I want ocean access and few tourists. A place to disappear into. Lack of development and instability are not detractors.
Robyn and I talk as we leaf through an atlas of the lower Americas.
How about here?
We make the decision together. That's how it feels. But it's Robynl suggestion. I'm excited to be making choices with her again. I've missel having a partner. Robyn can be so persuasive. We tear the page from the atlas. Our final destination is set.
Spend a few hectic days in the Exumas, Bahamas, I'm eager to track down a projector. I want to see the film. I need to know Graham's ^\cm\. I keep searching lor him. Out o\ habit, and in perpetual fear. I've taught myseli to believe in him. Yes, i believe in ghosts. One ghost.
( )thci necessities push to the front of the line. Remnants of Moruk's thralldom will follow us. They're real enough. The\ \c got serious moti
vation to do me harm. After all, I've stolen their legacy. And San Filippo won't take long to piece together events as they went down fatally in the desert. I broke a promise. Deep down she's still a cop. She'll make that call to the FBI.
We are pursued. I can't take time thumbing the Bahamian yellow pages to locate A/V equipment. Instead, I'm haggling and paving cash for a wooden live-aboard cruiser. Not much to look at, but she's seawor thy. I like it better that way. We won't draw attention. Despite every thing, I'm thrilled to be heading out on the water. Pick up supplies next. The cash makes our trail harder to follow. I thought I might have to watch Robyn. But she's with me at every step.
It's like slipping back in time. But too much has changed. It's more like visiting the past in a dream. And I like my past, love this dream I'm having of it. No time for nostalgia. This trip goes forward.
Maps.
We'll need good maps.
aterborne, we drop south.
We sail through the gauze of tropical heat. Coastlines are tickle places, speaking the language of horizons, always promising departure. Where do you want to go? Somewhere we'll never be heard from again.
Fugitives—kidnapping and multiple murders are among our crimes. Do I see us going to the law? Could we explain our way out of jail time? Instead of answers, I get an image—Bag Martinez turning blue at the ' bottom of a swimming pool. That won't be me. No going back, no homecoming in our future. I will never see Syd or Sara again. And that is almost too much to ask. But I have Shane and Liam. 1 I have Robyn.
We haven't slept together. An avalanche of booze and bad nerves— '• my desire's underneath the mountain. It's going to take a bit ot tunnel ing. Robyn was Graham's lover. This she confirms in detail. She talks ot him as a widow would. Grieves for him, telling me she still loves him. She awaits his return.
I would be lying if I said I'd lost all hope. I'm able to do something I thought impossible weeks ago. I put my hand out and clasp Robyn's. The ember of passion burns.
Robyn is totally blind. The Westphals sent her to three respected doctors for examination. There will be no recovery. She must continue to live as she is. We do our best to help her adapt. That is the only course of treatment left.
Chapter 33
fter days at sea, we've grown silent with each other. We tour are pensive. Sight of our destination revives us. We pull into port. Clear customs; our papers are good. The inspections run smoothly. We have clearance to travel inland.
Hunting for the passage that will deliver us.
The sun, climbing the horizon, strikes fierce. Jewels ride the waves. Ripples writhe sluggish beneath the hull. We churn a path of molten silver bubbles. Water and air become one element, indistinguishable. Breathing is drinking. We immerse. I clean the smudges off my sunglasses. They slide down my nose. Use the same rag to mop my face. I am drenched in my own juices. Sweat dribbles down my cheeks.
A village, our village, lies up a river of garbage. Junk floating in dark-roasted water. Daylight, but the rats are out. A girl with a long pole is doing her best to drown one. On both shorelines and in top-hea\ y boats of dubious construction, people are busy working, cooking o\ er steamy kettles, attending to myriad chubby-faced children, young a\k\ old ^on versing, sitting, crouching, climbing every surface o( rat t And land.
People everywhere.
One by one, we silence them.
They stare at us.
We're foreigners in the truest sense.
Shane, Liam, even Robyn—it's like they're enjoying a holiday. I am not. White man trespassing in a brown world. I check the view of the ocean over my shoulder. When it vanishes, I feel cut off. A trapdoor slams. Apprehension and history precede me. White people mean bad news. We glow like phosphorus.
Docked and tied off. It feels funny to walk on solid ground. The earth undulates beneath my feet. We move in a cluster, the boys, suddenly shy, wedge in between Robyn and me. The villagers part to clear a path.
Are they more frightened than I am?
I think so.
Buggy eyes follow us with trepidation. Ahead—a courtyard, and, at the far side, an official building bakes through the midday. Palms stand sentry. Dogs are snoring on the steps. It may be a post office, or a bank.
We go inside.
Fans turn above us, but the heat doesn't falter. We find a man in a suit. Robyn converses with him in broken Spanish. He answers in broken English. The look in his eyes is universal. Money. He smells money. I clutch the duffel against my chest.
Robyn pulls me aside. "He says there's a house we can rent. A large island, beaches, all down the coast. Tourists have stayed there in the past. It sounds simple."
I low do we gel there?"
she leans over to the man. She speaks to him. He sits behind a desk. 1 le is watching my bag.
1 here's a road with a bridge," she says.
"I'm not leaving the boat here. Ask if we can go by sea."
Robyn learned Spanish in college. I didn't. Bui the man smiles and
noils.
Robyn tells me. "I le wants to know if you have a map."
I dig the map from my pocket He slips a pencil from his jacket a\k\
is dravi ing. I le turns the map upside down and pushes it to me. 1 le
traced a line,back out the rivei mouth, and along the islands.The largest
island fits like .1 nimu cutofl about to slide into place. His mark hugs
the coast, it is a >. rooked line, not ven long.
"Tell him, okay. We will meet him there."
"Yes, sir," the banker says, not waiting for a translation. "No problem. I will be there at sunset. Very nice house. You will see."
t's more a glorified hut. We step off onto a rickety pier. Fun-house
grade, it torques left then right. A third of the boards are missing. In the gaps, through a lens of shallow hazel water, bright fish dart from piling to piling. I take Robyn's arm. We make it. Broken shells mash underfoot. Shane is running. Liam chases. He picks up a stick. Boys are like dogs, they can make a game of anything. Robyn rests her head against my shoulder. Her hair blows loose rusty streaks across her sunglasses. This place is remote. No signs of neighbors. You feel the lack of human presence. Desertion. But we are bringing new life. We can hide here. We can be ambushed too. I wish I'd somehow brought along the gun.
"Let's have a look," she says.
I call out, "You guys stick close to the pier."
The boys nod in unison.
"Right, let's go," I say. Robyn, chin high, regards the hut. Her aim's dead-on. We walk. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she can see it.
The hut logs are plum-colored, peeling badly, eaten by beach, wind, sun. The tin roof shimmers. Heat rises off it like a griddle pan. Quivers in the afternoon swelter. The door blazes yellow and has no lock. I go in first. Opening the huge shutters that are facing the beach, unhinging them, it is like removing a wall. No glass or screens. A framed 3-D portrait of paradise you can fall into.
The entering wind billows my shirt.
I turn to face the interior.
Table, chairs. Cookstove and pantry shelves. A fingerling-pale lizard—he is almost translucent—skitters into the path of sunlight slashing the floorboards. I find a broom and sweep him through the door. I whisk the shells of dead bugs from the corners; a sprinkling of glassy sand grits under my sandals. The room smells—hot metal.
Robyn fans herself with the map.
The living quarters need sprucing, but they are manageable. We've
got ice chests in the cruiser, electricity too. We'll get by for now. The main room is for eating and living; the two at the back divide for sleeping. I duck in. Utilitarian bunk spaces complete with pairs of musty olive, army cots.
Thinking again, this isn't so bad.
It's like a cheap summer camp.
Up to this point, we've slept like a wolf pack. Now there are two separate bedrooms, and a choice has to be made.
"Given any thought to the sleeping arrangements?" I ask.
Robyn tilts her head, considering. "I'd assumed the boys would stay together. You and I would share a room. Are there enough beds?"
"Not beds, cots. We have four."
"That works."
Robyn ventures forward, nudging one of the cots with her knee. She bends and tests the canvas with her fingers. She lies down, stretches out, hands laced behind her head. "There's another cot in here?"
"It's right across from you."
"Push them together," she says.
"Maybe it's easier if you and I.. ."
"Lie with me, Jase."
Robyn reaches out, crooks a finger. I step closer. I hadn't expected anything to happen between us so soon. I'm caught off guard. I feel something break loose and melt in my chest. I'm first-date nervous. My heart gallops. Her hand finds the leg of my khaki shorts. "IVe missed you," she says. She pulls at the fabric, her hand kneading, then freeing me. "I've missed us doing this."
Despite the open window, the bedrooms are dark and elose. Sweat glistens on her skin. She spits into her hand.
I he boys are right outside," I saw
I lowei myself onto the cot. The metal feet scratch the floor.
I lu-n well have to be quick, won't we?"
Robyn takes her sunglasses oft". She hits her hips off the cot and
bunches ha sundress up around her waist. I Underneath, she is naked. 1
remembei tins body. I lei hand thrums a slow rh\ thm between her legs.
\\e kiss i Ici tongue is twisty, combative. She grabs a fistful of hair at the
back of my head. Our mouths seal. She's sucking air from my lungs. I break. Our faces, so close. After everything lost, here we are. Found again. Here she is. Robyn.
"Your beard," she says, rubbing her knuckles under my chin. "It's rough. You feel different than you used to."
She can't see me. We touch foreheads.
"It's been a long time," I say.
She turns around and pushes backward.
"Go hard," she says.
hane, silhouetted in the doorway, says, "There's a truck coming." I am somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. I traverse that fuzzy gray edge, abandoning my dreams for this waking world. I am aware of Robyn. Her curves spooned into mine. I drape an arm across her waist. A draft of air has finally reached us. It is cool, like a third skin caressing ours. Alive in my body, my senses cleansed. I enjoy a physical-ity I haven't experienced in years. Blink in the pleasant half-light. Hear the sea crashing in the cove. Inhale the pungent jungle aromas.
I breathe Robyn too. Taste her sweetness and her salt.
Shane fidgets. He shifts his body weight and bangs an elbow into the door. Softly he swears. Is he really worried about the truck?
Or is it me, lying next to Robyn, who bothers him?
"The man from this morning," I whisper, "he's coming to help us. That'll be his truck." Robyn is snoozing on. A lick of damp hair clings to her neck. I study the rise and fall of her chest. Attempt to disengage without disturbing her.
When I look up, Shane has vanished.
I go outside to meet our visitor.
way from the village, the banker's English grows more fluent. The sunset is a bloody host dissolving in the ocean mists. Volcanic colors wipe the horizon.
He sighs. "It is a lovely view of the sea. I forget sometimes how lovely.
I don't drive back here often enough. We used to have more tourists, you know."
"Not anymore?"
The banker shakes his head. He is baby-faced, though in his tailored suit, he does not appear fat. His features are the color of dark honey. When he is not speaking, he is smiling. "I have some things for you in my truck."
He gives us a lantern, a gallon of mineral water, and matches for the stove. "There is a latrine over there by the bushes." He points to a wood structure at the back of the hut. I hadn't noticed it. We have a shower and a toilet aboard ship. "Keep the door latched. Use a light if you go out after dark. There are big cats in the jungle. Don't be scared. But watch for them. You have a torch?" I tell him yes. He shows me the generator. It should work, he says. He adds that someone will come in the morning with fuel. If we want any food, water, sundries—we must take the road into the village.
"Okay, that should do it," he says. He slips out of his jacket and lays it across the front seat of his truck. He rolls his sleeves. In his fingers, he has a thin, black cigar. I give him a match.
As he smokes, he watches the boys still playing on the beach.
"Your sons, already they like it here."
My sons.
"We need a film projector," I say. ( iikma?" 1 [e frowns, shakes his head.
'Not a cinema. ( ome with me to the boat."
'Sure, no problem."
We Step along the pier. The banker is nimble. I board the cruiser. 1 le waits for me. I return with the duffel bag and the canister of film. I show him the reel. Explain the importance of having a projector. 1 stress that we will pay top dollar if he is speedy.
'If I can locate such a thing, I will send it with the fuel. I cannot
guarantee this."
"I appre<iate your efFort."
We sh.ike hands. I \\w him from the duffel. I want him lo know this will he ,i 11 ml I ul relationship. So he will do his best.
Chapter 34
n the morning, no one comes. No diesel fuel, no projector.
We walk. Take a shopping trip. There's a farmer's market somewhere between us and the village. The road is deserted. It winds through a canopy of trees. Our course is rugged. The walk home, carrying supplies, will be tougher. At least we're traveling through shade. We see children playing. But before we reach them, they disappear. Here and there, dotting the brush, are rooftops. Colorful walls of azure and vermilion. We cross a bridge made of hand-cut planks. Vines dangle into an emerald abyss. You can hear water burbling. Look down. The ravine stuffed with fog.
Pretend we're a real family, no better or worse than any you see in the less popular vacation spots south of the border. Maybe we look grubbier—it's all the energy devoted to wondering if our journey is finally over. You'd see us and pass right by. If you're observant, you peer up from the pages of your novel to notice a couple of tall, good-looking twin boys. You may feel a tug of curiosity or even sympathy, noticing the way they link their arms with a woman you assume to be their mother. You judge from her subtle movements that she must be blind.
Where's the father?
There, looking harried, sleepless, but lean like the cigarette he's
stopped to light or the beer bottle he's buying from the shop merchant as he scans the faces of strangers with more than casual interest. Maybe if you locked eyes with him, you'd feel his suspicion or perhaps his plea. You'd see us and read the surface facts, but you'd miss the story.
The market is a one-man shop on wheels—a handsome thatched awning, and a red Coca-Cola cooler packed with iced fruit. We load up.
Back home, Shane and Liam transfer our supplies to the hut. Robyn organizes. We eat rice and beans. Mangoes and chili powder. Crash out through the hot afternoon, stomachs filled and tongues stinging. I'm worried about this sanctuary. I don't see us staying long. That road at the top of the hill is our lifeline. I take another walk. Reaching the summit, I spin around and view the hut, the cove, our cruiser bobbing. It's a perfect snapshot of tropical ease. I am uneasy.
I can't lay my finger on why.
The road runs two ways. Run a short jog in the direction opposite the village. It's not so different from the Fistula's road. I don't wander far. There's a lagoon jammed with birds, snakes, and God knows what else. Monkeys. We have monkeys. Chattering brown ones and black ones with tufts of hair growing pointed over their ears. The sun dips below the trees. Eighty-plus degrees and I'm chilled.
I hear a small engine approaching.
A motorbike—and driving it hard through ribs of mud, a teenaged boy. Strapped to the back are two jerricans. Our fuel.
I help the teenager carry the cans down to the generator. After some effort, we gel the thing started. It smokes, but it works.
"You have something else lor me?" I ask.
S/, si
1 [e brings me a cardboard box. The stamps on the side say infant tor-mul.i. Hut they are laded. The blue lettering has worn gray. 1 tear open the flaps.
I he projec tor.
I p.i\ him in American dollars.
I be sk\ above us is bruised. A storm's blowing in. Miles out to sea. making .i slow crawl inland, hut it is approaching. Thunderclouds, like
huge smoky brains tearing themselves apart, throw javelins of lightning. The ocean itself seems lit from below. I can't hear the thunder. Not yet.
I assemble the projector.
No instructions come with our equipment. I am not mechanical. I find too many parts in the box. I stop to polish the lens. Screw it into place. Reabsorb myself in the puzzle of connecting the rest of the pieces. The work is soothing. I have a purpose. I want to watch Graham's demise. Working, I fill a conch with dead cigarettes.
The storm rips at the night.
We're hiding inside a drum. Each boom trembles the hut walls, and the constant thrash of rain bleeds the joints. Tight rooms, low ceilings. Reverberations buzz in my bones. The word catacomb jumps into my head. At the windows, doorjambs, even the cracks in the walls—water begins to creep in.
I pry the window an inch. My face instantly doused. Witness an enormous tail of sand that spiraled out into our cove—erased in seconds. The buoys marking the channel are Clorox bottles anchored to the bottom with chains. They've torn loose. I spot one hurled up on the sand, tumbling sideways. The waves hiss. Foamy heads rear above the beach. Explode. Bowing trees are soon shredded. And the moon is buried away. I haven't seen its light since we docked.
The galaxy looks different down here.
I shut the window.
I pull the chain on the only bulb in the hut. Forty watts of light; in other words, near darkness. But we have electricity and an open socket growing like a tumor in the wall. The prongs don't match the plug. But I borrowed an adapter from the boat. I reach into the infant-formula box and find it empty. I'm finished. Run the thick black cord into the wall. Switch on, and the motor whirs, the fan spins, we have light. But we have no screen. I pick the blankest wall. I crack open the canister. Thread the film.
We're ready.
I latch the shutters. I don't want them bursting open, followed by electrocution in a deluge. Robyn and I take chairs. Shane and Liam lounge atop each other under the table. I extinguish the lonely bulb.
The home movie begins.
A bit of preliminary film rolls, numbers and such, then the wall changes, dims, to a view of a large, open room. Graham used black-and-white stock, in keeping with Aubrey's other recordings.
A large, open room . ..
Silent movie.
I find a volume knob and twist.
Background noise, but at least there's audio.
Wooden beams are visible in the ceiling. Candlelit. Iron stands surround the boys and dark gray candles—I can only guess their color, and my guess is red—are burning.
Hundreds of candles. The room dances in flames. We see two figures. The boys are already lying on the floor, on either side of a three-legged stool. A hangman's noose suspends, to the left, above the stool.
"I don't recognize this place," I say. "Where did you perform the ritual?"
"We could've gone anywhere. Those Who Follow span the globe. Graham did so much to prepare. He brought many into the family."
"Those Who Follow? You mean his thralls?"
lt I don't like that word. Thrall implies slavery, don't you think? We all made a decision, Jase. We chose to follow. Those Who Follow is much more appropriate."
"And where did you follow Graham?" I verywhere he asked me."
"The ritual happened in the States?"
Robyn nods her head. "New York City. It was a judge's loft. Graham told me the views were lovclv. It was expensive ^\nd quiet. So perfect. We COuldn'l even hear the traffic from the streets below. The judge gave US the ke\s."
"Was the judge presentr
l iraham insisted we do the Print alone. 1 Ie wanted no interference.
( iraham was exhausted. Ybll nude real problems lor us. Alter the fiasco
a! the Fistula, Graham grew paranoid. Those Who follow were in . haos. Some panicked and fled, t )thers expressed doubts. (iraham woi
i ied vou'd find .< wa) to stop us."
I wish I had.
"But I told him he was wrong," she says. "You'd never hurt us. You loved me. I think you convinced him of that. I said you had the safety of the boys in mind. I did too."
On the film, the boys are inert. Two heaps.
"They look lethargic. Hardly breathing."
"Graham gave Shane and Liam a sedative. He used too much. He gave me some too, in a cup of tea. He didn't want us to be afraid."
"We weren't afraid," Shane says.
"Be quiet now," Robyn points at the wall. "And watch."
Graham enters the frame. To see him, celluloid or not, is a shock. He gathers his robes in his hands. "The Black Blood Druid walks between the mirrors .. ."
Robyn's head drops to her chest. She recites the next words with him: "Between the mirrors. And into Eternity."
"And into Eternity," Graham says as he kneels.
He kisses the boys on their foreheads. They look asleep.
Robyn presses into me.
Graham invokes his father. He lays his hands on the boys' chests. He speaks of serpents, of moons, of the dark heart of human destiny. His hood is down. He looks haggard, not the vital charmer I first met.
"At this point, you knew he wouldn't kill the boys?"
Robyn says, "I told him there was no need to sacrifice a boy. The mir-rorrorim were sacred. His spirit needed to pass this realm. When the day came for his Emergence, one boy would be transformed and the other would live as his strongest ally. Graham was so anxious. The Cloven family was unraveling. He said his thralls lost confidence. It was going to be expensive to hide us. He thought the money might dry up. We'd end up in jail. Or worse. Public humiliation was his biggest fear. That and betrayal."
"His followers needed a sign."
"The Cloven family needed the ritual performed. To see him take action."
"Was he afraid he'd lose his nerve? Fail like Aubrey?"
"If Graham had any doubts about his magical power, he kept them private."
Graham steps out of the frame.
There's a final adjustment to the camera. I hear the rustle of his robes. Moments later, he strides into the picture again. Hood up. Purpose to his step. He appears rushed, ready to get it over with. Prepared to claim his magical godhood.
Soft cry of wood on wood as a cloaked Graham drags the stool and centers it under the noose.
From under his robe, he retrieves a bundle.
He unbinds it.
He crouches on the stool. He unrolls the bundle on the floor. I can't see what's inside. The snout of his hood aims down at the ritual tools. Though his face is hidden, Graham's movements look unsteady. It's strange to see him so unsure. He touches the objects in the bundle. He picks one—the barber's razor he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his stepfather. He bares the steel.
Blade in hand, his arm sweeps once, symbolically, over Liam. He lifts the razor again, passing it brightly over Shane.
Robyn is chanting.
He stands and reaches up for the noose. The rope hangs too high.
He grabs the loop and yanks downward. Not enough slack. He climbs from his perch and goes to a hook protruding from the wall. He uncoils the rope. The noose drops. He secures it once more.
Graham is tall. But regaining his position on the stool, captured nearly a decade ago on film, he looks smaller. Mortal.
Standing tiptoe, he slips the lowered rope around his neck. Draws the knot snug over his left shoulder. I see his chest heaving under his vestments. Knees trembling. 1 lis lite depends on balance.
I le is about to die.
In his wicked philosophy, to be reborn. I he lime fof words is ended.
Robyn's chant stops.
\ qui< k jerk »>i the rope changes everything. The stool tips. Fallen, it turns .» slow circle underneath his suspended body. An awful tension
lis.
< iraham Moi i< k is strangling.
Dying.
He has the razor in his hand. Plucked from the bundle spread on the floor—the instrument of the Cloven Print. Does he regret not using it?
He slashes the air. Slashes in the direction of Robyn. But she's several feet away, this blind woman who convinced him to alter his plans. If she were closer, he could open her throat.
His body shakes.
Then he is still.
The blade clatters to the floor.
His arms drop to his sides, fingers opening.
Fingers.
I lean toward the image flickering on the wall.
I am counting fingers.
The camera is almost too far away. If you didn't know what to look for, you'd miss it. But I don't miss it. I cut off two of his fingers. I swallowed one. And now I am counting ten. Ten whole digits. The skeleton in New Mexico was a prop.
This dead man—is he the judge?
Or just another thrall obeying commands?
He is not Graham Morick.
The frame knocks sideways. Someone behind the camera bumped it. Graham was there, yes. Orchestrating. Faking his death scene. The Cloven family needed a miracle to believe and he gave them one. Without knowing it, Robyn delivered his solution. Stage his death. She'd be his blind witness. Then years later, he could reemerge. Kill one of the boys and resume his throne. The family would surrender to his power. He would be their resurrected king.
Like Aubrey, Graham was a con man. He didn't change his mind about the ritual or the boys. He changed his timetable. My eyes snap to the shuttered window, the door.
Graham is out there.
I stole his means of escape and return.
The film continues.
Robyn crawls under the hanged man, tapping on the floor.
She touches the blade.
She closes it.
She sits cross-legged beneath him.
The body swings.
She cries in rapture.
For minutes we sit and watch it—the boys and I; Robyn is turned toward me. Her vacant eyes have closed. What is she hearing? Her own ecstasy relived.
I hear the hum of the projector fan.
Bugs fly through the cone of light. A moth flutters. Spreads itself open, pressing outward like a hand on the wall.
No one moves.
We don't breathe.
In the film, on the floor of the loft, the boys are convulsing. I suppose you could say it was an effect of the overdose of sedatives. You could say that. Their eyes roll. Both boys, simultaneously, thrown into fits. They moan and drool. Their tongues hang from their mouths. Eyes spun back in their heads, faces grimacing. They begin to shout. They blaspheme.
The wall turns bright white.
The loose end of the film flaps around the reel.
I snap the projector off. The wall goes dark. The hut is dark. I can't see Robyn or the boys. I reach for the chain attached to the bulb above us. I touch Robyn's face instead. The wetness of her tears—the tears of a believer. I cup her cheek.
"I le's coming back" she says to me.
"I know."
"You want to be there with US?" I do," I sav.
I pull the light chain. Robyn's beautiful lace illuminated.
"I need you to be truthful with me," I saw l vc always been truthful," she sa) s, pushing out her chin. I ►id you evei come to this place before? This village, this hut? Were you evei here w ith (iraham?" Why—?" 'When I researched (iraham, back in (Ihicago, I saw pictures of him
with children. They looked like the children who live here. Did Graham visit this place? Did he?"
Her shoulders slump. Chin held not so high.
"Yes."
"And the banker? Is he a Cloven family member? Is that why he's helping us?"
She shakes her head. "I really can't say."
Chapter 35
don't tell Robyn what I saw on the film. Confrontation would be a
mistake. It would amount to my word against Graham's. My observation, which she can neither verify nor deny, versus her own deep religious experience. I wouldn't win that battle. Where Robyn goes, so go the boys. If she turns them against me, I'll never get off the beach.
It would be crazy to launch the boat in this storm. I'd kill us all in the cove. Cave the hull against those unmarked reefs. No, I won't do his dirty work. We have to wait until morning. Clear skies. For tonight, we're trapped.
I he winds arc dying.
I lie in mv cot and speed them along with my will.
I cannot sleep.
Yet I must do/e off, because 1 startle to find Shane on my left side, I lam fixed on the right. 1 le's gripping the eot tubing. Bouncing. Shaking me awake. There's extra space in here. Kobvn told me tonight she wanted to sleep in the boys' room. I helped cram her eot alongside theirs. What is it?" We he.ml a noise," savs 1 lam.
\\ hat knul oi noise?"
Shane begins, "A scary noise like—"
"Someone walking around," finishes Liam.
I bolt up.
We stand around the kitchen table. The projector sits between us, displayed like the carved bones of a bizarre bird. We are not using our eyes.
Three males listen for a fourth stalking outside.
An earth-slurping gulp of mud—we all hear it.
"That's the sound," Shane says.
"Something is on the other side of the door," Liam decides. "It's walking around the hut. We heard footsteps."
"Stay put. I'll have a look."
I grab a spade near the back door.
The bogeyman lurking outside is a recurring theme of the boys' nightmares. Mine too. I've checked for him before. When we were sleeping out on the sailboat, he splashed like a porpoise. Tonight, he is real.
Nightfall.
If you don't have a moon over your shoulder, you're lost.
A monkey, I tell myself—or a stray dog from the village. That's what's circling our perimeter. Or it could be Graham coming to hack us to bits in our sleep.
I carry a heavy-duty flashlight that I brought in from the boat. Hearing the banker's words about the jungle cats, I kept it in the house. On a shelf above our little propane stove. Click the button. The light is weak, syrupy, like it's been burnt. The battery is dying. Salt air gets into everything. It's like acid rotting the wires. I thump the plastic housing against my thigh. The beam brightens.
Dims.
I open the door.
The storm reduced to a slow, steady downpour. My light picks at the wires of raindrops. Having the light makes the darkness heavier. A beast I stab into. Here first. Now there. Revealing little more than the night gave up.
My instincts tell me to close the door.
Don't go any farther.
"Stay with your mother," I tell the boys. "Keep her safe."
To have a nightmare, one must first be asleep. Yet I feel awakened.
I leave the house.
'm hunting footprints in a yard of slop.
Pointless, any imprint would seal itself over. The rain pocks a pudding of sand, silt, and vegetable slime. My legs are slathered to the calves. I feel like I'm wearing diving boots. The rattle of droplets against the flashlight is the only sound I can key into. How many senses can the weather nullify?
If Graham's out here, then he's equally disadvantaged.
I decide I am alone.
Soaked and filthy, I might as well check the boat. Make certain she's moored properly, that she hasn't smashed our pier to toothpicks.
I squeegee mud from my legs with the edge of my hand.
Keep walking toward the ocean. Shouldn't be difficult. I let gravity pull me down the path. The runoff warms my ankles.
My light catches the split head of a piling, then another—the pier.
Its structure rendered haunted. My light masses shadows.
The tide is pulling out. Good thing or we'd have to worry about surge.
I scan the twisted boards. Find the pier's end.
Switch to the water.
The boat is gone.
ut there in the cove, where a hundred yards could be a hundred
miles, I trace her shape. Unmoored, unanchored. The sea pilots
her. 1 tamaged. She's listing Starboard. Taking on water. It won't he long
now. in witness .in\ boat sinking is a sickening event You experience
the depths below, even it your feel are planted on solid rock. Mine are on a slipshod row <>| boards. \1\ stomach shrivels.
I turn away.
I n\s illing to wat< h her slide under.
How will we ever—?
The weak beam finds him.
Crouching on the pier, between me and the house.
It's Graham.
He wears a rain poncho. He's rising up now to look at me. To let me see him. A smile plays on his lips. The black, wet cape fans out like wings. He tugs the hood away.
One pair of eyes—they're his.
No stand-in. This is the real Graham Morick.
"Your light's going out," he says, chuckling.
I have no weapon.
He steps forward, carefully avoiding a gap in the boards.
"Get back."
"Oh, I'm going to get back."
He comes forward.
My light isn't strong enough to blind him.
"You're a fraud like your father. A coward. I'm going to let the world know."
"The world will know me. However, you won't be telling the story."
"I'm not afraid."
"Then you're stupid." Two steps closer. "Thank you, Jase, for bringing them to me. My family and I are going to have a reunion. Too bad you'll miss it."
"I told Robyn what you did. She knows you tricked her."
"She knows no such thing."
One step.
The razor is long in his hand. It extends from both sides. The handle is black, the blade thin. This steel cut his brother's throat, his father's rope. It is his. I don't need a closer look to know he snatched it from the altar in the Westphals' adobe. He stood over their dead bodies. Cold rage boiled. He pieced together what I had done to him.
As he rolls his wrist, I get two alternating views.
There is nothing in his grip.
He holds a glittering violet star.
He notices the focus of my interest. He raises the blade. Smile widening,
he mocks my terror and touches the edge to his jaw. The blade lowers. He presses a finger to his skin. He kisses blood from his scarred joint.
His eyes never leave me.
Never blink.
I could jump in the water. Swim for it. I might make it around the cove.
"I'm going to kill them," he says. "In case you were wondering."
His grin is so satisfied.
I hate him.
Graham's shoulders hunch forward. He tucks his arms, lifts his hands as if in benediction. The blade leading his way. He coils for a strike.
I rush into my nightmare.
The top of my head connects with his chin. We go down. I raise the light and hammer him. Collarbone. I hear a crunch. He yells as he tries to throw me off. I cock my arm back. Lose the light. Watch it fall into a gap. The yellow eye swivels around and plunges into black water.
Where is the razor?
Ice arcs across my back. Once. Twice.
Then the warmth.
I punch him in the face. Squeeze him with my knees. Don't let him get a breath. I seize an arm. But the poncho slithers through my fingers.
The blade swipes.
I pull away.
( old bites. My ear. My cheek.
1 ach wound compels him.
I le wants to saw into mv neck.
I drop ail elbow into his eye,
1 le screams.
I climb otl a\k\ run.
This is running in a dream. My legs are too slow. 1 hear him growl. I hi' razor clawing the night to ribbons. Rob) nl (let out of the house!"
I he hut door opens.
Robyn with her aims crossed, confused and frightened, behind
hei the bo\ s.
I am over the threshold.
Graham on my heels. Shoves me. I slam into the table. The projector crashes into pieces. I can't draw any air. Roll. Slippery with my own blood. I'm tangled in the projector's cord.
Graham grabs Robyn by the hair and throws her aside.
The boys see the beast attack their mother.
They are on him.
He kicks Liam.
The boy crumples.
High against the bulb—the twinkle of steel.
Graham is bending Shane backward. I see his throat bared.
The plastic poncho crackles as Graham lashes.
Shane falls.
The red blade flutters into the light.
I sweep my leg. Graham lands on his hip.
I wrap the cord from the projector around his neck. I pin him to the floor. He whips the razor behind him. But I am out of reach. All my weight drives down. Fists tight at the top of his spine. The cord cuts my palms. For everything—I do this.
Robyn cradles Shane in her arms. They are awash with blood.
She chants to her mirrorrorrim.
Graham turns his head. A choked gurgle, then a ratcheting noise from his chest, a bone-and-meat sound. His eyes bulge. He casts away the razor. Arms propped, he wants to raise himself. I will not allow it. The floor is not dry. He cannot hold. His chest hits the wood. His hand thrusts toward them—the blind woman, the murdered boy.
Graham's fingers curl and uncurl. Silently, he is pleading with them.
His tongue droops, obscene.
Even after he goes limp—I do not let go.
Chapter 36
o lights but starlight. We walk.
We three are the survivors.
In an hour, the dawn grays will begin. For now, I'm thankful for the moist exhalation of the jungle. Robyn is in shock. She's like a robot. She can hear us. She clasps Liam's hand as we walk. With each step, the wounds on my back open and close like mouths. Blood seeps through my shirt. 1 .iam helped me. We tore strips from a towel. We taped them with duct tape. My face and ear are clotted and ugly. I need a doctor. A needle and thread to close me.
Free, lor the first time in years, I'm feeling free. We won't go back to the hut. Robyn, 1.iam, and 1 will walk away. Awa\ from Graham's body. And shanc. We leave him because we have no choice.
1 he village is out of the question.
1 here must he .mother one down the road, or there wouldn't be a
road.
We proceed in the opposite direction. Pass the lime green lagoon.
Rob) n. I iam, and I have to disappear. The FBI, the t lo\en family . . ■ the) have a body t*> sahs|\ them. Two bodies. I hope that is enough.
Maybe they will leave us in peace. Time is our ally. The longer we stay away, the more we will be forgotten.
I have trouble keeping up with my fellow travelers.
My legs quiver.
Right now, we could use a ride.
I tell them that if a vehicle comes, I'll step down into the brush. We're more likely to be picked up if a mother and child are walking alone. When the vehicle stops—if it does—I'll have to convince the driver to take us to the next village.
Late morning, the sun is upon us—a truck drives up. The driver is going fast. I don't have time to hide myself.
I don't need to.
An old man propped behind the wheel of a scabby white Chevy. He wears a rumpled straw hat. Dressed like a scarecrow. His truck bed filled with chicken cages. The birds are noisy, spraying the roadside mud with feathers and feed.
He stops.
No English. But he understands. He smiles and offers me his water bottle. I take a swallow and pass it along. Liam drinks. I press the bottle to Robyn's lips.
"Have some," I say.
She sips.
We climb over the tailgate. The partition behind the driver is open. He smells like his birds. A plastic Madonna glued to the dashboard. The windshield is fractured, two small holes, empty centers with stellar cracks raying outward. The driver puts the truck in gear and we rumble away.
"Musica?" the old man asks.
"Sure," I say.
He switches on his radio. It's very loud. A roar of static and, beneath it, a samba.
"He must be deaf," I say to Liam.
He smiles.
We drive for hours. I'm so glad we aren't walking.
'm falling asleep, my eyelids slit. My head tips back against a chicken
cage. Down in the hollow between Liam and Robyn, something shines. It catches the afternoon sun spearing through the treetops.
A silver pin . . .
Driven through an inch of pure black handle ...
The barber's razor sticks out of Liam's hip pocket.
Why would he take this awful souvenir?
Liam turns his face from the billows of exhaust. His gesture is one of familiarity. He reaches out and touches my arm. I close my eyes.
"Wake up," he says gently. "We're almost there."
I'm seeing nothing. The world blacked out. I'm as blind as Robyn. What lies before me lies in obscurity. Cold sweat pops on my skin.
He took the razor.
The only promise is night.
A warm hand on my shoulder shakes me. I don't want to look at him. I saved him. I saved Robyn and myself. We're alive. Alive should be good. This is a new life. / killed Graham.
I open my eyes.
No glittering blade greets me.
"We must wake ourselves," Liam says.
lor the first time, I'm seeing him.
I sit forward ,\nd take a long, hard look. Brush his hair back from his face so we are eye to eye. Liam rests his chin against my injured palm. I he sunlight bands his cheeks in gold. The driver glances over his shoulder at us.
Father a\k\ son.
I inn doesn't break from my gaze. 1 feel his pulse through my skin. Wearing Ins salt crusted, muddy cutoffs, barefoot, an American youth m a tattered Adidas T-shirt. His hair is wild and sprinkled with sand. I comb it with mj fingers. I lis eyes arc not wild. No. Thcv'rc calm. ( Hear. I should ted relict. I sense muscles working in I lam's face. Tightening, as tin- flesh gathers.
I his lx)\ I saved . . .
Yet, that smile.
The radio changes from static crackle to silence. I look at the driver. His hands haven't moved. Two o'clock and ten—the way they teach in driving school. We pass through rattling trees. Their trunks sway in the wind. Slowly, the hood of the Chevy pushes forward, and the road opens, widens as we enter the village. Dusty orange glow, the air sooty with campfire smoke, and people—the shadows of people move outside the truck.
Robyn can't see them. I don't know if I'm happy for her, or sad.
They hold out their arms.
Wrists bent, their hands mimic hooves. They're showing us who they are.
Those Who Follow.
Liam rises to his feet.
On the radio, the singing of children begins.
STEVEN SI DOR is the author of the acclaimed novels Skin River and Bone Factory. He lives near Chicago with his wife and two children. Visit the author's Web site atwww.stevensidor.com.
Jacket design 6y Keith Hayes Jacket photograph © Ca ptu re wo rx /Millennium Images, UK
www.minotaurbooks.com
RTIN'S MINOTAUR
AVENUE, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10010
I CANADA BY H. B. FENN AND COMPANY, LTD. THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA