Planet Lara: Sanctuary

By Eliza Gordon

SANCTUARY picks up right where TEMPEST dropped you on your knees.

Finan is gone, Jacinta has disappeared, and Lara is holding on by a thread. She will do whatever it takes to recover the other half of her heart, even if it means trusting those most unworthy of her trust. As terrible new threats burst onto the scene, Lara must rely on her Thalia Island family to bring Finan home in one piece—and save the utopia her grandfather fought so hard to create.  

With the curtain pulled back on incendiary secrets concealed for decades, reckoning comes from all sides: Who is telling the truth, and who pays the price for the sins of our forebears?

• Language: English
• Publisher: SGA Books
• Release date: Dec 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989908105

Eliza Gordon

A native of Portland, Oregon, Eliza Gordon (a.k.a. Jennifer Sommersby) has lived up and down the West Coast of the United States, but since 2002, home has been a suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia. Despite the occasional cougar and bear sightings in her neighborhood, there’s no place she’d rather rest her webbed feet (except maybe Scotland). When not lost in a writing project, Eliza is a copyeditor, mom, wife, and bibliophile, and the proud parent of one very spoiled tuxedo cat. Eliza writes stories to help you believe in happily ever after; Jennifer Sommersby, her other self, writes young-adult fiction. Both personalities are represented by Daniel Lazar at Writers House.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

arrhythmia

They threatened to sedate me. I told Catrina if she allowed Dr. Stillson to knock me out, I would never forgive either one of them. Ever.

And though it’s not much better, Dakota placed a half-filled glass of scotch at my spot around the conference room table and made me drink, not to forget what’s happening but to stop the shaking. Head to toe. I looked like I was having a seizure.

The whisky helped. Just.

In under an hour, the conference room was repurposed into a war room. Len Emmerich was on the phone with everyone as soon as we climbed into his truck to head back from the marina, barking orders to his guys to secure the lot and moorage and all surrounding areas, to lock it all down. It’s now a crime scene.

My boyfriend’s truck is a crime scene.

Rupert logged in via video chat as soon as we got back to town hall, his wan face and almost nonexistent, snow-white hair filling the huge flat-screen at the front of the room while he and Wes set in motion the authorities in Vancouver who will be assisting with finding Finan.

Because he’s gone.

Someone has taken him.

The initial scan of the security footage showed him at the marina. He got out of his truck, opened the rear door to free Humboldt, and then they walked away from the vehicle, out of range of the camera. The other camera facing the docks and the boat ramp—the one that should have picked up their trail—was, of course, rendered useless by whoever has coordinated this attack.

The video then showed Finan reappear in the frame, in a limped run back to his truck. He’s already bleeding. He gets the door open and launches across his seat, but before he can situate himself to drive away, three huge figures, every inch of skin covered in black paramilitary garb, converge on the truck—

And then that camera goes dead too.

They gave us just enough of a taste to let us know they were here, Len gritted out.

"But who, Len? I’d shrieked. WHO?"

It was then that the decision was made to centralize operations at town hall—and to send Dakota to the Wandering Salamander for sedatives of the liquid variety.

It’s not like I wanted to be the crazed girlfriend rending my clothes and pulling out my hair, but these people don’t understand—Finan has my heart. I gave it to him. And I have his. He needs to come back to me. He needs his heart.

People can’t live without hearts, right?

CHAPTER TWO

no stone unturned

Within three hours, the island is overwhelmed with Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) and security personnel. The residents have been updated via Lutris and asked to meet at the community centre at 6:00 p.m. for an island-wide briefing and plea for information and to recruit search volunteers. I beg with Len and Wes to please look beyond Thalia’s shores—if this is Iona MacChruim, which is our current working hypothesis based on the grainy photograph of Finan delivered via little Harmony at town hall earlier today, there’s no fucking way Iona would stick around the island. No way.

As soon as Rupert hangs up on his video chat, he charters a helicopter, and he and Wes Singh stride into the buzzing conference room just after four o’clock. This is when access to money helps—chartering helicopters and bringing in an army of private investigators to save one of your own.

Rupert sees me across the way and heads right over. I’m shaking again by the time I push out of my chair, and when he wraps his spidery arms around me, the sobs renew. He lets me cry against him, murmuring promises that we will find Finan, unharmed, and all will be well again.

He pushes back, his hands on my shoulders, his own sad blue-gray eyes filled with tears. I promise you we will bring him home.

I nod and wipe my nose with his offered handkerchief. I can’t count how many of Rupert’s fine silk hankies I have collected over my lifetime, but likely enough to make a parachute.

I could really use a parachute right about now.

The community centre is at capacity. Around a hundred and fifty Thalia Island residents are here. Everyone except Finan.

I’m seated at the far left of a long table up front, bookended by Catrina and Dakota, the rest of council occupying the remaining seats. A podium has been moved into place, the skinny mic tested and ready to deliver news. Lucy-Frank Makamoose, Benny Ackerman, Joey, and the rest of Finan’s guys are outfitted with boots and flashlights and high-visibility vests and walkie-talkies, ready to head out to their search area based on the boxy grid Len Emmerich tacked up on the wall behind the volunteers’ table perpendicular to our position.

Even Harmony is ready to go, standing next to her dad along the wall. I will find Humboldt, Lara. He’s scared and he might be hurt and he trusts me, she’d said, as I pleaded with Len to go back to the marina earlier today to look for him. So my little doctor-to-be friend ran to her mom’s and got her boots and then met her dad at their tiny house and they came here with compasses and canteens and her medical kit and a bag of meaty treats, ready to find everyone’s favorite dumb dog.

Wes Singh takes the podium and introduces himself—again, for those settlers who were here during the Kelly Lockhart shakedown—and explains what they know so far.

To my horror, it’s not much.

At approximately one thirty today, Lara Clarke received a letter while working in her office at town hall. Inside the envelope was a grainy, printed photograph of Finan Rowleigh. We believe the photograph to be recent, taken in the downtown area of Thalia Island, which suggests that whoever is behind this has been on the island, right under our noses, and is familiar with the goings-on and rhythms our personnel and residents have established thus far. The photograph—he holds it aloft in its clear evidence bag—is the fourth in a series of clues pertaining to actions taken against Clarke Innovations, the Clarke Foundation, and Thalia Island. We suspect this to be the work of the Dea Vitae cult and its leader, Iona MacChruim, who some of you may remember as Ainsley Kerr.

A low murmur ripples through the room.

Law enforcement worldwide are actively searching for Iona, but to have her still operating in British Columbia, and on or near Thalia, is, of course, of grave concern.

Do you have any idea where she might have taken Finan? one of the agritech guys—Geordie, I think—hollers from along the wall. My stomach clenches anew.

Len Emmerich slides in behind the mic. At this time, we do not have any early inclination as to where Finan Rowleigh was transported. We’re only confident that he was in fact taken, and that he is likely injured, given that there were signs of a struggle at his truck, found abandoned at the marina. A short piece of security footage corroborates our early assumptions. Another wave of worried mutterings. I can assure you, we are leaving no stone unturned. As soon as we’re done here, we will initiate our search grid.

Wes resumes his spot at the podium. The RCMP has issued a bulletin to all provincial detachments and into Alberta, Vancouver Police are involved, and since Iona is wanted internationally via an INTERPOL Red Notice, the RCMP will be coordinating with other outside agencies as it becomes necessary.

I balance my pounding head in one tremulous hand. This is unbelievable.

It is of vital importance that if any of you have information that could assist us with the quick location and safe return of Mr. Rowleigh to his family, please, please come forward. No detail is too small.

Gillian Peck, sitting in the front row with her younger daughter asleep across her lap, raises her hand. Are the rest of us in any danger? This weird stuff keeps happening here, she says.

Wes and Len are already shaking their heads before the question is finished. Rest assured we are doing everything we can to secure the island, Len says.

"You said that after the cult was found here—after they poisoned us. How do we know we’re safe now?" another resident asks.

Rupert stands from his place behind the table and, in a surprisingly strong voice, speaks as he moves to the mic. Finan Rowleigh is family. I have known him since he was a boy. His mother Eileen is the closest thing I have to a sister. Finan’s own sister, Kira, a cherished niece. And as all of you have agreed to become a part of Archibald’s grand utopian experiment, you, too, are my family now. I will do everything in my power to keep every last one of you safe.

The quiet roars through the cavernous hall.

Rupert nods and maintains his position, spine straight, shoulders back, a pillar of strength in his bespoke suit, despite the cancer chewing through him. Wes Singh approaches once again. If you have information, questions, concerns, or you just want to talk to someone, the community centre will remain open and guarded twenty-four seven, as will town hall. Again, no stone unturned. Thank you.

The quiet is superseded by the movement of bodies, residents folding their bamboo chairs to stack on the carts without being asked. Catrina excused herself while Wes was talking and is now behind a long table at the far end with a few of her staff, coffee and tea and assorted pastries and bowls of fair-trade, organic bananas, oranges, and apples ready for the searchers and for those who don’t want to go home yet.

Though these circumstances suck, it is comforting to see the Thalia Island community rally like this—even the new settlers are lined up in front of Len and his guys, ready to do whatever they’re asked to find Finan. Most haven’t even finished unpacking their new houses yet.

Dakota hasn’t let go of me since we sat down. People are leaving, finding things to do. I should go help, I say.

She squeezes my hand harder. You’re going to sit right here for a bit longer. Let the professionals handle things. Nothing you can do at this minute.

I’ve done enough already, you mean, I mumble.

Dakota snorts. None of that. No pity parties. Let’s wait until we have the good whisky before we start.

Rupert approaches, the only reason Dakota lets go of me. She stands and meets his embrace. When the two of them are together, the genetic connection is obvious. Dakota is the much healthier version of her biological father—less jointed arachnid, more fitness model.

We’re heading back to town hall for a video call with the coordinating agencies, he says, his arm still draped around Dakota’s shoulders. You should sit in, Lara.

I nod and blot my eyes with the silk hankie.

Dakota, could you give us a moment?

I’ll wait out front for you, she says.

Rupert eases into the chair beside me. He has his own cane these days—way nicer than the one I had after my run-in with the iron rod during this summer’s once-a-century storm—but he’s reticent to use it. Just after the crowd moved to disperse, Wes handed it back to Rupert and muttered something under his breath—what looked like an admonition. Whatever he said worked because Rupert is back to using the black, high-gloss assistive device. I’d ask if he’s weak, or if the cancer is in his bones, but I cannot handle any more reality, any more bad news, just for today.

The article Watts posted about Cordelia and Jacinta …

Does Wes know? About Jacinta? I ask.

Rupert nods solemnly.

I’ll bet that was an uncomfortable conversation. For the past year at least, Jacinta has been hiding on Thalia Island, in a bunker my grandfather built decades ago. Rupert has kept her hidden, safe from her vengeance-seeking brothers, but also a secret from everyone, including his life partner, a respected member of the RCMP. Oops.

And given this current calamity, my hand could not have been forced at a worse time.

I’m sorry, Rupert. For whatever role I’ve played.

He flattens his veiny but well-moisturized hand over mine. We innocents must pay for the sins of our forebears.

What about Jacinta? Does she have anything to do with this? With them taking Finan?

He shakes his head. Impossible.

"At this point, I don’t think anything is impossible, Rupert. You can’t leave this out of the conversation. We have to put all our cards on the table."

Harmony appears out of thin air, headlamp pulled over her forehead, her skateboard strapped to the outside of her bulging backpack. Lara, I need to talk to you for a second. She gently grips my wrist, her fingernails a bright blue today.

You remember Rupert, don’t you?

Of course. I hope your cancer is almost gone. I promised Lara when I’m done with medical school, I will do whatever I can to help you.

Thank you, Harmony. I look forward to being under your care.

She smiles. Her adult teeth are taking up more space these days. Amazing how fast she’s growing.

OK, well, I didn’t think of this before because I’ve been so worried about Humboldt and everything just got—she makes a tangled, spinning ball with her fingers and a weird sound to go along with it, and I know exactly what she’s saying—but I wanted to tell you … the lady who gave me the letter to give to you today?

I hold my breath. Was it Iona? Was she here? Was Harmony that close to danger?

Remember that picture of you and your mom and that other lady when you were a baby?

Oh. Oh no.

The lady who gave me the envelope looked just like that lady in the picture with you. The lady I saw in your field while you were in the hospital.

CHAPTER THREE

a very good boy

You told me earlier that the lady had black hair and sunglasses and a baseball cap.

Yeah. But I started thinking about it harder, and I think she really looked like the lady I saw in the field.

OK.

Why would that lady want to hurt Finan if she’s your mom’s girlfriend?

I … I don’t know, Harmony. That’s a good question. I force a smile to hide my fear. You go find out where Len Emmerich needs you. Sound good?

Me and Dad are going to find Big Dog. She offers yet another pinkie promise. I wrap my finger around hers, hoping she doesn’t feel my shaky nerves.

She skips away toward her waiting father. He offers a gentle wave, and they disappear out the main doors.

I look at Rupert. No way. It could not have been Jacinta. You said she was somewhere safe.

The child has seen a single photograph. A lot of women have long, black ponytails.

"Yes, but not every woman only has one hand."

Harmony didn’t mention whether the woman was missing an appendage, Rupert counters.

True. She didn’t. She likely wouldn’t have noticed if the transaction was that quick, plus Harmony was being towed on her skateboard by a bullmastiff. If some random woman stopped her on the street, I couldn’t expect her to catalog every detail of the woman’s appearance—not even Harmony, the world’s cleverest ten-going-on-thirty-year-old.

So, coincidence, then? I bite at one of my long-neglected cuticles. But maybe not. If it is one of Iona’s minions—or even Iona herself—and she knows that Jacinta and Cordelia took Daddy’s magic rocks, this could be a setup.

Rupert watches my face while I talk, but he doesn’t offer his two cents.

He’s not telling me something.

Rupert … where is Jacinta?

A terse shake of his head warns me to stop. Let’s get to town hall before the call begins and we miss anything. Number Two stands, adjusts his cane, and strides off, leaving me to watch him join the scrum at the volunteers’ table.

He’s lying. He’s still protecting her.

Wherever Jacinta is, I hope she’s safe.

The town hall meeting with the coordinating agencies is long and scary, and by 2:00 a.m., we have no new leads, and no Finan. I’m sick with exhaustion and grief and worry.

What were the last words we said to each other? Salmon. He was going to cook salmon. We were going to eat dinner together, and I teased that we needed to do masks before bed because our late nights tangled up in each other are ruining our youthful, well-rested visages.

He kissed me in the break room while the coffee maker brewed our life-giving juice. He didn’t care who walked in, who saw us.

That will not be our last kiss, Finan Rowleigh. I promise.

Dakota finally leads me to my office to collect my purse. No one questions when we leave—it’s pretty clear I won’t be useful again until I’ve had some sleep. I protest that I need to be here in case a ransom demand comes in, or even a sighting of Finan, or in case the searchers find Humboldt, but Dakota won’t hear it.

My head bounces against the frame of Rupert’s Tesla as we maneuver up my gravel driveway.

Lara …

Hmmm? I open my eyes. On my porch, Humboldt awaits. Oh my god! Hurry!

Dakota races up the last fifty meters and I’m out of the car before she’s parked. Big Dog! Oh my god, buddy! I race and drop on the steps in front of him. Oh, oh, my sweet boy, you’re hurt. Humboldt’s tail pounds the wooden porch but he’s covered in blood, and when he tries to stand, he collapses again. Don’t you move, my poor baby. I turn just as Dakota is hurrying toward me, her overnight bag and my purse over her shoulder. He’s hurt! Call Dr. Stillson!

She drops everything and gets Stillson on the phone. Thankfully, he’s still at the community centre with Catrina and says they will grab the vet med kit and head out to the cabin. Until then, we’re to make Humboldt as comfortable as we can. "And do not move him."

Not a problem. Neither of us has the inclination to lift a beefy dog with obvious wounds whose panting tongue has created a small lake on the porch. I’ll get him fresh water, Dakota offers.

And in the hall closet, at the bottom, there’s a stack of beach towels. Can you grab those?

Despite the late hour, the air is muggy, and the mosquitoes are taking advantage of the buffet offered by my bare arms. A few flies buzz around the matted and still-wet blood on Humboldt’s fur. I bat them away, my hand coming back stained with evidence of the trauma this poor dog has suffered. I rest his wide head on my legs, trying to calm his panting and occasional whimpers with soft strokes over his forehead and snout, whispering that I love him and everything will be OK.

I am so sorry they took our Finan. I’m near choking on my tears. We’re going to get him back. I promise. Safe and sound. Then we will never let him go again. I promise, you big, silly dog.

Dakota returns with a bowl of fresh water and the towels under the opposite arm. She helps me cover Humboldt’s back and flank to keep the flies away as he slurps heartily from his silver dish.

I’ll make us tea, she says, disappearing back into the cabin. I’d ask her to spike mine, but the dull headache from crying (and the few shots of whisky earlier in the evening) hasn’t abated. And I need to be present. No hiding in a bottle this time. That won’t help anyone, especially Finan.

By the time Stillson and Catrina finish treating Humboldt, the sun is peeking over the horizon. Stillson thinks the dog’s front leg is probably broken, for which he’ll need to X-ray to confirm where and how bad. He’s obviously taken a beating. The slash wounds are defensive, suggesting someone went at him with a knife, probably when he was trying to protect Finan, but as far as I can tell, they didn’t do any internal damage. Again, hard to know for sure without getting an MRI, but right now, all we can do is monitor for serious bruising or purple rigidity on his underside, if he starts vomiting or peeing blood, if he can’t seem to get a deep breath …

What if any of that happens? I ask, exhausted but refusing to leave his side.

Liam Stillson looks at me with the saddest eyes. If the leg is broken, we can set and cast it. I have enough sedative left from Dr. Lori to put him out for that. But in terms of internal damage, there’s nothing much else I can do for him right now. If he shows signs of a hemorrhage, then the option is to get him across to his vet, or …

Catrina, sitting on the couch above me where I’m sprawled with Big Dog on the floor, squeezes my shoulder. Let’s not add weight to our worries. For now, he’s stable and sleeping. Like you should be.

I can’t. What if he dies while I’m napping? He’ll die alone! He got hurt trying to help Finan—I can’t abandon him.

"You’re not going anywhere but down the hall. I will sit with him, and as soon as it’s a decent hour, I will call Harmony. She would love to be of use today," Catrina reassures me.

Yes. OK, that’ll work, I say through another bout of tears. Dakota helps me off the floor—I’m still achy and not quite a hundred percent after the impalement—and then into the bathroom so I can wash the sadness from my face and brush the day-old coffee off my teeth. She settles me into my bed, but I ask her to stay, patting the side where Humboldt and Finan take turns keeping me safe.

I’m dirty, though. Need to shower and change, she says.

I don’t care. Shower after I fall asleep. Otherwise, I’ll worry that they’ll steal you too.

Dakota kicks off her boots and drapes herself over the duvet next to me, grasping my hand. I’m not going anywhere, sister.

CHAPTER FOUR

be careful what you wish for

DAY 2

Full sun streams through the bedroom sheers. A sheen of sticky sweat coats my skin. I blink a few times to orient myself.

I’m at home, in my bed, alone.

Finan is missing.

I bolt upright and check my phone. Ten thirty. I managed about four hours of sleep. My body feels like I’ve been asleep for a month.

Voices filter in from the other room. 

She’s awake! Harmony yells. I’ve been waiting for you to get up for a million hours. She hops onto my bed. I don’t have the energy to scold her about still having her sneakers on. "I am so happy Big Dog came home! Dr. Stillson let me help this morning with putting a splint on and then he and Catrina moved him to the clinic and they’re doing an X-ray because poor Humboldt has a broken leg, but they said I can go in later and Dr. S. will teach me how to put on the antibiotic cream for his sutures—Lara, did you know the bad guys stabbed him? WHO DOES THAT? Who stabs a beautiful dog like Humboldt?"

Her blue eyes are wide and glistening with tears, but her red cheeks and fists tell me she’s not sad—she’s furious. I don’t blame her. If I ever find out who hurt our dog, I swear I’ll kill ’em.

I’ll help you, I said, offering my hand. She takes it. Who’s here?

Dakota, Rupert, and the two giant cops. Catrina is at the clinic with Humbie, like I said, and Dakota is just about to go back to the community centre to make sure people have stuff to eat and drink. Harmony releases me, slides up, and plops herself onto the adjacent empty pillow. She examines her chipped blue fingernails for a second before dropping a sweaty hand on my forearm. We didn’t find Finan yet, but we’re going to. My dad said we could go looking again. He’s at our tiny house having a snooze, but I didn’t need to sleep anymore, so I came here to help with Humboldt.

Thank you, Harmony.

She moves over and settles her head on my lap, draping her left arm over my legs. Don’t worry, Lara. We’re gonna find him. Finan is super smart and he has big muscles. I’ll bet he beats up the bad guys and escapes.

My tight throat makes swallowing, breathing, even talking impossible. I grunt in response, trying to keep the tears in my eyes so as not to freak out this little kid whose family thought they were moving to a safe place.

Rupert appears in the open doorway in a fresh suit and starched, bluish button-down, minus his usual tie. He’s without his cane, though the persistent pallor of his face hints at the battle raging within.

Hey, I croak.

Hey yourself. He steps into the room. Harmony sits up.

Did Dr. S. call about Big Dog? she asks.

Rupert shakes his head. Not yet. He moves yesterday’s clothes off the padded bench at the end of my bed and eases himself onto it. Harmony, may I have a word with Lara?

She looks up at me. You want me to make you some coffee?

That would be amazing.

Harmony flies out and bounces down the hall, hollering how she’s going to make coffee if anyone else wants any.

What I would give to have an ounce of that child’s energy, Rupert says.

Amen. Our eyes connect. Any news?

He looks over his shoulder and then stands and slides to the door. He quietly clicks it closed and moves to the overstuffed chair in the corner near my bed.

Number Two, you are making me very nervous.

He eases into the