“I PUNCTURED IT,” Alfred said.
Webb and Fran spun around and crouched there, staring up at him.
Krayer’s smile looked as if it had been etched in acid. He held the white bow and arrow in his right hand. Between his fingers dangled the blood-streaked bird.
He tossed the bird over near the fire pit. He stood looking at them with the small bow in his hand.
“You are gone,” Webb said.
“Am I?” Krayer shook his head. “I thought Fran might talk you into trying a fool trick like this. I didn’t want you to. I’m not ready to lose her yet.”
Fran’s voice was dead. “You lost me, Alfred. Long ago.”
His head jerked up and he stared at her. “I don’t remember telling you to loosen that rope.”
“I decided not to wait for you,” she said, her voice still lifeless.
“A decision you’ll regret, my dear.”
Webb got slowly to his feet, his fingers tightening on the harpoon.
“Stay steady, Millar,” Krayer said. “Don’t try it. That’s not much of a weapon against this bow. I got that bird. On the wing. The first time I tried.”
Webb’s voice shook slightly. “And I got a shark. The first time I tried.”
Krayer’s mouth pulled into a savage smile. “Another mistake you made, Millar. And one I know you’re going to regret.”
“I wake up screaming about it now. But suppose you just hold that bow steady. If you even lift it, I’m throwing this thing.”
Krayer met his gaze for a moment, without blinking.
“Check,” Krayer said. “But I warn you. That harpoon isn’t fast enough to keep me from killing you with this bow. Have you thought what might happen to her” — he jerked his head toward Fran — “if she were left alone on this island?”
Webb breathed out heavily and lowered the harpoon.
Krayer shook his head. “I’m continually amazed at the fool things you’ll do, Millar. The very thought of her suffering and you throw away your advantage.”
Webb tensed, cursing under his breath. He started to lift the bamboo pole again, but Krayer had the bow string pulled taut, the point of the arrow fixed on his navel.
“You see what a fool you are, Millar?” Krayer inquired. “Why you are no match for me, why you never will be?” He laughed. “I’m always ahead of you. I knew that Fran would try to run away. I figured it. From all its angles — never as you figure a thing, simply from its emotional content — and I decided I no longer needed the raft.”
Fran stepped forward. “Put down the bow, Alfred.”
He glanced at her. “Stay out of it, my dear. Don’t get hurt any more than you have to.” He faced Millar again, looking him over. “I realized that this island is a raft. And I made my decision. I’ll stay here until a plane or a ship rescues me. The odds are the same as far as being spotted is concerned. There’s a much better chance to stay alive. Fresh water, fresh food, protection from sudden storms. No. From now on this island is my raft.”
Krayer spoke sharply to Fran. “I want that bird plucked clean. We’ll have it for lunch. Get at it.”
Fran’s voice was dead. “All right, Alfred.”
She knelt beside the bird. Krayer backed up, caught the muscles of her upper shoulder between forefinger and thumb and twisted viciously. She came up on her knees, crying out.
Webb lunged forward. Krayer laughed, cackling suddenly, and released her. He jerked back on the sharkskin string, pulling the bow taut.
“How do you want it, Millar? In the heart or in the belly?”
Fran caught at Krayer’s trouser leg. “Please,” she begged. ‘I’ll do what you say. I’ll do anything.”
“I know you will, my dear. But it’s too late. It’s not enough to save your bearded gallant.” His head came up and the bow string trembled in his fingers. “I don’t need you any more, Millar. I can stay alive here without you now. Better. Much better.”
Fran was sobbing, and Webb knew suddenly why she had been so anxious to leave this island immediately in the raft with him. She knew Alfred Krayer’s mind as well as anyone could. She had seen the direction of his thoughts. He could kill his own birds, catch his own fish, net crabs, fetch water, gather his own wood….
“Anything,” Fran whispered at Krayer, her tense voice giving that single word a hundred fascinating, thrilling meanings. “Anything, Alfred. I swear it. Put down the bow, Alfred…. Two men can survive better than one. You know it…. And I mean what I say. I’ll do anything, Alfred.”
Webb stood tense, watching Krayer’s pallor-tinged cheeks, his rigid face muscles and dry wide eyes. Krayer hesitated.
Her voice went on, breathless, low, tense. “If you kill him, Alfred, you’ll have to kill me too, later. You know it. You’d never come near me again … without killing me.”
Krayer let his gaze move between them. Finally, he nodded and smiled. The smile was odd, sitting crookedly and undisciplined on his slack mouth.
“Yes. Why should I kill him now? I can exist without your help, Millar. But why shouldn’t I use you as long as it pleases me.”
He released the bow, letting it slide down to his side. “All right, Millar. Let’s say this pays you off for your gallant effort out on the raft.” He tilted the bow slightly. “But you might consider what happened to the shark.”
Webb was still taut drawn. He didn’t speak.
“I think we need wood, Millar. We always need wood. You may start gathering it. It should be very interesting to see how you’ll behave now that you know the truth. Push me too far, Millar, and I’ll kill you without thinking about it.”
The days were suddenly longer. Time on the island seemed becalmed. The heat became oppressive and every hour was an eternity, empty and without hope. Krayer found a hundred pointless little jobs for Webb to perform. He awoke twenty times a night and moved about the clearing. In his face was continually the look of a man with a fine hidden joke.
Every dawn Krayer awoke with a new law. He set up times for fishing, for eating, for defecating. He decreed certain hours for sleeping and set penalties for relaxing at any other moment. He decided the fire must be kept at a steady brilliance at all times, day and night. Webb had stopped wearing his tattered shirt. He returned from wood gathering one day to find it hung like a flag from a bamboo pole secured to a palm beside the beach.
He turned, finding Alfred watching him with a bemused smile. Krayer held the bow and arrow at his side, but he seemed waiting for Millar to protest.
Webb said nothing. There was nothing to say. This was what he had run from. All this running and all this hell — and he had gotten nowhere.
He walked slowly past Krayer. Alfred said, “If a ship comes near, it should see that signal, eh?”
“I suppose so.”
“You don’t like the idea?”
Webb walked slowly across the white sand. Krayer’s voice lashed at him. “I asked you a question. You don’t like the idea?”
Webb shrugged. “I just don’t give a damn.”
Fran kneeled beside the fire and watched a fish that was roasting over the pit.
Webb paused a few feet from her. She spoke softly, without looking up, saying it casually, giving it more tension than it would have had if she’d screamed it: “I love you.”
His voice was heavy. “What are we going to do?”
She didn’t look up, didn’t move. “Remember the Cyclops?”
He frowned, wondering if Krayer was driving Fran out of her mind. “The one-eyed giant?”
“Yes.”
He thought about it, remembering that the sailors had made Cyclops stand guard until exhaustion closed his one eye.
“Keep doing everything he says,” Fran talked straight into the fire. “Only from now on, don’t do anything willingly. Drive him as far as you can. Only Webb — for you it’s so dangerous. Please be careful.”
“I don’t think it would take much to have him use that arrow on me.”
“I know. But keep him as alert as you can, all the time. Only don’t give him any excuse — even one he can imagine.”
Something struck Webb between the shoulder blades. He stumbled forward and heard Fran cry out.
He caught his balance, stayed on his feet, and turned.
Krayer had thrown a hunk of firewood across the clearing. It lay at Webb’s feet.
Krayer’s voice was casual. “Have you forgotten what I said about keeping away from her?”
He came across the clearing, striding, his sharp-featured face uptilted. “Just when I think you two have learned …”
He bent beside Fran, caught her wrist and before she could pull away, he thrust her hand into the fire.
Fran screamed. Webb sprang for the piece of firewood and Krayer leaped around, jerking the bow up even with his stomach, laying it on its side and drawing the arrow back until the string sang tautly.
Fran cried: “It’s all right! Webb! It’s all right.”
Webb remained standing with the wood in his hand, feeling helpless, feeling the naked place where the arrow would strike.
“The wood,” Krayer said, his voice level. “Gather wood.”
Webb dropped the limb. He turned, expecting the arrow to strike him, and walked out of the clearing.
He walked up the lee side of the island and felt empty in his loins. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and felt the chilled globules pop back on his flesh. He looked for wood but didn’t find it. Wood that could be gathered was already getting scarce on the island. They’d soon be breaking limbs from trees and drying them in the sun. Or maybe he wouldn’t live that long. Perhaps when Krayer learned there was no more wood, he would use that as an excuse to kill him.
Krayer wanted an excuse. That was clear enough. And any excuse would do. He had built a breathless passion on the thought of killing Webb, of seeing that arrow pierce his flesh. The thought was making Krayer tremble in anticipation.
Webb reached the lagoon and went carefully to the cave. He stayed in it a long time, searching for any sign that Krayer had been there. He saw none.
He left and hurried on around the island, where he was able to find an armful of small limbs and sticks. When he got back to the clearing, Fran was alone. He looked at her burnt hand and was afraid to speak to her.
“He’s gone looking for you,” Fran said. Her voice sounded dull and tired.
“Does your hand hurt?”
“No.” She shook her head; her eyes were angered. “Dear Krayer — he put shark oil on it. It took the soreness out. It feels much better.”
“I’m sorry, Fran. I don’t seem able to leave you alone.”
“Please, don’t. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
He turned then and walked away from her. He went down on the beach and cast out the line and tried to catch a fish. He was there when Krayer came up to him.
“Just wanted to keep my eye on you,” Krayer said.
When they returned to the clearing, Webb carried the two fish he’d caught and cleaned with Krayer watching him.
Picking up the turtle shell, Fran told Krayer she was going for water. Alfred stared at Webb, who appeared not to have heard her. Instead, he busied himself securing the fish over the fire pit.
Krayer watched Webb, his gaze fixed on him, unblinking. Webb secured the fish and began to plait palm strips. Fran was gone for what seemed hours. Alfred Krayer grew restive. Twice he got up, started to look for her. But when he did, Webb tossed the palm strips aside and sat as though ready to leave the clearing the moment Krayer did. Krayer sat down again.
Finally they heard her coming back. She walked into the clearing as though she’d been gone only a few minutes. Krayer glared at her. Webb saw he wanted to scream at her, to demand to know where she’d been. But Krayer said nothing.
Fran knelt and placed the turtle shell of water in the shade. She had her back to Krayer and when she lifted her face Webb saw flushed excitement; there was a light in her eyes. She tipped her tongue across her lips and smiled.
Webb pulled his gaze from her and felt the unsteady throb of his heart. He saw Krayer glaring at him and he couldn’t help smiling. Suddenly, in his imagination, Alfred Krayer had only one eye, and it was pale blue, set in the middle of his forehead.
He thought bitterly, Watch me, Cyclops. Watch me every minute.