‘I think that’s enough for now, Jerry,’ Dr Winston said. ‘I have to clean that wound and get some stitches into it.’
Jasper said, ‘Terrible thing. That white coat, like that you see on a sick man...that was the worst of it, maybe - that and the silent screaming...’
‘Take it easy now,’ Jerry said.
He looked puzzled. Jasper lay back obediently and Winston started cleaning his torn arm. I followed Jerry into the office.
‘What do you think of that?’ he said.
Well, I was thinking of that. The man had tried to claw through solid steel...and John Tate had seen a man - a man in a white coat - try to lift an immovable object. Yet that man had broken his arm and the man who had attacked Sam Jasper had not had a broken arm; Tate’s man had been obedient and devoid of emotion and Jasper’s man had been ferocious. But both had been silent and immured to pain. Elston spoke of the chemicals that warp the fabric of the mind...and someone had torn through that heavy gauge fence. Chunks of the story that fitted together, not in a flat plane like a jigsaw puzzle but in a three-dimensional tableau - fitted together only roughly, but with contours that would dovetail once further knowledge had smoothed the rough edges. My thoughts flitted around through what I knew and I wondered how much I should tell Jerry. I liked and trusted him, and he was the sheriff, but I had an idea that this thing was far beyond his jurisdiction.
I turned to him, intending to speak.
But Jerry was on the phone.
* * * *
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jerry said. ‘Yeah. Security, I guess.’
He waited impatiently, eyebrows raised. The phone made electric noises. Jerry started to say something to me, then paused and listened into the receiver.
‘Yeah, got a problem here,’ he said. ‘Larsen? Yeah, this is Muldoon. Yeah, a guy run amuck, wearing a white coat...you be inclined to know anything about that? You do, huh? What? Naw, I don’t need any assistance...it’s only one guy. What the hell. I can handle it, just wanted to let you know. Sure. I know you got the authority, damn it. But I got a say in the matter, right? Damn right. I’ll hold him for you but I ain’t about to sit on my thumbs while he runs around loose. Forget it. Yeah, yeah, I know.’Jerry sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll expect a couple of your people. But in the meanwhile I’m gonna be looking. What? What?’ he shouted. ‘He’s only one man, how in hell do I arrest him if I don’t get close to him? Are you crazy?’ Jerry set his jaw and glared at the phone. Then he slammed it down in the cradle.
He was angry.
He started to walk out without a word, then stopped and turned to me. He looked bewildered.
‘Shoot him,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what Larsen told me to do. He said not to try to take the man alive, to shoot him. What the hell is happening on this island? He’s only one man!’
Then he walked out.
I hadn’t had a chance to tell him what I knew, but I didn’t suppose it mattered. I figured it was time that I tried to use the telephone myself. . .
* * * *
IX
‘Sorry, sir ... I really can’t say,’ the electronic voice chanted. The operator was nervous. Her words crackled with an electricity of their own. It was as exasperating as conversing with a recording.
‘But surely you have some idea?’
‘Sorry, sir ... a difficulty with the lines.’
I said, ‘Oh, hell,’ and hung up. It was frustrating to have a story and be unable to phone the paper; it built up explosively inside me. Oh, it wasn’t much of a story, really - not yet; not the important expose I’d hoped to get from Elston. But it was certainly worth a phone call. There was something particularly gruesome about the affair, the isolation of a lighthouse, the old keeper trembling in the tower while a madman raged below. It would - I grimaced despite myself - sell newspapers. And that, for better or worse, was what my job was, what any newspaperman’s job was, first and foremost - to sell papers. Whether one did this by revealing truth or popularising culture, by wallowing in scandal or spreading gossip or drawing comic strips, the job was the same. I was feeling cynical. Or maybe just honest with myself, knowing that my real success had come not because my exposé had put a halt to the Warden misappropriations, but because readers, thirsting for the blemished wine of scandal, had bought newspapers. Whatever good had come of it had been no more than a side effect and the public funds that had been saved had been saved for a public that preferred the vicarious thrill of being exploited. And mine was a respectable paper, at that.
Someday, I would write my novel.
Now I was going to write about what was happening on Pelican Cay. But what was happening? I had to find the hinge before I could open this mysterious box. I had uncovered graves of mouldering graft and unsealed Pandoran abuses in the past, but whatever I was looking for here did not deal with self-interest and the profit motive; it was deeper than greed, and more evil. Greed is a trait of living things, an integral slice of the will to survive and evolve, unpleasant, but part of the natural order. Whatever was being wrought behind those high fences had no place in nature.
* * * *
There was no Western Union office on Pelican, but I thought maybe Mary Carlyle could help me. Surely the Coast Guard had communications not dependent on the switchboard and perhaps she could manage to patch me through to New York. With that in mind, I took leave of Dr Winston and headed down the waterfront.
It was then I became aware of how seriously the powers within the compound were taking the hunt for the escaped madman. Uniformed shore patrolmen were all over the place, walking in threes, and I spotted half a dozen civilians strolling about like tourists but with an intent they could not hide ... lean, fit, hard-faced men like Larsen. My nerves began to flash like beacons and my flesh crawled like the tide, carrying the flotsam of foreshadowed fear. I told myself this was a newspaperman’s reaction to a story about to break, but in my heart I knew it was more than that... I was scared.
* * * *
’Jack!’
It was Mary, coming towards me. I noticed that she had a bandage on her knee, where she’d struck it against the stanchion. I said, ‘I was just coming to see you,’ and she said, ‘I was just going to see Jerry. Is Sam all right?’
I told her, briefly and without the gory details, what had happened. She watched my face as I spoke. I added that Jerry wasn’t likely to be in his office for a while and she looked around, as if she expected to see him.
‘Poor Sam,’ she said. ‘I’m glad he’s all right.’
‘Listen, Mary ... Is there any way you can connect me to the mainland from the Coast Guard depot? The telephone lines seem to be out.’
She nodded. ‘I know. And I could, although we aren’t supposed to use the radio now...except that I’m out, too.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been given the day off. Dismissed, and quite curtly. Something very hush-hush is going on. I left the depot sort of flustered and forgot my handbag. When I went back for it there was a guard on the door. He wouldn’t let me in. They sent the bag out to me, but for some reason they don’t want anyone in there. The radio, I suppose. It figures, what with the telephones not working ... or being worked...’ She looked around again, looking for Jerry or, perhaps, determination. She said, ‘Look, I have nothing to do now, Jack; I can run you over to the Keys in the launch, if you like. You can phone from there.’
I considered it. I have regretted my decision since, but at the time it seemed premature to leave Pelican before the madman had been captured ... to rush off with the first half of a story only to be gone when the conclusion occurred. If I had...but perhaps, even then, they would not have let us go. At any rate, I said, ‘Well ... let me buy you a drink, Mary; I may take you up on your offer later.’
Now Mary seemed indecisive, fidgeting with her handbag and looking around.
She said, ‘Do you think there’s any connection?’ I knew exactly what she meant, but she added, ‘Between Elston
and the attack on Sam Jasper?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So do I.’
‘I must talk to him again.’
‘It’s more than a story, isn’t it? I mean...something grotesque is going on here.’ She gestured in that way she had, turning a hand over. ‘Something that will affect us all.’ It had already affected her; I saw the effect registered in her face, troubled and concerned. Two shore patrolmen walked past us with angular strides. A third came up behind, quickly; hurrying to catch up. Mary glanced at them. Then she smiled slightly and said, ‘I’ll take that drink, Jack. I’ve nothing to do. Nothing ed. I can do,’ she added.
I could tell she didn’t feel like making any decisions, even in selecting a place to have a drink. I took her arm and guided her towards the nearest bar.
* * * *
‘How’s your knee?’ I asked.
’Ummm? Oh, it’s okay. You have to be careful if you get any sort of break in the skin here. The coral dust is liable to get in it...keeps it to from healing.’ She touched her thigh, just above the bandage. ‘Silly of me; I was in such a hurry to cast you off. I like Sam Jasper.’
‘Well, he’s all right, it wasn’t serious; just scared him.’
I believed that to be true.
We were sitting in a pleasant dockside tavern. The bar was fashioned out of the side of a rowboat and we were sitting at the gunwales. At gunport had been cut out of the side of the boat in the middle and the snout of an old iron cannon thrust out. It made for a nice decor and I wondered if, in the wild days, loaded with grapeshot, it had ever been used to clear the premises of rowdies? The bartender wore a headrag and eyepatch and addressed the customers as landlubbers, but he seemed to enjoy his role so hugely that it didn’t seem phony. A few locals were drinking rum at round wooden tables and a drunk slept, undisturbed, at the stern of the bar. Mary and I, by tacit agreement, were not talking about what we both were thinking and it made the conversation somewhat disjointed. She was a very pretty girl, but I didn’t think about that, either. Then, by some strange alchemy, we knew that something had happened.
It came to us, and to the other customers, as if by a vibration sensed below the level of sound, just flirting with awareness. Drinking men looked up from their drinks, puzzled; Mary and I exchanged a glance. One does not explain these things. A moment later a young bait-cutter rushed in with the news that Sam Jasper’s attacker had been captured. A sigh - silent but definite - passed through the drinkers, not so much because they hated or feared the madman, but because, independent men, they resented having the wharfs and streets crawling with shore patrol. The bait-cutter knew no details, he had only got the news a moment before, but no one doubted it.
I said, ‘Let’s go see Jerry. I’d like to get some details. Then you can run me across to the Keys, if you will.’
Mary agreed.
We finished our drinks and walked down the waterfront to the police station through crowded streets that hummed with excitement.
* * * *
The police station was a small, concrete building with Jerry’s office in the front and a single cell at the back. Jerry was sitting on the edge of his desk, the door to the cell was open and the cell was empty. Jerry looked bemused. He smiled when he saw Mary, but it was a serious sort of smile.
‘We heard...’ Mary started.
‘You get that knee fixed up?’ he asked.
‘Yes. We heard ...’
‘Yeah, we got him.’
I glanced towards the cell again.
‘Naw, he ain’t here. They got him.’ He slid from the desk and moved to the door, closing it for no apparent reason - just something to do. He said, ‘I found him but I let them take him. I don’t know. Something about the way Larsen talked on the phone ... I don’t like the guy, don’t like men like him, but he impressed me...maybe that ain’t the word I mean, but anyhow...’ He reached up to his head, as if intending to adjust his hatbrim, but he wasn’t wearing a hat. His hand hovered before his face and he looked embarrassed; he scratched his cheek, just as he’d closed the door - for something to do. Then he looked directly at us and said, ‘I guess maybe I mean he scared me.’ Then, wanting no comments on that admission, he went on, ‘I found him hiding in a jumble of crates down on Third Wharf. Not hiding, exactly...just sort of sitting there. I was going to arrest him, I found him, Larsen be damned, but it was the damnedest thing...’
He hesitated. Mary and I said nothing, knowing he was wondering if he should continue. Then his jaw set. A look of distaste contorted his handsome countenance.
‘He was eating a dead dog,’ he said.
* * * *
Mary gave a little gasp and her face twisted up. I felt faintly sick. Jerry said, ‘A little brown dog. Just a stray. Don’t know if he killed it or found it dead, but he was squatting there beside the crates just sort of picking at it...not really eating as if he were hungry, but just pulling a piece off from time to time and chewing it, sort of like he couldn’t decide if it was to his taste...more curious than hungry. Just a little brown stray...’
‘Eating a dog!’ Mary rasped. ‘The poor man!’
‘Poor dog, the way I see it,’ Jerry said.
‘Oh my God ...’
‘Chemicals that warp the fabric of the mind...’ I whispered, but they didn’t hear me.
Jerry said, ‘Well, I saw that ... I didn’t try to make the arrest. I called Larsen and then I just stayed back and watched the guy. I see what Sam meant about that white coat, it was sort of eerie...worse than if he’d been naked, you know? Coat was all spattered with blood by then and the tails were dragging on the wharf. He’d tug at it from time to time, as if he would have liked to take it off but didn’t know how. Then the damnedest thing happened...they sent a truck down from the compound. Like a dog catcher’s van, it was, with a cage in the back. And must of been a dozen guys with it. Not shore patrol. Some of them were Larsen’s crew, dark suits and all, and some were...well, doctors, I guess. They were all plenty scared. Even them hard-faced guys, they were scared. The guys in suits had rifles. And...listen to this! The doctors had nets!’
‘Nets?’ I said, stupidly.
‘Nets. Goddamn nets. Just like they was butterfly collectors...just like in the cartoons, when the warders snag a crazy guy with butterfly nets. But the nets weren’t like in cartoons, really...they weren’t on the end of poles, I mean. Just big nets with ropes on ‘em, sort of like the gladiators, some of them, use in Hollywood films ... or in old Rome, far as I know. They ignored me and I didn’t say a word. The guys with the nets whispered together, then began to move in on him from all sides - three sides, there was a big crate on one side.’ I had the impression that Jerry was trying to be absolutely accurate in his description, as if he didn’t think we would believe him - or didn’t believe it, himself. ‘The guys from Larsen’s crew kept their rifles trained on him, the way they looked, all tense and tight jawed, I knew they would of shot him the moment he made a move. Just the one guy, but they would of shot him. I never had call to shoot a guy, myself,’ he said irrelevantly; then, to the point: ‘Seeing them that way, what did I do but draw my own gun. Didn’t mean to. Just sort of had it in my hand before I knew it. Well...they moved in and tossed the nets over him. He was preoccupied, he didn’t seem to notice. They got about six nets onto him from all angles. Then, holding the ropes, they started to pull him towards the van. The minute he felt them tugging, he went berserk. He began to thrash about, he was rolling in the dead dog and tearing at the nets...foaming at the mouth...but he didn’t make no sound. Lord, that fella was strong. He got to his feet, even though all six of the doctors were hauling to keep him off balance, and he sort of staggered in one direction while the men on that side backed off and those on the other side tried to hold him and got dragged along. He had one hand out from the nets, all hooked up like a talon, reaching for them. Made my flesh crawl. Few strands of the net parted and I could see they had wire inside the rope, no way he could break the nets, but he sure
tried.’ Jerry paused for breath. He was sweating. ‘Finally they got him to the van, more by coaxing him that way than hauling him, and they prodded him with long poles until he tumbled inside, into the cage. They tossed the ropes in and slammed the doors and bolted them. He was hammering on the inside of the van and the metal was bulging out when he hit it. Then they drove off. Nobody said a word to me and I didn’t ask.’
Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 69