Ten Thousand Islands

by Randy Wayne White

  I looked at the mess that, minutes before, had been an efficient, high-tech dig site. The flume and the generator were in pieces. No way the pump would still work with all the sand Nora had jammed into its fuel tank. Same with the backhoe. Lots and lots of expensive damage, with air still hissing out of industrial tires, telling anyone with an ounce of sense that the person who’d slit those tires was still on the island, very close by.

  I said, “At least you didn’t set their machinery on fire.”

  Nora was holding the club like a bat, looking in the direction of the approaching voices. “Uh-huh, that’s the one bad thing about not bringing cigarettes. You never have a lighter when you need one.”

  14

  When the punk rockers came crashing down the path into the clearing, I stood facing them, wearing a big smile. I said in a loud, cheery, voice, “Well, well. Look who just stepped into our trap. You boys have some explaining to do!” Acting very friendly but vexed, like a school principal unhappy with their behavior.

  I wasn’t certain it was the punkers at first. There were two males, no doubt about that, but they wore mosquito head nets and long sleeves. It gave them an entirely different look: forty-year-old beekeepers or butterfly collectors on expedition. They could have been that.

  But when they stopped, surprised to find us standing there, it allowed me a moment to observe the knobby hands of the leader; it was the tall guy with the dragon tattoo. Yep, and the distinctive body width of his slouching partner suggested he was the kid with the snake crawling up his arm.

  When categorizing strangers, the brain differentiates by that which is most obvious: Female/male, black/white, Dragon/ Snake.

  The chubby girls weren’t with them?

  Yes … but only one. She came stumbling down through the brush, fanning at the haze of mosquitoes around her head net and making a woo-woo-woo wailing sound that I initially thought was sobbing, but translated after a few seconds of listening: “You two … hey, you two! Bastards went off and left me—!” But then she saw me and said very quickly, “Oh, shit!” and froze as if she was playing that old kid’s game, statue.

  Her abrupt silence accentuated the hushed stares of the two men who’d stopped a few yards from me. We stood there listening to the birds and insect whine and steady thud-a-thud-a-thud of construction over on Marco.

  Dragon was closest; Snake a follower’s pace or two behind. The girl now pulling in closer, using Snake as a shield. Dragon was the spokesman as well.

  “What’d you just say mister? I must’a not heard you right.”

  I repeated myself, remaining cheerful but adding a condescending note, letting them know who was in charge.

  Dragon had an unexpectedly deep voice, the hint of a New Jersey accent, and his words were accompanied by a mysterious metallic clicking noise. It took me a moment to realize that, along with the horseshoe in his lip, he had something skewered through his tongue. A silver bead, it appeared to be. It kept hitting his teeth, which created the clicking. Tough to see through the netting.

  “Trap? I got no idea what you’re talking about, man. We don’t know nothing ’bout no trap. This machinery here, that what you mean? We never seen this stuff before—” He stopped, saw the wreckage for the first time and it really hit a nerve. An expression of shock crossed his face, and his chest started heaving.

  “Holy shit, the whole fucking place is wrecked, man!”

  I stood smiling, saying nothing.

  “Jesus Christ! Who did this? Did you people do this?”

  I said, “Do what?” Still cheery, but virtuous, too.

  “Who the hell … hey, do you know how much that equipment’s worth, mister? Fucking backhoe alone is like fifty, sixty grand. Fucking pump, the generator—goddamn it, I bought that myself—” He caught himself just in time, and stood there, visibly trying to regain control.

  I said mildly, “I thought you’d never seen the equipment before.”

  Snake was peeking out to see; so was the girl. “Jesus Christ, Tony, your dad’s gonna shit when he sees what happened to his gear.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Derrick!”

  So the spokesman, Tony, was Dragon. Derrick was Snake.

  Very gradually, I had been moving toward them, trying to force eye contact. In return, I’d been receiving all the comforting signs of submission that are similar in primates and pack animals. Tony would not return my glare. He kept his head down when listening; looked beyond me and to the side when speaking. For each step I moved toward him, he scooched back a foot or two.

  I didn’t have a very clear plan of what I wanted to do, but I knew if I could bully their leader, the followers wouldn’t be a problem. They certainly recognized me from the funeral. Already, they’d identified me as someone in authority. I couldn’t say I was a cop. Lie about being a cop and, no matter what, you’re going to court along with the bad guys. But if I could reinforce the impression of unquestionable authority, I might be able to leverage them into giving me information. If I got real lucky, I could maybe con them into following me to Marco for a meeting with Detective Parrish.

  Dr. Ford, did you tell the accused that you were an officer of the law?

  Absolutely not.

  This deposition is being taken under oath.

  I’m aware of that. I have no idea why those three people followed my orders. They must’a jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  That was the best I could hope for. It was a stretch, but what other options did I have?

  I said to Tony, “Know what I think you boys ought to do? First thing is, take off those nets. Makes you look like someone tied a bag over your head. Like the old joke about being so ugly?” I watched them slouch in sullen protest before I barked, “Get ’em off NOW!”

  They jumped a little; ripped the nets off and tossed them on the ground as if they were throwing down weapons.

  Derrick’s hair was longish, dyed an iridescent maroon. Tony had the spiked purple hair; the kid Tomlinson had said would chew through a man’s chest to get to his heart. Both of them had lots and lots of body piercings, ears, eyebrows, lips. Tony had a nose ring, too, brass with a turquoise setting.

  Had he been wearing the nose ring at the funeral? No. It was the sort of thing impossible not to notice. Maybe he removed it for formal occasions. Such a thoughtful kid.

  “Girls, too. Lose the head net, sweetie. We want a good look at your face before we start asking questions, then haul your butts into jail. Grave robbing. A charge like that, you’re gonna spend a year or so behind bars—unless you cooperate.”

  “Grave robbing?” The girl pulled the net off, showing her flushed cheeks, eyebrows and ears slotted with rings, already sobbing. Her voice had the same irritating whine that it had when she was angry. “I didn’t rob no graves, mister, I don’t got nothin’ to do with what these guys did. I haven’t done nothin’ wrong, I swear to Jesus, honest. They’re like, ‘Hey, Tisha, let’s go for a boat ride. We’ll show you this cool island.’ And I’m like, ‘Why not, I got nothin’ better to do.’ So, yeah, I go with them on the boat, but I don’t got a damn thing to do with diggin’ shit up. That’s all their idea.”

  I’m like, they’re like—Tomlinson says the uneducated must now speak in the third-person present tense because their only reality is a television screen or a computer screen. Their brains can convert images but not ideas.

  I said, “Really, Tisha? You’re just an innocent bystander.”

  “Yeah, really. You got to believe me. But already, you’re like, hey, I’m guilty just being here, but I’m not, so please don’t put me in jail, mister. I’m not even eighteen yet; I still got to finish high school, so please don’t take me in.”

  I’ve known worthless teenagers who grew to be first-rate adults. As of now, though, this was a sad and unattractive little girl who was on the fast track to an empty future.

  Time once again for my bemused smile. “You weren’t helping them dig? Then how’d you know they were looking for something?”
>
  “Shut your fucking mouth, Tisha! Both of you, shut up, don’t say another word!” Tony was losing it: knees wagging as if he needed to urinate; fingers snapping; tongue moving, wetting his lower lip as if to cover the lip ring while showing the silver stud in his tongue. He seemed to be on sensory overload, and probably for good reason. Daddy’s equipment had been ruined and, very soon, he’d have to ask Daddy to bail him out of jail. Or so he thought.

  Push any living thing into a corner, get too close, and sooner or later it will fight.

  It was time for me to back off just a tad, return them to their comfort zone.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance.

  Tony was still talking. “What’s your point, mister? You wanna arrest us, arrest us. But I’m tellin’ ya right now, lotta important people know my dad and he’s gonna go fucking ape shit when he finds out what you did to his equipment. So you’re in trouble, too, dude. I don’t care if you’re a cop or not; you had no right to ruin all that expensive shit.”

  Nora had remained an effective background prop, stern and official-looking in her military BDUs. Arms folded, staring at them through blue mirrored sunglasses, she did a good job of playing my loyal backup. But then Tony looked at her and said, “Hey, if you two are cops, where’s your guns? And how ’bout you show us some identification.”

  Nora said, “We’ve got guns, dumbass. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “We keep them locked on the patrol boat.”

  I watched the expression in Tony’s face change very, very slowly. Cartoons use a lightbulb to illustrate sudden understanding. I saw a light appear in Tony’s eyes. He was a big lanky guy with ropy muscles, not used to being bullied. “Really? Cops who leave their guns behind. Know what, lady? I think you’re full of shit.”

  Now he was considering me, considering the odds; gauging what his best move would be. The women canceled each other. But there were two of him and only one of me. It put a thin smile on his face. He actually seemed to swell up as he stood a little straighter. Then he made direct, glaring eye contact and I listened to him say, “Then fuck you, dude. Some asshole with glasses and GI Jane. You two wrecked my dad’s gear. Then you stand there like hot shits, giving us orders?” He gave a little chuckle of relief. “Some people, they are like so fucking stupid. Seriously. Couple of hicks, I think that’s what we got here.”

  Now he was moving slowly to my right. He glanced over his shoulder at Derrick, communicating something.

  Derrick seemed to understand instinctively and began to move slowly to our left.

  Like elements of submissive behavior, aggressive behavior is just as telling. This slow dividing of pack members and changing of angles was typical. They were moving into attack formation.

  I took a step back, shielding Nora. I said to her softly, “From now on, just follow my lead.”

  She still didn’t get it. “What’s that supposed to mean? These people have no right to accuse us. After what they’ve done?”

  Tony had one of the shovels in his hands now, looking at it, testing the heft of it.

  I said to her, “You watch too many movies.”

  • • •

  The best approach in any conflict is find a way to win without fighting. I tried. I offered Tony and his little friends logical, conciliatory options, even implying we’d pay for the damage, Nora and me backing away a little bit at a time, until he said, “Fuck you, four-eyes. Mister big shot back at the chick’s grave. So look at you now, big shot. Begging.”

  When he mentioned “grave,” something happened.

  It was the word, or maybe his flippant tone, I’m not sure which, but hearing it changed something in me. It brought the pale image of a sleeping girl into my mind once more. That powerful image was accompanied by a low-pitched roaring in my ears. The sound is not unknown to me. It was an occasional visitor from a dark, dark room.

  I said softly to Tony, very softly, feeling the words of a stranger flow out with my breath: “Begging? I’m begging?”

  “Yeah, dude. You can’t hear yourself? Then you must be deaf, man.”

  I have my own rule when it comes to dealing with more than one attacker, and it has nothing to do with deception. The rule is simple: do your damnedest to eliminate the weakest attackers first.

  Do it quickly, brutally, and you will not have to deal with that attacker ever again. It allows you to give full attention to the man who can do you the most harm.

  I watched Tony lift the shovel in both hands and rest it on his shoulder as he walked slowly toward us. He had a nasty little smile on his face; he looked like some freaky laborer on his way to work.

  By moving in opposite directions, they’d reached an angle of separation where I had to face Tony or I had to face Derrick. I knew that the man at my back would be the first to charge, so I faced Tony. He was still coming toward us, but now I was paying less attention to what I saw than what I heard.

  Derrick, a big, doughy man, was behind me. I listened to his careful steps. He’d gotten into some of that black muck. I could hear it sucking at his boots.

  Good, he’d be a little less agile. He didn’t look particularly agile to begin with. Probably in his early twenties, but lots of baby fat.

  “What’s the matter there, dude? Don’t want to beg no more? Big ol’ nerd like you, you ought to be on your knees right now.”

  I gave Tony a very different kind of smile. “It’s those pretty earrings of yours. I don’t know whether to beg or flirt.”

  I half expected Tony to come lunging, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Momentarily, his eyes bulged. Nothing more. He was probably waiting for the same thing I was anticipating—Derrick to make his move.

  Derrick was back there now, clumping along, trying to work up his courage. At least, I hoped he was. I kept waiting and waiting as Tony drew closer.

  Tony was about three shovel-lengths away, but moving more slowly. Yep, he wasn’t going to do a damn thing until Derrick attacked.

  There are active cowards and passive cowards. Neither are decisive. They almost always need a visual stimulant to act.

  I decided to give Derrick an opening he couldn’t refuse.

  Nora was to my right. She was still holding her dumb little club, a fierce expression on her face. Not at all like the chubby girl who now stood watching from the perimeter. I could hear her siren voice yelling, “Kill ’em, you guys! Beat the shit out of ’em. Kick that mouthy bitch!”

  Desperation has a tone and so does fear. I tried to imitate both when I said loudly, “Okay, okay, enough. We don’t want any trouble, we quit, we give up. We’ll do whatever you want us to do.”

  Nora rebuked me with a swift turn of the head, eyes furious with disappointment. “What? Don’t speak for me, buster.”

  Now I held my hands up in the most primitive gesture of surrender: palms face-high and turned outward. “I mean it. We’ll do anything you want. Just please tell that girl to shut up about killing us because there’s no reason for anyone to get hurt,” which is when I heard the brush crash behind me as Derrick came charging from behind …

  I didn’t want Nora within reach of Tony’s shovel, so I swung her hard to my left, catapulting her toward the blustering Tisha. I ducked as I threw her, allowing the momentum to carry me around so that my eyes were belt-high as Derrick plowed toward me.

  He’d found a club. I’d expected him to have something. It was wood, about the width of a broom handle but not as long.

  When he swung at me, he gave a grunt of effort, put all his considerable weight into it, which threw him off-balance. I leaned away from the club; even so, I took a bruising shot against the ribs. It nearly knocked the wind out of me; created a whistling noise in my lungs, but I locked my elbow down when he hit me and caught the club under my arm. At the same time, I drove up hard and hit him in the crotch with a full right fist. I put all my weight and the strength of my thighs into it, so it drove him a couple of feet into the air.
>
  I heard him scream as his legs collapsed beneath him, but I didn’t let him fall. I caught him under the throat with my left hand, forcing him to stand.

  I held him there like a fresh shield, me behind him, looking at Tony, who was marching toward me, shovel held overhead like a workman with a sledgehammer who was about to drive a stake into very hard ground.

  I stuck my thumb into Derrick’s right ear, dug my fingers hard in behind it. I had a pretty good grip on the thing.

  People don’t realize how tenuously the human ear is attached to the head. I gave Derrick a painful demonstration. Early white settlers who were scalped by Indians but managed to survive described the terrible, deafening sound their skin made when it was ripped away from the bone.

  I suspect Derrick’s ear made a similar sound as I tore it away from his temple. I didn’t pull it completely off. No. But I broke the skin and popped enough tissue to send a message: it was mine if I wanted it.

  The sound of Derrick’s scream froze Tony in midstride, shovel overhead.

  I locked my eyes into Tony’s as I spoke into Derrick’s ruined ear, “Leave. If you come back, I’ll make you eat this. You’ll be listening to music through your asshole. Nod if you understand.”

  Derrick moved his head up and down carefully.

  Still holding the guy by the throat, I pushed him toward the mangroves. I didn’t bother to look at him as he scrambled off into the bushes. Then I stooped and picked up the limb he’d dropped. I stared into Tony’s troubled face and grinned. The color of his cheeks had changed. They were splotched with white.

  “Look, mister. Maybe you were right. Maybe we can talk this over. You pay for what you did to my dad’s shit, sure, fair enough. Just like you offered.”

  I was still grinning, walking toward him, the broom-thick stick in my hand. Said, “That offer was for a limited time only.”

  15

  Along time ago, in a different hemisphere, they made us take martial arts instruction. One of the weeklong evolutions was an introduction to kendo and kenjutsu, Japanese stick fighting and sword fighting, two very serious disciplines.