Children of the Island

by Wright, T. M.

The rental agent, a small, wiry, middle-aged man named Spencer, grinned a much-practiced, long-suffering grin. "You won't get an argument from me, Miss Wingate, no argument at all. But I'll tell ya, if you don't take it, someone else will. And that's a guarantee. Hell, we've got a waiting list longer than your arm . . ." He trailed off, his grin altered. "You're lucky you've got an in with the housing super, Miss Wingate." He gave her a quick once-over; it made her instantly uncomfortable. "Now, if you want to make a . . . similar arrangement with me, I'm sure we can—"

  "What does that seven hundred include, Mr. Spencer?" Her tone was twenty degrees below chilly. "Does it include heat and electricity?"

  He frowned. "It includes heat, Miss Wingate." He nodded at the room's only closet, near the front door. "Each apartment has its own electric meter. Yours is in there. You pay for what you use."

  "And how soon is the room available?"

  "Hell, right now, if you've got the month's rent and the security deposit—that's another month's rent. And there's a fifty-dollar lock fee, of course—that's if you skip with the keys and we have to replace the lock—and you got to sign a lease, too. Did I tell you about the lease?"

  She eyed him suspiciously. "No one told me about a lease, Mr. Spencer, or a lock fee."

  "Well, that was an oversight, wasn't it?" He grinned again: I'm in charge here, the grin said. "It's just a six-month lease, Miss Wingate. Pretty standard. No pets, no loud parties, that kind of thing. You'll see it." He paused briefly, then went on, "You got any furniture, Miss Wingate?" The room was unfurnished.

  "Yes," she answered.

  "How about a bed? We don't allow waterbeds in here. Had one break through a year ago."

  "It's not a waterbed, Mr. Spencer."

  "Good. You got a job, Miss Wingate? The super said something about you being new here."

  "I've got a job, Mr. Spencer, with Admissions at Bellevue Hospital."

  His face broke into a broad smile. "Won't that be fun!"

  "No, Mr. Spencer, I don't think so." Again her tone was crisp. "Where do I sign the lease?"

  His smile slowly dissipated. "My office," he said. "A couple blocks over. You got a car?"

  "No."

  "Okay then, we'll walk." They left the apartment and started for the elevator. "It's good to have you with us, Miss Wingate."

  She merely nodded.

  In the Bronx

  He was gone. Damn! "Mr. Ghost?" Georgie McPhail called. "Hey, where'd you go?" But he saw little in the dimly lighted room. The ghost had packed up and gone away—that was clear.

  Not for the first time in his life, Georgie was sad. It wasn't as if a guy had so many friends that he could afford to lose one, and maybe the ghost didn't think of Georgie as his friend, but for sure it worked the other way around.

  Georgie gave the room another long look. He said, "If you ever want to talk . . ." and backed slowly out.

  The janitor, Mr. Baum, grabbed him by the shoulders. Georgie squirmed, but in vain. "Whatchoo doin' in there, boy?" the janitor growled.

  "Nothin', Mr. Baum. Lookin', that's all."

  "Yeah? At what? Whatchoo got to look at in there, Georgie?"

  "Nothin'. I ain't got nothin' to look at in there, Mr. Baum."

  "Damn right, Georgie. And I catch you in there again, you ain't gonna have nothin' to look with, either. You got my meanin', Georgie?"

  "I do, Mr. Baum."

  The man's grip tightened briefly. Georgie grimaced in pain. The man let go. Georgie hesitated, glanced around; Mr. Baum was grinning oddly at him. "You go on now, boy," he said, his tone suddenly one of great friendship. "I'll see you later, and maybe we can go shootin' rats. You think you'd like that?"

  "Yeah, sure," Georgie answered. He was used to the janitor's mood swings. "Any time you want, Mr. Baum." And he walked off, slowly at first. Then, when he'd rounded a corner and the janitor was out of sight, he ran back to his apartment.

  Chapter 19

  In Manhattan

  Winifred Haritson heard her voice rise, in anger; "I said I got the windows open and now I can't get them closed! Where's Lou?"

  The young man's voice from the telephone receiver—a voice she didn't recognize—answered, "Lou is all tied up, Mama, but I'll be sure to have him get back to you."

  Mrs. Haritson scowled, "Who is this?"

  "This is the Easter Bunny, Mama, and I'll come up with my basket of goodies real soon, okay?"

  Mrs. Haritson's mouth dropped open. She heard a laugh, short and malicious, from the receiver. "What have you done with Lou?" she demanded. "Where is he?"

  "Like I said, Mama, Lou is all tied up, and I'm his new secretary. You understand?"

  "I'm calling the police!"

  "The police?!" He laughed again—the same, short, malicious laugh as before. "You don't want to do that, Mama. I wouldn't like that at all. My coworkers wouldn't like it either. I mean, that would spoil the little party we got planned, you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  Winifred Haritson said nothing.

  "I said do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  "I . . . understand," she answered.

  "And you ain't gonna call no fucking police—ain't that right?"

  "I . . . I . . ."

  "Damned right you ain't!"

  She heard the phone being slammed down, a silence cluttered by distant, random static, then a small, soft clicking sound. Then total silence.

  Someone had cut the phone lines, she realized.

  She set the receiver slowly on its cradle, and glanced at her front door. All the bolts were closed. She looked at the windows. She stared at them in terror. Earlier in the morning she had been able to open them halfway. She had sat in front of them for a while, had cooled off from the Indian Summer heat, had gotten up. And had been unable to close them again. Which was why she'd called Lou. So he could close them against "the thieves and the muggers."

  They have their ways, Lou she'd told him time and time again. I've seen them.

  And now, she thought, he knew how right she was.

  Chapter 20

  For Jim Hart, it had not been a "decision" so much as the sudden awareness of what he could and could not do.

  He had to leave Marie right where she was. He'd been over it with himself a hundred times. He had to leave the island. He had to get back to the car. He had to notify someone in authority. For Christ's sake, he had to save his own life!

  What he might do, he thought—what he should do, what he probably would do—was put her inside the sleeping bag and zip it up good and tight. And when he left he'd make sure the house was shut up good and tight, too. Then maybe the predators wouldn't be able to get at her. This idea made him smile because, he thought, it was a very good idea. It showed his continuing . . . affection for her. Keep the predators out! The raccoons, the foxes, the bobcats, even, for Christ's sake, the little goddamned bugs that might want to get at her. Keep the predators out! Because, after all, her body was a temple. Keep the predators out! At all costs keep the predators out!

  Unless it just wasn't possible to keep them out. Unless, of course, they had hands, too, and a brain, like himself, and could not be stopped by whatever he might do to keep them away from her.

  He didn't like to think about that—the same way a man doesn't like to think about a large and undeniably cancerous growth somewhere on his body.

  He told himself he had seen only shadows, that in the dim light the night before he had been fooled by shadows. He didn't believe it for a moment.

  Which was why, now—an hour and a half after sunrise—he was still at the house. Because they—the two he had seen crouching over Marie—could be anywhere. They could be in the house with him, or just outside the door, or anywhere on the long, narrow path that led fifteen miles back to the Route 22A Holiday Inn, and Fred's car.

  And so, his fear said, the best course of action at the moment was no action at all.

  Better to stay here, with Marie.

  And keep the other predato
rs away.

  It was a plan, he knew, that was born of creeping panic and insanity.

  Chapter 21

  On Staten Island

  Joyce Dewitte thought there might be room for optimism. Maybe she had misinterpreted her cat's illness. Maybe the cat merely had a cold. Maybe it was going through menopause. She was certainly the picture of health now, bouncing around the living room like a kitten after the empty cigarette pack Joyce had wadded up for her. And even fetching it back.

  Joyce reached down from her chair and scratched the underside of the cat's chin. "Good girl, Ginger," she said, and felt the animal, begin to purr softly beneath her fingertips. "Good girl." The cat tapped at the wadded-up cigarette pack. "Oh," Joyce cooed, "you want to play some more." She picked up the cigarette pack, wadded it tighter, because the crinkling noise excited the cat, then tossed it across the room. It landed in front of a bookcase; the cat tore after it.

  This was a moment that Joyce would treasure for a long time because, for her, it was one of the few genuinely happy moments of the past several years.

  She had come to New York with one goal in mind—to make it big! It was an ambition, she knew, that a hundred thousand other people shared—people with as much talent, as much drive and ambition and spirit as she had. So, she was involving herself in a shell game, wasn't she? The chances that she'd win were ridiculously small, she knew that.

  Knew it, but didn't really believe it.

  Because, of course—it was obvious—she was possessed of that little something extra, that something beyond talent, drive, ambition, and spirit. Lord knew what that little something extra was. Maybe it was luck. Dumb luck. Maybe it was an extra ounce or two of sex appeal. Maybe it was the little cleft in her chin, the small patch of green in her otherwise deep blue eyes. Or maybe she was simply blessed (the Reverend Thompson had told her she was, and if anyone was to be believed, he certainly was). And there had been the fortune teller, of course, at the Watkins County Fair, fifteen years ago, when Joyce had just been entering her adolescence. "Oh my child," the fortune teller had said, "I do most certainly see very great things ahead for you, oh most certainly," which had made up Joyce's young mind then and there. She would pursue the show business career that her parents, and her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins had told her would be a sin not to pursue. And she would pursue it with a vengeance.

  So, at the age of eighteen, she had come to New York.

  Not until five years later did she begin to admit, reluctantly, that her dream was tarnishing.

  She began by telling herself that she despised "show business types" (a phrase her mother had used). They were too pushy, too mincing, too single-minded, too damned eccentric for her essentially down-home personality. (It wasn't really necessary, was it, to smoke Tareytons two at a time—one in the ashtray, one in hand—in order to be a budding young cinematographer? And it wasn't really necessary, was it, to be "outrageously gay" in order to be a playwright? And what, for Christ's sake, was so damned chic about eating soyburgers instead of hamburgers? It was cheaper, for sure, but what was so chic about poverty?) She continued to believe in these stereotypes for about a year, until, one gloomy night, after a full day's worth of tryouts and not even a nibble, she had to admit that she was making excuses.

  There was really nothing wrong with "show business types." They were really no more nor less eccentric than other New Yorkers (far less, actually, than some), and, as a group, they were fun to be with.

  It was herself, Joyce Dewitte, who had become wearisome. Her pursuit with a vengeance of a show business career had turned her into a drudge. A very nice looking, very athletic, very healthy and talented drudge, to be sure, but a drudge nonetheless.

  Talk about single-minded, she told herself, remembering the time one of her fellow dancers, a guy named Simon, had mentioned something about a recent headline—something, apparently, that everyone else in the world was acquainted with—and she had merely been able to smile dumbly at him and say, "Oh. Is that right?"

  And so, over the months, and the years, after all the tryouts and the rejections and the disappointments, the dream tarnished.

  So she gave it up.

  "I hope you're okay, Ginger," she cooed, the cat now curled up on her lap. She thought, deep in her heart, that Ginger was okay, and that the two of them would continue to be fast friends for quite a while. But then, she'd been wrong about other things.

  Chapter 22

  At the House on the Island

  Jim Hart knew it; he could feel it.

  They were in the house with him. They were watching. Waiting. Sizing him up. Would he use the gun, or not? Would he run? If so, how fast? And where to?

  Would he bring anybody back with him?

  He wanted to know if they really thought he was so much of a fool that he had no idea of their intentions. Their intentions were murderously and obscenely clear.

  He whispered, as low and as menacingly as possible, "Show yourselves, bastards!"

  He pulled the .38 from his pocket and held it up so they could see it clearly. "I'll blow you both away. I will!"

  It surprised him that he was not trembling or fearful, that his resolve was so plain. When they showed themselves he really would blow them away. Because it wasn't he who had stripped off the thin veneer of civilization. They had done that. So, civilization's laws did not apply to them anymore. This island was like a ship in distress on the high seas. He was its captain. They were the mutineers.

  It was all very simple.

  He would blow them away. He would blow a hole the size of his fist through both of them. And have loads of fun doing it.

  He realized dimly that he had wet himself. He glanced quickly at his crotch, saw the stain there, and smiled crookedly. "I will!" he said aloud, "I surely will!" as if holding a one-sided conversation with himself.

  Jim Hart had set one foot into madness. No other course was open to him.

  They ate what they could. It made little difference. They received pleasure not so much from eating—it nourished them and kept them alive—but from the chase and the kill, because it was then that their muscles sang and the air they breathed grew warm and vibrant with life, and, in this greatest act of love, they were able to come together with other creatures that shared the earth with them. And all of them grew a little as a result.

  The big man inside them both, at that moment—and for the remainder of their lives—was not unlike many who had gone before. He was filled with hate (an emotion Seth understood but which Elena, newer to the earth, had yet to grasp) and he had killed for reasons even Seth did not completely understand (it had something to do with sex, he thought). But the energy within the big man, the energy which held him together and kept him alive, was enormous, dizzying, a thing of immense beauty and power.

  He could have been one of their own.

  Chapter 23

  On Staten Island

  Sam Campbell thought, Cowboys and Indians—shit on Cowboys and Indians! What had he been trying to say to her?

  It had been twenty-four hours since he'd seen his daughter, Marsha. Twenty-four hours since his little, backward attempt to reach her through the wall she'd set up between herself and the real world.

  "My God, Doctor—nine-year-olds don't try to commit suicide. That's not possible!" Sam had told the physician.

  "Yes, Mr. Campbell, they do, and so do eight-year-olds, and seven-year-olds, and six-year-olds. Adults don't have exclusive rights to depression."

  "Jesus, I knew she was depressed. I was too. I still am. But I thought children were supposed to be so . . . adaptable."

  "It depends on the child, Mr. Campbell. And the situation. She was obviously very attached to her mother."

  "She worshipped her."

  "Then it should be obvious . . ."

  "That she wants to be with her now—in death?"

  "It's not an uncommon fantasy. We see it not only in children, but in older people, too, when a spouse has died. I imagine you yo
urself, Mr. Campbell, entertained similar fantasies after your wife's accident."

  "Yes," he admitted at once, "but not to the point of . . ."

  The doctor cut in, agitation in his voice, as if he was responding to some objection he'd heard all too often, "Let's get something straight, Mr. Campbell. You and your daughter are two, separate, distinct individuals. It's true that you're related by blood, and that you share certain physical characteristics; you even share certain personality traits, I've noticed. But you are still separate entities and you cannot assume that your strengths and weaknesses are necessarily her strengths and weaknesses merely because she's your daughter. Even identical twins, Mr. Campbell, are not one hundred percent identical. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  He lowered his head briefly, as if embarrassed. "Yes," he said, his voice low, "I do." He looked up. "How long will she have to stay here?"

  "I have to be truthful, Mr. Campbell, and tell you that I'm not sure. She may come out of her depression next week, or next month, but it might take longer. Much longer. We have to get at the root causes, Mr. Campbell."

  "Isn't there medication? I've heard about . . . antidepressant drugs–"

  "The root cause would remain, Mr. Campbell. That should be obvious. And although the root cause appears to be the loss of her mother, there are signs that it might go much deeper . . ."

  That conversation had taken place six months earlier, and although there had been some progress, the doctor said, it had been more "lateral than upward." Her smothering depression had been replaced by a kind of affable pliability.

  "I like Cowboys and Indians very much," she'd said, conveniently overlooking everything else her father had told her ("I was . . . carrying out the act of being dead, I think, as if death were something active, as if it were something for me to do!"), and instead homing in on the bare outsides of the conversation—some kids playing Cowboys and Indians. Telling her father, in effect, I don't want to think about what I tried to do, daddy. Please don't make me think about it.