Death Island

by Joan Conning Afman

  “Dunno,” Tom said. “Maybe Martin knows. You’re not seriously thinking we can build a plane and fly out of here, are you?”

  “I’m thinking we have to try something,” Danny snapped. Trying to build a plane is better than doing nothing at all.”

  They heard Martin’s chuckle before they saw him. He stepped out from behind a tree, swinging a wild turkey by its legs. “Give it up, Fantasy Man,” he said. “You’re trying to put lipstick on a pig. There ain’t no way offa here.”

  He threw the turkey on the ground before them like an offering. Its dead eye stared at them, full of reproach.

  “Let’s get dinner on,” Martin said. Danny watched, intrigued, as he knelt, swiftly collected an assortment of small sticks and began like an expert boy scout to rub them furiously together. Martin glanced up at him and nodded toward the turkey. “Well?” he asked.

  “Great,” Danny said, “but don’t you have to—oh,” he stammered, as he realized what Martin meant.

  He fought down his gorge as he began to strip the feathers from the bird. Tom watched, an expression of disgust on his face. He really might hurl, Danny thought.

  The embers began to glow under Martin’s efforts. He nodded as Danny held up the naked bird. “Let Dough Boy finish up.”

  “I’ll do it,” Danny said quickly

  “No,” Martin insisted. “He’s got to learn how if he’s going to survive here.” He nodded at Tom. “Clean ’er out.”

  Danny handed Tom the bird, who took it as if it were a ticking bomb. He looked at Danny. “What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.

  Danny had to give Tom credit. He did the required job quickly and more efficiently than Danny expected. At last the bird was roasting on an improvised spit.

  “Just like Thanksgiving, huh?” Martin grinned at them, waving one of the turkey’s scrawny legs in the air.

  “It’s great!” Danny said, meaning it. The bird was tough, but Danny thought it might be the best meal he had ever had. He decided to ask Martin about Jake Butler.

  As if reading his mind, Martin said, “A plane went down on the island before the Feds took over the place. I know where it is.”

  Danny stared at him, incredulous. “Will you show me?”

  Martin shrugged. “Sure. It’s in the forest. I don’t think the other guys ever found it.”

  “What good will that do?” Tom asked. He wiped his fingers back and forth on his shorts. “It burned, right?”

  “Not too much,” Martin said. “Maybe it rained. I got a lot of stuff out of it. He pulled out a box cutter.

  “Like this.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Danny said. “Take me there.”

  “Danny, get real. We can’t build a plane.” Tom’s expression wavered between amusement and disdain.

  “Jake Butler could,” Danny insisted. “If he had the materials.”

  Tom snorted. Martin looked thoughtful. “Jake? I don’t know, Pal. Last time I saw him he didn’t look too great. I think he’s sick with something.”

  “Which group is he in?”

  “The homo group in the Village,” Martin said.

  “Is it safe to go there and talk to him, maybe?” asked Danny.

  “Sure.” Martin said. “But let me get a message to him first. Surprises aren’t welcome around here.”

  Tom smirked. “What are you going to do, send him an engraved invitation? Danny Manning requests the honor of your company—”

  “I can get a message to him,” repeated Martin, shooting Tom an irritated glance. “Didn’t you ever watch that show, Survivor?” He held up the knife. Tom shrunk back.

  “Oh, don’t be a wuss! I scratch a message on a piece of bark and leave it where it’ll be found. He’ll get it. Whether he’ll come see us or not is another matter.”

  Danny couldn’t control his sudden surge of hope. “Will you do it, Martin?”

  Martin fixed him with a calculating look. “Let’s go see the plane first.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Martin answered. “Nothing else on my busy schedule.”

  “Waste of time,” said Tom. “I’m staying here.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Danny shortly. “But like the man said, Tom, what else have you got to do?”

  Martin held up a hand, cutting off Tom’s answer. He seemed to be listening, for what, Danny couldn’t tell. He heard only the woodland sounds that he had grown accustomed to.

  Martin sat still as a stone, his head cocked, his eyes fixed beyond the trees.

  Danny shot Tom a look. He looked totally perplexed, but suddenly Danny heard what Martin was hearing. Branches cracking in the distance, but getting louder. Coming closer. The birds, agitated, squawking, and then falling silent.

  He looked at Martin. “Deer?” he hissed.

  Martin shook his head. “Javonne,” he said. “He smelled the turkey.” He jumped up. “Get lost, fast,” he said. He turned with one of his smooth, cat-like motions, slid into the woods and disappeared.

  Javonne was coming, crashing through the bushes. Danny heard it clearly now. Danny sprang to his feet. “Come on!” he urged Tom, who sat on his log, frozen in terror.

  Danny noticed the box cutter on the ground. He scooped it up, and with his other hand grabbed Tom’s arm, dragging him upright. “C’mon, Tom!”

  He shoved the other man ahead of him in the direction Martin had gone. Tom stumbled clumsily, grasping small trees and branches for balance as he lumbered along. Danny actually heard Javonne now, grunting and heaving as he bulldozed his way through the woods.

  “Oh, my god! My god!” Tom blubbered.

  “Shut up and run!” Danny growled. He felt a flash of frustration. Why did he have to look out for this pathetic guy?

  The noise suddenly ceased as Javonne reached the clearing. Evidently he had discovered the remains of their dinner.

  That would buy them time, Danny thought, but now that Javonne had found them, they couldn’t return there. Javone would find their knapsacks; even those temporary provisions would be gone.

  It suddenly occurred to Danny that Martin was no longer just an asset, someone who had shown up unexpectedly and amused himself with them for an evening. He was now a necessity if they were to survive.

  Chapter Seven

  There were animals in the jungle. As they pushed their way through the dense, tangled brush, Danny caught glimpses of a slinky cat with a spotted coat. It glared at him with yellow eyes and bared its fangs before fading back into the underbrush. An enormous black bird swooped so low over them that Tom ducked in terror and let out a strangled cry of fright. Martin threw an annoyed look back over his shoulder.

  Danny nudged Tom’s shoulder and put a warning finger to his lips. Hardly had he done so when his foot caught on an exposed root, and he stumbled, falling hard and hitting Martin’s shoulder. He wheeled around, his fists clenched, and let out a string of obscenities.

  “Hey! I’m sorry! I tripped,” Danny said. He met Martin’s glare with as much bravado as he thought Martin would tolerate.

  “No need for that language,” Tom reproved him.

  Before Danny knew what was happening, Martin flung himself at Tom and began to choke him. Tom, caught unprepared, fell to his knees, flailing his arms. Gurgling sounds rose from his throat.

  “Martin, stop it!” Danny yelled, aghast. He tried to wedge himself between the two men, but Martin, for all his lean build, was a man made of steel. Nothing budged.

  Tom’s round face was dark red and looked like a balloon about to burst. In desperation, Danny whipped the mat knife out of his pocket, and held it inches from Martin’s throat.

  Martin dropped his hands. “Well, well,” he said, looking at the knife. “That’s where that went.”

  “You dropped it when Javonne came,” said Danny. “I think I’ll hold on to it.”

  Martin nodded as if it were of no consequence. His rage had dissipated as quickly as it had risen. He stood up and extended a hand to To
m, tugging him to his feet. He looked around, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. As if the entire incident were forgotten, he said, “This way, Guys. The plane’s about a quarter of a mile from here.” He started off again, but Danny noted that his pace was slower.

  Danny’s thoughts spun. This guy had to be some sort of psychopath, to lose control so suddenly, almost kill someone, and then resume his cheery manner as if nothing had happened! He trudged along behind Martin, holding onto Tom’s arm and helping him along. Tom rubbed his throat with his other hand and remained sullenly silent.

  Danny cleared his throat. “I wonder if there are cameras hidden in here, too,” he said.

  “Yup,” Martin replied shortly. “Everywhere.”

  Danny wondered again how he could use the cameras to his advantage, somehow to convey to Charlie Adjavon that she needed to help him prove his innocence. He thought again about the few times he had encountered her: at the parsonage when she and her giggling bunch of lady friends were watching Death Island on TV, the time she had pitched in to substitute for Katie with the Youth Group at the last moment, and the time he had run into her at the hardware store while he was waiting for his axe to be sharpened.

  They’d had a brief conversation then, and although no thoughts of infidelity had crossed his mind, he had been aware of her pert cuteness, her outgoing personality—as any normal male would have been. There definitely could have been an attraction there, if … what was he thinking? He jerked his thoughts back to reality.

  “Do you know,” Tom ventured conversationally, as if tuning into Danny’s thoughts, “that serial murderers almost always take trophies from their victims?”

  “What do you mean, ‘trophies’?” Danny asked.

  “Well,” Tom said, “sex perverts, for example, might keep their victims’ underpants. Sometimes it’s something from the actual victim, like a lock of hair.”

  “Or an ear,” Martin tossed back over his shoulder. His tone was conversational, with no trace of the annoyance he had previously shown.

  “Or jewelry,” continued Tom. “When they finally catch up with the guy, he might have a whole stash of women’s jewelry.”

  “Camera,” said Martin, pointing. Danny followed his gesture and nodded. A small black snake coiled around a low tree branch. Its yellow eye blinked slowly, off and on, off and on. Danny motioned Tom to a stop.

  “When Katie’s body was found, her necklace was broken. Beads were all over the garage floor.”

  “Were some of them missing?” Tom asked. He panted, his already florid face redder still, obviously glad to rest. Martin paused ahead of them, jiggling from one foot to the other in a great show of impatience. He did not look back at them.

  Like a cat, Danny thought. His hearing is so acute, his mind instinctively registered that we had stopped.

  “Don’t know,” he said aloud. “The police took everything away with them. Including me,” he added. “I had just come home from a job. I opened the garage door and there she was, dead. Her car was in the driveway.” He paused a minute, and Martin glanced back at him. Danny could not read his expression. He went on. “It was a setup. The police were waiting for me. I saw Katie and picked up the axe like an idiot; my mind went blank, wouldn’t believe what I was seeing. The police jumped me, dragged me away so fast I didn’t even have time to process what had actually happened to Katie.”

  “Bummer,” Tom said and shot Martin a nervous look. Martin did not respond, except to resume walking. Danny tugged at Tom’s sleeve, and they followed, pushing their way through the dense overgrowth. Martin slid through it all like a panther, his passage hardly disturbing a leaf.

  Danny estimated that they had gone another quarter of a mile, when he caught a sudden glint of metal through the trees ahead. “Is that the plane?” A surge of excitement rushed through his body.

  As if reading his feelings, Martin stopped and wheeled around. “Don’t get your hopes up, axe-man. It’s a pile of junk, mostly.”

  Danny recoiled and clenched his fists. Then, catching himself, he chose to ignore Martin’s name calling. No point in setting this psychotic murderer off on purpose. Besides that, we need him. “Can we get inside it?” he asked.

  “Yup,” Martin said. He plowed onward into the forest and disappeared from sight. The trees swung their branches shut.

  Danny leapt after him. He heard Tom panting behind him, huffing “Wait! Wait!” but Danny kept on. He could go back for Tom later if necessary. Right now, he had to reach the plane before Martin pulled one of his instant vanishing tricks, leaving them alone in the jungle. If it looked like the plane had any salvageable parts, Danny needed Martin to talk to that Jake Butler character and, hopefully, bring him back to the site.

  Martin leaned against the plane in a casual pose like the Marlboro man in an old poster. All he needed was the cowboy hat and a cigarette. Danny fought down a mixture of irritation and amusement.

  “Told-ja, didn’t I?” observed Martin with a certain smugness as Danny began circling the plane.

  It was a Cessna, suitable for maybe four or five passengers. The crumpled front end had burrowed into the ground, and most of the plane’s body was covered in leafy jungle vegetation. Some of the vines sprouted, incongruously, large lavender flowers, trailing over the pitted metal surface like a shroud.

  The door was open. Danny approached it, slid his hand up and down its rusted frame. He peered inside. The seats were still there, torn and eroded with their springs jutting through the rotten leather. He glanced at Martin, leaning against one of the wings and watching him with amused interest.

  Tom emerged from the woods and stood at the edge of the clearing, bent over, clutching his knees and trying to catch his breath. Martin regarded him briefly, snorted in derision, and shifted his green gaze back to Danny. “So, what’s the verdict?” he asked.

  Danny shook his head. He grasped the door frame with one hand and, using the other for leverage on the side of the plane, he hoisted himself into the opening. The stench was foul—rotted things and jungle decay compressed into a small space. He ventured a few tentative steps into the interior. A frantic, rodent-like animal squeaked and ran between his feet, disappearing farther into the plane’s insides. Danny looked around. The door to the cockpit was ajar. He approached with caution, put his hand on the handle and slid it open. He didn’t know what he expected, but not this. A scream tore from his throat. Outside, Martin laughed, as if he had just heard the funniest dirty story in the world.

  He staggered back to the doorway and shot Martin a baleful look. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Or is that your idea of a good joke?”

  “Actually, yes,” Martin replied. “Nobody else ever wanted to see the plane. I’ve been waiting years for this.”

  “You’re a sicko!” Danny exploded in disgust.

  “Hum, you’re just figuring that out?” His tone was almost playful.

  “What’s in there?” Tom called, his curiosity overcoming his fear. He approached the plane, all the time keeping a wary eye on Martin.

  “The pilot,” Danny said, fighting the urge to vomit. That would just amuse Martin further. “At least what’s left of the pilot. His skull, some bones, a few rags that were his clothes, lot of dried blood, some gnawed off—”

  “Okay, I get it,” Tom interrupted.

  Martin detached himself from the plane’s wing, and shrugged his shoulders and arms in several leisurely stretches. “Seems to me the pilot was probably still alive when the plane crashed,” he observed. “But trapped as he was in the small cockpit, and injured, the animals got to him and—”

  “We get it!” Danny snapped. “No need to make it more gruesome than it is. What happened to the passengers?”

  “Don’t know,” Martin shrugged again. Then, changing the subject in a flash, he asked in a polite, conversational tone, “Do you want me to get Jake Butler and bring him here?”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to him, if he’d come back with
you.” It was hard for Danny to adjust to Martin’s instant mood changes, and he could not only read the fear that masked Tom’s face, he could almost smell it.

  “He’ll come,” Martin said. The dangerous smirk crossed his features again. “It’ll be an overnight, Boys. You’ll have to fend for yourselves. Catch some dinner.” He chuckled. “You can bunk down in the plane. I’ve done it myself a few times. The wolf spiders are the main thing to watch out for. They bite nasty.” He started for the trees at the opposite end of the clearing where they had entered, and just before slipping away into the trees, turned and gave them a cheery little wave and a wide grin. He looked, Danny thought, for all the world like a boy scout going off to camp.

  “Piece of work,” Tom grunted.

  Danny shook his head. “Watch out for him, Tom. Don’t antagonize him. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “Agreed,” Tom replied. He looked around. “Shouldn’t we try to build a lean-to or something for tonight and look for something to eat? We can’t make it out of here by dark, can we?”

  “No way,” Danny said. “We’ll sleep in the plane.”

  “In the plane?”

  Danny hid his amusement at Tom’s horrified expression.

  “Look, Tom, you go find us dinner, anything we can eat—mushrooms, birds’ eggs, a turtle, whatever. I’ll do what I can to clean out the cabin so we can sleep there.”

  “But—but the pilot!” Tom was nearly incoherent.

  “I’ll take care of it—him.” Danny fought down the laughter that threatened to erupt. Tom’s squeamishness was funny sometimes. At the same time, he felt an almost big brother-like urge to look out for him. He didn’t want the guard’s prediction, that Tom wouldn’t last a week, to come true.

  After Tom shuffled off into the woods, Danny turned his attention to the plane. He climbed back into the cabin. Steeling himself against the stench, he set about his work. In a couple of hours, stinking and sweat-drenched, he had emptied the cabin of debris by filling and refilling a large metal waste basket he had found toward the tail of the plane. A palm branch made a competent broom, and he swept the floor clean of smaller litter. He saved the things he came upon, which might come in handy.