The Island

by Peter Benchley

  “Can’t.”

  “All right. I’ll jury-rig a couple. How about a boat? A Whaler. Even a Sailfish.”

  “Got none. Doc Windsor, he got some, but he don’t rent ’em no more.”

  “He said he did. Last night.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Maybe he does, then. Things change around here too fast for me.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Down the road.”

  “What road?”

  “The road. Only one road.”

  “How will I know his house?”

  “You’ll hear it.”

  “I’ll hear it?”

  The clerk nodded. He reached under the counter. “If you going, take a dose of this.” He handed Maynard a can of Deep Woods OFF.

  “Thanks.” Maynard doused himself and Justin with the bug spray and returned the can to the clerk.

  “You got fifty cents?” asked the clerk.

  Maynard smiled. “Fifty cents a dose?”

  “Twenty-five. You took two.”

  Maynard reached in his pocket. He had no change. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Hard darts on me, then.” The clerk shook his head. “Coulda used that fifty cents.”

  The road was a dirt swath cut through the tangle of scrub, cactus, prickly pear, and sea grape. Mosquitoes swarmed in clouds that swooped up from hidden fens and darted across the road. The thick, oily bug spray was effective: The mosquitoes charged the pedestrians and hovered a few inches from exposed skin, deciphering chemical signals exuded from the repellent, and then, on some silent cue, buzzed off over the brush. The foliage was alive with noises—hums and clicks and whistling bird sounds.

  They walked for half a mile or more. The sweat that ran down their faces was beginning to wash away the spray, and single mosquito scouts were growing bolder.

  Maynard was on the verge of turning back when he heard a sound not of the pattern of the insect noises—high-pitched, insistent, mechanical. It was an electric motor. The sound was coming from the right. Maynard stood on tiptoes and looked over the underbrush. He saw nothing.

  “There’s a path up there,” Justin said.

  A convention of gnats surrounded them, plunging into their ear canals, flitting up their sleeves and into their underarms, strafing their scalps in search of unsprayed spaces. They scratched and slapped and ran, hoping that frantic activity would make them inhospitable hosts.

  All that was immediately visible at the end of the path was a steel cube, a generator house from which the loud whine was coming. In the distance, over a ridge of dunes, a few boats were moored to a rickety pier.

  Windsor’s house was below ground, buried in the sand to its flat cement roof. Bulwarked stairs led down to a huge teak portal adorned with a polished brass ring. An intercom speaker was set in concrete beside the door. Maynard raised the brass ring and let it fall against the teak.

  Windsor’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Get away, you Ethiopian! I’m in conference. If you’re selling, I’m not buying. If you’re buying, I’m not selling. Neither purchaser nor vendor be. Scram!”

  Justin listened to the diatribe and said to Maynard, “He rents boats?”

  Maynard smiled and pushed a button on the intercom. “I have a telegram here for a . . . rum-soaked relic.”

  “Is that you, Mencken?” Windsor shrilled. “What news of Sacco and Vanzetti? Keep heart. We’ll spring those guineas yet.” The intercom clicked off and, a few seconds later, the door swung open.

  Windsor was dressed in a kimono and pointed silk slippers. “Come in! Come in! I was just fantasizing about a picnic with all the catamites of Macedon.” He saw Justin. “Forgive me! You brought a catamite of your own.”

  Maynard introduced Justin to Windsor. Wide-eyed, Justin shook hands and said, “What’s a catamite?”

  “Nothing, lad, nothing. You’ve heard of a catamaran? Same phylum. Gome in! I’ll pour you a draft of mead, and we’ll salute the divus.”

  The house was a single room, thirty feet by forty, paneled in teak and lavishly furnished—in sections, separated by style. The dining area was Louis XV, the living room area Spanish colonial, the sleeping area Danish modern, the kitchen a horseshoe of stainless steel and butcher block. There were oil paintings in gallery frames, antique documents in sealed glass cases, archaeological artifacts lacquered and preserved against time and wear, mahogany cases crammed with books.

  Insulated by sand, air-conditioned by the generator, the house was maintained at sixty-eight degrees.

  Maynard gazed around the room, admiring.

  “My little haven in the pits of hell,” Windsor said. He waved his arm. “You see before you my life. The palace of a pack rat.”

  “Very nice. For a Colorful Island Character, you’ve done okay.”

  “I’ve been frugal. I started with a little money and that made money, and as we know, the money money makes makes more money. But alas—here now my tragic mask—I’d trade it all for a good woman and a warm hearth.” He laughed. “So tell me, messenger, what news of the rialto?”

  “We can’t get off till tomorrow.”

  “I’m not surprised. Wescott is worthless. But your delay is my good fortune. We’ll lunch, and I’ll enchant you with tales of my years before the mast.”

  “Thanks, but we want to rent a boat.”

  Windsor stood still. He looked at Maynard, and frowned, and looked away. “What for?”

  “We thought we’d go fishing.”

  Justin said, “Dad says we can catch a barracuda.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing worth catching out there. It’s too hot.”

  “We’ll fish deep, where it’s cool.”

  “I have no boats.”

  “Come on,” Maynard said. “I saw a bunch of boats down by the pier.”

  “They’re not seaworthy.”

  “Look . . . a couple of hours fishing, and we’ll come back and tell you lies about what we almost caught.”

  Windsor looked at Maynard. His amiable mask had disappeared. “No.”

  “Okay,” Maynard said, perplexed. “Sorry to bother you.” He turned to Justin. “Come on, buddy. We’ll see if Whitey can scrounge something up for us.”

  “No!” Windsor snapped. Then he softened. “Please . . . leave it alone.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s dangerous! You’re the one who was telling me about all the boats that have vanished. Why do you want to take a chance?”

  “I’m not asking you to charter me a schooner. I don’t want to sail to Cuba. I want to go a mile offshore and throw a line overboard, that’s all. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  “That I doubt.”

  “Don’t.” Challenged, impelled by silly bravado, Maynard raised his shirttail above the waistband of his bathing suit and revealed the butt of the Walther.

  “You’re a fool.”

  “I can get a boat from Whitey.”

  “All right,” Windsor sighed. “I’ll give you a boat. At least I know it’ll float. What Whitey would get for you I would not send Vlad the Impaler out on. But you must promise me you’ll check in every half hour on the radio.”

  “A deal. We’ll catch you a grouper, and you can whip up a luau.”

  Windsor was not amused. Muttering something about fools walking in darkness, he led them out of the house.

  At Today in New York, Dena Gaines was sorting the morning mail—a dozen invitations to cocktail parties “in honor of” new leisure-time products, portentous press releases about a “revolution” in men’s fashion that would spell the resurrection of the narrow necktie, a free-sample pair of electrically heated underpants (“Bunny Warmers”)—when the phone rang.

  “ ‘Trends.’ ”

  “Mrs. Smith’s office, calling for Mr. Maynard,” said Devon’s secretary.

  “He’s not here just now. May I take a message?”

  “Hold a minute.” Dena was put on hold.r />
  A moment later, Devon came on the line. “Where is he?”

  “He’s . . . out of the office,” Dena said protectively. “Can I give him a message?”

  “Where is he? Do you know?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Miss Gaines, a few minutes ago my son’s school called. He isn’t there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dena’s other phone began to ring.

  “Let me speak to Blair’s editor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dena transferred Devon to Hiller’s office, then punched up her other line. “ ‘Trends.’ ”

  “Mr. Maynard, please. Michael Florio calling.”

  “He’s not here just now. May I take a message?”

  “Do you know where I can reach him?”

  “No, sir. I wish I did.”

  “I think I may.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’m with the Coast Guard. I talked to him over the weekend.”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Florio, I’ll switch you to Mr. Maynard’s editor. I know he’d like to speak to you.”

  Dena transferred Florio, hung up, and walked down the hall.

  Hiller was still talking to Devon. Another phone button was alight and flashing, indicating that Florio was waiting on hold. Dena sat in the chair opposite Hiller’s desk.

  “I wouldn’t be, Ms. Smith,” Hiller said, “not yet. He’ll probably be in later on. There may be a foul-up with the shuttle from Washington . . . I don’t know for sure. It’s just the last thing he said to me last week . . . I understand that, but one day’s school isn’t the end of the world . . . Yes, as soon as I hear. I promise.”

  Hiller hung up the phone and said to Dena, “What does she think I am, a den mother? The kid misses half a day’s school and she wants me to call out the marines.”

  Dena smiled. “They’re on your other line.”

  “What?” Hiller pushed the flashing button, spoke his name, and, for several seconds, listened to Florio.

  “And you think he actually went down there?” Hiller said. “No, I didn’t send him . . . Yes, he works for me, and yes, he was looking into the story, but I wanted him to use the bureaus. That’s what they’re paid for . . . He’s a big boy, Commander . . . I know, but if anything, having the kid along should make him more careful . . . You’re kidding! I’m not the Coast Guard. You’re the Coast Guard! I don’t have a boat to send if I wanted to, and I have no reason to want to . . . Listen, Commander . . . four years ago we had a sports editor who didn’t show up for work. All we found was a note that said, ‘I’m going out the door before I go out the window.’ His wife didn’t know where he was; his kids didn’t know; nobody knew. We spent six months and God knows how much money trying to find him, and we never did. For all I know, Maynard’s flipped out and gone native on me . . . What’s that supposed to mean? He works for me, that’s all. He’s not my brother, thank God. Yeah, fine . . . by all means . . . please do.”

  Hiller hung up and shouted, “Jesus Christ!” He shuffled a heap of papers on his desk.

  “Where is he?” Dena asked.

  “Coast Guard guy thinks he’s in some country called Turks-and-something. All Maynard told me was he might go to Washington. What is it with him? I told him not to go. I told him to stay here and do his job. But no, that’s not good enough. He’s got a Man of La Mancha complex. Well, he better goddamn well come back and do his job, or he won’t have a job.” Hiller rooted through the papers on his desk and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “You want a boat story?” He pushed the clip toward Dena. “There is a boat story.”

  “What is it?”

  “Brendan Trask is retiring, gonna take off and sail around the world for a year. It’s a cover, that’s what it is. The man who practically invented television news turns his back on the electronic age and returns to nature. What a comment on society!”

  “I bet he just wants a raise.”

  “Trask doesn’t play games like that. Read it yourself. They told him he had to read commercial lead-ins. He said that violated his contract. They insisted; he split. He’s already gone.”

  Dena was not interested. “You said we have three columns to fill for early-close. How are we going to close it today?”

  “You’ve gotta help me out.”

  “I’m not a writer,” Dena said sweetly. “I’m a researcher.”

  “Help me out this week, and we’ll see what we can do about that.”

  “All right.” Dena smiled again. “I suppose I can rework that gay story.” She stood up.

  “Fine.” Hiller paused. “You know there’s only one writing spot open.”

  “What’s that?”

  “ ‘Trends’ editor.”

  “It isn’t open yet,” Dena said. “He’ll probably be in after lunch.”

  C H A P T E R

  9

  They had been fishing for more than an hour, trolling slowly in the blue-green water just beyond the line of reefs. They had caught nothing, had had no bites, and Justin was bored. He sat beneath the canopy that covered the midships of the twenty-two-foot Mako, and rested his rod on the gunwale.

  Maynard stood at the steering console. “It’s probably too shallow here,” he said. He ran a finger along a small mariners’ map of the Navidad area that had been laminated to the wooden console. “According to this, if we go around that point, the drop-off comes right in close to shore. We should have real deep water. That’s where the monsters live. What do you say, buddy?”

  “If you want,” Justin replied dully.

  “Shape up.” Maynard smiled. “Fishing wouldn’t be any fun if you caught something every five minutes.”

  “Okay.” Justin reeled in his line. “But is once an hour asking too much?”

  Maynard brought his own line aboard and nudged the throttle forward. The outboard motor, its innards clogged with carbon, hesitated and coughed and then, with a burst of black smoke, flushed itself clean and pushed ahead. The bow rose and settled down, and the boat planed across the surface of the calm water.

  Breeze and tide met in conflict at the point, and the water was churned into a white froth. The line of reef extended due west from the point. To the left, inside the reef, the water was greenish-white, flecked with coral brown. The drop-off outside the reef was precipitous, the water a uniform, gun-metal blue.

  When he reached still water, Maynard slowed and let out the two fishing lines. He checked his watch, turned on the radio, and spoke into the microphone: “Mencken to Relic . . . Mencken to Relic . . . just checking in.”

  “Where are you?” Windsor’s voice came back. “I can’t see you.”

  Maynard traced his route on the map. “It says here Mangrove Pass. Pass to what, I don’t know. There’s nothing anywhere. Nothing by land, nothing by sea.”

  “That’s far enough. Turn around and head back this way.”

  “Nothing to worry about here. Looks like the end of the world.”

  “That’s not the point. The radio won’t reach much farther. If the engine quits . . .”

  “No problem. Check you later.” Maynard replaced the microphone and turned off the radio.

  He continued westward, trolling in the deep water. Half a mile to the southwest, the barren land—a sliver of white sand topped with gray-green scrub—appeared to shimmer as heat was sucked into the clear air.

  “Help!” Justin yelled. A fish had taken his lure. The butt of his rod was jammed between his legs, the tip—jerking wildly—rapped against the transom.

  “Keep the tip up!” Maynard throttled down to neutral. “Don’t give him any slack, or he’ll shake it!”

  “I can’t hold him!”

  “Yes, you can!” Maynard put out a hand to brace Justin’s rod, but withdrew it. “Lean back, bring the tip up . . . that’s the way . . . now, go forward with him and reel!”

  “Look!”

  The fish broke water behind the boat—a writhing blade of silver that sparkled in the sunlight.

  “Ree
l!”

  “My fingers are cramped!”

  “Then rest with it . . . but don’t let the tip down.”

  Leaning against the gunwale, Justin held the rod upright with his left hand and flexed the fingers in his right. “What is it?”

  “A barracuda. Fifteen, twenty pounds.”

  The rod heaved, and Justin lurched forward. The fish was running, stripping line from the reel.

  “Let him take it,” Maynard said. “When he turns, reel like stink.”

  Justin strained against the rod. His stiff fingers skidded off the crank. “You take it.”

  “Hell no! He’s your fish. You’re doing fine. Just don’t give him any slack.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Yes, you can!”

  “He’s gonna get away.”

  “Maybe.”

  The tip snapped up; the line went slack.

  Justin said, “I told you.”

  “Reel, dammit! He’s not gone!”

  Justin reeled frantically, and the line tautened.

  Maynard leaned over the stern. “He’s coming to the boat. Easy . . . easy.” The wire leader cleared the water. Maynard grabbed it and flung the fish over the transom onto the deck. “Now, there is one sweet piece of fish.” He turned to Justin. “Good for you!”

  Justin was gleeful. “Look at his teeth!”

  Maynard found a pair of pliers on a shelf beneath the steering console and dislodged the hook from the barracuda’s mouth. “Good for you!” he said again.

  “Can we stuff him?”

  “You want to give him to your piano teacher?”

  “To Mom. She won’t believe this.”

  They laughed together.

  Maynard turned east and trolled back toward the point, then turned west again. They followed a flock of feeding sea birds, but the larger fish that were forcing the bait fish to the surface were not interested in the shiny steel “spoons” trolled behind the Mako. A porpoise surfaced and rolled playfully in the boat’s bow wave. A small shark basked on the surface until, alerted by the sound of the approaching motor, it thrashed its tail and disappeared.

  At one o’clock, Maynard checked with Windsor by radio. He reported Justin’s catch and promised to return within the hour.

  “I’m hungry,” Justin said.