Free New Year Island by Paul Draker

snickered. “He’s looking for the buffalo wings.” Apparently, the guy wasn’t his type, either.
    The other guy, loading his plate from the appetizer trays at the far end of the counter, was older. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a thick neck, his silver hair cut short on a squarish head. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, in good shape for his age. He was dressed like he was going on a camping trip, in a sleeveless pocketed safari vest, khaki dungarees, and high-end hiking boots. His outdoorsy clothes looked brand-new: straight out of the Eddie Bauer or Timberland catalog. Camilla smiled to herself, liking the man already. She got a sense of solidity, dependability, from him—he’d be a steadying influence when things got heated. There would be no ego-driven need to assert his authority or get drawn into the usual alpha-male pissing contests. He reminded Camilla of Reuben, her mentor from work. She was drawn to his calm serenity, but there was also a hint of sadness or hidden pain about him. She wondered what his story was. But here was their fifth team member, she decided.
    “Physician,” Mason said. “He’s a doctor.”
    She looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you get that?”
    “In the bathroom.” Mason pantomimed scrubbing his wrists. “I saw how he washed his hands.” He inclined his head toward the other man at the buffet, the snake-eyed blond one. “I can’t tell if that guy’s a doctor, though—he didn’t wash.”
    “Oh god, too much information.”
    “Always good to have a doctor on your team,” Mason said, grinning. “You never know when you might need one.”

CHAPTER 13
    B rent stepped back from the counter to give the blond man access to the platters. He poked at this and that in apparent dissatisfaction, and Brent noted the scars on his hands and knuckles. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Brent, and lean and wiry. Active lifestyle but poor nutrition, Brent figured. Not a smoker, though—surprising for a guy like that. For the next ten years he’d probably be fine, but after that it would all be bad news. The scars on the man’s hands were the result of poor suturing by indifferent doctors. Sloppy workmanship. Brent knew where he’d seen that particular kind of medicine practiced.
    With his back still to Brent, the blond fellow spoke. “What’s the matter, old man? You never seen somebody who works for a living?”
    Brent smiled. “Brent Wilson. Pleased to meet you.”
    The man turned and met Brent’s eyes steadily. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then he wiped a hand back and forth on his pants leg, the way a mechanic might wipe grease off on his coveralls, and held it out. Brent shook it.
    “Travis Hargrave,” the man said. “Why are you here? You get a letter?”
    “Looks like everyone here did,” Brent said.
    “What’s this all about?”
    “Fifteen minutes of fame. Our hosts are late, though, so you might get five to ten instead.”
    Travis’s eyes narrowed. “Funny man.” His posture had gone stiff. “I seen some of these shows. No offense intended, but you don’t seem the type.”
    Brent laughed. “You may be right about that, Travis. I almost didn’t come. But I have to say, you don’t much seem the type, either.”
    Travis rubbed at the little triangle of beard under his chin. “Letter said prize money.” He tilted his head, looked up at Brent. “From what I seen so far around here, old man, there doesn’t appear to be all that much in the way to stop me getting it.”
    He turned his back on Brent and went back to picking his way through the appetizers.
    Brent tucked his hands into his vest pockets and watched Travis move away. Self-confidence is a good thing, my friend. But sometimes too much of it could get you into trouble. The last eight years had been difficult for Brent. Incredibly difficult. He had lost a lot, but he had learned a lot about himself too. He now knew what it meant to be a survivor.

CHAPTER 14
    C