Bed of Nails

by Michael Slade

  “You have a tattoo?” Zinc asked.

  “Maybe,” Yvette replied.

  “I doubt it. I’ve seen most of you.”

  “But not all of me.”

  “Then I guess I’ll never know,” he said, sighing.

  “You never know,” she said.

  They accompanied his luggage through the garden of Eden in the center of the resort, depositing his bag beside hers in reception while Zinc checked out. A handsome Cook Islander in a blue Polynesian shirt with a name on his tag that the Mountie couldn’t pronounce processed his Visa card, then Zinc and Yvette boarded the airport bus.

  “Kia Orana”—“Hello”—read the overhead welcome sign at their backs.

  The literal translation was “May you live.”

  Which was more to the point.

  The bus continued clockwise around the island, in the same direction as that driven when Zinc had arrived. As it rounded the west coast to reach the airport along the northwest shore, it passed a big white missionary church in Arorangi village, the first to be built on the island, in 1849. Just up the road from it and before a nine-hole golf course, Yvette pointed down to the beach.

  “Black Rock,” she said.

  “I saw that film.”

  “Bad Day at Black Rock? I saw it too.”

  “Spencer Tracy.”

  “The one-armed man. He lays Ernest Borgnine flat with a karate chop.”

  “You like old movies?”

  “Better than the shit Hollywood turns out these days,” she replied.

  “Why so much crap?”

  “They ceased buying novels. Instead, Hollywood churns out plots with no foundation. Like buildings, they topple.”

  Not only did Yvette look like Alex, but their interests ran parallel too.

  Another writer.

  Another retro addict.

  “Petra’s the expert on missionaries.” Again, Yvette indicated the passing beach. “I think it’s some sort of danse macabre between her and her dad.”

  “The preacher’s daughter,” said Zinc.

  “It can really screw you up. Anything you need for a plot, just ask her. Black Rock is where the spirits of the dead departed from Rarotonga for their voyage back to Avaiki.”

  “Hawaii? A land of ghosts? I thought that was where zonked-out surfers went to wear puka shells?”

  “It sounds like Hawaii, but it’s not. In fact, Hawaii takes its name from the mythical Avaiki. Polynesians viewed the universe as the hollow of a vast coconut shell. Avaiki was at the center. They had no conception of a creator. Instead, they believed that their islands had been dragged up out of the depths of Avaiki—the Netherworld—otherwise known as Po, or the Night. These islands were merely the gross outward form, or body, so the spirits of the dead returned to Avaiki and added their ethereal essence to the other world.”

  “From Black Rock?”

  “Uh-huh. From the beach below. So imagine what Cook Islanders must have thought in 1823 when Papeiha, the first Christian missionary, waded ashore to the same beach, clasping the Bible over his head to bring the word of God from a distant realm.”

  “I’ll bet there’s a story in that,” Zinc teased.

  “Tinomana was the local cannibal chief. He challenged Papeiha to eat a banana roasted on a burning idol from his sacred marae. When the missionary didn’t drop dead on the spot, the chief became the first Cook Islander to convert. Within a year, all the idols on Raro had been overthrown and burned. Tinomana gave the missionaries the land for the church we just passed. Papeiha is buried in the center of its graveyard, beneath the giant monument erected by his descendants. The missionary married the daughter of the chief, but Tinomana isn’t buried at the church. Instead, his bones are up on the hill behind Arorangi, near the old marae from his cannibal days.”

  “Is there a moral?”

  “There’s certainly a question. Did the chief have second thoughts about the new religion?”

  Daylight had downscaled the Rarotonga airport appreciably. Gone was the Air New Zealand Boeing 767 jet from the single runway’s ramp, and in its stead sat a tiny eighteen-passenger Air Rarotonga Bandeirante turboprop. The plane was a dainty little thing. The white fuselage ran back to a two-toned blue tail patterned with three pink flowers. The pilots looked like a pair of kindergarten kids strolling toward a toy plane in their schoolboy duds: blue shorts and white kneesocks, gray shirts with blue epaulets, and aviator shades. Zinc felt like Gulliver in Lilliput, for everything about this island was on a miniature scale. The building beside the runway and closer to the shore was erected in 1973 as a hostel for the New Zealand workers who had been imported to construct the airport to bring tourists to the islands. It was now the Cook Islands Parliament, and the bedrooms were the offices of the prime minister and other officials.

  The interisland check-in was an open-air shed. The boarding gate was a hole in a hedge. A swath of grass with benches served as a waiting lounge. Security did not involve a rectal search. Instead, the Mountie and Yvette simply walked through the hedge and across the scorching Tarmac to the stairs up into the plane, which pulled down out of the fuselage like a stepping stool. If it was hot outside, it was an oven within. A single file of seats flanked each side of the aisle back to a bench in the rear. Sweat was dripping off Zinc by the time he buckled himself into the front row. His seat was 1G, which made no sense. The turboprop was just outside his window. He knew of a case in North America where a prop had spun off a plane and slashed into the fuselage to decapitate a passenger sitting in the front row.

  The Bandeirante buzzed like a hornet on takeoff. Sunlight glinted off the silver nose cone of the prop as they lifted up, up, and away. Because the takeoff was out to sea to the west, and the island of Atiu was back to the east, the plane banked sharply and gave Zinc a bird’s-eye look down on Rarotonga. Being the only high volcanic island in the Cooks, it was a mountainous maze of razorback ridges, steep valleys, and tumbling white cascades. The mountains were what remained of the rim of the volcanic cone, and except for a jutting spike of rock known as the Needle, the highlands were covered with dense green jungle. As Zinc’s eyes plunged down the inclines to Muri Lagoon, they picked out white goats and black pigs grazing in papaw patches and citrus groves, and men with shovels digging out swampy taro fields.

  “See where we were?” Yvette asked, leaning across the aisle. She had to shout over the droning of the engines and the whooshing of air that did little to quell the oven heat.

  “Yeah, I see the motus. And the passage through the reef.”

  “There’s a story behind that.”

  “Do I want to know?” Zinc joshed.

  “In less than forty-five minutes, we’ll land on Atiu. Both Bret and Wes are going to wonder why you’re there. Your cover story is that like the burnt-out lawyers on the Odyssey, you hope writing will be a ticket out of your current job. The theme of this junket is cannibal plots. Does it not behoove you as a cop to show as much interest in your new career as possible?”

  “Feed me,” Zinc said.

  “The Cook Islands are the crossroads of the South Pacific. What’s ironic is that Cook all but ignored them. His paradises were Tahiti to the east and Tonga to the west. The only Cook Island that Cook actually set foot on was the deserted atoll of Palmerston. He named them the Hervey Islands, after some insignificant British admiral. Half a century later, the Herveys were renamed the Cooks by a Russian cartographer to honor the captain who had sailed them.”

  Zinc knew that. But he loved to hear her talk. And it didn’t hurt to see down her neckline while Yvette leaned over.

  “What would you call the Cooks?” he asked.

  “I’d call them the Blighs.”

  “After the Bounty?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Captain Bligh discovered Aitutaki to the north in 1789. Seventeen days later, en route to Tonga, the mutiny occurred. The Bounty, under Fletcher Christian, discovered Rarotonga while sailing the South Seas to find a place to hide from the British na
vy. Their hunters—Captain Edwards on HMS Pandora—came through too. And a few years later, Bligh returned. A lot of thrilling history played out here, so I think Captain Bligh should get the nod.”

  “Is that your story?”

  “No, that’s the buildup. The Bounty discovered Rarotonga, but the mutineers didn’t land. The next ship that passed by found sandalwood in the sea, a valuable commodity in Asia for making incense joss sticks. So an Australian sandalwood company sent Capt. Philip Goodenough and the Cumberland to Rarotonga in 1814 to harvest that plant. Goodenough took his female companion, Ann Butcher, along, so she became the first European woman in the Cooks. The whites came ashore at Muri Lagoon and stayed for three months. Eventually, a series of squabbles arose. The sailors hauled local women off to the ship for sex. On discovering nono, a plant that produces yellow dye, they dug it up in front of the sacred marae. And when they tried to steal a hoard of coconuts from the wrong man, all hell broke loose. One by one, the whites were chased down, hacked apart, and eaten. Ann Butcher was abducted by a cannibal named Moe. His plan was to take her as a lover, but another lust got the better of him. As Goodenough sailed away to save his sorry ass, she was being butchered and roasted on a spit.”

  “That was the layer of history under our feet?”

  “What do you think? It’s a true story.”

  “With a lot of play on words. Ann got cooked in the Cook Islands. Goodenough’s girlfriend was good enough to eat. And the cannibal who abducted her butchered Ann Butcher.”

  “Mind if I use that?” Yvette asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  “That’s the story I plan to write out of this Odyssey. I’m going to tell it from Ann’s point of view.”

  Sunlight streamed into that side of the plane. Through the opening into the cockpit, Zinc watched the pilot wedge a square of cardboard into his side window as a sunscreen. After readjusting a dial to trim the plane, he went back to reading a binder entitled “Operating Manual.” Zinc hoped he was studying to upgrade to another model, and not to learn about the one they were in.

  Glancing out his window, he gazed down at the dark blue sea. The shadow of the plane slipped across it like a sleek-nosed shark. The bright blue sky was wisped with white clouds, behind which peeked the face of a faint moon.

  Zinc’s ears popped as the plane began its sharp descent. Ahead, he spied a flat verdant island, with no visible settlements around its rocky coast. Foaming white, the narrow reef seemed more like a shelf in the sea, as if the entire island had been jacked up a notch or two. Here and there, a shallow bay indented the shore.

  “Cannibal Island,” Yvette announced, a mite too loud on account of her plugged ears.

  Zinc craned around in his seat to assess if any islanders behind him had overheard, then realized to his chagrin that he and Yvette were the only tourists on board. The rest of the passengers were Polynesian, and probably flying home. Most of the females were heavyset, because starches make up all the staple foods. They were dressed in free-flowing shifts with bright flower patterns, and some were wrangling fidgety kids with topknots in their hair. With their golden skin, dark locks, broad faces, and fingers as plump as sausages, the men looked unlikely to run from a fight. The hulks behind both Yvette and Zinc could wrestle as a tag team with the WWF. One wore a straw hat with a chevron band that matched the tattoo etched around his neck. The other could be a pirate from bygone days, with his shaved head, goatee, bandana, earrings, and similar tattoos.

  “Kia orana,” the Mountie said.

  The Cook Islander smiled. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “We won’t eat you.”

  The killers of the two Hanged Man victims and the Cthulhu sculptor stood beside the makeshift runway of crushed rock, shielding their eyes with the palms of their hands to watch the plane that carried Zinc and Yvette descend out of the shimmering sky.

  “Think we gaffed him?”

  “We’ll know soon enough. What about the spearguns?”

  “They’re in that carryall.”

  “Did you see the sign above the departure gate? ‘Please Check All AK-47s, Hand Grenades, and Nukes at Security!’”

  “Someone has a sense of humor. You’d never see that back home. Spearguns are common, so we’re okay. Spearfishing is widely promoted to draw sportsmen to the Cooks.”

  “We’re going after bigger fish.”

  “That we are. Get spiked with one of those barbs and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”

  “Pun intended?”

  “Our pig is gonna squeal. Are you sure you’re able to go through with this?”

  “What? Eat him alive?”

  “It’s a big step. The last taboo.”

  “A year and a half went into planning the Ripper’s revenge. You know what he says about revenge being a dish best served cold? I’m here to party. Bring it on. You fuck her. I’ll fuck him. Then we’ll eat that fucking pig’s pork down to the bone.”

  CANNIBAL ISLAND

  Atiu, Cook Islands

  Petra Zydecker was waiting at the foot of the dinky stairs that had been lowered out of the plane. As Zinc stepped down onto the hot concrete slab that acted as an airport apron, she draped a lei—called an ei kaki in the Cooks—around his neck. The white-and-yellow flowers of the garland necklace emitted a pungent scent.

  “In your golden years,” Petra said, “you can tell your grandkids that you got leied by the goth queen of Cannibal Island.”

  “Thanks,” said Zinc.

  “Meitaki ma’ata.”

  “You look … comfortable.”

  “I’m the scandal of the island. You won’t believe how religiously repressed Atiu is. If you stroll through town in a bikini, the locals worry that you’re walking past their church in your underwear. You’d never guess I’m a preacher’s daughter, eh?”

  “Actually, you would,” Zinc said dryly.

  Black was still her color, even when she was almost stripped to her skin. The black silk that slinked around her body at the World Horror Convention had been shed like a black mamba snake’s scales for a black bikini and a black pareu the size of the miniest of miniskirts. Cleavage to rival Vampirella’s was wantonly on display, while her pale flesh, pinking from the sun despite a slather of sunblock, oozed sweat in the most erotic way. Her glossy black hair, still parted down the middle and still curving around her face like pincers, couldn’t rein in those wayward hanks that stuck to her damp cheeks. Despite the heat, her lips and nails were lacquered black, and that all-consuming color was picked up by her tattoos, delicate Gothic designs etched on her upper arms. Even the lei around her neck that hid the string of baby’s teeth was of natural or dyed black flowers.

  “I’m hurt,” pouted Petra.

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Did I not invite you down here at the horror convention? Instead, you jilted me to fuck Yvette Goody Two-shoes.”

  “I’m not fucking her.”

  “Not yet. But somehow I doubt you came down here for the glare of the sun.”

  “I came to learn how to write. What about you?”

  “Write? Me too. You may have heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Cannibals and converts—that’s what Atiu is about. Let me tell you, Officer, there’s dark inspiration here. On the part of both the people-eaters and the missionaries.”

  “So who’s your current patron of the arts? Bret or Wes?”

  “Bret. Wes. Both. Neither. What does it matter? In my realm, I’m my own woman. I fuck who I want to fuck.”

  “Not me,” said Zinc.

  “Uh-huh. That depends on Yvette. If she doesn’t feed your libido, I may just eat you up.”

  Lord knows what the Atiuan passengers thought as they filed past the papa’as. Papa’a—“four skins”—is what the islanders call Europeans and other foreigners. It refers to the four skins—jacket, shirt, singlet, and their own skin—that the first explorers wore. Also, because Cook Island males are circumcised in a manhood ritual at age twelve, the term can be
derogatory.

  As the first person off the plane, Yvette was already shaded in the terminal, which was nothing more than an open walkthrough shed beside the rural runway. It served as a gathering place for passengers and baggage. The baggage on this plane was stored in a compartment behind the left-side wing, and while Zinc and Petra were sparring by the steps in front, the ground crew—such as it was—had unloaded the cargo onto a pull cart powered by human sweat. The papa’as followed their bags into the terminal.

  “Well, well,” Lister said. “Who do we have here?”

  “Hello, Bret,” Zinc replied.

  “Come to extradite me?”

  “No, to learn how to write. You did offer an Odyssey opening to those at the convention, didn’t you? Well, I got to thinking about it and decided what the hell.”

  “So here you are?”

  “Here I am.”

  “Sneaking aboard like a stowaway.”

  “How so? I asked Yvette to make arrangements for me. Should I have gone to you? Besides, you’re lucky I showed up. The rumor is you put half your students in the hospital.”

  “That was bad beer.”

  “I’m glad I don’t drink.”

  Bret Lister looked like a high-strung man teetering on a tightrope. Though it was high noon in the tropics and everyone else was feeling the heat, the lawyer-turned-writer was pacing the shed like a doomed man at the hour of his execution. The black bags under his eyes cried out for sleep; it was as if he hadn’t stopped going since the Odyssey began, which made the Mountie wonder if Bret was hyped on coke or speed. The wild and glassy glare of his eyes suited the weed patch of stubble sprouting from his bony jaws, while the sinews in his long and lanky frame—revealed around the edges of his open sweat-stained shirt—showed bowstring tautness. Bret was ready for action and itching to have it start. He was also in need of a shower, not having bathed for days.