The Excluded Exile (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 12)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I looked out. We were about fifty feet above the ocean. I could see fish, as well. There were schools of brightly colored ones moving around in interesting patterns.

  "Look!" That was Bobby.

  Walking over to his side of the plane, I could see an island. It was circular with a harbor that was protected by two small peninsulas, like two arms. As we got closer, I could see fat, squat palm trees planted evenly apart. There was also an open field covered in some sort of grass, what looked like a rose garden, and a stone house in the middle.

  "Are those oak trees?" asked O'Reilly.

  I took a second look. "I think they are."

  "What is this place?" asked Bobby, wonder in his voice.

  . . .

  Henry very skillfully pulled the plane into a spot near one of the arms that surrounded the harbor. Once the engines were off, Alexander opened the cabin door. The way that Henry had moved the Clipper into place allowed us to deplane on the stabilizer and walk right onto the beach. It was impressive.

  Without any explanation, he led the six of us along the beach and into the palm forest. We stopped for a moment at a bubbling fountain.

  Kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks, Henry rolled up his trouser legs and then waded into the basin surrounding the fountain. He cupped his hands under the spigot that dispensed the bubbling water and had a long drink. Tom and Bobby followed his lead and, before long, we were all having a drink of cold, clear water.

  "It's an artesian spring." That was all Henry said.

  The water was refreshing in a way that surprised me. The more I drank of it, the more I wanted to drink.

  After a few minutes, Henry stepped out of the basin, gathered his shoes and socks, and began to walk down the path. We followed and, in a few minutes, emerged into the clearing I'd seen up in the air. There was a wide field covered in some sort of grass. And, on the far end of the field, stood a grove of oak trees.

  Murphy asked, "Oaks?"

  Henry nodded. "Planted them about twenty-five years ago. They're doing quite nicely."

  Carter knelt down on the ground and asked, "Where did this topsoil come from?"

  "Brought some of it in. The worms and the chickens did the rest."

  "Chickens?" asked Bobby.

  As if on cue, a couple of roosters leading a small flock of hens emerged from the palm forest about twenty feet from where we stood and made their way across the grassy field, pecking and scratching as they did.

  Henry laughed. "Chickens." He then turned and led us to the house. Walking up a short flight of steps, he opened the door and said, "Come in and see my home."

  It was a small affair, made of granite, with a chimney, and a wood roof. As we walked in, there was a rope bed in the far right corner. A small table with two chairs occupied the center of the room. On the left, there was a wood-burning stove with a flue pipe that extended up the granite wall to the chimney. There was a counter under a framed window without glass panes and some shelves built along the wall holding plates, cups, and other kitchen items. On the right side, there were three framed windows, also without glass, but covered in a gauzy fabric that served as curtains.

  "This is something," said O'Reilly. I could hear the awe in his voice. "Did you build this yourself?"

  "I did," was Henry's only reply.

  We all stood, gawking at the simple yet beautiful building. After a couple of moments, Henry walked back onto the porch, down the steps, and began to follow the path as it moved away from the house.

  We all followed him. As we walked around the far edge of the grassy field, I could smell the roses before I saw them. We passed by several of the squat palm trees and then emerged into a beautiful garden.

  There was every color of rose petal that I could imagine. White, red, pink, yellow, and a deep crimson along with several variations. The aroma was intoxicating. I looked up at Carter. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be entranced.

  I reached out and felt the velvet softness of the bright pink blossom closest to me. When I brought my fingers to my nose, I was almost overwhelmed by the smell.

  After a moment or two, Henry continued walking along the path. We passed through another small stand of palms and then emerged into another sort of garden. This one contained banana trees.

  Tom said, "Bananas! I love 'em."

  "Take one. Take as many as you want."

  Tom and Bobby both picked up a couple that had fallen to the ground. Tom peeled one and quickly ate it. He smiled in satisfaction and tossed the peel into a bamboo forest that protected the roses and the bananas from the ocean. A small animal, apparently disturbed by the action, rustled around.

  "What's that?" asked Bobby.

  "One of the monkeys. There are about a hundred or so who live on the island."

  "Were they here when you found the place?" asked Murphy.

  Henry shook his head. "None of this was here. It was just a big round sand island. It was probably the pinnacle of a larger island that sank in an earthquake a long time ago. The water is never more than about six or eight feet deep for about twenty miles out in all directions. Then there's a significant drop-off. You probably saw it from the air."

  He picked a banana and scarfed about half of it. He tossed the rest in the same general direction as where Tom had thrown his, causing another stir. "I brought in the monkeys right after I planted the bananas. Seemed fitting."

  . . .

  That night we had dinner on the plane. Henry explained to us that we would use the plane like a hotel. And we did.

  The next morning, Carter said, "I only have one more change of clothes. But, for whatever reason, you grabbed our swim trunks."

  I nodded and smiled. "I've already decided to wear just that today."

  Carter smiled back at me. "And I know just the ones you're gonna wear."

  I shook my head. "No, I'm not. I'm gonna wear the ones we got for Hawaii."

  "No, you're not, son." He quickly picked them up and, in just his BVDs, opened the door and ran into the main cabin. I had nothing on, so I pulled on one of the Speedo trunks I'd bought from Mr. George, and ran after him. By the time I caught up with him, he was cutting the blue trunks up with a pair of scissors that Alexander must have given him since he was watching Carter do that with a big smile on his face.

  I crossed my arms and said, "You're gonna wish you hadn't done that, Fireman."

  Right then, I heard several whistles and a catcall. I suddenly realized that everyone else was sitting at the table in the mess, including the crew.

  "Nick!" That was Tom. "You look good in those. What are they?"

  I blushed as I saw everyone staring at me. "They're, um, Speedos. I think that's, um, what, uh, they're called." I fought the urge to run back into the bedroom.

  Captain O'Reilly, who was shirtless and covered in white hair, front and back, grinned and said, "They show all the right things in all the right ways, boyo."

  Murphy whistled. "That they do."

  I quickly sat down in the chair at the end of the table. Alexander brought me a cup of coffee. I put some sugar in and stirred, not looking at anyone else. After I took a sip, I said, "Carter, don't you need to go and put yours on?"

  He handed the scissors back to Alexander, along with the tatters of my old trunks, and said, "Sure." With that, he walked back towards the bedroom.

  Henry asked, "How'd you sleep, Nick?"

  "Good, Henry. Thanks. I like the rocking of the plane. It's like being on a ship."

  Bobby guffawed. "I thought that was mostly you and Mr. Jones going at it."

  Tom said, "Bobby!"

  "Well?"

  Murphy picked up a piece of bread and began to slather it with butter. "That's what we thought, too."

  I could feel the skin on my face burning hot. I looked at Murphy who was chewing his bread. He winked at me and then looked up. His eyes widened and he stopped chewing. Right then, I felt Carter put his hand on my shoulder. I smirked at Murphy and said, "I should have warn
ed you."

  Bobby, whose eyes were like saucers, said, "Crikey."

  Tom was shaking his head while Henry's eyes were shining as he was smiling broadly in appreciation.

  Georges, the co-pilot, and Jacques, the flight engineer, muttered in French to each other. Georges then looked at me with a big grin.

  Murphy, meanwhile, nodded dumbly. He finally swallowed his bite of bread and said, "That you should have, my lad, that you should have."

  . . .

  After breakfast, Carter and I made our way around to the far side of the island. As we did so, we walked in the surf. The beach along the way was littered with shells of all shapes and colors, most of which I'd never seen before.

  Henry had given us a couple of bamboo mats to spread out on the sand. Alexander had packed us a picnic lunch with sandwiches and four bottles of beer. Those things, including my copy of Rebecca, which I'd picked up at a bookstore on Oxford Street in Darlinghurst on Saturday afternoon while Carter and I were out running errands for Tom, were all in a canvas bag that Carter had slung over his left shoulder.

  Once we were on the side that felt the furthest away from everyone else, I said, "Here."

  Carter carefully put the bag on the sand. We began to gather shells. As we did, I discovered one that was still occupied. The crab waved its eyestalks at me in anger and made its way, sideways, towards the edge of the bamboo forest behind us. I followed it for a few steps and then placed its home down on the sand. Stepping back, I watched as it reclaimed its dwelling and disappeared.

  When I turned around, Carter was spreading out the bamboo mats. He took out the two pillows that Alexander had added at the last minute. They were covered in a bold tropical print and, at first I'd refused them, not wanting to get them covered in sand. Alexander had insisted and had said, "More nice on beach," with a smile.

  Carter put my book on one of the mats and then carried the bag to a shady spot under the bamboo. With that, he grabbed my hand and pulled me down to the water's edge. Without a word, he carried me into the water and, after wading in up to his waist, he threw me in.

  I landed on my ass on the sandy bottom and let myself sink down, closing my eyes against the salt water. I exhaled under the water and listened to the sounds that the water made as it moved in and out.

  Standing up, I wiped the water off my face and opened my eyes. Carter was standing in front of me and gazing at me with a look I knew intimately and had seen many times. I glanced down and realized it was time to get rid of our swim trunks.

  Chapter 17

  Henry's Island

  Thursday, March 3, 1955

  Just before dawn

  Carter and I were sitting in the kitchen of the house on Hartford. It was morning and we had just finished breakfast. The windows and the back door were open, letting a cool breeze in during an already unnaturally warm morning.

  Carter was reading the paper and drinking coffee. I stood, carried the breakfast plates to the sink, and asked, "When does your shift start?"

  He turned the page of his paper and laughed. "Don't you remember?"

  I put the dishes in the sink and turned. "Remember what?"

  "I don't go to work anymore. Not to the firehouse, at least."

  I was confused. "If you don't go to the firehouse, then where do you go during the day?"

  He looked over at me with a grin. "I don't go anywhere. We're at the beach all the time these days."

  I looked around and realized he was right. We were sitting under the bamboo in our favorite spot on the island. It was windy and Carter was having a hard time reading his paper.

  He leaned over and said, "Look at this, Nick."

  I looked at what he was pointing at but couldn't read it. All the text was blurry because there was something in my eyes. "What?"

  "Evelyn. She died."

  I sat up in bed. Tears were streaming down my face. Evelyn was a friend of ours at home who'd been diagnosed with cancer. She'd decided to refuse any treatments. I'd made her promise to let us take her to Carter's house on Kauai when the time came.

  I looked down at Carter, who was snoring slightly. The pre-dawn twilight made Carter's ruddy tan look more handsome than ever.

  Sighing, I stood and found my one pair of trousers. Pulling them on, I padded down the hall to the head and relieved myself.

  Once I was done, I walked into the main cabin to see if Henry was around. I was the only one awake, from what I could tell, so I walked out of the plane and up the beach towards the path to Henry's house. As I did, I encountered a group of monkeys splashing around in the basin of the fountain while three roosters were doing their best to keep their hens on track across the grassy field. I sat down on the steps in front of the stone house and waited for Henry to wake up.

  After about ten minutes of watching the sky get brighter and brighter, an encounter with a curious monkey, and a short visit by a hen who was looking for something but didn't seem to find it, Henry opened the door and said, "Good morning."

  I waited as he walked down the stairs and made his way behind a tree to relieve himself. Once he was done, stark naked, he came over and sat next to me. "How are you, Nick?"

  I leaned into him. He had a very peculiar odor that I couldn't place. It was sweet and sour at the same time. I had a passing thought, not for the first time, that maybe it was just how old men smelled. I had no idea.

  "I need to get home."

  He put his arm around me and said, "I know."

  . . .

  It was just past 5 in the afternoon. The plane was docked off Christmas Island, about five hundred miles north of Henry's island. There was an American-built airstrip manned by the U.S. Air Force that allowed planes flying from Honolulu to Sydney or Auckland to stop and refuel. When we'd landed, we'd created a stir with the local personnel. It had been a while since anyone had seen a Clipper in those parts. We took on as much fuel as they would sell us, which wasn't cheap. We needed all the fuel we could get since Henry said the flying distance from there to Ensenada was just over three thousand miles, about four hundred miles shy of the plane's range.

  The plan was to take off before dawn, around half past 5. That would put us arriving into Ensenada around 10 in the evening, well past dark. Henry said he'd flown at night before, and even landed in the dark, but I still wondered how that would work out .

  While the plane was being refueled, we all stood over by the small building where the control tower was located. An Air Force captain came out of the building and asked, "Did someone ask about sending a cable?"

  I walked forward with Carter in tow. "That was me, Captain."

  He nodded and said, "Come with me. It ain't cheap but you can send one."

  "It's to Mexico."

  He shook his head. "You don't want much do you?"

  . . .

  Marjorie Rocha was the owner, along with her husband, of the Hotel Riviera del Pacifico in Ensenada, just down the coast from Tijuana. We'd last stayed there in January for a brief visit. The first time we'd met Marge was when we went down Mexico way trying to help out my ex-lover and ex-lawyer, one Jeffery Klein, Esq., who'd been shacked up at the hotel with Taylor Wells, America's heart-throb movie star at the time. That was in June of '53.

  I knew Marge would be able to help us, even though I was asking for a lot.

  HOTEL RIVIERA DEL PACIFICO, ENSENADA, MEX. ATTN MARJORIE ROCHA. DEAR MARGE. ARRIVING 10 PM MAR 4 BY PRIVATE CLIPPER AIRBOAT ENSENADA HARBOR. NEED THREE ROOMS FOR CREW UNDER NAME HENRY HARKAWAY FOR UP TO A WEEK. NEED PLANE FOR SIX TO SAN DIEGO PDQ. WILL PAY CASH. LOVE NICK.

  The sergeant I gave the paper to looked at it and scratched his head. "Uh, mister, this is gonna cost you a lot."

  I nodded. "How much?"

  He counted the letters, wrote that down on a scratch pad, and then made a quick calculation. He looked up, slightly embarrassed, and said, "Thirty-eight dollars and seventy-three cents." He paused and gulped. "And we can't make change."

  I nodded and handed him two tw
enties. He looked at them for a moment and then said, "Excuse me, sir. I need to ask my captain a question."

  "Sure."

  He walked over to where the captain was seated at his desk. "Excuse me, Captain?"

  "What is it, Rogers?"

  "This here gentleman," he said, pointing at me. "His cable to Mexico is gonna cost over thirty-eight dollars and he just handed me two twenties. What do I do?"

  The captain sighed, stood, and walked over. "Mr. Williams, is it?" he asked as he looked at the form I'd filled out.

  "Yes, sir."

  "We're not able to give change."

  "I understand."

  "We usually only have short cables to or from Australia or the mainland."

  I nodded. "Sure."

  "This is irregular."

  I nodded again, wondering where the conversation was leading.

  He quickly scanned the form. "Wait. Did you write 'P.D.Q.'?"

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  He shook his head and pushed it back to me. "I'm sorry. We can't use that kind of language on one of these cables. It goes through the Pentagon. I'll get my ass chewed out for a month of Sundays if anyone there catches it."

  I tried not to laugh. "What should I say instead?"

  The captain frowned for a moment. "Well, sir, it'll increase your cost."

  "That's fine."

  He took a pencil and scratched out the offensive letters. He thought for a moment. "Do you mean you want a plane waiting when you arrive?"

  I nodded. He wrote out something. "How about we substitute the word 'waiting' for 'P.D.Q.'?"

  "Sounds fine."

  He made the notation and then counted up the letters. After doing the new calculation, he said, "That'll be forty dollars and twenty-three cents."

  I looked up at Carter. "Have a quarter?"

  He shook his head. "Nope."

  I pulled out a five and laid it on the counter.

  The captain pushed it back towards me. "Like the sergeant said, we can't give change."

  I nodded. "Can you keep the change?"

  The captain frowned. After a long moment, he shrugged. "Sure. I guess." He picked up the five and the two twenties and put them in a box under the counter.