Island

by Richard Laymon

  For a while there, it seemed like the perfect solution to my problem.

  I could wait for dark, then swim out to the cabin cruiser, cut the anchor lines, start the engine ...

  Start it with what key?

  Even if Matt and the woman had been trusting or stupid enough to leave the boat’s key in the ignition, Wesley wasn’t. He would’ve gone out there, at some point. Checked the vessel from stem to stem. Taken whatever he felt an urge to take.

  Not much chance he would’ve left the starter key behind.

  Not a crafty bastard like Wesley.

  And I’m not exactly the kind of guy who knows the first thing about how to hotwire an Evinrude or Johnson, or whatever. Without the key, I had no chance in the world of starting the engine.

  Where would I find the ignition key?

  Probably in Wesley’s pocket.

  Great. If I could hunt down Wesley and take the key off him, I wouldn’t need to run off on the boat and go for help.

  So much for fleeing on the cabin cruiser.

  Just as well. It would’ve been the ‘smart’ thing to do, but I sort of hated the idea.

  I don’t really think I could’ve done it - left the island without knowing what had happened to my women, whether they were even still alive. And if I had found them alive, I couldn’t have gone off without rescuing them.

  Sometimes, you just can’t do the ‘smart’ thing because it leaves out the heart.

  That sounds sort of sappy.

  The deal is, those three women had gotten to mean a lot to me. (Not just that they made me horny, either.) I couldn’t abandon them, not even if that would’ve been the best way to save them.

  I could make them wait, though.

  They’d been captured (if captured) at least five or six days ago, maybe longer. A few more hours shouldn’t matter very much to them. The hours might make plenty of difference to me, though.

  I needed to wait until dark.

  Darkness would hide me, so I’d be able to move about without so much risk of being spotted. Also, somebody might put on a light.

  I really hoped for a light; it would give me a location.

  It might even light my way to Wesley and Thelma.

  Night, however, was a long time off.

  I crept away from the edge of the lawn. When I was surrounded by jungle so thick I could see no trace of the lawn or mansion, I lay down on my back to rest. I used my book bag for a pillow.

  There seemed to be little hope of falling asleep. I was too nervous and excited. Also, I ached nearly everywhere from my injuries. The plan was simply to rest and wait for night to come.

  Shutting my eyes, I thought about my plans. Soon, I began daydreaming about the women. The next thing I knew, I found myself waking up in the dark.

  Not knowing where the night might take me, I decided against leaving my book bag behind. I sure didn’t want to lose it - not with the journal inside. The only way to make sure it stayed safe was to keep it with me.

  I made my way back to the edge of the lawn. The windows of the mansion - those within sight - all looked dark. There was no light anywhere except for what came from the moon and stars.

  Staying hidden, I kept watch for a long time. Nobody appeared. No lights came on.

  Maybe I had the wrong house.

  Maybe this house had nothing to do with Wesley, and was simply deserted.

  No, no. Our dinghy was at the dock.

  This had to be the right house.

  But maybe Wesley wasn’t using it. He might’ve simply raided the place, taken what he wanted (including the man and woman who lived here), and returned to some secret base camp in the jungle.

  If he wasn’t here, I’d already wasted hours upon hours.

  I suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of waiting any longer, so I broke cover and dashed across the lawn. Nobody yelled. Nobody shot at me. Nothing happened. I stopped at the side of the house, near its rear comer. Leaning against the wall, I tried to catch my breath and calm down.

  So far, so good.

  I’ll just walk around the whole building, I thought. Check to see if there are any lights on.

  If the place is dark, I’ll try to get in.

  The Game

  I was about to push myself away from the wall when a fluttery, dim glow seemed to drift out the window just to my left and hover in the darkness. The murky light was so faint, at first, that I wondered if it might be a trick of the moonlight - or my imagination.

  It grew brighter.

  I gazed at it, stunned. For a while, I couldn’t move. Then I forced myself to sneak toward the window.

  I was afraid of what I might find, but I had to look. My heart slammed. My stomach trembled. My legs felt weak and unstable.

  The fact is, I was shaking all over by the time I reached the window and peered in.

  The room on the other side was lit by candles and several kerosine lamps with glass chimneys. Thelma, walking about with a candle in her hand, ignited more candles while I watched.

  She wore a glossy, royal blue robe that looked like satin. It was too short for her. She had to reach high, now and then, to light wall sconces. Each time she did that, the lower half of her ass showed. Not a pretty sight. Her big buttocks, ruddy from a sunburn, looked dimpled and lumpy. They were bruised, too, and striped with red marks from being lashed.

  Her legs also looked banged up - a lot more so than they’d been the last time I’d seen her.

  When she turned in my direction, I saw that her robe wasn’t shut all the way. She was bare down her middle - except for the loosely tied sash that crossed her belly. The opening was too narrow to let me see much. Only that she’d gotten a sunburn all the way down.

  I realized she was coming straight toward me, so I dropped to a crouch.

  Directly above my head, the window scooted upward. Thelma sighed.

  What if she leans out!

  She can‘t, I told myself. A screen’s in the way.

  I wondered if she could see me, anyway. Screen or no screen, she might be able to spot the top of my head if she looked downward.

  Or she might hear my slamming heart.

  No sounds of alarm came from her, though. Just that one sigh. A few seconds later, I heard her bare feet thumping away.

  Up again, I put my face to the window screen.

  Thelma seemed to be gone. The room she’d left behind was bright with tiny flames. She had lit perhaps twenty of them with her candle, but those twenty were caught and doubled by a mirror that stretched the length of one entire wall - the wall way over to the left, not the one straight across the room from me, so I’d probably not been reflected in it.

  Attached to that mirror wall, at about waist-height, was a wooden rail. It looked like the sort of rail that ballet dancers use during practice.

  Dance practice would also explain the long, full-length mirror.

  In one corner of the room stood a baby grand piano.

  In another corner was a sound system. It appeared to have a turntable, radio, twin speakers, the works.

  I saw light fixtures on the ceiling.

  Lamps with cords snaking across the floor to wall outlets.

  So the mansion came with electricity, after all.

  I wondered if there might be a generator, somewhere, that had broken down on Wesley and Thelma. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to work it.

  Possibly, they’d made a choice not to use any electricity. Maybe they feared it would give them away, somehow. Or perhaps they simply preferred candlelight.

  Most of the floor was empty. To give the dancers plenty of prancing space, I suppose.

  The room was more than a dance studio, though. Apparently, it doubled as a reading room, or library. It had a few small tables, lamps, and some thickly padded chairs over near the wall to my right. A wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  Movement in the mirror suddenly caught my eyes.

  It reflected the doorway near the middle of the bookshelf wall.
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  I saw Wesley before he even came in.

  If I can see him in the mirror, he can probably see me.

  I ducked and waited, my heart hammering.

  A few quiet sounds came: bare feet, wood creaking, a noise like a chair being scooted, the snick of a striking match. Then Wesley said, ‘What would you like if you win tonight, my dear?’

  A voice murmured, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, you must want something.’ Wesley sounded very cheerful. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘As if she’s gonna win, anyhow,’ Thelma said. ‘Hasn’t got a chance.’

  ‘Of course she has a chance. There’s always a chance.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Thelma said. ‘There’s a chance I’ll get struck by lightning.’

  ‘Name your prize, my dear.’

  I eased myself higher until I could see in.

  The girl stood with her back to me, facing Wesley. She was slender and several inches shorter than Thelma. She had blond hair in a ponytail. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse, a tartan kilt that seemed mostly green and blue, forest green knee socks, and no shoes. The mirror, off to her left, gave me a side view of her face.

  I had never seen her before.

  My guess was that she might be thirteen or fourteen years old.

  Matt’s daughter? Daughter of the lagoon woman with the rocks in her belly?

  I wanted her to be Kimberly, Billie, or Connie. I’d come here to find them, not some stranger. Where were my women?

  My mission wasn’t a complete failure, though; at least I’d found my two enemies.

  Thelma, off to the girl’s right, was facing Wesley.

  Wesley sat in a padded armchair, grinning at the girl. He wore a square white bandage on his chest. It reminded me of a pirate’s eye patch, the way it covered only one side while his other boob bulged out, bare.

  Because of how he sat deep in the chair, with one leg crossed, he looked naked. I’d had that glimpse of him in the mirror, though, while he’d been coming in from the hallway. He’d been wearing a belt, two sheathed knives, and some sort of blue bikini-style shorts - briefs or a swimming suit, I couldn’t tell which. The way he was seated, I couldn’t see any of that.

  Except for his bandage, he looked like an acre of bare, hairy skin. (He even had hair on the tops of his shoulders.) He had a dark tan.

  Other than his chest wound, he didn’t have any signs of injury. Nobody’d been whipping him, slapping him, punching him, kicking him, biting him. (I’m aware, of course, that he was sitting on a good wound. I couldn’t see it, though.)

  Pinched between Wesley’s thumb and forefinger was the long, silver tube of a cigarette holder - but not the one I’d seen him using on the yacht. (That had been ivory.) A cigarette was plugged into the end of it. A thin, pale stream of smoke climbed the air in front of his face.

  ‘Your prize, Erin?’ he asked again.

  The girl’s shoulders shrugged slightly. A moment later, she muttered, ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Wesley seemed amused. ‘Of course it matters! Certainly! You must have an incentive. We can’t have you giving up too easily, can we?’

  The way Erin looked from behind, she had already given up.

  ‘What would you like more than anything else in the whole world?’ Wesley asked. ‘But no fair asking for your mother and father.’

  After a few moments, Erin said in a soft voice I almost couldn’t hear, ‘Let us go?’

  Thelma gave a snort.

  Wesley said, ‘Let who go?’

  ‘My sister and I.’

  ‘Good try! I’m afraid that’s out of the question, though. Name something realistic.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How about a Pepsi?’

  Thelma snorted again.

  ‘Okay,’ the girl said. ‘But one for Alice, too.’

  ‘Alice can win her own.’

  ‘If she can’t have one, I don’t want one, either.’

  Wesley blew smoke at her. ‘Have it your way. I’m trying to be nice, offer you a prize. Where’s your gratitude?’

  Erin said nothing.

  Wesley took a puff, then gave a nod to Thelma.

  She stepped up behind Erin, reached around her, and ripped open the front of her blouse. She peeled the blouse off the girl’s shoulders and down her back. Then she stepped aside and tossed it to the floor.

  Erin was bare down to her kilt. She had narrow, fragile shoulders. Her back was smooth and tanned, and looked as if it might’ve had a few days to heal since her last beating. It had seen a lot of abuse, though. Along with livid blotches, there were several old, fading yellowish bruises. Along with numerous crusty brown scabs that criss-crossed her back, she had pale, shiny pink stripes where older scabs had come off.

  She just stood in front of Wesley, arms hanging by her sides, not even trying to cover herself.

  The mirror gave me a side view of her breasts. They came to points and looked like small, soft cones. They were almost as tanned as her back.

  ‘Lovely,’ Wesley said. ‘You’re a very lovely girl, Erin.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘When someone gives you a compliment, you’re supposed to say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I’d like you to put up a good fight, tonight,’ he told her. ‘No slacking, like last time.’

  She just stood there, limp, her head and arms hanging.

  ‘Let’s start the fun,’ he said.

  Thelma’s blue satin robe fell to the floor. She looked as if she’d watched a lot of television wrestling, the way she stomped toward Erin.

  But this was no ‘gorgeous lady of wrestling.’

  This was a monster, battle-scarred, growling, hunched over, arms open, fingers hooked like claws. She attacked from behind, hugged Erin, hoisted her up, swung her around and hurled her.

  Flung her in my direction.

  The girl came toward me, feet first. Under her kilt, she was bare all the way to her waist.

  In midair, she made a frightened noise as if she suddenly realized she had a long way to fall.

  She hit the hardwood floor, thudding and bumping as she tumbled, letting out whimpers and grunts, her skin squeaking as she skidded. When she came to a stop, she just lay there on her back and sobbed. Her kilt was up around her hips. I had a hell of a view. I felt guilty, looking. I couldn’t help looking, though.

  I mean, the way she was sprawled out on the floor with her feet no more than about two yards in front of my window.

  It ran through my mind that I ought to help her.

  But what could I do? I’m not a big guy. I didn’t have a gun. My only weapon was the straight razor in the pocket of my shorts. If I just tried to Rambo my way in and save the day, Thelma would wipe me out. She probably wouldn’t even need Wesley’s help.

  I watched her storm across the floor, her huge breasts swinging and flopping. Her eyes were fixed on Erin.

  Who didn’t even try to get up or defend herself.

  ‘Fight, ya little twat,’ Thelma gasped. She clamped the girl’s head between her ankles and hopped. Erin’s trapped head was jerked up off the floor, then slammed down.

  Then Thelma dropped on top of her.

  A lot happened, after that - nasty stuff I don’t want to write about.

  I’m ashamed of myself for watching. Looking back on it now, I know that I should’ve done whatever I could to stop it. But I was enthralled. Horrified and disgusted, but entranced. I’d never seen anything like this before. As much as I felt sorry for Erin and wanted to help her, I couldn’t force myself to stop watching the spectacle.

  I told myself there was nothing I could do, anyway.

  Which was pure shit. I could’ve stopped it. One way or another.

  Didn’t want to, that was the thing.

  The girl never did put up any struggle.

  Thelma didn’t let that stop her. She stripped off Erin’s knee socks, wrestled her, squeezed her, tugged the kilt down Erin’s legs,
kissed her and sucked her and bit her, pinched her, twisted her, slapped and probed her.

  They were a rolling tangle of bare flesh. Both of them gasping for air. Both of them groaning and whimpering. Both shiny with sweat and spittle and God-knows-what.

  I watched from my window.

  Wesley watched from his chair across the room, puffing cigarettes, leaning forward, eyes fixed on the action. He squirmed around a lot. Sometimes, he licked his lips.

  I only glanced at him from time to time. Mostly, I watched Thelma and Erin.

  By the time I noticed that Wesley had gotten out of his chair, he no longer had his shorts on. His belt was gone, too. He wore nothing but his bandages. His cigarette holder jutted upward from between his teeth, and smoke drifted into his right eye as he strolled toward the women.

  His penis led the way, big and solid, pointing at the ceiling.

  From his right hand dangled a length of electric cord. (I don’t know where it came from - hadn’t noticed it before.) Its end trailed along on the floor beside him.

  When he got to where Thelma was working on Erin, he began to use the cord on them. He didn’t seem to care whether he hit Thelma or the girl. Either of them seemed fine with him.

  He started off by casually flicking them with the cord. Toying with them. Slowly, though, he worked himself into a frenzy. He became like a madman. Wild-eyed, huffing for breath, slobbering down his chin, he pranced around them, swinging the cord so hard it whistled. It cracked against their skin. Made them jerk rigid with pain. They writhed and shrieked and bled on the floor.

  Through all of this, Thelma never stopped holding on to Erin. Never stopped offering the girl’s body to Wesley’s lash. And never stopped hurting Erin with her own hands and mouth.

  Again, I don’t want to dwell on all the nasty details.

  I’ll skip to the finish.

  This is how it ended - with Thelma on her back on the floor, Erin on top of her.

  Thelma used her arms and legs to pin the girl to her - face up and spread-eagled. They were both very bloody from the whipping and other things that had been done to them. But now, with Thelma holding Erin helpless, Wesley dropped on top of them both.