The Island

by Peter Benchley

Footsteps crunched on the sand, then scraped against the concrete steps. The door was pushed open.

  There were two of them, black silhouettes against the starlit sky.

  She could not see their faces, so did not know if they were the same ones who had come before. A breeze blew through the doorway, carrying their smell, and she trembled at the memory.

  They did not speak.

  As she knew they would, as they had the last time, they forced her onto the table and raped her, once each. They were not gratuitously brutal. Her feeble resistance was quietly accepted and easily overcome. The knife held to her throat was more a gesture than a necessity. She closed her eyes, so as not to see them, held her breath (as long as possible) so as not to smell them, and let her mind shout prayers so as not to hear their grunts.

  It was all very matter-of-fact—they might have been service men come to read her meter—and when they were done, they helped her to her feet.

  She grasped the edge of the table, swallowing bile and trying not to faint.

  “Mercury,” said one.

  She nodded. The last time, she had not known what they meant, and they had, as seemed to be their custom, tortured her while trying to explain. They had slashed the inside of her thighs with the point of a knife and had rubbed lemon juice and pepper into the incisions. Finally, by piecing together words and phrases, she had understood.

  She led them to the refrigerator. The bottles of drugs were in boxes of twelve. She brought out a box of penicillin and two syringes. “This will spoil if it isn’t kept cold,” she said. “How many are sick?”

  “Many.”

  “Take it all.”

  “Rum,” said the other.

  “I have no rum.”

  The man shoved her aside, reached into the refrigerator, and brought out a plastic quart bottle of isopropyl alcohol.

  “Don’t drink that,” Katherine said. “It’ll make you very sick. I use it for ear problems.”

  “I hear you not. I have an ear problem.” The man laughed aloud. He unscrewed the bottle cap, splashed alcohol in his ear, then took a great swig from the bottle. A tremor shook his chest. He coughed and sputtered. “Aye, that’s a noble hot.” He closed the bottle and tucked it inside his shirt.

  “Go now.” Katherine shut the refrigerator door. She heard a sound—faint, indistinct. She could not tell where it came from, whether from the pit beneath her feet or from outside. She shuffled her feet noisily on the sandy floor.

  “Aye. Good night, lady, and Lord love you.”

  She waited, expecting them to depart.

  Instead, they stood, listening.

  And then she heard what they were hearing: light footsteps running in the sand, and a happy girl’s voice calling, “Look what I found!”

  Katherine released a visceral wail of despair.

  Mary was in the room before she saw the men. “A baby bird!” She cradled it in her hands. “Look . . . Oh!”

  “Leave her be!” Katherine cried. “She’s a baby!” It was absurd, and Katherine knew it: Mary was twelve, tall for her age, and robust. But there was hope. It had been only ten minutes since the men had taken Katherine.

  Mary backed against the wall. “Who are you?”

  “A good question,” said one of the men. “Who are you?”

  Mary whimpered, “Miss Katherine . . .”

  Blindly, thoughtlessly Katherine hurled herself at the nearest man.

  Barely troubling to look at her, the man stiff-armed Katherine in the throat and knocked her to the floor. He grabbed the bird from Mary’s hands, crushed it, and cast it aside, then took Mary’s elbow and led her to the door.

  Mary panicked. She cried and struggled until the man slapped her across the face and said, “Be still, or as God is my judge I’ll cut your tongue out. You’ll come with us.”

  From the floor, Katherine called, “Leave her, I beg you!”

  The man holding Mary stopped at the door. “Leave her, missus? Aye, if you will.” He pulled Mary’s hair, yanking her head back, and put his cutlass to her throat. “In how many pieces, pray? In steaks or fillets?”

  Both men laughed and, pushing Mary ahead of them, left the house.

  Katherine lay on the floor and listened to the child’s shrieks recede into the night.

  C H A P T E R

  7

  The plane was an ancient, ramshackle DC-3, the pilot an albino named Whitey. He had white curly hair, pink irises, and chalky skin. Because he could not endure sunlight, he wore long white trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses. Even this early in the morning, with the sun barely risen, he supervised the loading of the plane from the shade beneath the port wing.

  Whitey directed Justin to the copilot’s seat and unfolded a canvas camp chair for Maynard. He set it on the deck just aft of the cockpit.

  “No seat belt?” Maynard said.

  “If you don’t carry passengers, you don’t need seat belts. Chickens don’t have to be strapped down.”

  Behind Maynard, the plane was packed—crates of fruit, cases of canned goods, lockers of frozen meats, three cages full of live chickens, and one comatose pig. “You have to really knock them out,” Whitey explained. “I had a sow on one trip that woke up halfway down the Bahamas. The bitch began to root—you know, with her snout. She rooted up a bunch of deck plates, damn near rooted us into the drink. I finally shot her.”

  “You carry guns aboard?”

  “Heavens no!” Whitey smiled at Maynard. “But you never know what you’ll find if you look around an old crate like this.”

  At the leeward end of the runway, Whitey revved his engines and checked his gauges and released the brakes. The plane surged forward.

  Halfway down the strip, the plane was still on the ground. Gentling the stick back, Whitey talked to the plane: “Come on, honey . . . haul ass, baby . . . let’s go . . .” The plane did not rise. “Goddammit, get up!” Whitey said, and he jerked the stick back.

  Slowly, laboriously, the plane left the ground, as the end of the runway flashed by.

  Maynard looked at his palms, which glistened with sweat. He wiped them on his pants. Off to the right, in a marsh, he saw three or four crumpled airplane carcasses that had been bulldozed together in a pile. “What are those from?” he asked.

  Whitey said, “We call ’em surprises. You’re going down the runway, and you think you’re gonna get off okay, and surprise! You don’t.”

  Whitey banked to the left, eastward, into the glaring sun. He said to Justin, “There’s a thermos at your feet. Pour me a cup of coffee, will you?”

  When Justin handed him the coffee, Whitey took his hands from the controls and said, “Hold her steady for me, that’s the boy.”

  Justin obeyed happily, clutching the stick and craning to see out over the nose of the plane.

  Whitey took a flask from his pocket and splashed liquor into the cup. He offered the flask to Maynard. “Eye opener?”

  Maynard smelled bourbon. He shook his head. “You always fly . . . like this?”

  “Gotta fly high, man. It’s a boring goddamn trip.”

  Whitey replaced the flask and took a map from a pouch beneath his seat. He leaned back, put his feet up on the instrument panel, and opened the map. “Now . . . let’s see if we can find this bitch. From up here, they all look the same.”

  Maynard took a deep breath and let it go. He said to Justin, “You okay?”

  “Sure. This is neat.”

  They flew across the Gulf Stream, to Bimini and Cat Cays, turned south over Andros, and continued down the Bahamas chain. The day was clear and cloudless, the water a dozen shades of blue and green: turquoise in the flats near shore, flecked with brown on the coral reefs, a warm blue seaward of the reefs, and dark—almost black—above the benthos.

  Three hours out of Miami, Whitey leaned forward and squinted at the southern horizon. The line was unbroken, save for a single cloud that seemed to hover over the water. “That should be the Caicos
there,” he said.

  Maynard saw no land. “Where?”

  “Under that cloud. The heat from the land rises and hits the cold air and makes a cloud.”

  Soon a thin gray line appeared, shimmering. As they drew nearer, it solidified into the shape of an island.

  Whitey nudged the stick forward, and the plane’s nose dropped. The altimeter needles spun slowly, in units of a hundred feet, from eight thousand feet down to four thousand. They passed over the barren island at three thousand feet.

  Looking over Justin’s shoulder, Maynard saw a star-shaped building below. “What’s that?”

  “Jesus freaks,” Whitey said.

  “What do they do in this God-forsaken place?”

  “Freak-out, I guess.” Whitey banked the plane to the right, and the island slid away behind them.

  Miles away, to the east, Maynard saw several large islands. Remembering the chart, he guessed that one was Navidad, one North Caicos, one Grand Caicos. There were countless smaller islands to the west, uninhabited, covered with scrub, pounded by surf. Directly beneath were the Caicos Banks, an endless plain of sand and grass, no more than six feet deep. The western edge of the Banks ended abruptly, shelving to forty feet, then shearing down to five thousand feet.

  Maynard recalled something Michael Florio had said: In the days of sail—especially the days of the cumbersome, unmaneuverable square-rigged ships—the Caicos Banks were among the most treacherous in the hemisphere. Ships storm-driven off course would seem to be in the relative safety of deep water. Their sounding leads would find no bottom. And then someone would hear, above the howl of the wind, a strange thunderous roar. It sounded like surf, but it couldn’t be surf, not in the open ocean. They would proceed ahead until, at last, a lookout—his eyes stinging from a film of salt—would see the impossible, an explosion of towering breakers dead ahead. It was too late. There would be recriminations and keening and prayers. The ship would hit the rocks and, within minutes, be gone. Most of it would be scattered across the Banks. Some pieces would float, and some survivors might cling to the floating pieces. Twenty-seven men had survived one such wreck, Florio had said. They had ridden a section of decking thirty miles over the Banks and had washed ashore on Grand Caicos. Twenty-one had died of thirst or exposure. Four had committed suicide, driven mad by bugs. Two had lived.

  An airport lay ahead: Great Bone Cay. Whitey finished off his flask and banked hard right, then hard left, lining the plane up with the runway. “Flaps down,” he said to himself and pushed a switch. “Flaps down.” The plane slowed. “Wheels down.” Another switch. A light blinked on. “Wheels down.”

  The plane hit the runway too hard, bounced, hit again, and settled. Whitey taxied up to a rectangular concrete building, where two pickup trucks and perhaps a dozen people, including two who carried clipboards and wore epaulets on their starched white shirts, were waiting.

  Whitey shut off the engines and said to Maynard, “If you got any grass, dump it now. They are friggin’ lunatics about grass, and the jail got no screens on it.”

  “Not me,” Maynard said, feeling a rush of adrenaline and perspiration. He checked to make sure his jacket was buttoned, and he held his left arm close to his side. He slung his satchel over his left shoulder.

  “You want to go back today?”

  “If you are.”

  “Damn right.” Whitey looked at his watch. “It’s eleven now. It’ll take ’em an hour to unload, then an hour for lunch, then another hour to load her up again. We’ll leave here at two.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  “I won’t wait for you.”

  “Where will you be till then?”

  Whitey pointed at the building. “Inside. Cyril’s Conch and Turtle Palace.” He smiled and put on his hat. “It’s out of the sun.” Completely covered in white, his face hidden by hat and sunglasses, Whitey looked like the Invisible Man.

  Maynard said kindly, “This climate must be terrible for you.”

  Whitey shrugged. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Us freaks get all the kinky broads.” He squeezed down the aisle between crates and cartons and opened the door.

  Maynard and Justin walked across the apron and into the building, following a man who had been the first to meet the plane and had taken from Whitey a single copy of Sunday’s Miami Herald. Inside the building, the man sat on a bench and read the comics.

  A young police officer, his uniform impeccably clean except for a coating of dust on his black shoes, stood behind the customs desk. He held out his hand to Maynard. “Passport, visa, return ticket.”

  Holding his satchel close to his body with his left hand, Maynard used his right to fish for his wallet and thumb through it until he found his Today identification card, which he passed to the officer. “We’re not staying,” he said, as if explaining everything.

  The policeman examined the card and held it up to Maynard’s face. “You come to a foreign country with this?” he said. “What you think we are?”

  Maynard was sweating. “You see, I called last night from Miami, and—”

  “What you think we are!?”

  Unnerved, Maynard hurried to deflect the policeman’s outrage before it could lead to an arrest and, ultimately, a search. He leaned on the desk and said confidentially, “I think you’re smarter than you’re letting on.”

  “What?”

  “Listen . . . you know what a press card is. I’m down here on a story for Today. I’m trying to keep it kind of quiet, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything.”

  “What story?”

  “Just between us?” Maynard raised his eyebrows and looked furtively from side to side. “We hear from a pretty good source that an American millionaire is about to buy up a whole island down here. Wants to turn it into a health spa. A lot of folks could get rich, but only if everyone can be kept honest. That’s what I’m here to see to.”

  Maynard had been thinking so fast that by the time he was finished, he had forgotten most of what he had said.

  The policeman seemed impressed. “And how long this take?”

  “Just till two o’clock. See? No bags, no nothing.”

  “And who’s that?” The policeman pointed at Justin.

  “My researcher.” Maynard added in a whisper, “He has a glandular problem. Don’t say anything to him; he’s sensitive.”

  “That so?” The policeman looked perplexed.

  “Anyhow, I called last night to make an appointment with Mr. Makepeace, but I’m not sure he got the message. How can I find out?”

  The policeman turned to the man sitting on the bench. “Hey, Birds.”

  “Hmmmmm?” The man didn’t look up from the comics.

  “This the fella. He been feedin’ me some line about a story.”

  “It’s no line!” Maynard said.

  “Sure. You got anything to declare?”

  “Well . . .” Remembering Baxter’s advice, Maynard tried to look abashed. “Yes, now that you mention it.”

  “Like what?”

  Very carefully, Maynard reached into his satchel. “I had no idea it was illegal until the pilot told me.” He handed over a copy of Hustler. “I hope you don’t think I meant to violate your laws.”

  “You lucky you told me,” said the policeman. “If I’d’ve found it in your bag, would’ve been a fifty-dollar fine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Maynard said.

  The commissioner finished reading the comics, unfolded his lanky frame from the bench, and stood up. He was roughly Maynard’s age and height, and he was built like a fork. If Maynard was correct in thinking of himself as slender, then Makepeace was emaciated. His face was a skull wrapped in black skin, his hands a gathering of bones. He wore his hair in an enormous Afro; Maynard thought that if the Afro were ever caught in a crosswind, it would surely capsize the man.

  “How do you do, sir? My name is Blair Maynard.”

  Makepeace extended his hand gingerly, as if fearful that a too-hearty greeting would s
nap his fingers. “Burrud Makepeace,” he said. “Birds is easier.” He looked at Justin. “Your researcher?”

  “Justin.”

  Makepeace shook hands with the boy.

  “Evvy didn’t tell me your business down here.”

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell her. The line went dead.”

  “Press isn’t always welcome.”

  “Oh?”

  “They can come. Don’t misunderstand. But we don’t go out of our way any more. A few times we did, and all we got was a slap in the face.”

  “I can’t believe . . .”

  “Believe it. They come down here, all friendly and polite, like you, and tell us they’re going to write a story about this unspoiled paradise—like each one is discovering us for the first time. They take free food and free boat rides and free you-name-it, and they go back and write a story about poverty and bugs and pickaninnies. To hell with them. They can go to Nassau.” Makepeace checked his anger. “So, reporter man, what’s your story?”

  “First,” Maynard said, “I’m not doing a tourist story. Second, I don’t want anything for free.”

  “The only way you can make me believe that,” Makepeace said, and he smiled, “is if you buy me lunch.”

  They rode in Makepeace’s open Jeep. The road had once been paved, but by now it was arguable whether there were potholes in the pavement or splotches of pavement surrounding dirt-filled potholes. Whenever a car passed in the opposite direction, the Jeep was covered by a swirling cloud of dust.

  Makepeace turned off the main road and followed a pair of parallel ruts up a hill to a complex of bungalows identified by a sign as the Crow’s Nest Motel. The largest of the bungalows advertised a bar and dining room.

  Makepeace led them through the dining room to an outdoor terrace that overlooked a half-moon cove. “I thought your . . . researcher . . . might like a swim.”

  Maynard said to Justin, “What do you say?”

  “Sure. Can I have a cheeseburger?”

  Maynard handed him the satchel.

  “Changing room around the corner,” Makepeace said. “Rafts on the beach.”

  When Justin had scurried away and they had ordered drinks, Maynard told Makepeace why he he had come to the islands. He recited the figures about the missing boats and the explanations offered by the Coast Guard. Finally, he said that of the more than a hundred vessels still unaccounted for, most seemed to have vanished in the general area of Turks and Caicos. “And nobody has any idea how or why.” Wary of giving offense, Maynard decided not to repeat Florio’s supposition that someone was taking the boats.