Bed of Nails (27 page)

Glancing out his window, he gazed down at the dark blue sea. The shadow of the plane slipped across it like a sleek-nosed shark. The bright blue sky was wisped with white clouds, behind which peeked the face of a faint moon.

Zinc’s ears popped as the plane began its sharp descent. Ahead, he spied a flat verdant island, with no visible settlements around its rocky coast. Foaming white, the narrow reef seemed more like a shelf in the sea, as if the entire island had been jacked up a notch or two. Here and there, a shallow bay indented the shore.

“Cannibal Island,” Yvette announced, a mite too loud on account of her plugged ears.

Zinc craned around in his seat to assess if any islanders behind him had overheard, then realized to his chagrin that he and Yvette were the only tourists on board. The rest of the passengers were Polynesian, and probably flying home. Most of the females were heavyset, because starches make up all the staple foods. They were dressed in free-flowing shifts with bright flower patterns, and some were wrangling fidgety kids with topknots in their hair. With their golden skin, dark locks, broad faces, and fingers as plump as sausages, the men looked unlikely to run from a fight. The hulks behind both Yvette and Zinc could wrestle as a tag team with the WWF. One wore a straw hat with a chevron band that matched the tattoo etched around his neck. The other could be a pirate from bygone days, with his shaved head, goatee, bandana, earrings, and similar tattoos.

“Kia orana,”
the Mountie said.

The Cook Islander smiled. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “We won’t eat you.”

The killers of the two Hanged Man victims and the Cthulhu sculptor stood beside the makeshift runway of crushed rock, shielding their eyes with the palms of their hands to watch the plane that carried Zinc and Yvette descend out of the shimmering sky.

“Think we gaffed him?”

“We’ll know soon enough. What about the spearguns?”

“They’re in that carryall.”

“Did you see the sign above the departure gate? ‘Please Check All AK-47s, Hand Grenades, and Nukes at Security!’”

“Someone has a sense of humor. You’d never see that back home. Spearguns are common, so we’re okay. Spearfishing is widely promoted to draw sportsmen to the Cooks.”

“We’re going after
bigger
fish.”

“That we are. Get spiked with one of those barbs and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”

“Pun intended?”

“Our pig is gonna squeal. Are you sure you’re able to go through with this?”

“What? Eat him alive?”

“It’s a big step. The last taboo.”

“A year and a half went into planning the Ripper’s revenge. You know what he says about revenge being a dish best served cold? I’m here to party. Bring it on. You fuck her. I’ll fuck him. Then we’ll eat that fucking pig’s pork down to the bone.”

Atiu, Cook Islands

Petra Zydecker was waiting at the foot of the dinky stairs that had been lowered out of the plane. As Zinc stepped down onto the hot concrete slab that acted as an airport apron, she draped a lei—called an
ei kaki
in the Cooks—around his neck. The white-and-yellow flowers of the garland necklace emitted a pungent scent.

“In your golden years,” Petra said, “you can tell your grandkids that you got leied by the goth queen of Cannibal Island.”

“Thanks,” said Zinc.

“Meitaki ma’ata.”

“You look … comfortable.”

“I’m the scandal of the island. You won’t believe how religiously repressed Atiu is. If you stroll through town in a bikini, the locals worry that you’re walking past their church in your underwear. You’d never guess I’m a preacher’s daughter, eh?”

“Actually, you would,” Zinc said dryly.

Black was still her color, even when she was almost stripped to her skin. The black silk that slinked around her body at the World Horror Convention had been shed like a black mamba snake’s scales for a black bikini and a black pareu the size of the miniest of miniskirts. Cleavage to rival Vampirella’s was wantonly on display, while her pale flesh, pinking from the sun despite a slather of sunblock, oozed sweat in the most erotic way. Her glossy black hair, still parted down the middle and still curving around her face like pincers, couldn’t rein in those wayward hanks that stuck to her damp cheeks. Despite the heat, her lips and nails were lacquered black, and that all-consuming color was picked up by her tattoos, delicate Gothic designs etched on her upper arms. Even the lei around her neck that hid the string of baby’s teeth was of natural or dyed black flowers.

“I’m hurt,” pouted Petra.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Did I not invite you down here at the horror convention? Instead, you jilted me to fuck Yvette Goody Two-shoes.”

“I’m not fucking her.”

“Not yet. But somehow I doubt you came down here for the glare of the sun.”

“I came to learn how to write. What about you?”

“Write? Me too. You may have heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Cannibals and converts—that’s what Atiu is about. Let me tell you, Officer, there’s
dark
inspiration here. On the part of both the people-eaters and the missionaries.”

“So who’s your current patron of the arts? Bret or Wes?”

“Bret. Wes. Both. Neither. What does it matter? In my realm, I’m my own woman. I fuck who I want to fuck.”

“Not me,” said Zinc.

“Uh-huh. That depends on Yvette. If she doesn’t feed your libido, I may just eat you up.”

Lord knows what the Atiuan passengers thought as they filed past the
papa’as. Papa’a
—“four skins”—is what the islanders call Europeans and other foreigners. It refers to the four skins—jacket, shirt, singlet, and their own skin—that the first explorers wore. Also, because Cook Island males are circumcised in a manhood ritual at age twelve, the term can be derogatory.

As the first person off the plane, Yvette was already shaded in the terminal, which was nothing more than an open walkthrough shed beside the rural runway. It served as a gathering place for passengers and baggage. The baggage on this plane was stored in a compartment behind the left-side wing, and while Zinc and Petra were sparring by the steps in front, the ground crew—such as it was—had unloaded the cargo onto a pull cart powered by human sweat. The
papa’as
followed their bags into the terminal.

“Well, well,” Lister said. “Who do we have here?”

“Hello, Bret,” Zinc replied.

“Come to extradite me?”

“No, to learn how to write. You did offer an Odyssey opening to those at the convention, didn’t you? Well, I got to thinking about it and decided what the hell.”

“So here you are?”

“Here I am.”

“Sneaking aboard like a stowaway.”

“How so? I asked Yvette to make arrangements for me. Should I have gone to you? Besides, you’re lucky I showed up. The rumor is you put
half your students in the hospital.”

“That was bad beer.”

“I’m glad I don’t drink.”

Bret Lister looked like a high-strung man teetering on a tightrope. Though it was high noon in the tropics and everyone else was feeling the heat, the lawyer-turned-writer was pacing the shed like a doomed man at the hour of his execution. The black bags under his eyes cried out for sleep; it was as if he hadn’t stopped going since the Odyssey began, which made the Mountie wonder if Bret was hyped on coke or speed. The wild and glassy glare of his eyes suited the weed patch of stubble sprouting from his bony jaws, while the sinews in his long and lanky frame—revealed around the edges of his open sweat-stained shirt—showed bowstring tautness. Bret was ready for action and itching to have it start. He was also in need of a shower, not having bathed for days.

“Ignore him, Chandler. His time has passed. Bret’s not the
ariki
he thinks he is.”

Wes Grimmer had entered the terminal through the opposite door. He and two white men Zinc didn’t recognize—wannabe writers who had survived the bad beer—were lugging baggage in from a truck parked outside. The name of a local guest house was painted in fading letters on the driver’s door.

“Gone native, Wes?” the Mountie asked.

“You’ve heard of method acting? Try method writing.”

The Stanislavski method of acting says a performer must identify with the character he is to portray. Zinc had once heard a funny anecdote about Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier on the set of
Marathon Man
in 1976. To prepare himself to play the character of Babe and attain the necessary frazzled state for a scene, Hoffman hadn’t slept for days. When Olivier—the greatest actor of his generation—showed up for his role, the Old School thespian was unimpressed. “Good lord, old boy,” he said. “Why don’t you try
acting?
”

It was hard to fathom what role Grimmer was trying to immerse himself in for his art, but whatever it was, his method was permanent. Not only had he shaved his head down to the scalp, but his bare biceps flaunted old tattoos in the repeated blue-black chevron pattern of Atiu cannibals from the time before Captain Cook. Seeing him now in a loose green muscle shirt and khaki safari shorts, Zinc grasped how powerfully built the younger lawyer-turned-writer was. If they shoved each other to the brink of throwing punches, the Mountie would bet his life’s savings on Wes, not Bret.

“Hi,” Zinc said to the two unknowns. “I’m Zinc Chandler.”

“Miles Yeager.”

“Bill Pigeon.”

The three men shook hands. Yeager and Pigeon, both lawyers in their forties, had the bearing of button-down paper-pushers suffering midlife crises. Zinc could picture them toiling in cubicles in any one of the firms that occupy ten floors of the phallic towers littering every city’s downtown core. Tied to computers that assess every billable hour against what the minions actually bank, the ones seen as underachievers would have their ears boxed by the board. Likely, this pair dreamed of writing that humongous best-seller so they could shove their ground-down misery up the butts of their corporate tormentors and listen each morning to the traffic report that applied to commuting grunts before getting down to writing a paragraph or two.

“You look macho, Wes,” Bret said.

“
Mana,
Bret.
Mana.
”

“So you’re the new
ariki?
”

“
Taunga,
fella.”

“What’s up with you two?” Zinc said. “Are you going to go
mano a mano
for the entire trip?”

“Mana a mana,”
Petra corrected. A sketch pad in her lap, the goth queen had plunked herself down on a bench with her back in one corner of the hut. From how she kept eyeing him, Zinc suspected that he was being rendered for posterity.

“Would you guys speak English?” Yeager bristled.

“Yeah,” Pigeon agreed. “I didn’t pay all this money for a squabble that needs subtitles.”

Yeager nodded. “What
are
you talking about?”

“Good question,” Grimmer said. “And one that goes straight to the heart of why we’re here. Let’s get this gear on the baggage cart, then I’ll tell you a story.”

The check-in area was kitty-corner to where they were now. The
papa’as
were in the far corner, beside the exit out to the road. As the men relayed the pile of gear across to the ground crew’s station for transport out to the plane, Yvette came out of the primitive toilet. Glancing in her direction put a smile on Zinc’s face. Some wag had posted a sign on the departure exit that read “Gate 2.” The matching sign for “Gate 1” was above the door into the toilet Yvette had used.

“April 3, 1777,” Grimmer said, once the seven had gathered again in the back corner, “Captain Cook discovered Atiu.” He held aloft a map of the circular island. “We’re up here.” He pointed to the runway along the north coast. “Cook’s crew—but not Cook himself—went ashore at Orovaru beach, down here”—his finger arced around to the west coast—“to fetch feed for the animals on the
Resolution
and the
Discovery.
Three boats of white sailors landed, along with the Tahitian interpreter whom Cook had taken back to England on his previous voyage.”

“Omai,” said Zinc.

“Someone’s done his homework.”

“I told you I came to write.”

“Anyway,” the lawyer continued, “they were met on the beach by armed Atiuans, who escorted them into the jungle along a paved path to the Orongo
marae.
The
marae
was an open-air ritual grove where sacrifices—including human sacrifices—were made to pagan gods. Vestiges of that
marae
can still be seen.”

“How come we missed them?” Pigeon asked.

“Medical emergency, thanks to Bret’s bad beer. I’ll take you there when we return.”

“What happened to Cook’s crew?”

“The Atiuans sat them down to watch a day of dancing. They met the
ariki
—the high chief—while his people worked themselves up into a frenzy. You saw how Cook Islanders dance our first night in Rarotonga. All that sexual energy, with knee-knocking and hip thrusts, displayed by the men. As for the women, they shimmy their booties so fast that you can barely see them because the historical root of all dancing was to honor Tangaroa, the god of fertility and the sea. In the pantheon of Cook Islanders’ deities, he was one of the two cannibal gods that kept an oven for humans.”

“Tangaroa?” Yeager said. “That’s where we’re going.”

“The island named for him.”

“Who was the other cannibal god?”

“Rongo, the god of war and ruler of the invisible world.”

True to Gothic form, Petra carried a black beach bag. Setting aside her sketch pad, the goth queen rummaged in the bag until she withdrew a miniature souvenir idol of Tangaroa. The squat, ugly, but well-endowed figure was the symbol of the Cooks, and as such was on the islands’ one-dollar coin. Petra’s tiny idol was as tacky as they come. Hung like a bull, so to speak, its spring-loaded pop-up penis jerked erect with a flip of her finger.

“Show and tell,” she said.

“A huge idol of Tangaroa stood in the center of the Orongo
marae
as Cook’s crew watched the dancers. When the Atiuans began to dig a big underground oven for a feast, Omai freaked out. So worried was he that they were about to become part of the menu that he asked the
ariki
flat out if they were going to be eaten. The chief expressed shock at such an outlandish thought, but that was enough for the
papa’as,
and they got the hell out of there. The crew safely aboard, Cook sailed away. It would be forty-odd years before the next whites came, and when they did, in 1823, what the Reverend John Williams of the London Missionary Society saw on Atiu and the nearby islands was an all-out bloodbath being waged by Rongomatane, a voracious cannibal chief.”

Now back at her sketching, Petra stuck her thumb out toward Zinc and closed one eye.

“Rongo?” said Yeager. “Any relation?”

“Rongomatane, the cannibal chief, was Rongo, the cannibal god, incarnate on Atiu.”

From the glowering scowl around Bret’s eyes, it was obvious to Zinc that he was the odd man out. Here, as at the horror convention, Lister’s star position had dulled in the glare of the center-stage limelight that Wes focused relentlessly on himself. Seeing how the Odyssey was Bret’s idea to start with, that in itself would have been galling enough. But added to that volatile mix was the sexual putdown, for it was certain from the way the goth queen exchanged conspiratorial glances with Wes that, having tried out both lawyers-turned-writers in bed, Petra had rejected Bret in favor of his virile young rival.

“What Wes is trying to get across in his muddled way is this,” said Bret. “‘Write about what you know’ is the rule of thumb in the scribbler biz. To write, you must have something interesting to write about. What the Odyssey has done, is doing, and will do for you is lay out an overload of cannibalistic details that you can weave into a story. The technique used in writing courses to allow the natural writers to shine is to give the class a smattering of unconnected details—say, a wedding ring, a dead crow, a bolt of lightning, and an old stove in an antique store—from which to pen a story in a set length of time. Well, on the Odyssey, you’re getting the goods without the time limit. What you create is up to you, but look at the possibilities. Not only have you escaped from the stress of your everyday traps to this paradise in the South Seas, but you also have the spare time, the perfect location, and the ideal inspiration to produce a thrilling story. Cannibalism is the last taboo. Not for nothing is Hannibal Lecter an icon for our age. Remember
Robinson Crusoe? Swiss Family Robinson?
Tom Hanks in
Cast Away?
Well, let those be your inspiration on Tangaroa. If you can’t concoct fiction out of this trip, don’t give up your day job.”

“I’m going to write about Ann Butcher,” Yvette stated.