Man Hunt (26 page)

If someone could only get down there safely
, Obe thought,
and build some kind of raft…

But he just laughed at himself. Getting safely down a cliff so sheer and so high into a bay so shallow and so violent was ridiculous. So was waiting for a rescue or sending a message in the flimsy plastic water bottles from their food bags.
Besides,
he thought,
who's ever seen a real knife sturdy enough to cut down whole trees or paper to write on?

He was looking at the large rock again. His suffering had seemed to increase exponentially since coming to blue sector. Today had been not just difficult, but devastating.

It was a jet-black rock, perceptible only through the hovering mist of rain by the reflected moonlight upon the water. It looked so solid. Inflexible. Permanent. It sat on some land which he couldn't see that walked off under the waves, going deeper and deeper, further and further. He wondered where that land came out on the other end. Anywhere would be fine with him.

A large wave splashed over the rock, washing away Obe's short-lived contentment.

Guess what, Obe? You can't have that rock. Not without paying a price.

Water rushed off it, sliding hastily to the left and trickling down the sides.

Take a look at this. Don't you understand what this really means?

Another giant splash.

This is permanent, O. B. E. Obe. You make the wrong choice here, and you'll never get to choose again.

And then… trickle, trickle.

What's wrong, Obe? Don't you have the guts?

And splash.

You'll
never
have the guts. You'll never be strong.

Trickle, trickle.

Of course, it's not like I expected any better.

"I know," Obe said aloud. He turned his head away from the rock, away from the water, away from the Cliffs of the Moon. "I know."

I lost the sneakers,
he thought.
I have no food and too many bruises. And now my mind is getting worse instead of better.
Suddenly he remembered the two men from the alley who had worked together to get their food.
I don't even have a real friend I can trust. I can't even…
and Obe felt and welcomed a tear that welled in his eyes then slipped out and down his cheek. It mixed with the cascade of misting rain and was gone in an instant.

"I can't even remember my brother's face," he finished aloud.

He trudged back to the edge of the thicket of roses and wriggled under the largest bush he could find, laughing miserably at his own inability to avoid the thorns even then. Soon only his head stuck out from under the bush, and the muddy earth below him was somehow still hardened, not forgiving of his many sores.

Finally still, finally unmoving, he didn't sigh. He simply looked wide-eyed at the downward rain. Despite the host of clouds up there, none held any shapes. Worse still, the stars were blotted out.

There was only one time Obe preferred not to see the clouds, and that was when he needed to see the stars. They were beyond beautiful. They were breathtaking. There was nothing like it in the entire world back home. The black blanket with its millions of tiny specks could sometimes bring him peace, even here.

He felt another tear trying to form, but it refused to take shape. He was tired, so tired, and even the stars weren't there for him tonight. He was left instead to imagine them, and he closed his eyes.

In the distance, Obe heard the unmistakable and violent
fwup-fwup-fwup
of helicopter rotors. Echoing it was the thin wail of some deliriously happy child.

He waited, hearing them both and hearing the real sound of the crashing waves. He concentrated on the wind and the waves. Eventually, the rotors and the child were gone.

He imagined the sky above with no storm clouds. It was easy to do, for he had seen them every night for several months. It was a memory that hadn't been stolen from him.

Quickly, he imagined the three stars in a row signifying his favorite constellation. He deliberately inhaled and exhaled deeply three times, slower each time, falling closer to sleep with each cleansing wash of clean ocean air. Finally, he spoke.

"Hello, Orion," he said. "Here we are again. I've never felt more like dying, you know, but here I am." He paused, gave himself a small, sheepish smile, and added, "I'm still alive."

That short duo of words, 'still alive', was another of his important mantras like the litany or the island's 'Adapt or Die' rule. He said them every night, and always while looking at the triple dots in Orion's belt. He pretended his brother had taught him about this pattern of stars. In truth he had no such memory, but the idea was nice. Like the words and the stars themselves, the idea was comforting.

With his eyes still closed, Obe listened to the waves crash on the rocks below. He listened to the wind whoosh across the bay and whistle over the cliff's edge.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he finished. "I hope." He kissed the tips of the fingers on his left hand, reached out to the stars, and rubbed them gently with his trembling fingers. When his arm dropped to his chest, his exhausted body dropped the final bit of energy it had saved for this important nightly ritual, and he instantly fell asleep.

He did not open his eyes again until his name was called aloud.

CHAPTER 13

Josie sat in darkness behind the gas station dumpster on the outskirts of her hometown. It was just past midnight and she had been hiding there for what felt like hours. In truth, it had been only twenty minutes, the last half of which she'd been crying. The hours of unencumbered travel had primed her brain for serious reflection and a deeper understanding of the truth.

And the truth was, she wanted to make Charles pay.

Because of this, she couldn't go home. She couldn't betray the island. Beyond that, going home would be too messy and ugly and surreal to honestly bear. She had changed too much to live that old life. In those twenty minutes she'd come to understand she could never go home. She could only do her job. Gertrude's bidding.

How many times have I wished for something as simple as a phone call home?
she wondered.
And here I am, less than a few miles away, and I can't do it.

So close to home, so close to the freedom she'd longed for, Josie cried instead because she didn't have the strength to tell her mother she hadn't been kidnapped, that instead she had run away because she'd been young and stupid, that she was physically fine but emotionally deadened. No matter how great her need for love again, she didn't have the strength to face all that. She was not strong enough to do her own bidding.

I'm as brainwashed as the men,
she concluded through her continuing tears. And knowing the truth didn't change what she knew she had to do.

Ten minutes after the gossamer of red graphite had led her north, Gertrude sat behind the wheel of the white Cadillac convertible with the headlights off, the windshield wipers on, and the engine idling. In the steady rain she had put the top up. It was the only car on the island that still had a working roof. It was the only car on the island that had any kind of roof at all. She had parked in a small ravine just south of the Suicidal Cliffs, and she was waiting.

In her mind was the certainty that the GOPHER had been beaten badly on his first day in the blue feeding arena. New men almost always were. Upon receiving that beating, any man would have the need to be alone. Some would naturally wander back across the perimeter poles and explore the green sector and all its comforting familiarities.

Otherwise, there was no better place on the island to be alone than by the repetitious sound of crashing waves amplified in the crescent-shaped cliffs where so many men had taken their own lives. It was here she sought him, and suicidal or not she only hoped she hadn't been too delayed by Lorraine's prank. Like Rhonda, Gertrude hated it when any man took control away from her.

She stowed the car's keys in her pocket and worked her way toward the cliffs on feet as silent as any wild cat. Again, everything was different out in the field. She didn't walk; she crept. She didn't seek; she hunted. Out there, she didn't worry about the petty bickerings of her girls or Lorraine's meddling, childish sabotage or even Monica's insistent yammerings of omens. Out there it was as it was meant to be. No weapons. No boxes. And no rules.

When she got there, she found him easily. He was asleep not twenty paces from the cliff edge. She crept up and confirmed the nametag: GOPHER.

Pathetic animal for a pathetic man,
she thought, looking down at him. He was half hidden under a thorny rose bush. He shook and murmured in the throes of some unpleasant dream. Gertrude smiled, thinking of the nightmare he suffered, and then immediately frowned. He was unconscious, and there was no sport in killing him now.

She found a rock some forty feet away where she could easily see his sleeping silhouette and sat gently upon it, careful not to grind mud into her white uniform. The rain itself, she knew, was only water. She did not shiver as she waited. Gertrude was strong enough to control her body's needs.

As time passed, she planned how to take care of her other problems.

Hiding in the bushes a hundred feet away from the sobbing Josie was Monica. She was both furious and terrified. If Josie didn't dry her fool eyes, get out from behind that ridiculous dumpster, and go get her damned pig, and
soon
, it was quite possible the girl was going to defect. And The Cause could not allow that. Gertrude's command had been imperative. There could be no mistakes.

But she waited for the girl to make her move. There was still hope, however feeble.

On the ground next to Monica was the small backpack she had brought with her from the island. Inside it were a few items which had the power to compromise the entire island operation. One was a topographical map of the island and its coordinates. Another was a satellite phone that had only one number programmed into its memory. The faraway phone assigned to that number was also of the satellite variety, and it was always within reach of Gertrude Monroe.

Monica also had one item that hadn't come with her from the island. This one she had had to retrieve from a safety deposit box at the Citibank three miles from the airport in San Diego. She had one just like it in several banks near all of the major airports that flew directly to Hawaii, including four in Japan.

The item was now in her right hand, which was quickly becoming slick with sweat. She hefted it for the hundredth time, wondering and praying that she wouldn't have to use it.

But Gertrude is right
, she considered.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and we truly don't know if this one can be trusted.

The disused holster for the Glock 19 service pistol was already strapped to Monica's right thigh, ready for easy use during travel.

If she doesn't get her ass in gear…
she thought. But Monica didn't allow herself to finish. Despite the dangers the island currently faced, she liked Josie, and was rooting for her.

Nevertheless she reached quietly into her backpack and pulled out another piece of metal. It was seven inches long, cylindrical, and black as the midnight sky.

Shaking her head as she did so, Monica screwed the silencer into the business end of the Glock.

Walking now. Josie didn't know when she'd begun. She reflected. Not long ago. Twenty minutes? It was well past midnight. No passing cars could see her face. She kept it down anyway. Her shoes kicked into view and swung back as they carried her onward.

Buildings passed so slowly. She'd ridden down this street in a car hundreds of times, but she'd never walked it. Her progress was slow and surreal.

There was the row house that always had the dozen plastic Christmas ornaments each year. They'd light up and send some of the nighttime away even for the neighbors across the street. Later, further than she'd remembered, was Steve's Corner Deli. She'd been in the place just once. It was a take-out-only joint. No tables. Good-sized sandwiches. Made most of its business surrounding the lunchtime hour.

Across the street from it was the old post office, but it was abandoned now. She had known about the plans to build a new one, but didn't know where. The old post office looked like it had been closed for far more than six years.

Then there was the ice cream shop. Its parking lot would be full on hot summer nights like this one and also each year at the Halloween parade. She had had to wait until midnight specifically because of this place. Their hours had always been well into the night, and she couldn't afford being seen by anyone, not even a random high school kid. Any one of them could prove to be the younger sibling of one of her old friends.

She eventually passed not one but two new traffic lights. They annoyed her. Why would her little town need more traffic lights? It didn't look any bigger. Maybe some old folks had complained. Maybe some kid had been killed. Maybe her town had actually grown.

Here was the flower shop where her older sister had worked before going off to college and essentially disappearing. Here was the brand new Pizza Hut, slapped down right next to the floundering KFC and stealing what was left of its business. It looked so… used. Not new anymore. Here was the grocery store, the do-it-yourself car wash, the McDonald's, the funeral home. And then, finally, she saw where her feet had been taking her.

Just across the overpass of busy Route 14 was the bowling alley. The only true local hang-out. It was walking distance to the cheap food of McDonald's, driving distance to every kid in school who had the use of his or her parents' car, and definitely a dangerous place for Josie the runaway woman. It was also the only place in town open till two in the morning that entertained with both games and drink. Exactly the kind of place that Charles had always frequented. In fact, hadn't he even been talking about joining a league there back when–

No,
she thought.
You're not going to think about that. He's just another pig. Another mark. Just do your job and go home. That's all.

She shook her head. "Home?" she said aloud. "When did the island become home?" She didn't know. It was another thing she didn't want to think about.

She didn't dare go inside. Inside there would be people, faces, old acquaintances or even friends. There would be the explosion of bowling pins, the sharp cracks of pool balls, the
bings!
of the arcades in the corner. There would be the smells of fat hot dogs, stale beer, and lots of cigarette smoke. Inside would be a whole other world. The world Josie had run from. The world she'd dreamed about returning to.

She sat instead on the side of a tall bank of grass looking over the west end of the parking lot. The highway sounds were behind her. A young maple tree supported her back as comfort and companion. Time and curiosity and, above all else, memories, were her enemies.

League or no league, Charles had always gone here. She wasn't sure if he had actually bowled back then or just played pool and arcades like most of the other high-schoolers. She'd never gotten around to learning that small part of him. She just knew he often met his friends there and wasted the evening away. At least, he had used to. So much had already changed. He would have developed new friends, new interests. He could even be back from college himself by now. If that were the case, she had less than nine days to track him down, and she'd need to do it without attracting attention to herself.

No
, she thought.
Not him. Never college. He hated school. He worked for his dad's company during the weekends and summers. By now he's probably working there full-time. Probably being groomed to take it over one day. He probably has friends he drinks beer with five nights a week. He probably drives home a little drunk at least one or two of them. He probably still hasn't crossed the state line. He is quite possibly actually inside right now.

Josie sighed and scanned the dark parking lot for a car she'd remember as his. Nothing. All cars were of nobody, of anybody. She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms around her legs, thought some more.

How will I… How
can
I?
she thought.

"Damn it." She bounced her head against her forearms hoping some answers would come. In her mind was the image of Gertrude towering over her office desk. "He raped me," she said. "He fucking
raped
me. How can that bitch
do
this to me? How can she rape me too?"

I don't care about impressing anyone,
she thought.
I don't want to be promoted to second-in-command. More responsibility and extra one-on-one time with Gertrude? For what? A little extra pay when my time is served? For them? For her?!
But Josie glanced at her small brown suitcase, thought of its contents, and knew why. It was for The Cause. For the women, all women, who had been raped, beaten, yelled at, chided, abused in any manner of ways and degrees by any manner of men in their lives. And tonight, though she didn't ask for it and she wasn't ready for it, Josie would set in motion her personal revenge on her personal abuser.

Charles.

Charles must pay. Charles must suffer. She leaned back against her new friend, the young maple tree, and waited. It no longer bothered her to wait. She could wait forever if needed.

He exited the bowling alley less than a half hour later. She didn't find this surprising or fated or even just lucky as hell. It was simply the way things were meant to be. She was woman. She was power. She called the shots.

Josie didn't think. She just stood and acted. She was on call now. The time had come. It was Gertrude's bidding. She wouldn't let down The Cause. She wouldn't miss this opportunity to take revenge. She'd just have to make it natural, to play the game, to use her skills and instincts the way she'd been taught, the way she'd practiced and performed so flawlessly for six years. She descended the short embankment and was on the painted blacktop in seconds.

But as she crossed the parking lot and closed in on her rapist while he said his goodbyes and separated from his band of unknown friends, Josie suddenly realized one terrible fact about this particular mission. In order to make sure Charles would take her as the bait, in order to ensure his voluntary agreement to a sudden trip to Hawaii, she could not start from scratch like all the other men. She had a history with Charles. He would perhaps be expecting greater things than mere promises. And unlike the others if that time came, she couldn't deny him. There could be no other man to take his place. One was not just as good as the next. He was the only man she could return with.

She swallowed and inhaled some confidence. He had seen her.