Lisa
The humid air hit her first, followed by the unforgiving heat as she stepped off the plane and entered the terminal of Sand Island Aeroport. There, a small man in a suit rushed to the gate to greet her.
"Dr. Stone," he began. "I'm Harry Pyke, Tourism Administrator here on Sand Island. Welcome," he greeted, offering his hand. She took it hesitantly. Does it spread through physical contact? She made a note to apply the sanitizer she had in her purse.
"Mr. Pyke, thank you for meeting me on such short notice," she reciprocated, following him as he ushered her towards the security gate. He held up his hand to the guards, who opened a small turn-style, allowing them to pass through unhindered.
"I must say, we're rather surprised about this whole situation. Our clinic hasn't reported any unusual activity, nor have any of the hotels indicated that they've seen any gravely sick travelers. At least, nothing out of the ordinary," he explained, opening the door of a small, black luxury sedan. She entered the vehicle while he had her bags placed in the trunk and took the seat next to her.
"We're unsure about the origin of the ailment but we're just doing some due diligence to ensure that Sand Island remains safe," she reassured him. He frowned. The driver pulled away from the entrance of the aeroport and turned onto a beach-front road.
"What exactly are you looking for?" he pressed.
"To start with, any signs of infection – " she began.
"Which I've already stated, there hasn't been," he interrupted. She took a deep breath. I'm just doing my job.
"Of course, I don't expect to find anyone who is sick. We've already received the patient files and records from the clinic. What I'm most interested to see is if any of the people from the mainland have also stayed here as well. That might be a better indicator," she went on. "Of course, I'd also like to do a full sweep of the island, including hotel rooms and the local clinic. It's all standard procedure."
"Listen, doctor," he began, his tone shifting. "We're not a fancy city on the mainland. Hell, I'm from Wick – not exactly a metropolis – and this little spec of sand and jungle ain't even that. We can't afford to lose any tourism from this. We can't afford a quarantine." Ah yes, she groaned internally. The Dragon is still more valuable than the Man.
"Rest assured," she placated in the most soothing tone she could muster. "We have absolutely no plans to advertise our presence here – nor are we even considering something as drastic as a quarantine." He stared at her for a moment before nodding slightly.
"Alright, well, as long as we understand each other, then we'll stop at my office first and you can check our logs for the names of the people you're looking for. After that, Turk here will drive you wherever you'd like to go," he allowed, drawing out the word understand unnecessarily, as if he imagined himself making some sort of covert deal. She feigned a smile. She had already made up her mind that this Pyke fellow was going to be the opposite of helpful. Turk kept driving.
The office was a small, non-descript building in the only settlement on the island. Aside from Pyke's office, a dated waiting room and a narrow staircase leading to the second floor were all that awaited her upon arrival. Pyke led her up the stairs to a small office, clearly being used as storage, where he offered her the desk. She took a seat and opened her laptop while Pyke shuffled off to fetch the documentation she required. The only window in the room was old and the heat was stifling. Thankfully, their internet connection worked with relative speed.
"These are the records for the last three months. Everyone who landed and departed from both the docks and the aeroport," he offered, setting a small stack of papers on the dusty desk with a thud. Not even digital? What year is this? "There's also a directory of all of the hotels, guesthouses, and hostels. We don't allow private rentals without a license," he explained. "Have you ever visited our island before?"
"Never," she answered truthfully. "Though I always wanted to. If only it were under different circumstances, I would consider this the highlight of my year." He offered a fake smile.
"Well, I hope you leave yourself some time for personal enjoyment. I, myself, frequent the Western Shore Tavern," he enthused. "They've got the best drinks on the island and karaoke on Wednesdays!" She returned the fake smile.
"Good to know," she replied while turning back to her laptop. He hovered near the door.
"There's also an excellent seafood selection at Jen's downtown," he went on, much to her consternation. She paused slightly while looking at him, silence filling the room. Finally, he took the hint. "Ah, well, I'll let you get to it, then. If you need anything, I'll be right downstairs." With that, he departed the office, closing the door gently behind him.
She began checking the names of the infected against the records. Only Jacob Anderson matched. She checked his arrival date: he came to the island, stayed for four days and three nights, then departed on a flight back to Branton. She made note of the flight number, to contact the airline for further information. She took the information of his hotel. That would be her next stop. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the number for the front desk, asking for the manager on duty. After being passed off multiple times, each person claiming to be the manager but not the manager she needed to talk to, she was able to reach their security office. The manager there agreed to meet her with all of the surveillance videos from that week.
As she descended the staircase, Turk glanced up from his magazine. His features were dark – not Westerosi – and his eyes looked tired, but sharp. His face displayed no discernable emotion. He closed the magazine and set it down on the table, remaining silent even when she asked to be taken to the hotel. As they exited the building, Pyke leered from his office.
The drive remained equally quiet. She appreciated that. Turk said nothing as they pulled into front entrance of the hotel and a bellhop came rushing over to open the door for her.
"Any bags, miss?" he asked, eagerly.
"No," she answered, stepping out. "I'm actually here to see your Security Office."
"Oh!" he chirped. "You must be that doctor. Yeah, I'll take you straight to him! Follow me!" He plays his part well. Must make a small fortune in tips alone.
Turk motioned to the parking lot as she turned back to him. The bellhop closed the door and the car slowly pulled away. They made their way through the labyrinth of employee-only hallways until the bellhop knocked on a yellowed door in the basement with "SECURITY" written across it in faded red paint. The door opened, and an older man appeared. He was tall and stocky, with salt and pepper hair. His mustache was well-groomed, and equally gray.
"Dr. Stone," he grunted, offering his big, leathery hand. "Please come in." The office was little more than two desks and a series of ancient televisions. He motioned for her to have a seat on the sad swivel chair across from his desk. He picked up the remote and motioned to the top monitor on the left. "This is from when he checked in," he explained. The video showed the man exit a taxi, with the same bubbly bellhop grabbing his small suitcase from the trunk. They enter quickly, causing the camera to shift to a view of the front desk.
"Looks normal so far," she noted. He nodded. They continued watching as he went to his room, and then later as he went to the beach. They followed him through his solo dinner and then to a taxi, leaving the hotel. "Can you pause?" she asked. He clicked the button, freezing the video. She strained her eyes to attempt to make out the taxi's identifying number. 2... she made out before the footage became too blurry for her to read. That's a good start, at least. "Okay, go ahead," she instructed as she jotted down the number. The camera showed the taxi pull away before cutting to a time much later at night. By himself, Jacob Anderson strolled casually up to the hotel on foot before entering. The cameras followed him to his room. From his gait, he was clearly intoxicated.
The next day's footage was more of the same. He ate by himself, visited the beach by himself, and left for a few hours during the day. However, at night, he visited the hotel bar. This time, he made conversation with the people around him. Lisa watched closely. The security guard kept his remote ready to pause. Jacob was on his third drink when he began talking to the woman next to him. Even through the black and white footage, she could tell the woman was younger than he was, with short, dark hair. She wore a slim, form-fitting cocktail dress and an intricate choker around her neck. Lisa watched intently as they spoke.
"Hooker," the security guard mumbled. "They're everywhere on the island."
"Is prostitution legal here?" Lisa asked. He shook his head. "So, she's freelancing? There's no medical check for them?" He snickered.
"No. Most of them are runaways from the mainland. Some of 'em get picked up by the local pimps. Most just hang out at the hotels looking for a place to stay for the night," he explained. "She looks like a pro."
"You've seen her before?" Lisa asked, keeping her eyes focused on the woman on the screen. She was a smooth operator for sure. Her body language was sultry and fluid. The way she subtly touched his arm and leg would convince any man that she was interested. She would lean in and laugh. Her smile, even through the grainy film, was undeniably beautiful.
"Not this one," he admitted. "We have codenames for the regulars. If you go to the bar tonight, you'll likely run into Donkey Teeth and Crab Trap."
"Is it rare for a girl to come in just once?" Dr. Stone continued, ignoring the nicknames for the imagery they conjured.
"Not so much," he shrugged. "Sometimes girls come here, work the different hotels and bars, and then run off to the next place." She watched as the couple stood from the bar. The man paid the bill, and they began moving towards the exit. The footage followed them back to his room. He skipped ahead a few hours until the door opened, and the woman exited by herself, a sly grin on her face. "Looks like she wasn't looking for a place to stay," he added. She walked out of view of the camera. She quickly turned to him.
"Can you get me the footage of her? Where did she go? Where did she come from originally?" she asked. He took a pen and a piece of paper.
"I'll dig up the footage. Might take an hour or so. Why don't you go ask the bartenders if they remember?" he offered. She nodded in agreement.
"Thank you," she said as she stood. "You may be the most helpful person I've come across today." He nodded at her, unimpressed.
"Take a left, go up the stairs. When you go out of the door, turn right. You'll find the bar," he explained. She followed the directions and shortly thereafter found herself standing in front of the hotel bar. Light jazz music played overhead. There were few patrons at this early hour. A single bartender chatted up a young couple while a barback cleaned glasses in the sink. Lisa took a seat where Jacob Anderson had sat. The bartender glanced over at her, smiled, and worked his way down to her.
"Afternoon," he greeted her. "Can I get you something?"
"I'll have a cider – just a small one," she requested. He nodded.
"Sure thing." She took a look around the bar. There were two entrances: one from the beach and one from the hallway of the hotel. A small stage held a drum kit and not much else. A few chairs and tables dotted the floor. The bartender returned with her drink.
"May I ask you a question?" Lisa began, leaning in slightly to avoid other patrons from hearing her.
"Sure," the bartender agreed.
"You know some of the regular... ladies... that come in here, right?" she carefully asked. The bartender was taken aback.
"I, uh, yeah," he stuttered. "I mean, I know who they are, but I don't know them."
"Oh, sorry, yeah, I didn't mean it like that," Lisa nervously laughed. "I meant, supposing one of them came in, you'd recognize if she'd been in here before? Or you'd remember them?" He nodded.
"Yeah, sure," he answered. "Is there some trouble?" She shook her head and leaned in a little further, causing him to lean in as well.
"Oh, no, but I was wondering if you remembered maybe two weeks ago? A woman was sitting right here," she motioned to the seat next to her. "She was wearing a dress and had a choker around her neck? She left with one of the guests at the hotel." His eyes grew wide.
"Oh," he began, nodding. "Yeah, I remember. The ruby choker and red dress. Strange accent. Impossible to forget."
"Had you seen her before?" Lisa asked, pulling a notepad and a pen from her purse. He shook his head.
"You're not a police officer?"
"I assure you, you're not in any trouble," she reassured him. He hesitated for a moment, looking around at the rest of the establishment.
"No," he finally replied, turning back to her. "Just that one time. She hasn't been back since, either."
"Did you speak to her?"
"I took her order. She asked for a 'Dornish Red,'" he laughed. Lisa raised her eyebrow, perplexed.
"I didn't think Dorne made wine anymore," she mused.
"Not for a very long time, but there are still some old bottles out there. They're not cheap. We certainly don't have any," he confirmed, shrugging.
"You think she was wealthy?"
"Probably," he agreed. "But even so, the last vineyard in Dorne was shuttered at least fifty or sixty years ago. Too hot there, you know? A bottle of anything would cost thousands of Dragons at the minimum." Lisa jotted down the strange request on her notepad. Red dress, ruby choker, strange accent, Dornish wine?
"You couldn't place her accent?" she asked. He shook his head.
"I've been all over Westeros. I've been skiing in the North. I saw the old Wall. I've been to Braavos and had a long layover in Tyro," he rambled. Humble-bragging his holidays. "But I've never heard anything like hers."
"Maybe from somewhere else in Essos?" she suggested. He shook his head.
"I have no clue, honestly. She spoke..." he trailed off, thinking deeply. "Maybe, like some old-fashioned movie. You know, like from before the War. Her words just... didn't sound natural." Old-fashioned speaking style.
"What did you wind up serving her?" Lisa asked, curious.
"A glass of Arbor Cabernet," he answered. "When I gave it to her, she asked me about my life here," he added.
"What about it?"
"Well, she asked if I knew why it's called Sand Island when it's covered in jungle," he offered. "I said I didn't know."
"I don't know either," she admitted.
"Right?" he snickered. "She didn't even tell me after she asked! She just started rambling to herself, staring off like I was the bad guy; Stuff like 'he wouldn't care anyways,' like I wasn't standing right in front of her! I had to look it up online later. Some old folk hero from a thousand years ago. Sandor something-or-another," he concluded. "Anyways, she stopped talking to me once some other guy came in and started buying her drinks. I figured it was his problem now, so I left them alone." Sandor.
"You've been a great help, thank you," Lisa praised him, finishing off her drink and standing. He raised his hand slightly.
"Oh, she said one more thing when they left together," he remembered suddenly. "It was probably her pick-up line for customers, but if you're looking for her, maybe it'll help. She said something about being afraid of the dark."