The Brink by Austin Bunn Page B

not.”
    She told him about the staffers trying to dive for the ring. Mac thought she was paranoid. Nobody would try anything in the daytime, he said. Plus, the raft was right there. They could see it through the open doors of the bungalow.
    He was doing his best to buoy her. He fetched two cocktails from the bar, tall glasses dressed with hibiscus flowers. He gave her a back rub that, inevitably, led to more. But even with the rum and slurry of tropical fruits in her, Haley was not in the mood. A pale green gecko moved across the wall above them. Everything seemed to be moving at the fringes, including the bungalow itself, rocking slightly in a breeze. Mac held her and napped. Haley looked out across the water and wondered what kept the raft in place, what deep cable made it stay.
    In late afternoon, the clouds cracked and sent down sheets of rain. The power flickered in the bungalow for a moment and a volatile, blue-gray light rushed into the room. How fragile this place was, how jury-rigged.
    â€œIt’s pouring out,” she called out to Mac, in the shower. “The ring’s going to get washed away.”
    Mac came to her in one of the big towels.
    â€œWhat’s the worst that happens?” he asked. “The worst is that we go and buy another ring.” He thought for a moment.“No, the worst is that I drown trying to get the ring back and you have to soldier on, the sexy widow, the WILF. Unable to love again.”
    Haley tried to pull away, but Mac reached his arm around her, intuiting her tension. Maybe other things got less beautiful as they got older, but his arms were strong and could hold her.
    â€œDrowning was too much?” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    He convinced her to go to dinner off-resort, at a warung he had passed on his way to the Internet café. It was a classy restaurant, he said, with music and a guard out front checking bags and ID. Haley was reluctant to leave the resort, to join him on the rusting blue moped he rented. “You go to more dangerous places in Chicago, babe. You’re totally hard-core.”
    â€œIs this the part where you mention Linda Hamilton?”
    â€œThis is not that part.”
    She got on the moped and discovered it didn’t feel like imminent death, a bullet train to their bodies in a ditch. It was more like a restless carousel animal. When Mac cranked the pedals and the engine roared to life, she felt a swell of pride in him for seeming like he knew what the hell he was doing.
    The road ran along a narrow causeway, beach on one side and marsh on the other. Along the roadside, roosters had been deposited in bell-shaped baskets, looking abandoned, watching the traffic. Taxis buzzed past them, horns beeping constantly. A warm breeze lifted Haley’s spirits, softened the edges of her anxiety until another moped blasted past them with a “No Police” bumper sticker on the back. What couldthat possibly mean? Who wouldn’t want police? She belted her arms tighter around Mac and stared out into the march. She saw a small shrine, a gilded tower that looked like a dollop of frosting, backlit by sundown. People came all this way to meditate in a bog.
    The restaurant sprawled off the side of a hotel, with tiki torches flanking the front. The lot was crowded with cars and motorcycles, which was a good sign—the place was popular. At the entrance, an islander checked bags, but he waved them in.
    â€œGreat security,” Haley said. “I feel really safe.”
    â€œCome on,” Mac said. “I’m a white guy wearing jams right now. I’m not scaring anybody.”
    Over speakers came the sounds of gongs and a woman’s voice wandering the scale. A mixed crowd of light and dark faces filled the room. Haley felt reassured to see Westerners. They requested a table far from the entranceway. The restaurant opened out to a patio at the back, overlooking the beach. If necessary, Haley thought, that was