“Come in,” Mrs. Dressler said again, sounding a bit impatient now. “And close the door, dear. Ramsey has a man stationed on the beach, and if he sees the door open he might decide to investigate.”
Sarita turned back, but Domitian was already closing the door.
“The guard on the beach is also the reason we can’t turn on any lights yet. So we’ll just have to sit in the dark and talk until the sun rises,” Mrs. Dressler added now as Domitian took Sarita’s arm and led her into the room. While she couldn’t see a thing in the unlighted space, he seemed to have no trouble navigating the dark. But then Dressler had mentioned night vision as one of the improvements the nanos gave their hosts, she recalled.
“Your eyes are glowing, young man,” Mrs. Dressler said quietly. “Are you one of the hybrids my husband created and enjoys torturing?”
“No,” Domitian murmured and Sarita glanced around to see that his eyes were indeed glowing. Rather like a cat’s did at night, she thought. But that didn’t disturb her as much as the fact that the woman’s question suggested she knew what Dressler had been up to all these years. Sarita had rather hoped that wasn’t the case. She’d been hoping Mrs. Dressler and her grandmother had been both ignorant and innocent all these years, and that was why they’d never turned him in or done anything to stop him. It seemed that wasn’t the case, though, and it worried her that their lack of action might make them accessories. They might even approve of his actions, she thought now and turned back toward the chair where Mrs. Dressler sat. Using her best constable’s voice, Sarita asked, “So you know what your husband has been doing, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes, child. I know better than anyone what that bastard is up to.”
Sarita relaxed a little. There was no way to mistake the tone in Mrs. Dressler’s voice as anything but loathing. The woman hated her husband and didn’t approve of what he was doing. It didn’t get her, or Sarita’s grandmother, off the hook for not trying to stop it. But at least they weren’t accomplices.
“This way,” Domitian said quietly, taking her hand now and leading her the rest of the way to what turned out to be a couch. When he sat and tugged at her hand, Sarita settled next to him and squinted toward the woman in the chair across from them, but couldn’t make out much more than a silhouette.
“You said my grandmother was coming?” she asked politely.
“Yes. My son went to wake her after he got me up and about,” Mrs. Dressler said softly. “That was just before you started chattering outside the window. She won’t be too long. But not too quick either, I should imagine,” she said wryly, and pointed out, “We’re not as spry as we used to be.”
“Of course,” Sarita murmured and then just sat there like a bump on a log, completely at a loss as to what to say. The situation seemed somewhat surreal to her in that moment. Fortunately, Elizabeth Dressler didn’t appear to have the same problem.
“My son thinks the pair of you swam here,” she announced abruptly. “Is he right?”
“Yes,” Sarita answered.
“Where from?” Mrs. Dressler asked at once.
“From the little island you first lived on when you moved here from England,” Sarita admitted.
“All that way?” she asked with amazement.
“Yes,” Sarita assured her and then admitted, “Well, really Domitian swam all that way, I spent a good deal of the night lounging around on an air mattress, watching him do all the work.”
“And tackling men with gills who planned to stab me from behind,” Domitian put in at once, apparently not appreciating the picture she’d just painted of herself as a useless female.
“Ah. One of Ramsey’s hybrids,” Elizabeth said and sounded weary now. “Most of them are victims who want nothing more than to be left alone. But some suffer a sort of syndrome—What do they call it when kidnap victims start to side with their kidnappers?” she asked, a frown evident in her voice.
“Stockholm syndrome, I think,” Sarita murmured.
“Yes. That’s it,” Mrs. Dressler said at once. “Well, some of his hybrids suffer from a version of that and simply live to serve him. They are extremely dangerous,” she warned. “Like Charles Manson’s followers, they would do anything for him, even kill. Bear that in mind.”
Sarita opened her mouth to say she would, only to close it and glance around as she heard a creak from upstairs.
“That is your grandmother leaving her room. She will be down here soon,” Elizabeth commented and then added, “I feel I should warn you . . . she will not be pleased that you are here.”
“What?” Sarita asked sharply, her head jerking back toward her. “Why not?”
“Because you have stumbled right into the heart of hell here, child,” Mrs. Dressler said unhappily. “People that come to this island rarely leave. At least not alive. My husband sees to that.”
“And you allow it?” Domitian asked, his voice deep in the darkness.
“Allow?” Mrs. Dressler asked with dry amusement. “I have nothing to do with it. I am as much a victim and prisoner as those poor hybrids he’s created. So is Maria.”
Sarita’s eyes were beginning to adjust, or perhaps it was just growing lighter in the room as the sun crept closer to the horizon, but she was quite sure she saw Mrs. Dressler’s head turn her way as she added, “Did you really believe your grandmother wanted to abandon the husband and young son she loved more than life itself? Or that she wouldn’t have done anything to meet her only grandchild? No,” she said firmly. “She had no choice. Her one joy all these years has been the letters first from your mother and then from you. These last fifteen years, she has consoled herself with the knowledge that you were at least safe in Canada, far away from this horror. So,” she added grimly, “no, she will definitely not be pleased that you are here. Neither am I, for that matter.”
“You?” Sarita asked with surprise. “Why would you care?”
“Your grandmother was kind enough to share her letters with me, Sarita. First your mother’s, and then yours when your mother died. She’d read them to me and then write you back, speaking her response aloud as she wrote and I would often suggest she mention this or that. It made me feel a part of it,” she admitted. “Those letters have been the only bright spot in a very dark world for both of us over these many years. I’ve come to feel I know you as well as your grandmother does. I’ve grown to care for you. And it breaks my heart to see you sitting here on this island within Ramsey’s reach.”
“Elizabeth?”
Sarita glanced behind her at that call and heard someone shuffling down the stairs.
“In the sitting room, dear,” Mrs. Dressler called softly.
“Thorne said there was someone here to see me. Who could—Why are you sitting in the dark?” The question was accompanied by a click and light suddenly burst from overhead.
Blinking, Sarita stood and turned to look at her grandmother for the first time in her life. What she saw was an elderly woman in a cotton nightgown and a fluffy white robe that she was clutching to her throat. She had silver-white hair, startled dark brown eyes, and a kind, wrinkled face that was presently filled with confusion.
“Who are you?” she asked uncertainly, her hand tightening on the bit of robe she clutched at her throat as she glanced to Mrs. Dressler. “She looks like—”
“Yes, Maria. It’s Sarita,” Mrs. Dressler said, sounding sad.
“What?” the woman said with bewilderment and turned back to Sarita, who nodded.
“Si, abuela. It’s me,” she said almost apologetically.
“Sarita?” she asked, her voice high. She took a couple of unsteady steps into the room and then just collapsed.
Twelve
Sarita rushed around the couch toward her grandmother, but Domitian was faster. He even managed to get there and catch her grandmother before she hit the floor, saving her what would undoubtedly have been a good knock to the head. The moment he scooped the fragile old lady up into his arms, her eyes fluttered open.