It was daylight. He remained sitting until he heard them coming through the foliage from the lee side of the island.
He stood up then, the harpoon in his hand. He tried to flex his shoulders to get the stiffness out of them. It didn’t matter; there wasn’t time.
Krayer came through the brush and for a moment he glanced around the water-glazed clearing. He looked at the flooded fire pit and finally his gaze fell on Webb, standing against the palm tree.
Fran stepped into the clearing behind Krayer. Her head came up when she saw Webb. Something lighted her face — the something the first man must have seen in the face of the first woman, Webb thought. The something that eased the fear and terror of dying, that made the fight worthwhile.
“Thank God,” Fran whispered.
“So you’re here,” Krayer said.
Webb held the harpoon ready. “Where else would I be?”
“You know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?”
Webb matched his lifeless tone.
“I know you’re going to try,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE
IN THE DEAD CENTER of a hurricane everything is completely still. There is no raging storm, no torrents, no gusts of wind, no ripping howling gale. There is only the sense of tension, of insane whirling outside that closing circle all around it.
That was where Webb stood now: the dead center. He held the harpoon aloft.
Fran made one last effort to reach Krayer. She said, “Alfred, if you kill him, it’ll be murder. I’ll swear it was murder.”
“You’re my wife. Alfred Krayer’s wife. I’ve the right to kill the man who molests you.”
“No one molested me, she said. “No one but you. You killed everything in me, Alfred, and now you want to kill the one person I ever loved.”
Alfred’s voice broke. “Don’t ever say that.”
“I’m trying to tell you, Alfred. I’ll hate you. Every day and every night on this island. And if we ever leave it, I’ll tell them that you killed him — that I loved him and that you killed him.”
“You’ll never tell anybody you loved a soul on God’s earth but Alfred Krayer.” His voice was wild, but he kept his gaze on Webb and spoke to Fran across his shoulder.
He raised the bow and arrow, easing back on the string as far as it would go. The taut spang vibrated in the silence.
Fran bent down, grabbed up a fallen limb and hurled it against Krayer’s side. It struck him just under the ribs at the very instant the arrow whipped out of the bow.
Webb threw himself forward and the arrow went streaking through the foliage. He came up on his knees and brought the harpoon above his head.
Krayer stood shock still, eyes wide, face rutted.
“Throw it!” Fran screamed. “Throw it!”
Webb pulled himself to his feet. Krayer was shaking all over. Webb dropped the harpoon at his side.
He moved across the clearing slowly, walking heavily. Krayer began to laugh. There was no mirth in his laughter. And there was no sanity. He began to scream, wailing that he had lost his arrow. He was Alfred Krayer and he had lost his arrow.
Krayer crouched, arms apart. He hurled himself upon Webb. Webb waited and caught him on the side of the head with his fist, exactly as he had the first time they fought.
Krayer went spinning over on his side. He landed on his arm. Then he turned and lunged toward Webb’s legs. Webb waited and then at last minute brought his knee up into Krayer’s face. Krayer went backward, twisting as he fell.
Millar didn’t wait now. He moved in and when Krayer tried to get up, he caught him by the head. Twisting his neck, he flopped him over on his back. Krayer screamed, high pitched and agonized.
Webb released him and stepped back.
Fran screamed. “Webb! Look out!”
It was too late. Krayer was scrambling toward that harpoon, both arms outstretched. His hands covered it.
Webb leaped outward, knowing that if Krayer had time to turn over, he’d send that knife into his stomach.
He landed hard, knees doubled, in the small of Krayer’s back. He felt the breath explode from Krayer’s mouth and the man slumped hard into the dirt. The harpoon was forgotten, as he tried to gasp in a breath of air.
Webb chopped down on the side of Krayer’s neck and Krayer lay still.
“Don’t trust him,” Fran said. She ran across to the fallen palm, found the rope she’d plaited. It was soggy and stretched, but she brought it to Webb.
He pulled Krayer’s arms around behind him and twisted the rope about his wrists, making a half-dozen knots. Then he tied the rest of the rope about Krayer’s ankles, bending his legs at the knees.
He stood up and looked at Fran.
She moved to him, pressed herself against him. He felt her shiver.
“We’re free,” he said. “Even Krayer must know we’re free now.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “We can stay here … or go anywhere in the world now. We’re free now.”
They heard a voice shouting from the lee side of the island.
They ran through the jungle with hands locked and came out on the beach. The sun was suddenly brilliant in the morning sky, broiling the steam out of the battered foliage and palms behind them.
A whale boat was being beached and a man in a blue officer’s uniform jumped out on the shore.
He came forward. “We saw that white flag yesterday afternoon just before the storm struck. Never would have seen it but had engine trouble, and wind drove us off course. Storm struck and we made for the lee side of this island, anchored, hoping to ride out the storm.”
Fran pressed close against Webb. For a moment, Webb felt that old panic, fear that he would lose her now they were leaving this island.
He felt a sudden compulsion to run — to grab her and run. He breathed deeply, held her closer.
“Anybody else with you?” the captain said.
Fran nodded. “Yes. At our camp. He tried to kill Webb. We had to tie him up.”
The captain nodded. “They get like that. The stress of these wrecks, weeks of hell on these islands. I’ll send some of my men to bring him along. We’ve a place where he’ll be safe on the ship. In a few weeks he should be all right.”
• • •
Krayer was still screaming and moaning when they put him in the bottom of the whale boat. He was Alfred Krayer. He was known all over the world. He had lost his arrow. The rain had beaten out his fire. They knew about the cave and he didn’t know. He was Alfred Krayer. He was known all over the world.
“Too bad,” the captain said. “It’s really too bad.”
In the stern, Webb sat with his arm about Fran. She was content, pressed her head against his shoulder.
Webb glanced forward at the captain.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Webb said. “But where is your ship heading?”
The captain smiled at them. “Why, we’re on our way to Australia,” he said. “Yes. Our next stop is Sydney.”
Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, western, and romance genres.
If you enjoyed this Crime title from Prologue Books, check out other books by Harry Whittington at:
www.prologuebooks.com
Slay Ride for a Lady
Call Me Killer
Drawn to Evil
The Brass Monkey
A Woman On the Place
One Deadly Dawn
Heat of Night
Don’t Speak to Strange Girls
Mourn the Hangman
This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1955 by Ace Books, Inc.
Copyright Registration Renewed © 1983 by Harry Whittington
All rights reserved.
Cover image ©123RF.com
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-4667-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4667-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4497-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4497-2
The Naked Jungle Page 14