Left on Paradise (50 page)

“Here’s the bottom line,” Father Donovan said. “Almost every man in this villages stuck a spear in a native or tied a rope around a neck. We’re all guilty by their sanctimonious rules. So we can either take their punishment like sorrowful boys or we can fight for our rights. If they pull the wounded out of here and repeat any of the stories Ryan told the yachtsman, we’re all doomed. Our terms of charter allow the Russians to reclaim the island for violations of international law and, if they do so, we won’t control the situation. I dare say every man standing here will be in a world of hurt. And don’t think you can plead down charges because I’ll see to it that anyone who plea bargains hangs with me—even if I have to confess to more crimes than were committed. Too bad for the Americans, but they aren’t our people. They’re foreigners inserting themselves into our domestic affairs and it’s our duty to fight them. They’d fight if some Russian mixed himself into American politics. If some boat landed in Florida with Cuban sailors? Am I right?”

“A Cuban would be fried for sure,” Chuck said.

“You’re damned right he would be,” another northsman added.

“I’m not sure,” Jason said.

“Everyone kills or dies,” Donovan said with an anger that twisted his face such that his right eye appeared shut and his left forefinger and middle finger clenched and trembling, both fingers curled almost in a hook, “so we’re all in it together. If we burn the bodies and sink the yacht, we’ll have a few days before anyone else arrives. We can arrange cooperation from our neighbors or silence them for good. Dead men tell no tales. Who’s with me?”

“I can’t do it,” Jason said.

“Can you trust American justice?” Donovan said. “Against progressives?”

Jason shook his head.

“Besides,” Donovan said, “we only need to silence those on the beach at the time. The rest are speaking hearsay. That’s just a few men. We can live in peace with everyone else.”

“What about the yacht?”

“It’s in our territory,” Donovan said, “and under our jurisdiction. We can board her and take the radios. We’ll claim that ... let’s say, that the westerners are stirring up civil war and planning to maroon us.”

“That’s lame,” Jason said, “they’ll never believe it.”

“We only have to prove we believe it.”

Jason dropped his eyes and said he didn’t want to face prison.

“You will,” Donovan said, “go to jail if they dig up those bodies. We need to buy enough time to burn them properly. The worst that can happen is they add a few years to a life sentence for genocide. I’m not bloodthirsty, but it was Morales who stirred this up and the others with him. We were forced to fight for the very reasons Americans justify their wars, but they’ll never recognize it. So it’s their own hypocrisy that makes us fight them.”

Now all of the others nodded, except Jason.

“Also,” Donovan continued, “the natives didn’t see their husbands die and they can’t speak English, so they can live. When this is over, we’ll let you pick out a girl for your own.”

“How about the tall teenager with straight teeth?” Jason asked.

“Tall?” Donovan said, “she’s not even five foot.”

“That’s three inches taller than any of the others.”

“She’s yours to keep, but we get a turn too.”

“Share and share alike,” Jason replied, smiling at his own quip.

Now the mood relaxed as Donovan put his arm around Jason’s shoulder. “Can we count on ya, buddy?”

Jason nodded.

“Everyone fights,” Donovan said, “and, if necessary, everyone kills. We conquer together or we hang together. Anyone who shirks, dies.”

Jason gave his assent and the desperate men drew up plans to seize the yacht—passing a flask of rum to steady nerves while they schemed.

It was late in the afternoon when the motorized launch pulled beside the yacht. Donovan shouted for assistance and both women peered over the rails to see a northsman stretched across two seats of the boat—his leg in a splint and blood dried around his ears. Jason and Chuck sat beside him.

“He fell from a tree picking coconuts,” Donovan shouted. “Doc Graves told us to evacuate him.”

“No one’s boarded yet,” one of the women said, “my husband’s still ashore.”

Donovan cut the engine as a fellow northsman grabbed the ladder extending down the boat’s hull and secured the launch.

“The doctor said to bring him straight here,” Donovan shouted.

The women looked at the four northsmen, then whispered between themselves. Finally, Jackie nodded and Cynthia waved to the men waiting for permission to board.

“I guess we’re all Americans,” Cynthia said, “bring him aboard.”

“Do you have a backboard? He shouldn’t move.”

Cynthia moved toward the cabin and shouted something inside and soon a man’s voice asked what was needed.

“A back board to pull him up,” Donovan replied.

Commander Johnson now appeared on deck, shaking his head. “We have everything but that,” he explained.

“I have an idea,” Father Donovan said as he pointed at Jason. “You stay with him. We’ll be right back.”

Donovan and Chuck climbed aboard the yacht as Commander Johnson helped them over the rail and waved his hand across the boat.

“Take anything you need,” the retired sailor said.

“Let’s take a look at the mattresses down below,” Father Donovan replied.

“They’re too flimsy.”

“Let’s take a look,” Donovan replied as he stepped toward the hold. “Maybe we can shore one with some planks.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Commander Johnson and Father Donovan descended into the hold of the boat while Chuck lit a cigarette and stayed atop—where the two women spoke in whispers. A moment later the thud of a distant firework sounded and everyone looked toward New Plymouth to see that a red flare had burst over the beach and slowly fell to earth.

“Something’s wrong,” Cynthia Strong said as she stood. “What’s going on?”

Chuck remained composed, though he did pause before answering. “I’d guess,” he said, “they need the launch.”

“Why a flare? That’s a distress signal.”

“We use ‘em around here all the time,” Chuck said with a shrug, “since we don’t have phones or radios.”

“That’s really odd,” Jackie Johnson said.

It was at that moment Donovan emerged from the stairwell alone—a knife in his hand and blood smeared across his shirt.

“God save us,” one of the women cried out.

“No one has to get hurt,” Donovan shouted, but the women didn’t listen. Cynthia Strong sprinted for the helm as Chuck dropped his cigarette and jumped to block her escape, but didn’t get far as he tripped over Jackie Johnson’s outstretched foot and smashed his face hard into the deck. Before Jackie could make a break, however, Chuck grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down. When the woman twisted around and drove a knee into his groin, Chuck cried out even as he grabbed her by the hair and drew a knife from his belt—plunging it deep into Jackie’s breast as she slammed a fist into his nose. The blonde’s eyes rolled backwards and she fell limp as blood soaked through her shirt where an artery had been severed. When Chuck released his grip on the woman’s hair, her red scarf fluttered to the deck.

Meanwhile, the dying woman’s sister reached the cabin and fumbled to unlock a desk drawer with Father Donovan hot on her heels. Just as she pulled the drawer open, Donovan lunged over the desk, knocking both the woman and the drawer to the ground. Still, the woman found what she sought and racked a round into the chamber of a black pistol as Donovan grabbed her wrists. Both fought while kneeling—which meant that Donovan was unable to leverage his greater strength against the desperate woman. Four hands struggled for the grip of the gun until a single shot was fired and Cynthia Strong slumped to the floor—blood gushing from a gaping hole in her neck.

Father Donovan looked around. Glass fragments and splattered blood covered the cabin floor and the window was shattered where the bullet had finished its course. He stepped away from the quick-growing pool of blood and took a long look at the middle-aged woman—who still breathed even though she didn’t otherwise move—then returned to the deck and told Jason and the decoy (both of whom had climbed aboard) to throw both women overboard.

“Since we’re pirates now,” Donovan said, tucking the pistol into his belt, “might as well feed them to the sharks.”

The two men did as told and dragged the bodies to an opening in the deck rail where the boarding plank attached, several times slipping in the blood trails that followed their crime. A few moments later, one motionless corpse and one shallow-breathing woman slipped beneath the waves. Meanwhile, Donovan used Jackie Johnson’s cotton scarf to wipe drops of sweat and blood from his face, then wrapped the bloodstained cloth around his own head as a bandana—with a single tight knot tied behind his skull.

“Now all four of us have killed,” Donovan said, as he pointed with a forefinger to his accomplices, “and we’re in this to the death. Let’s see what goodies they have on board.”

The northsmen descended into the hold of the yacht as Chuck fidgeted with his swollen nose and gingerly touched a chipped tooth.

Jim Strong sat with Ryan on a bench near New Plymouth. The yachtsman looked exasperated and the former actor appeared perturbed. Late afternoon shadows already darkened the brush and hid the forest.

“Your people need to be evacuated,” Captain Strong said. “That Asian boy is going to die if he isn’t in a hospital soon. You can see it in his face.”

“Can you get him out?”

“The only chance he has is for us to get medics and doctors here. Pronto.”

“Can you call for help from your ship,” Ryan said.

“As soon as I return to it,” the captain replied. “For the record, it’s a yacht.”

“Someone’s coming,” Ryan said as he turned toward a stout Latino coming from the path to New Plymouth. “A northerner.”

When Ryan asked the man where the launch was, the northerner pointed toward the sea and said that a neighbor named Mark had broken his leg and was being moved to the yacht.

“We have timetables,” Ryan winced. “You should have checked.”

“Sorry,” the man said, “the bone stuck through his knee. They’re going to send for the doctor once he’s on board.”

“Stick around,” Ryan said, “we’ll need help ...”

The northerner cut him off. “I’ll be back in a minute. I have something to do first.”

Before Ryan could object, the man disappeared on a north-leading trail.

“That’s a friendly neighbor,” Captain Strong said.

“Probably setting up a drug lab,” Ryan replied.

Neither man laughed.

“It could be a while before they return,” Jim said. “Let’s make a call now. You do have long-range transmitters, don’t you?”

“Two radios and a cell phone,” Ryan said, “only for emergencies.”

“Let’s fire one up.”

Ryan started for the storage tents of New Plymouth and Jim Strong followed. When the men came to a large tent marked for emergency use only, Ryan unzipped its flap and stepped inside.

“Ouch,” Ryan said as he brushed against something jagged and then groped in the dark until he found a large flashlight on a stand just inside the door—which he shined across the nylon floor and gasped. Both radios were in pieces on the ground and the satellite phone was crushed. A sledgehammer had been left near the broken pieces.

Captain Strong used the flashlight to look around. Though nothing else was broken, he appeared concerned.

“There’s mischief here,” Captain Strong said. “Hand me that flare gun.”

Ryan picked up an emergency flare gun and three flares and handed them to the visitor. Captain Strong loaded a flare into the gun as he hurried outside. Aiming the weapon high and in the direction of his yacht, he pulled the trigger. The flare shot upwards and exploded over the beach, like a fireworks celebration exploded out of season.

“My brother-in-law,” the yachtsman explained after the flare had fallen into the sea, “will know how to respond to a clear warning.”

“What can he do?”

“He can secure the yacht and call for standby assistance.”

“The sooner the better,” Ryan said. “I don’t really know these people any more.”

“And he can arm himself.”

Ryan looked perplexed as he shook his head. “Guns,” he explained after a long pause, “are illegal in Paradise.”

Crack.

It was at that very moment that the report of a pistol shot echoed across the lagoon. Shocked by the sound, Captain Strong ran for the beach while Ryan shouted for help and followed at his heels. Once they reached the shore, Captain Strong pushed a kayak into the water and paddled hard toward his yacht while Ryan rallied the men and women of New Plymouth—sending a long-legged girl running toward Mount Zion to sound the alarm and a short boy toward the east village to summon Steve. Dr. Erikson and several others armed themselves with axes and shovels as Ryan picked up a set of binoculars kept near the flagpole and watched Jim Strong paddle.

Ryan watched through binoculars as the yachtsman rose from his kayak and scampered up the ladder. Even the islanders watching without binoculars saw movement against the side of the boat—though only Ryan could see that one of the northsmen held something in his hand as he waited for Captain Strong to draw near.