“You intend to teach this bad boy a lesson?”
“No. I intend to kill him.”
Chapter 40
Dan Crawford gave Frank, and the men who arrived with him, a tour of the budding village that had been erected in sight of the long pier. Construction had cleared thick botanical overgrowth and advanced into the jungle for more than a quarter mile, and from side to side on the beachfront for half a mile. Neat rows of prefabricated housing stretched in rows before large buildings that held supplies, tools, generators, and recreational equipment. A sports field was in its early grading stages with a baseball backstop already in place. A uncovered wooden pier extended into the sea for more than four hundred feet and allowed for fishing the deeper water. Near the open pier, special netting fenced in a large swimming area in the ocean making it safe from the ever-present makos, bulls, and hammerheads.
Crawford pointed to a concrete slab easily three hundred by three hundred feet square.
“The foundation here will soon support our meeting arena and theater.”
“This place is a hell of a sight better than where I was,” a curly-haired man said. “I never sat in a theater and I never saw a palm tree … or a damn beach.”
“We’re trying to make it as livable as possible,” Crawford said, “but we need every man to pitch in and cut back on the gang machismo and the hate.”
The group walked on the white-sand beach. Chickens scurried out of their path as the men plodded toward the water.
“I see you found the chickens … or they found you,” Frank said.
“It’s like having our own self-replenishing KFC.”
“Has anyone explored the rest of the island?” Frank asked.
“Been too busy here,” Crawford said. “Maybe next year.”
Frank envisioned of the western side of the island, the peacocks, the swimming pool, and Prescott’s decaying mansion. One other feature from the other coast slithered through his mind:
A Komodo dragon.
* * *
That evening, the newly established mess hall buzzed with activity as men stood on line to get supper meals from the lengthy buffet. Frank stood with Crawford, looking on with amazement at the orderly fashion the inmates picked up their food.
“The men are assigned meal times in half hour intervals,” Crawford said. “It takes a couple of hours to serve all five thousand, but, so far, it’s working well.”
“How did you manage to get enough kitchen help to work this miracle?” Frank asked.
“That was easy. They get to select the menu and eat first. I have volunteers I haven’t even used yet.”
“You’re more than a mere sponsor here, aren’t you?”
“I’m wearing a couple of hats. Spiritual leader, project director, and president pro tem. No one else wants to do it.”
“Maybe no one else could do it.”
“I can’t do it all. Soon, I’m going to need a lot of management help, especially in the area of discipline. A lot of tough guys from back in the states want to be tough guys here. They have to understand that this unsupervised island life is only going to succeed if we all pitch in and work together. Survival depends on it.”
“Supply control an issue?” Frank asked.
“Sure. The biggest. The “me first” element wants to hoard what they can snatch and hide. They want to fashion weapons from tools intended for other purposes. It’s in their former prison nature. They can’t shake that survival mindset. I have trouble keeping track of machetes and knives.”
“How do you discipline offenders?”
“It’s right up there with ‘How do you bust a buck private?’ What can I do to a man who’s been sentenced to death stateside? He’s free to do whatever he wants here. Who’s going to stop him if he wants to kill someone?”
“You have to stop him. Carry out his execution.”
“Rolls off the lips easily, but, brother, pullin’ it off is another story,” Crawford said.
“Get the toughest guys on your side. Reward them for toeing the line and make them your police force.”
“They think this island is all about freedom from police and authority.”
“If this experiment fails, they’re going back to their former prisons. Impress that firmly in their minds. Make it job one.”
“And who better for that job than you, detective.”
“Oh, shit,” Frank said. “Open mouth, change feet.”
Crawford smiled and gathered in Frank by the shoulder, his huge hand covering most of Frank’s upper arm.
“How ’bout you being our chief of poh-lice?”
* * *
Frank wanted to face off with Rico Guzman while he still had his optimum strength. He could foresee that after several weeks on the island his physical resources might be compromised. Prior knowledge of the island could also give him an advantage if Guzman was yet unaware of what lay on the western shore. These were small points, but Frank knew that victory in many an Olympic competition was decided by one one-hundredth of a second. He wanted every edge he could get. His adversary was no pushover. Rico Guzman hadn’t risen to the top of the California illegal drug industry by being a pussycat. People who got in his way ended up dead, often by his personal tiger claws. And his physical strength was only exceeded by his mental toughness. Frank Dugan feared few things in life. Rico Guzman was one of them.
A meeting with Guzman needed to be arranged, the sooner, the better. Frank walked from his assigned barrack and searched for Dan Crawford. Fresh supplies flowed from the pier where men loaded them onto wheeled wagons for others to tow off the beach and take to the island’s warehouse. Crawford, participating in the operation, glanced up to see Frank as he approached.
“Mornin’, chief,” Crawford said.
“Not ‘chief’ yet, thank you,” Frank said.
“It’s a job you were born for.”
“Yeah, a prison whip master. It’s all I dreamed about being as a kid.”
“What else you going to do here? Macramé?”
“I need to meet with Mr. Guzman. Can you arrange that?”
“Going right into the buzz saw, eh?”
“It’s going to happen, so let’s get it over with.”
Dan stopped pulling parcels from the pier and stepped out of the production line.
“You know we have rules for this kind of combat.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I’ll call for a community meeting tonight. I’ll make sure Guzman is there.”
Frank gave a thumbs-up. It had begun. The countdown to a final resolution with the man who had orchestrated the murder of his family. There would even be an upside if he lost. Frank would again see Amy, Aunt Barbara, and the children.
* * *
The local communication system carried the announcement of the meeting, open to all the inmates. Crawford had earlier requested representatives from each faction existing within the community. Each established gang was allowed one member to represent them in a council presided over by Dan Crawford, their uncontested leader. In addition, council members came forward to speak for, not only the blacks, the latinos, and the Muslims, but groups like the gays, the independents, and even the seniors. No special interest group was left out. Council voting depended on a quorum of three-quarters of its members to pass any rules or laws that stood to govern the community as a whole. It would be an attempt at a democratic form of government, and could work if it didn’t become too divisive. Proof that their political concept would work and last over time remained to be tested at the Resort.
No one wanted to see its survival more than Dan Crawford. If it failed, every man on the island would be on his own. There would be war, rampant murdering, and constant anxiety for everyone. Every moment of sleep would be interrupted by a nervous eye panning the bedside. Soon, only a handful would remain. Prescott Island would fail and any survivors would be shipped back to mainland prisons. Crawford constantly warned his public of that Lord of the Flies scenario
and prayed that they listened carefully.
Most of the entire population on the island attended the meeting being held at the mess hall. Crawford looked of the attendees and knew which ones had come to set up a formative legislature, those who came out of curiosity, and those who looked at it as a form of entertainment. He also knew the ones who spelled trouble. It would be a mixed batch of personalities. His job would be to emphasize its importance to their survival.
Rico Guzman sat at a table to the left of Crawford, while Frank sat at one on his right. Guzman and Frank exchanged glares regularly and then returned their attention to Dan as he stood at a makeshift podium between them.
“Thank you all for coming,” Crawford said. “We have tonight what will be a first for the Resort: its first challenge for mortal combat. I have talked with Mr. Rico Guzman regarding his feeling about co-existing with former Detective Frank Dugan of the San Diego Police Department on this island. He has expressed that there can be no viable way to live in harmony with his former nemesis that he’s certain wants to kill him. Frank Dugan blames Mr. Guzman for killing his wife and family and has determined that the only suitable justice for Mr. Guzman is death.”
A murmur of low voices swept over the crowd. Crawford waited for the vocal reaction to settle.
“We recognized early on the need for rules to be in place for these types of irreconcilable differences. We knew, from our prison days, that hate like this always ended in somebody getting killed. There were never any rules. Often, the victim never had a chance. Here at the Resort, we want to level that playing field, or perhaps I should say, that killing field.”
Crawford unfolded a document before him.
“Here are the rules we established during our first week on the island. One: the combatants will be given a single liter of drinking water, a jackknife, and a machete. They may wear any clothes they own, including shoes. Two: the winner of a coin toss will choose between being the pursuer or the pursued. The pursued will be given twenty-four hours to leave our village and disappear into the jungle; the pursuer will stay in the village until the twenty-four hours are up, after which he can give chase to his opponent. Three: all observers of this contest must stay one hundred yards away from both combatants. A security team of ten men will see that you comply. Any human help given to either party during this combat will immediately be dealt with by our security team who will punish the helper, or helpers, with likely death by being taken out to the end of the uncovered wooden pier and thrown to the sharks. If they can survive that, they’ll be allowed to return to the community. This rule also applies to the combatants who might enlist or request any outside assistance. Four: the contest will continue until one or the other, or both combatants, have been killed.”
“When does this contest go down?” and inmate in the front row asked.
Crawford looked first to Rico, then to Frank.
Crawford said, “Tonight we’ll have the coin toss and decide who’s going to stay and who’s to go. The two men will be issued their water, knife, and machete. Tomorrow morning, the twenty-four hour lead time will begin. The next day, the pursuer will give chase.”
Crawford took a metal disk from his pocket and displayed it to the audience and then to the two men beside him.
Rico Guzman stood and said, “Just to show I’m a right kinda guy, I’ll forget the coin toss and let Mr. Dugan choose his own fate.”
The crowd rumbled. Crawford held his arms high for calm.
“Would you like to accept Mr. Guzman’s generous offer?” Crawford asked Frank.
Frank stood and said, “I would. I’ll be the pursued, so Mr. Guzman will have a clear path into the jungle and won’t scratch his pretty legs.”
Laughter erupted from the crowd.
“Well, that’s that,” Crawford said and pocketed his makeshift coin. “Tomorrow at dawn Mr. Dugan will depart and the clock will begin the countdown.”
Frank strode to the back exit of the hall and made tracks for his barrack. He would plan how to penetrate the dense flora that would oppose him on his itinerary to the western side of the island. An average person could walk briskly at about four miles per hour on open, flat terrain. Through thick jungle with mountains to cross, a lot less. Maybe two miles-per-hour at best. But to make the west side in four or five hours would still give him time to plan once there. The marines had taught him how to cover his tracks, so Guzman might not pick up his trail for days. In days, Frank could have time to make weapons, even traps, but he was counting on using something much more unexpected than that.
Chapter 41
Errol Malay homed in on Mitch Davis’s cell phone. The phone company tracking report found it to be centered in basically one spot overnight. Chula Vista was a town only a nine miles south of San Diego, a town Malay knew well. His own country club was in Chula Vista. To make location even easier to find, the phone was in an area off the 5 freeway with only one motel, the likely place an idiot in flight might trust as affordable and safely off the radar. Malay was sure that Mr. Davis could pay for his stay with the money he’d availed himself of in the Mago’s safe, a money hole Guzman often neglected to lock.
The Playa Vista Motel had no playa in sight and nary a vista of one. The office clerk was a dullard that Malay easily conned into telling him where he might find his nephew for twenty dollars plain. Room 14 was on the lower level and clever Mitch’s car sat in the parking space directly in front of it. Malay mused that he could’ve saved the twenty.
Malay knocked the door of 14. He could hear the TV playing inside and the stirring of human movement.
“Open the door, Mitch.”
“I’m calling to have my tapes sent if you don’t leave me alone,” Mitch said through the door.
“Look, if I intended to do you harm I’d be shooting myself in the head. Your tapes would get sent and I’d get arrested. Think about it, Mitch. You would fare much better by hooking up with me.”
“You murdered Ernie.”
“Guzman wanted him dead. Ernie had things he could use against him … and you.”
“Guzman’s on that island. For good. So why kill Ernie?”
“Revenge. Ernie did things that put Rico there.”
“I don’t know …”
“You have no reason to fear Guzman. You did nothing but help the man.”
“He’s got no contract out on me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve been watching too many mafia movies.”
A minute passed. Then the door slowly opened a few inches and Mitch peeked out at Malay.
“What do you want with me?” Mitch asked.
“We have a shitload of property to split up. I can’t take it all. My taxes are killing me as it is. You can have half of Guzman’s bank accounts, and I don’t need that fucking Queen Mary of a yacht.”
“I can’t sail it. It needs a crew.”
“Well, jeez, hire a crew. You’re a rich man now.”
“For real?”
“Am I coming in or are you coming out?”
“I’ll come out.”
Mitch slid out between the door and the jamb and sat on the hood of his car.
“That was pretty clever of you to send copies of that video to your relatives,” Malay said.
“I didn’t want to, but I was scared. I hate involving my relatives in this.”
“You know, me being a lawyer and all, I need to see proof before I go to work for someone. I want to help you, but we have to be able to trust each other. If you have a sample of that video, I need to see it before I start sharing a lot of money.”
“I can show it to you,” Mitch said, “but you know those copies I sent are real. They’re out there.”
“Of course. I’d like to see the film. Actually, I’m kinda curious to see what that execution of Ernie looks like.”
“It was horrible, man. Some bad shit.”
“Look, what you don’t know is that Ernie was preparing to toss you to the cops too. He wanted all of Rico’s mon
ey. I was next on his list.”
“Yeah? Let’s go inside,” Mitch said and stood. “I got the camera inside with the original tape.”
Both men disappeared inside room 14 and closed the door.
Malay wanted to get that original video out of play, then find out where those other tapes were sent. He’d throw serious money and booze at Mitch until his lips loosened up. A few nice dinners at exclusive restaurants, some expensive duds, and a new sports car should do the trick.
All that remained would be disposing of Mitch’s body.
* * *
The knife Frank was given was an overgrown Boy Scout knife with several cutting blades, a file, a can opener, an awl, a small magnifying glass, and two types of screwdrivers. It came with a sheath for wearing it on one’s belt. The machete also came with an olive drab canvas sheath, paramilitary, and a belt clip. The liter bottle of water was issued with a small shoulder bag for carrying. The machete got an early workout on the kudzu vines and chest-high plant life as Frank hacked his way south. He’d go south first, knowing that Guzman would be keenly watching the direction he headed as he left the village. Frank had no compass, but the sun would help him when the time came to change course to west.
Frank used his trailblazing time to consider what weaponry he could bring to bear against Guzman. A spear was certainly possible, but how about a bow and arrow? That would give him a distance advantage and eliminate close encounters of the first kind. A bow would need a suitable flexible wood and something to use as a string, and the arrows would need fletchings to stabilize their trajectory in flight. He didn’t believe yew trees were native to Prescott Island, so the traditional wood choice among the ancients for making bows was out. No, it didn’t look good for going all Robin Hood when he wasn’t anywhere near Sherwood Forest.
Traps he could do, but traps require that you get your prey to traverse the trap’s location, like over a beaten path. No beaten paths here. Didn’t look good for path traps either.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 20