Killypso Island

by Kent Holloway

She nods. “I overheard the Russians this morning, talking about the whole thing.”

  “They admitted to framing me?”

  “Not exactly.” She blinks as if trying to remember. “They were talking about Angelique…and some American that’s been hiding on the island.”

  Morris.

  “It was crazy talk, really,” she continues. “Stuff about how Angelique was a spy, and how between the two of them, they had some important information—a list or something—that they needed to get their hands on. They said that you were somehow involved in it all, too.”

  “Me? Why do they think I’m involved?” Although I’m certain I can trust these two with the entirety of last night’s conversation, I think it best to play dumb for the moment. For their own protection more than anything else.

  “They said you and the American are old friends,” Trixie answers. “Said the three of you were meeting in Angelique’s parlor last night when she was killed.”

  I say nothing for a moment, rubbing the stubble growing across my chin, as I process. I already suspected the Reds had something to do with my current predicament. I even shared my theory with Inspector Decroux. But with the protections they’re enjoying from Governor Lagrange, I’m pretty sure the Inspector won’t get very far digging into the Reds’ stories.

  Then, there’s the list itself. Uncle Sam needs to get a hold of it before the Ruskies do. I have no doubt it’s vital to national security, and while I’ve been living it up in paradise for the past decade, I’m first and foremost an American. I bleed red, white, and blue. And even though I’m currently fighting for my life with a murder rap, I’ve spent most of my adult life defending my country. It’s ingrained in me. No matter what happens to me, I’ve got to get that list before the KGB mooks do.

  Besides, find the list and I might kill two birds with one stone. I might find evidence that will exonerate me.

  I look at my two visitors, then glance around, making sure no one else is within earshot. “Okay, ladies,” I say. “I’ve got to get out of here. Tonight. And I’m going to need your help to do it.”

  The two of them smile and lean forward. They’re all ears, as I pitch my escape plan to them in a hushed voice.

  9

  3:00 AM

  I’ve just started to doze off when the sound of scratching at my barred window shakes the sleep away with a jolt. I open my eye to see Moe’s fur-covered face grinning down at me, a set of keys tied around his neck.

  So Trixie managed to pull it off, I think, standing on top of the bunk and letting the monkey leap down onto my shoulders. I’m not really surprised. There’s not a man on the island who doesn’t yearn to get close to her. It would be a relatively simple thing for her to lift the cell keys, as she put on the flirtation act with one of the two coppers tasked with posting guard in the station. Step one, give him the goo-goo eyes. Step two, give a little tickle underneath his chin with one hand. Step three, lift the key-ring from his belt while he whispers sweet nothings in her ear. Piece of cake.

  Of course, the real challenge will be to sneak out of here, before the officer discovers his keys are missing. And unfortunately, there’s no way to guess when that will…

  Someone starts banging a metal gong from somewhere in the police station. “Escape!” someone shouts. “Escape!”

  “Well, crap,” I mutter, while unlocking my cell door with the keys and moving toward the block door. I’m not exactly sure how the discovery of missing keys necessitates cries of escape to arouse the citizens of the island into action. Seems to me, whichever officer is currently on duty would have come into the block to check on me first, before assuming the worst.

  Unless…

  But how could he have been tipped off? Only Nessie and Trixie know about my plans.

  It doesn’t matter for now. With the alarm being raised, I’m out of time. If I’m going to escape, clear my name, and retrieve the list, I need to get out of here undetected. And fast.

  I prepare to insert the key into the cell block door and hesitate.

  Or maybe, fast isn’t the answer this time.

  I allow a smile to creep up the side of my face. What I’m thinking is risky. Very risky. But I also know that Chief Armad and his men will be on high alert for the rest of the night. I need to be smart, not swift in my escape.

  Taking a breath, I unlock the cell block door and open it. I can hear shouts from the squad room in front of the police station, then feet pounding the linoleum floors heading my way. Without waiting another heartbeat, I nudge Moe off my shoulder and watch him leap to the bars of my cell, just before I dash off to set my escape plan in motion.

  “I don’t understand! How, pray tell, could Thacker get a key to the cells?” Chief Armad is giving Lloyd Gano, the youngest officer on the force, a verbal lashing he won’t forget. I guess he was the one on guard duty during my escape.

  Moe is still in my cell, swinging from bar to bar in cheerful play.

  “I…I don’t ’ave any idea, Chief,” Lloyd protests. “I had d’em when I came on duty tonight.”

  Armad turns to the monkey. His eyes narrow into slits, as he draws his revolver from its holster and takes aim. He fires, but Moe’s been around guns long enough. He’s smart enough to get out of the way, when they’re pointed in his direction. Before the gun’s explosion finishes echoing around the room, the monkey leaps from the bars to the window and makes good his escape.

  With a deeply unsatisfied look on his face, the Chief steps into my cell and sighs. He examines the lock mechanism of the door, then his gaze moves up to the barred window, then to the ceiling.

  He sighs and turns to Marvin and Lloyd with a huff.

  “He can’t have gotten far,” Armad says. “Besides, the entire island is out to get him. No one’s going to help him hide from us for long.” He comes within an inch of Lloyd’s nervous face. “We’ll discuss just how you let the man escape later. For now, we’ve got to search the town.”

  His two officers stand there, looking at him like beaten mongrels.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouts, clapping his hands together to get them moving. Without comment, the three men bolt from the cell block, leaving me perfectly hidden in the hiding spot I chose for myself earlier.

  I’m not sure how long I wait. It’s deep into the night now. My cell is dark, and the moonlight that was passing through the barred window has slipped from sight. I’m hiding amid the palm fronds of my bunk and peering through the tiniest of tears in the bed sheets. I’ve waited patiently, listening to the sounds of angry voices far outside my window, hurling accusations at Armad and his ‘incompetent’ police force over my escape from their jail. I heard the same voices scatter, scouring the narrow alleyways between the town’s buildings and heading into the jungle. I’m certain that quite a few of them have already headed toward Port Lucine’s pier to search the Dream. I shudder to think what the angry mob might do to her to deal with their frustrations over my escape.

  I wait just a bit longer, then I begin to dig my way out of my hiding place. The voices have all but gone now, but I can’t begin to guess how long they’ll remain out of earshot. The whole of my plan depends on setting everyone’s eyes somewhere else, after all. It’ll do me no good to wait too long only to have them return as I’m sneaking out the door. Come to think of it, I’ve already pushed my luck to no end with the pile of palm fronds I tossed out my window while digging away at my hiding space. It’s a miracle no one has stumbled across it yet.

  I give a soft whistle, and Moe’s head peers through the window bars again. He scrambles into my cell, scurries up my leg, and onto my back.

  “Glad to see the Chief is a lousy shot,” I say to him, giving the wall to my cell a once-over and seeing the hole where his bullet struck. Not only did he miss the monkey, he also missed the bunk in which I was hiding by about twelve inches. Appraising just how lucky I am that I’m not currently a rotting corpse inside a feeding trough, I turn to the cell block door again, which is stil
l ajar. I move over to the door and listen. There doesn’t seem to be anyone about, so I scramble out into the hallway, weave my way through to the back of the station, and quickly find myself at the back exit.

  Cautiously, I crack open the door and let Moe step into the night. He scrambles a few feet away, looks around, then sits down on his haunches to start picking at mites under his arms. It’s his own unique way, I suppose, of telling me the coast is clear.

  Putting my life in the fleabag’s hands, I duck outside, scoop him up in my arms, and sprint into the nearest stand of trees.

  The jungle is abuzz with the lights of lanterns and flashlights slicing away at the darkness, as the mob stomps through the undergrowth beating the bushes for me. I hear the bray of hounds—thankfully somewhere far in the distance. I know that whatever I do and wherever I go, I’ll need to keep as much distance from the dogs as I possibly can. I hear shouts to my left, and cries asking others to join them when they think they see something suspicious.

  I move into the jungle interior for about a hundred yards, then stop, crouching behind a palmetto bush and taking a deep breath. Moe’s already taken to the trees. I like to think he’s keeping a bird’s eye view of the hunt, but in reality, I’m pretty sure he’s just looking for a snack to eat.

  Stupid monkey.

  I look up into the sky, peering past the canopy of vegetation. The stars above are starting to fade. Although I don’t have a clear view of the eastern horizon, I can picture it in my mind’s eye turning shades of purple, lavender, and orange-red in thin ribbons, just where land and ocean touch the sky. The sun will be coming up soon, which means I need to find shelter as quick as possible. Daylight will be my undoing, if I’m left exposed in it for too long.

  Keeping low to the ground, I press on, avoiding the dangers of dried palm fronds, broken twigs, and anything else that might echo my location to anyone near enough to hear. I weave in and out of the trees, trying to keep as many obstructions between myself and the posse that’s now hunting me.

  Despite my attempts at stealth, however, it’s been a long time since my days as an Eagle Scout. With legs and feet more suited to sea or air, and with the depth perception of a man with a single eye, I’m not quite as skilled an Indian tracker as I would like. In the dim light, my boot comes down on something jutting up from the wet soil. I stumble forward, crashing to the ground with a thud and a hiss of air from my lungs. The resulting noise echoes through the rainforest like an audible neon sign flashing ‘OVER HERE!’

  Worse, someone hears it.

  I freeze.

  The hunters near me do the same. I hear hushed whispers nearby.

  I crane my head around, trying to spot where the voices are coming from, but the jungle creates just as much of a blind for me as it does for them.

  A jungle, after all, is impartial in both its cruelty and its loving embrace. There are no good guys or bad guys in the jungle. There is only the game of survival, and the jungle revels in the contest between the strongest wills.

  Suddenly, I hear the shout.

  “Over here!” someone cries. “He’s over here!”

  All I can do in response is run.

  10

  My feet nearly fly out from under me as I sprint through the thick vegetation, almost fall over, balance myself, and continue to run. The mob is behind me, shouting obscenities and curses at me as they pursue. From my periphery, I can see that Moe is keeping pace with me, leaping from tree limb to branch with little effort. He’s chattering away, egging me on. My one and only cheerleader.

  His cheers are appreciated. I press on, ignoring the slicing lashes of the palmetto fronds as they whip past my face. My lungs heave for air, and I find myself cursing at my cigar-smoking habit within the first mile of the run. My only saving grace is that over half the population of the island—including the island police—have the same, or worse habits than I do.

  The good news is that the hounds I heard earlier don’t seem to be among the mix of my pursuers. I’m not sure whether it’s because they were so far away when I was first spotted or something else, but at least I don’t have fanged jaws snapping at my heels as I flee.

  The bad news is, if my memory of this part of the jungle is accurate, I’m running out land. I’m not exactly sure where it is, but I know there’s a deep gorge somewhere up ahead. There’s a rope bridge somewhere as well, but once again, I can’t be certain I’m on the right course to meet up with it. After all, I’m not on an actual path, and this area isn’t exactly sketched out on any map.

  The shouts behind me are getting louder. Angrier.

  I risk a quick glance over my shoulder. Around eight men—all carrying lanterns, as well as farm hoes, pitchforks, and other makeshift weapons made from farming tools—are right behind me. I see no sign of Armad and his police officers, nor the Candyman, and I thank my lucky stars for that blessing. Then again, almost every person on the island practices voodoo, and they all think I’ve killed their mamba. None of them are going to listen to reason or pleas to give me a chance.

  But I don’t have time to think about that now. The jungle is thinning just ahead of me—the telltale sign of the approaching gorge. The sheer cliff face and the drop that will turn my bones to powder, if I’m not careful.

  The only good news at the moment is the rising sun. Although it’s still below the horizon of the jungle, its waxing light is already beginning to cut through the gloom, allowing me to see where I’m going a lot better. Unfortunately, it also lets my pursuers see me much better, making it nearly impossible to shake them off my tail. To escape, I’m going to have to do something stupid.

  Something radical.

  Something that’ll probably get me killed.

  As the gorge’s drop-off creeps into view, I search for anything that might give me an idea, and my mind races through everything I know about the terrain ahead. I know the gorge is about a forty-five foot drop. Depending on the tide, not to mention the weather, the river that cuts through the island to create the gorge increases and decreases in depth. Once again, there’s a bridge that’s been constructed to safely cross it, but I have no way of knowing where it is, in relation to my position in the jungle.

  My brain falters. My feet hesitate. The slightest miscalculation…the smallest slip-up…and I’m dead.

  Something slams into the back of my head. A stone.

  Those mooks are throwing rocks at me now.

  Another stone whacks my shoulder.

  “Stop throwing rocks at me!” I shout, leaping over a dead tree and pushing my legs beyond their limits.

  And then, I’m forced to stop. Fast. I’ve run out of ground. The deadly drop is only a few feet in front of me. Despite my brain screaming at my feet to halt, it still takes a couple of seconds to register. Finally, they listen, and I hit the brakes, lean back, and slide across the jungle floor. My fingers scratch at the soil, grass, and vines, desperately searching for anything that’ll save me from going over the edge.

  When I finally do come to a halt, my feet are dangling over the cliff, and my right hand is clutching a tiny sapling. It’s nearly pulled out by its roots, but it’s doing its job by keeping me on solid ground. Mostly.

  I lower my face in the dirt and exhale.

  “Jeepers, that was a close one,” I mumble. My mouth is now full of dirt, as I let out a nervous laugh. I raise my head to spit it from my mouth and stare into the faces of eight angry men. The business ends of their pitchforks and hoes are pointing at me, and each of their eyes are angry slits looking in my direction.

  I give them a friendly smile, irrationally hoping it’ll make all this go away. But Mama Thacker’s boy never had very good luck, and I don’t see why it should change now. Truth is, I know these men. Good men, each of them. I’ve shared drinks with them at Nessie’s or at the Candyman’s. Played poker with most of them. Helped repair their homes after hurricanes. They’re a part of my community, and I’m a part of theirs.

  “Hiya, fellas,” I say, s
lowly—and carefully—climbing to my feet. I make sure to keep my hands in the air, once my feet are solidly on terra firma.

  One of the men, the town barber, Winston Musel, shakes his head at me. Unlike his friends, his eyes are more sad than angry. “How could you, Joe? I just don’t understand.”

  “Join the club. I don’t either.” I stretch out my hands, pleading for them to listen. “Look, fellas, I don’t know what happened. Someone drugged me. When I came to, Angelique was dead. But I know I didn’t kill her. There’s no way I would have done something like that.” I level my gaze at them, looking at each one of them, and looking them square in the eyes. “You know that. I’m no killer. And even if I was, I loved Angelique just as much as any of you here.”

  They stare at me, and for the first time, I see doubt in their eyes. And, just as the sun begins to shine its first light of the day through the eastern edge of jungle, hope begins to rise within my chest. They look at each other, offering confused expressions.

  “It certainly don’t sound like somet’ing you would do,” Winston says. His steel rake lowers a few inches. The other weapons do the same.

  My heart thumps madly in my chest. I’m getting through to them.

  I’m just about to continue my logical defense when the unthinkable happens. A loud bang explodes off to my left. The jungle fills with light gray smoke tinged with the smell of sulfur. Then a crimson circle begins to spread across the shirt covering Winston’s belly. His eyes go wide. He grits his teeth and begins to tumble backward. Tomas Musel, Winston’s brother, dashes to him, catching him before he hits the ground.

  “No!” I shout, spinning around and searching for the gunman who shot the barber. For a brief second, I catch the slightest trace of a brightly colored, flower-print shirt darting from one tree to the next.

  Morris?

  “Don’t hurt them!” I yell at my old friend. “Stand down!”