night on the beach. The memory of Emma’s black and blue body lying on the shore in a heap made her shiver. I’m so sorry. Do you know what happened?

Greg sucked in his lips, fighting tears. We were going to make a run for it during your mom’s Limuw ceremony. He took a napkin and patted the beads of sweat forming on his face. Emma was still recovering from her gunshot wounds. I should have known she wasn’t strong enough. He broke down, unable to hold back his sobs.

Brock squeezed Daphne’s hand as tears formed in her eyes, too.

I’m so sorry. She closed her eyes but couldn’t shut out the memory of Emma’s bruised and broken body.

She fell from one of the headlands not far from the resort, Greg explained. I tried to grab her, but I wasn’t fast enough. The ocean swallowed her. I swam for hours looking for her, but…

Oh my God, Brock muttered.

I had just given a hiker a note and my last twenty bucks to meet you at Scorpion Anchorage. I don’t even know if you ever got that note.

I did.

I’m surprised. Greg sipped his water, trying to collect himself. It was a long shot.

I tried to get my parents to go back, Daphne said. I was after them for weeks to get help and go back, but they wouldn’t.

Don’t go back there, Greg warned. Don’t ever go back.

She reached her campsite and unburdened the pack onto the picnic table. It didn’t take her long to put up the tent and transfer her food into the storage box that came with the site. She hadn’t eaten since morning, so she made herself a little lunch with her new Jetboil stove. She boiled two cups of water and added one of the pasta mixes and a can of chicken. She’d eaten this concoction before and knew it was good, but today she couldn’t taste the food; she was too nervous.

Once she had finished eating, she washed out the mug to her stove and then went to scope out this part of the island. She stopped first at the Visitor’s Center at the historic Scorpion Ranch House—which was nothing like the house at Christy Ranch but was, nevertheless, interesting with its display about the Chumash heritage and the island’s plant and wildlife. Then she checked out some of the hiking trails. The open flatlands on this side of the island were easier on her body, but were less scenic. She’d been told by the woman at the Ventura office not to miss the sunset at Potato Harbor, so she followed the trail along the northern shore with a few other hikers and was pleased with the views once she came to the crest overlooking the sea. The spectacular scene uplifted her spirit, but as she headed back toward her tent, tears stung her eyes. That voice of doubt returned, repeating its mantra: You don’t know what you’re doing.

And the simple fact was, she didn’t quite know what she was doing. Yes, she had a plan, but it was flimsy at best. Her Plan A was to kidnap Cam. She had brought rope, a gag, and chloroform, to help her. If she got caught, she would fall on Plan B, which was to secretly capture as much video on her phone as possible, something to show the FBI. In three days, Mrs. Turner would arrive with the police. Mrs. Turner had come with them once before, but Cam had refused to return with his mother, and since he was an adult, there’d been nothing she or the police could do about it; but Daphne didn’t turn eighteen for another month. And there was no way, when asked, that she would ever tell the police that she wanted to stay on the island.

Her mind raced back to that afternoon with Greg at the café in San Antonio.

The second thing I wanted to tell you was…Can you please get your parents to talk to the FBI? What my parents are doing over there, it’s criminal. They’ve got to be stopped.

Daphne arched a brow. "Wait. Parents? Both of your parents are over there?"

Who’s your father? Brock asked.

Arturo Gomez, Greg answered. I thought you knew that.

You introduced yourself as Gregory Gray. Daphne looked back and forth between the two boys. How could I know?

So Greg was Arturo’s son. Daphne let that sink in.

Well, he didn’t know about me for the first seven years of my life, Greg explained. It’s a long story. My point is they need to be stopped.

I’ve already asked my parents to talk to the police, Daphne said. They won’t. They’re too grateful for what your mom has done for me and Joey.

Greg put his face in his hands.

"Why can’t you go to the FBI?" Brock asked.

"I did—about four years ago. I got handed back over to my parents. No investigation. Nothing but a slap on my wrists."

"Why your wrists?" Daphne asked.

Greg lifted his brows. Have you met my mother?

"What makes you think Daphne’s parents can have