Death Island

by Joan Conning Afman

  He leaned forward toward the TV audience and projected his silky voice out across the airways. “But I must remind you, Ladies and Gentlemen, that Daniel Douglas Manning was proven guilty in a court of law by a jury of his peers.”

  Charlie watched Pierre pick up his crystal wine glass and take a carefully calculated sip. He set the glass down on the ornate side table and, she felt, looked directly at her.

  “I’ll admit,” LeGrande purred, “that Danny Manning does not look or act like your typical murderer. But the only way he will ever get off Death Island, Ladies and Gentlemen, is if at the end of the year—you vote him off!”

  He raised an elegant forefinger. “So if you want to bring this five-time axe murderer back home, you may do that. It’s up to you.” He seemed to smile at Charlie, then swiveled in his chair and lit his pipe. A series of short commercials came on—drugs to pep you up, drugs to make you sleep, insurance for your home, your car, your life, a plea from a major oil company to be patient yet a little longer while they investigated alternative energy development.

  “Is there any more dip?” Diana asked.

  Mindy jumped up. “I brought some popcorn,” she said. “I’ll go out in the kitchen and put it in a bowl.” She put a hand on Charlie’s arm, as she rose. “Don’t bother yourself, Hon. I know where things are.”

  Charlie listened to her friend’s feet patter on the hardwood floors. She turned to Diana. “Di, you don’t believe Danny did those awful things, do you?”

  “I’m not as convinced of his innocence as you are,” returned Diana. “I knew him, very slightly, I admit, as a nice guy, devoted to his wife and, it seemed, very much in love with her, as she was with him. But people you never would suspect do strange things, terrible things.” She shrugged. “I never would have picked Danny Manning as a mass-murderer, but you just never know.” She picked at a few cracker fragments and scraped them along the remaining dip on the side of the dish.

  Charlie glanced at Sarah, who covered her mouth with her hand and pretended a yawn, although her dark eyes shone with amusement.

  Mindy returned with an enormous bowl of popcorn and placed it on the coffee table directly in front of Diana. She looked at it with interest. “Does it have butter on it?” she asked.

  “It’s butter-flavored,” We don’t need all those extra calories,” Mindy replied pointedly.

  The commercials mercifully ended, and Charlie turned her attention back to the screen.

  “Let’s focus on our new arrivals,” Pierre LeGrande announced. Charlie, impatient to get another look at Danny, watched as a tiny hidden camera picked up the two new men who just a few days ago had been dropped on the island.

  “Who are they?” Sarah asked.

  “The Painter Brothers, Drew and Clay,” Mindy replied. “They gunned down an entire family—mother, father and two kids—and left them tied up beside the Florida turnpike. Remember when that happened?”

  There was a soft chorus of assent from the women as they settled back to watch the next segment of Death Island.

  The brothers settled down on logs outside the conveniently located cave on the side of the hill and dug into their ration packs. They were both tall, lean and scraggly, Drew a little darker in hair and complexion than his younger brother.

  “Who did you vote on this week?” Sarah asked, looking around. “Our kitty is back up, isn’t it? I voted for Martin again. We haven’t even seen him lately.”

  “I vote for Javonne,” Mindy said. “They’re bound to gang up on him eventually. How about you, Charlie?”

  Before she could answer, Diana chimed in. “My vote goes for Danny. I don’t want him killed, but I’m lucky at this game! I won last time, didn’t I?”

  Charlie suddenly twisted in her seat. “Oh, don’t, please don’t, Diana! I just can’t bear it!” The women watched in amazement as tears ran down Charlie’s cheeks. She swiped at them with her hands. “I just know he’s innocent. I can’t stand to think of him dying out there, some horrible death all alone.”

  “It’s just a game, Charlie,” Diana ventured at last.

  “It’s a horrible game!” Charlie blurted. She grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off. “What have we come to that we can enjoy watching people suffer for our entertainment and even place bets on who might die?”

  Mindy and Sarah shifted uncomfortably. Diana regarded Charlie with bemusement. “It never bothered you before. Why are you having this sudden attack of conscience?”

  “I never personally knew anyone involved before,” Charlie said. “The game rules have changed, as far as I’m concerned.” She spread her hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “How can you be so cavalier about it, Di? You knew him, too. You worked with Katie!”

  Diana nodded. “You’re right, Charlie. I guess I separated myself from the reality of it all. It just seems like a game to me, another reality show. I’m still not sure it’s not all just acted out.”

  “You think Danny’s just acting? That the whole arrest, trial, the year he spent in jail, was all an act to benefit this program?”

  Diana shrugged, and took another handful of popcorn.

  “Could be,” she said.

  Sarah hesitated. “Can we turn the show back on and see if anyone got—”

  Charlie cut her off, almost rudely. “No, we can’t, and I don’t care to do this anymore. She seized the notebook and handed the bills back to them, dividing them equally. She didn’t miss the raised eyebrows and questioning looks that flew from one face to another. She stood up and faced her friends.

  “I’d like to propose a new activity,” she said, hands on her hips.

  The women were silent, as they waited for Charlie to continue. Charlie realized they were uncomfortable seeing this new side of her. Determinedly, she went on. “I’d like to start a campaign, local at first, of course, and then see if we can spread it nationally. Let’s get Death Island watchers to vote Danny off the island.”

  The resulting silence hung like fog. Finally, Mindy broke the intimidating quiet. “I … I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe I’m not comfortable with this. I feel that if Danny is there, he deserves to be there. I’m not sure I want him running around the neighborhood again.”

  Charlie turned to Sarah. “How about you?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t feel as strongly as you do about it, and I’ve never been one for public demonstrations and such. I think we could put our time and talents to better use, frankly.”

  “Like what?”

  Sarah shrugged. “If you want to do something for others, Charlie, there’s always cancer, children’s causes, missions for the church. Freeing a murderer … is that worth your time and energy?”

  “I think so. I know so!” Charlie was adamant. There must be a reason I feel so strongly about this. Danny never killed those women, or Katie, for God’s sake!”

  She wheeled around, looking at Diana. “Do you really think Katie’s horrible murder was a fake?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Diana stammered. “If the whole show is a put-on, then her murder could have been faked.”

  “And she’s not really dead?” Mindy asked.

  “She’s dead,” Charlie said with determination, “and the show is a reality show, not a fake reality show, and Danny is in reality on Death Island, and he will die there unless we get him voted off. I have to see what I can do. I just can’t sit around and do nothing any longer.”

  She turned to Diana. “And you, Di?”

  Diana helped herself to a handful of popcorn. “I could spare a little time for this, I guess,” she said. “I’m pretty busy with Garden Club, though. I’m running for president this year.”

  Charlie felt her patience snap, and something else rose up inside her. Careful, careful, she told herself. Not a good idea to lose your cool with members of the congregation, even if they are your friends. She knew from the experience of friends of hers and Paul’s how quickly church members could turn against their clergy, and for what superficial reasons.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t stop herself. Her voice went cold as she picked up the bowl of popcorn and announced, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this anymore, ladies.” She continued into the shocked silence. “I feel a little like the little red hen. Remember—she provided everything and did all the work, but when she turned to her friends for help, no one would pitch in. Well, okay, this little red hen will do it all herself!” She walked out of the room and headed for the kitchen, where she stood, shaking, as the tears bubbled over.

  Mindy came after her. She put her arm around Charlie’s shoulder. “Look, let’s not decide anything tonight. Diana’s all upset in there. I think we should go now, Charlie, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  Charlie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She heard Mindy and Diana call goodbye to Sarah and leave, closing the door softly behind them. She stood, holding the bowl of popcorn, as she tried hard to get a grip on her anger and disappointment. Sarah came in, carrying a tray with the glasses and small plates and scrunched paper goods.

  “Oh, Sarah, I’ll pick up. Just go home,” Charlie said. She grabbed one of the napkins and dabbed at her eyes.

  Sarah rescued the bowl of popcorn from Charlie and set it on the counter. Her smooth, pretty face wore a concerned expression. “I need to talk to you, Charlie.”

  Charlie made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, it’s okay, Sarah. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that. I’ll call everyone tomorrow and apologize abjectly. But I honestly don’t think I can host this program anymore.”

  “It’s not the show, Charlie,” Sarah said.

  Charlie looked at her, and reading her expression of love and concern, felt herself go limp. She staggered, caught at the counter for support, and sent the bowl of popcorn flying. It lay around her feet like snow.

  “It’s Heather,” Sarah said carefully. “It’s Heather … and Paul.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After several days’ work on the glider, Jake vanished one afternoon and did not return the next morning. There was no sign of Martin, either. Impatient with the delay and annoyed with Jake, Danny, alone with the half-finished glider, gathered the sticks they would need to complete their work. His frustration grew, along with his uneasiness at being alone in the jungle.

  Food was no problem, although variety was certainly limited. There were birds’ eggs to gather and plenty of fruit that was odd to look at and stranger to taste, but satisfying, nevertheless. Martin had shown him plants that yielded up root vegetables when yanked from the earth, and various leaves that were chewy and tasted like walnuts. He used his shirt as a net and caught a couple of fish in the pond where Tom had died. He knew he was losing weight, however; the shorts that had fit when he dropped from the sky were now loose around his waist.

  His knees, when he sat down and stretched out his legs, were beginning to look like bony brown knobs. He could almost see the flesh shrink from his fingers.

  He used Martin’s knife to carve the passing days into the trunk of a wide tree. Although he was not sure of the exact count, he estimated he had been on Death Island for nearly three weeks.

  There was nothing to do except find food when he felt hungry. He had buried the remains of poor Tom long ago. He tried to continue constructing the glider—after all, he was a builder, wasn’t he? But somehow it didn’t fit together as sleekly as when Jake did it. Danny decided to wait a few days longer. He hoped Jake was okay and would return sometime soon. Not knowing what else to do, he waited. He daydreamed often of Katie, remembering their life together, their almost-perfect marriage. The memories gnawed at him, causing actual physical pain in his chest. I didn’t know that heartache could actually hurt.

  The pain became too much for him. Knowing that the mind could entertain only one thought at a time, he consciously made himself think of other things. And people. Charlie. He would have given anything for a good book. Even a Bible.

  One afternoon, out by the pond, a sudden tropical rainstorm struck. It rained as if it never had before and intended never to rain again. The ferocity of the rain was almost painful on his bare skin, so he backed up into a heavily canopied area and sat down against a tree to wait until the storm let up.

  From where he sat, he could see Tom’s makeshift grave. He idly watched a group of tiny tree toads desert their mossy perch as the rain coursed like a miniature river down the length of the branch. All but one. Danny leaned forward and looked at it more closely.

  “Go someplace warm and dry.”

  The toad didn’t move. Its eye blinked.

  “Damn it all! You’re a camera!” he growled. He settled back against the tree and glowered at the pretend toad.

  “I wonder how many millions of people are watching this stupid show right now?” he muttered. “Watching me, maybe?”

  Lightning struck, not only literally—flashing down through the trees followed by a loud, solid boom of thunder—also but figuratively as he had a sudden thought. Charlie! Maybe she’s watching! Maybe she was looking at him right now. He wondered if he could connect with her. Try to convince her of his innocence. Well, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it?

  He stared into the camera. “Hi, Charlie,” he said. He began to talk to her, as gently and intimately as if she were there, sitting on the rock next to him.

  * * * *

  He woke the next morning after the best sleep he’d experienced since landing on the island to an aroma that had to be an olfactory hallucination.

  “Coffee!” Danny jumped up and wiped the junk away from the floor in one movement. He pushed open the door.

  Martin squatted over a small fire. Steam rose from a rudimentary clay pot. Eggs and fruit sat on a flat rock by the fire.

  “What the hell!” Danny exclaimed. “Is that coffee?”

  “It’s not Starbucks,” Martin replied, “but it’s drinkable.” He produced two clumsily-made clay mugs and poured the dark fragrant liquid into them.

  “Where’d you get all this stuff?” Danny asked. “And where the hell have you been?” He gulped the hot liquid, incredibly grateful for its strong, bitter taste. He glared at Martin. “Where—the—hell—have—you—been?”

  “Now, now, play nice,” Martin said.

  “Where’d you get this cup?” Danny persisted. He held up the clay mug. “Where’d this come from?”

  Martin sat back on his heels and grinned. “We have stuff here,” he said. “In the Village. We have clay. Some guys know how to make pottery. Some of it is quite artistic in a primitive sort of way.”

  “And the coffee?”

  “Some sort of bean thing that grows here. Don’t know what it is, but it makes a decent cup of coffee, and no one’s died from drinking it yet.” He winked at Danny. “They do die from other things, though,” he added.

  “Thanks,” Danny said, “I needed to be reminded of that.” He paused to take another swig. “So you went to the Village? Why?”

  “Hey, do I ask your business?” Martin asked. He shrugged. “I like to keep up on what’s happening. I also checked on the new guys. And the other village—the wild men—just to see what they might be up to.”

  “And how are the new guys?” Danny asked. “And where are they?”

  “They’re holed up in the cave—you know, the one on the path up the mountain. Sitting around complaining. They’re no threat to anyone but themselves.”

  Danny looked up. “What do you mean by that?”

  Martin grinned. “Well, I already stole their rations.” He pointed to two brown knapsacks he had tossed in a heap behind a bush. “If they stay in the cave, Javonne will find them and finish them off. If they don’t learn to find food, they’ll starve.” Martin looked around and rolled his eyes. “You have to be a moron to starve here, but some guys do.”

  Danny stared at the knapsacks. “You stole their food?”

  “Yeah.” Martin retrieved one of the bags and fished around in it. He tossed Danny a packet of dried meat and a Granola bar. “Feast yourself.” He ripped open a bar fo
r himself.

  Danny knew there was no use in refusing the stolen food. The rules of right and wrong were suspended on Death Island. He had to survive; he had to build up his strength. He chewed on the dried meat. “Actually,” he said, “I think your rabbit was better. But thanks.”

  Martin chuckled. “By the way, I have a message from Jake for you.”

  “You saw Jake?”

  “Yeah, he was home in the Village.”

  Danny stood up, and gestured at the half-finished glider. “He’s not going to help me finish that?”

  “That’s the message,” Martin replied. “He’ll be back in few days. Just wait for him. Jake said work on it yourself if you want to.”

  “But … Why did he leave?”

  Martin chuckled. “A man has his needs, Danny. Jake’s lived with Evan for a long time.”

  “Oh.” Danny couldn’t think how to respond to that. He changed the subject. “You went to the other village, too? Are they up to anything?”

  “Yup, ’fraid so,” Martin said. He fumbled around in the knapsack, and pulled out a pack of dried fruit. “Huh. Apricots. Not as good as some of the stuff here, but a change, at least.” He ripped open the cellophane.

  “Well, what are they up to?” Danny asked. He sat down on the log next to Martin, as there seemed no sense in trying to do anything at the moment. He knew better than to irritate Martin, but he felt his impatience rising.

  “Mostly, getting dead drunk,” Martin said. He wiped his fist across his mouth and pointed to the clay pot. “That’s the other use for those beans. Soak them in water and let them ferment and they make a very potent whiskey sort of drink.”

  “And then they go on a rampage?” Danny asked. He stood up again and began to pace back and forth. Why was it so bloody hard to drag information out of this guy?

  “Yep,” Martin replied.