Children of the Island

by Wright, T. M.

  He told himself that it was a matter of priorities. This poor dumb kid's life, or the lives of Georgie's mother, and his little brothers, who depended on him for support. Because if he stayed and helped the kid, then he'd get caught. And if he got caught he'd be out of work for a year, maybe longer. And in that time, anything could happen.

  He had come upon the solution quickly, surprising himself: He stooped over, picked up a large piece of chipped blacktop, and heaved it at the nearest window. The chip of blacktop broke apart against the iron grating, but a chunk just large enough got through and the window behind the grating shattered beautifully. A light went on almost immediately. Seconds later, a female head appeared, "What in the fuck . . ."

  "Call an ambulance!" Georgie yelled, and pointed frantically at the dumb kid's body at his feet. "Please . . ." The head disappeared, the light went out. Another light, in the apartment just above, went on; a man's head appeared.

  "Call an ambulance!" Georgie yelled again.

  And then he ran.

  He told himself now that the man had called for an ambulance (anonymously, of course—which was the way things like that were done in New York). He told himself that the poor, dumb kid would be all right, that he'd just had the wind knocked out of him.

  He didn't believe a word of it. Because anybody who falls three floors like that, head over heels, onto blacktop gets more than just the wind knocked out of him.

  And so Georgie ran.

  Down 89th Street, to 79th, then to 2nd Avenue, and, finally, a half hour later, to the back of The Stone, where he stopped, breathless.

  He had recognized the building, vaguely—the way he might recognize an uncle he hadn't seen in quite a few years. And because he recognized it, because he had a good idea what kind of building it was, it became, instantly, a place for him to hide. For a couple of days, anyway. Just in case the poor, dumb kid lucked out and pulled through and was able to describe him. The cops had his picture on file, after all, and there was no sense taking chances. And maybe he had that look about him—the look that said loudly, "Hey, I just done something wrong!" But he wasn't sure. He didn't think he had that look. He thought he just looked scared, and maybe that was bad enough.

  Getting into The Stone had been a piece of cake. Up a badly rusted fire escape, and in through a window. No iron grating. No bars. Just an open window, and a screen behind it, which had pushed open with shameful ease.

  And then inside.

  In the darkness, he had fallen over Winifred Haritson.

  THEORIES NUMEROUS ON CAUSES OF ADIRONDACK DISASTER

  (Sept. 19) (UPI): In the wake of the recent unexplained, grisly accident which took fourteen lives at a Holiday Inn parking lot in the Adirondacks, 45 miles northwest of New York City, state and federal investigators are putting forth several theories as to the cause of the tragedy.

  A Chief Accident Investigator from the FAA was quoted as saying he has seen similar accidents involving the rotor blades of helicopters—most recently in Manhattan several years ago, when a helicopter tipped over on top of one of the World Trade Center Towers: "The carnage then was incredible, unbelievable, and this accident seems similar in many ways, although we do not yet have any reports of missing helicopters, or rotor blades."

  The same investigator explained that certain jet fuels might, under some conditions, have the effect of denuding bodies of flesh, as was seen in the Adirondack tragedy. He goes on to say, however, that the chances of such a spill from a passing aircraft are "extremely, almost impossibly remote," and that, at any rate, it would be difficult to accept in the light of the fact that the parking lot itself was not damaged, nor were several cars in the immediate vicinity—most notably, the car in which the only survivor was found.

  An attack by a horde of "army ants" was also offered as a possible cause for the tragedy, and quickly dismissed. Army ants are not native to New York State; they are native to various southern states; and have not been encountered above Maryland. It also seems implausible, experts say, to believe that army ants could be the cause of such incredible destruction . . .

  Chapter 36

  In a Field—Two Miles West of Fort Lee, New Jersey: Late Evening

  Whimsical Fatman knew that he was dying, and the thing that amazed him most was that he cared that he was dying. Goddammit, he'd had another twenty years in him, at least. If he'd mended his ways. There were places he'd never been to, people he'd never seen—his children all grown up, for instance. And it was possible, altogether possible, that his father was still alive, and it would have been a blessing to have seen him again.

  But the cops had done a good job. They were smooth, and well trained.

  ("Just a little twist, right at the end of your kick, Tony—just before you make contact, and I guarantee it'll snap clean as a whistle.")

  They'd broken his kneecap almost without effort.

  ("See, wasn't that easy? Like I said, it's all in that little twist—that's what does it. Just like you're throwing a punch, Tony. But with your foot.")

  And seeing to it that he wouldn't be able to call for help had been easy, too.

  ("Know how easy it is to break a man's jaw, Tony? Real easy. Thing is, you don't try and break it so much as dislocate it, and that's just a matter of the correct angle. Kind of up, and over, and you make contact right close to his chin so you get the leverage—know what I mean?")

  Whimsy groaned very softly; he could do no more than that—his jaw hung open, uselessly, a little to the right of where it should have been.

  ("So we'll let him rot here, Tony. It's better than letting him rot in New York, right?")

  Whimsy supposed that the cops hadn't actually wanted to kill him. He supposed that they didn't care enough about him for that. They had merely wanted to give him some pain, lots of it, and if he happened to kick off, who was to care? And if someone found him, and he told a wild story about a couple of Manhattan cops beating the hell out of him, and then dumping him in a field just outside Fort Lee, New Jersey, who was to care, either?

  The cops had had their fun. And now they could go back to chasing bad guys.

  Whimsy closed his eyes. Not only against the pain in his jaw and in his kneecap—a pain which alternated from one moment to the next between the two points—but also from an incredible exhaustion which, all by itself, he thought, could take his life from him.

  Consciousness stayed with him, though barely, as if he were tied to it by a very thin thread. And, distantly, he could hear what sounded for all the world like a dog growling.

  The dogs which he had grown accustomed to dealing with in the past decade or so had been very much like the people he'd grown accustomed to dealing with—lean, and scruffy, and desperate. Dogs that would never curl up next to somebody's armchair, or fetch a Frisbee, or get used to twice-daily feedings of Alpo. He had learned to stay away from these dogs, and to let them have their own turf.

  He thought that the dog growling at him now was much like a street dog because it had a street dog's smell, and a street dog's aura of desperation about it. And he knew that with a lot of street dogs, it was instinct to go first for an enemy's genitals. Whimsy wanted very much to slip into death with his genitals intact. He thought that he deserved at least that much.

  And then he heard, "Hey, whatcha got there, boy?" And the beam of a flashlight stabbed into his eyes.

  Chapter 37

  Near Purling, New York: One Hundred Miles South of Albany: September 21st

  The old couple never thought much about being in love. They'd been in love for nearly sixty years, and so it had become a state of being for them, a way of life. Life itself.

  Occasionally they still held hands.

  Occasionally they embraced, without apparent reason. And kissed each other.

  They still slept in a double bed, and while they slept they reached for one another. And touched.

  A pale blue, gentle mist—visible only to Seth, who was watching them—surrounded them both. It was nearly the
same blue that was in the eyes of the children. And in his eyes, and Elena's.

  The place the old couple walked in daily was called Laufer's Woods—a twenty-acre stand of spruce and pine, plus several varieties of maple and oak trees that was crisscrossed by footpaths, and dotted in several spots by small wooden bridges that spanned narrow gulleys lush with vegetation.

  The old couple had been walking regularly in Laufer's Woods for half their married life, ever since coming to Purling from an ancestral home in New Hampshire. They walked the woods nearly every day of the year, except for several days during winter, when the snow was too deep.

  They had speculated once that when they were gone their ghosts would continue to walk the woods. It had made them laugh, and it had made them feel good. They did not really believe in ghosts, but they knew very well about wishing.

  Seth and Elena and the children took them with the speed and urgency of the moment. And afterward, Seth could feel and hear inside himself the lives of the old couple:

  Oh, Marcus, yes, I'll marry you! Lord, yes!

  His name had been Marcus.

  I can't promise you much, Emma. Only myself, and my love . . .

  . . . Some camomile tea, Marcus? . . .

  . . . I think the Stickley loveseat would be perfect, Emma . . .

  . . . I love you, Marcus . . .

  I love you, Emma . . .

  All the beautiful, hesitant, quickly spoken whispers of two lives coming together over six decades came together inside Seth and gave him pleasure.

  "They talked about ghosts, Elena," he said, and something that was close to a smile appeared on his lips. Elena did not understand.

  And some of the children, who had formed a circle near Seth and Elena, repeated Seth's words: "They talked about ghosts, Elena," the children said, though they had no idea at all what the words meant.

  They soon left Laufer's Woods and headed south, toward Manhattan.

  Chapter 38

  In a Guest House in Ravena, New York, Off Route 87, 20 Miles North of Purling

  John Marsh was tired and angry. Seth—the magician, the superman—was toying with him. He knew it. He could feel it. As if Seth were reaching out, probing, telling him, shouting at him—Yes, I am near! And then nothing.

  Marsh swore beneath his breath. Joe, his German Shepherd, sitting close by, whined deep in his throat as if asking what was wrong. Marsh reached out from the big, overstuffed chair and scratched the dog's chin. "You're lucky they let you in here, Joe," he said, and the dog inclined his head into Marsh's hand.

  Marsh let his body relax in the chair; "I could sleep a month of Sundays, Joe," he said. "That man out there is playing a game with me, he's having his fun, and it's wearing me out." Joe whined again. "It's been a hell of a long haul, Joe, but my guess is that it's coming to an end." He closed his eyes. Joe came over and curled up next to the chair. Marsh reached down, stroked the dog's head. "We'll keep goin' south, Joe. He's moving south. I know that." And Marsh wondered momentarily if he really knew anything about Seth. He called him "The Magician," and "Superman," but they were only words, and they actually meant very little.

  "I'm getting old, Joe. We're both getting old, aren't we?"

  Joe licked the man's hand. Minutes later, Marsh was asleep. It was a fitful sleep, full of short, nasty dreams, and just before sunrise, he woke, went to the window, and looked out.

  He left the guest house two hours later, and drove south, toward Manhattan.

  Chapter 39

  On Staten Island

  "She tried to kill herself," Sam Campbell said, and he settled back in his chair, away from the chess table. Joyce Dewitte moved her knight's pawn ahead one square. She was trying hard to think of some response to what he'd just said, because she desperately did not want to let what he'd said lie there so flat, and cold, and ugly.

  "And so," she asked, "she's in Bellevue?" and felt at once that it was a pretty lame remark.

  Sam leaned forward and took one of Joyce's pawns with one of his bishops. "Yes," he answered tonelessly, "she's in Bellevue."

  "You miss her, don't you, Sam?"

  "I miss her a lot, Joyce. A hell of a lot!"

  "I mean . . . your wife, Sam."

  He looked blankly across the table at her, momentarily confused, and idly moved one of his chess pieces. "The hurt is fading, Joyce. The memories aren't, but the hurt is."

  "Yes," Joyce whispered, "I understand that." She put back the piece he'd just moved. "It was my move, Sam." She looked the board over.

  He said, "Would you like to come with me next week, Joyce?"

  "Come with you?" She moved her queen. "Come where, Sam?"

  "To see Marsha. At Bellevue."

  Joyce looked quickly at him, then away, as if he had taken her by surprise. "Do you really think that would be . . . a good thing to do, Sam?"

  He thought a moment, sighed, shook his head. "No," he answered, "I guess not."

  She reached across the table, touched his hand lightly. "I think you should talk to her about me, first, Sam." He nodded. "Yes, I think so, too."

  "And then, when she's gotten used to the idea that there's . . . that there might be . . . someone else . . ." He took her hand, squeezed it, nodded again, "Yes, that's a good idea, Joyce. Yes." He was clearly upset.

  "Or am I way off base, Sam?"

  "No, Joyce"—he lowered his head, as if to avoid looking at her—"you're not off base. God, not at all!"

  "You sound as if that bothers you."

  "It does bother me. It bothers me a lot. It makes me feel lousy. It makes me feel . . . I don't know—adulterous, for Christ's sake!"

  Joyce said nothing.

  "And feeling adulterous, Joyce, feeling adulterous about . . . us makes me feel like a damned fool!" He sounded as if he was pleading with her.

  "I can understand that," Joyce said.

  "I know you can understand it, Joyce, but that doesn't make it . . . good. That doesn't make it normal."

  And she said crisply, "Oh Christ, Sam—fuck 'normal'!" She grimaced. "No, I'm sorry . . ."

  He smiled, closed his eyes lightly. "Yes," he whispered. "Thank you, Joyce. Thank you."

  From The Purling Post: September 24th:

  COUPLE REPORTED MISSING

  Long-time Purling residents Marcus and Emma Wheeler have been reported as missing by their grandson Jason, according to Purling Town Constable William Sears. The couple, both 79 years old, have lived in a house at 432 Butternut Tree Lane since the early 1950s. They were active in church and civic affairs; he worked for 25 years as a gardener; she produced many award-winning quilts for various specialty shops in the county.

  The couple was last seen three days ago leaving their home on Butternut Tree Lane. It is believed by Constable Sears that they were on their way to Laufer's Woods, and a search has been mounted there.

  The couple also . . .

  From The Leeds Gazette: September 25th:

  SCARF ONLY CLUE IN CASE OF MISSING WOMAN

  A red silk scarf apparently belonging to 41-year-old Josephine Alesi, of Burlow Street, Leeds, is so far the only clue to her mysterious disappearance two days ago.

  The subject of a massive search by local volunteers and a dozen state troopers, Mrs. Alesi was last seen walking alone near the Green's Bird Sanctuary, off Route 87, a half mile outside the Leeds town limits.

  Although the search is continuing, a spokesman for the search team expressed pessimism that the woman would be found.

  In an incident which may be related, two twelve-year-old toys from Rhinebeck, forty miles south, have also been reported missing near the Green's Bird Sanctuary, and the search has been expanded to include them. The boys were reported missing by their mother when they failed to return home after a nature hike to the Sanctuary yesterday. It was not immediately determined if the boys got to the Sanctuary, and the investigation is continuing . . .

  Chapter 40

  In the Basement of an Abandoned Apartment Building in the South Bronx
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  Joe Washington grumbled, "Sheeit!" You gotta wake up, Joe Washington! he told himself. Maybe this is the day, man! And he thought he'd called that last voice up from his distant past, that he was trying to give himself hope, or something. "Sheeit!" He put his hands palm down on the concrete floor to push himself to a standing position. He became dimly aware that he'd wet himself in the night, and then that his bottle of Thunderbird was empty. He cursed again. And heard the curse repeated—in his voice—from somewhere close by. He looked about confusedly. He saw the child only for a moment. Then he felt soft pressure at his throat. The pressure increased; he hacked once, a smile broke through his agony, and he died.

  In Another Part of the South Bronx

  Doris Hall awoke feeling very, very good. Great, in fact. As if, she thought, she'd just spent the night involved in the most exquisite lovemaking of her young life and was basking in the afterglow. Then she remembered that a series of amazingly erotic dreams had carried her through the night. She lingered in bed a long while. She hoped the day wouldn't be a long one.

  Something in a corner of the dimly lighted room caught her eye. She looked. The corner was empty. She got out of bed, went to the corner. She felt something brush past her, felt something like a hand touch her bare belly.

  She heard a scream from below, from the building's first floor. A quick, abrupt scream, as if it had been broken off midway. And then, from another part of the building, she heard what she knew was gunfire—a handgun, she guessed. Small caliber. It sounded again, and again. Then there was silence.

  Several Hundred Yards North

  He was an old man, and his eyes were bad, his hearing worse. But his memory was good, and he could not remember seeing anything quite like what he was seeing now.