The Island (12 page)

“Simple. You can’t have them.”

“What about antiques? Flintlocks, percussions . . . ?”

“It’s never come up. Why do you ask?”

“This is a bullet,” Maynard said, turning the ball between his fingertips. “Homemade, you can see the mold marks on it.”

“What does that tell you?”

“By itself? Not much. Just that somebody took a shot at the boat, or at somebody in the boat, with an antique pistol.”

Makepeace looked at his watch and said, “I should get you to the airport.”

As the Jeep turned into the airport Maynard saw the DC-3 on the runway, baking in the midday sun. The door to the cabin was open, but the cargo hatches were closed, and there was no activity around the plane. “Why aren’t they loading the plane?” he said. “Whitey said it would take an hour to load it up.”

For a moment, Makepeace seemed confused. Then he laughed. “He told you that? All they load here is a packet of mail. He picks up his cargo in Navidad. Frozen conch.” Makepeace laughed again. “He meant it takes an hour to load
him
up, and an hour to sleep it off.”

“What?”

“He has friends here. They get together at Cyril’s and drink rum and tell lies. He feels at home here. Back in Miami he’s a misfit. Call him Kid Clorox or Bleach Boy or, some of them, the White Nigger. He once did the Bahamas run, but it was worse there; they treated him like a leper—too white to be white, too colored to be colored. The blacks there think he’s bad luck. Here they accept him for what he is, another piece of human garbage, like them.”

“When’s the next plane?”

“Tuesday, but that is to Haiti. Don’t worry. Whitey is careful enough. He always sleeps before he flies.”

Justin noticed the stricken look on his father’s face, and he said, “Don’t worry, Dad. He showed me how things work. I think I could do it if I had to.”

Maynard smiled wanly and patted Justin’s shoulder. “That’s comforting.”

They waited beneath the wing of the DC-3. Whitey came out of the terminal building, yawned, and adjusted his sunglasses.

“See? He’s been asleep,” Makepeace said. “He’ll be fine.”

With an envelope of mail tucked under his arm, Whitey walked to the plane. His pace was straight and steady.

A bit
too
steady, Maynard thought. He’s concentrating on every step.

“How you doin’?” Makepeace said to Whitey.

“Top form, chief.” Whitey ushered Maynard and Justin toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. That sun’s like to suck all the juices out of you.”

Makepeace waved to Maynard and said, “Come back and see us.”

Maynard waved back. At the door to the plane, he hesitated.

“Move it, man!” Whitey said. “Want to get home by dark.”

Reluctantly, Maynard helped Justin up the stairs and followed him into the empty fuselage.

Unburdened by cargo, the plane rose quickly off the runway.

“Flaps up,” Whitey said. He did not flip the switch. “Flaps up!”

Justin looked at Whitey, then at his father, then at Whitey again. “Me?”

Whitey flipped the switch. “Wheels up.”

There were four switches in a row, and Justin didn’t know which one to push.

“Dammit, boy!” Whitey said, bringing up the wheels. “How long you been flying?”

The plane leveled off. “Now, where we going?” he said as he reached forward to set the autopilot. “Navidad? Yeah, Navidad.” He set a compass course and pushed a button. “Keep a sharp eye out for Fokkers,” he said to Justin. “I hear the Red Baron’s looking for the White Knight. But don’t let ’em fool you. Some of them Fokkers is Messerschmitts.” Giggling at his little joke, Whitey grunted and shut his eyes to sleep.

Justin looked back at his father. He was scared. “What’m I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. I think it’ll fly itself.” Maynard searched the sky for clouds. “Let’s hope there’s no weather.”

The plane droned northward. Even at four thousand feet, it was cold in the unheated, unpressurized cabin. Each of Whitey’s deep, noisy snores brought forth a cloud of steam that fogged the side window. Maynard saw Justin shiver. He removed his jacket and wrapped it around the boy.

Justin pointed to the pistol in the holster under Maynard’s arm. “What about that?”

“That should be our only worry,” Maynard said, wondering what he would do if Whitey would not wake up.

Justin sensed his father’s anxiety. “If we turn to the northwest, at least we know there’s land there.”

“I know. We’re fine.” Maynard forced a smile. “You’ll have a few things to tell your buddies at school.”

“They won’t believe me.”

Maynard reached into his shirt pocket and found the lead musket ball. “Give ’em this. They’ll have to believe you.”

“Yeah.” Justin was pleased. “Did you do what you wanted to?”

“Sort of; not really. But what the hell: We had an adventure, right? More fun than piano lessons.”

“For sure. What’ll you tell
Today?”

“That there isn’t any story. Not yet, anyway. They’re used to that.” Still, Maynard cautioned himself, you’d better come up with somebody for the fall-fashions cover. Anybody. Even if you fabricate enthusiasm for Margaret Trudeau, that’ll show you’ve been thinking. Hiller will sign the expense voucher.

The plane was over the center of the Caicos Banks. To the left, Maynard could see the religious retreat on West Caicos. Navidad was rising ahead. He could make out an X-shaped clearing: the airport.

He shook Whitey’s shoulder. Whitey awoke and cleared his head and ran his tongue over his coated teeth.

Maynard pointed. “Navidad.”

“First-class.” Whitey blinked and yawned. He turned off the autopilot and took the controls.

The wind was from the north, giving Whitey a straight shot at the runway. He looked around, to make sure the air was free of other traffic, and pushed the stick forward. The nose dropped.

The plane was at two hundred feet, and dropping, when the tiny figure of a man dashed out onto the runway and waved his arms, warning Whitey off. Whitey pulled the stick back and poured power to both engines, and the plane rose and roared over the field.

“What’s up
his
ass?” Whitey said. He circled the field twice, looking down at the runway. “No wrecks, no donkeys.”

“Why don’t you ask the tower?” said Maynard.

“Good idea. You find me the tower.” Whitey chuckled. “Nothing down there but a hot-dog stand and a coon with a load of conch.”

Whitey positioned the plane for another approach. The man was still on the runway, still waving wildly. Whitey shook his head. “Guy must have lost a few dots on his dice.”

Whitey aimed the plane down the runway and reduced power. The man waved once more and then, seeing that the plane was going to land, broke and ran. Whitey laughed and called, “Up you, Charlie!”

The plane fell slowly, centered on the runway. A perfect landing.

Justin’s eyes darted across the instrument panel, and suddenly he knew what was wrong. “The wheels are still up!” he screamed.

It took Whitey a full second to absorb the information, and by then it was too late. The engines were without power. The ground was rising, gently but inexorably.

Whitey said softly, “I’ll be goddamned.”

Maynard lurched forward and flung his arms around Justin, pinning him to the cushioned seat.

The tail wheel hit, and for a second the landing was normal. Then the fuselage bellied down on the runway. Metal scraped on crushed limestone rock with the shrill protest of a dull ax being ground on a rough wheel. Rivets were ripped free, plates peeled back.

The plane dipped to the right. A wing tip caught, wrenched the fuselage into a turn, and tore away. Wheeling in a lazy circle, the plane righted itself and dipped to the left, crushing the port wing.

Maynard clung to the boy and to the seat, fighting against the yawing centrifugal pulls. He heard the wing tear away and drag along the fuselage. He smelled fuel.

The plane rolled toward its wingless side. The nose struck and plowed chunks of rock from the runway. The windshield shattered.

Maynard felt a blast of heat. He smelled hair burning.

The plane skidded to a stop. There was a whoosh sound and a flash of light.

Maynard did not look back. He was driven forward by the heat. He fumbled with Justin’s seat belt, unlatched it, and pushed the boy before him through the windshield frame.

Justin slid off the nose of the plane and fell to the runway.

“Go!” Maynard yelled. “Run!”

Maynard squeezed himself through the windshield, insensible to the shards of jagged glass that raked his butt and thighs. He dropped to the ground and ran after Justin.

When he felt that they were a safe distance from the burning plane, Maynard stopped and looked back.

Whitey was caught in the windshield frame. The flames had consumed the after section of the plane. The skin was melting away, and the skeletal ribs were glowing red.

It was like watching a snake swallow a rabbit: Inch by inch, the plane disappeared into the fire’s gullet.

Whitey was caught around the waist. He pushed with both arms, and his body twitched as he kicked from below.

Maynard ran back to the plane. He thought no noble thoughts, felt no courage. His only thought was: Maybe if he pushes and I pull, he’ll come free.

He crawled up the nose of the plane and grabbed Whitey under the arms.

Whitey pushed, and Maynard pulled, and Whitey’s body popped out of the windshield frame. Maynard fell backward, with Whitey on top of him, and they tumbled onto the runway.

They stood with Justin—panting, exhausted, light-headed—and watched the plane’s nose succumb to the fire.

Justin was still wearing Maynard’s jacket. He took it off and hung it over his father’s left shoulder, concealing the holster. Maynard reached out and hugged him.

With a rumbling sigh, the plane collapsed in a puddle of flame.

“Surprise!” Whitey said. “We’re still alive.”

C H A P T E R
8

T
he investigation took an hour, and consisted of dozens of questions directed mostly at Whitey by Sergeant Wescott, the senior (of two) policeman on Navidad.

Sergeant Wescott resented the plane crash. It was an unwelcome intrusion on his orderly routine. It would bring officals from Grand Turk who would criticize the way he had filled out the accident reports, who would exceed their authority and look into things they had no business looking into. As Whitey explained when Wescott was out of the room searching for more forms, the sergeant collected all customs duties and all fees for all permits, and he reported only a fraction of the revenue. He was an established bureaucrat—proud of his position, arrogant about his power—who had been able to write his own book on procedures on the island.

It seemed to Maynard that Wescott’s appearance was, by itself, evidence of corruption: He was grotesquely fat, wore a gold watch on each wrist, and reeked of exotic fragrances.

“You cause me a great ruckus here,” he told Whitey petulantly. “I not forget it.”

“It’s worse than you think, Wescott. I had a case of Drambuie on board for you.”

Maynard assumed Whitey was lying, for he had lied in response to every other question: The crash had been caused by hydraulic failure; the indicator light had told him that the wheels were down; he had seen the man trying to wave him off but had been forced to land because he was low on fuel; Maynard and the boy were not passengers, they were guests of the Chief Minister in Grand Turk and were being rushed back to Florida (a mission of mercy) because the boy had to see a doctor.

“And who gonna pay to get that junk off my runway?”

“T and A’ll pay.”

“T and A never pay for nothin’.”

“T and A’s insurance company, then. Get your brother-in-law to bulldoze it off into the brush. You can write the ticket yourself.”

Wescott nodded. “Bulldozer don’t come cheap, that’s a fact.”

Maynard put a hand on Justin’s arm and expanded on one of Whitey’s lies. “We do have to get to a doctor. When can we get out?”

“Wednesday, Thursday.”

“Tomorrow!” Maynard insisted. “I’ll pay for a charter.”

Wescott paused, calculating the skim he could exact from the price of a charter flight. “I call in the morning.”

“Call tonight.”

“Hey!” Wescott snapped. “Who you anyway? Come to my island, crash a plane on my runway, and tell me when it’s time to leave? You leave when I say you leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Maynard said. “I’m upset . . . the boy.”

Justin eyed his father quizzically, but said nothing.

“Okay,” Wescott said, relenting. “Take my advice. If he sick, maybe he get better. If he don’t, maybe he die. If he die, maybe you have another kid. That’s life. Besides, no phone tonight. She broke.”

Whitey had a girl friend on Navidad who worked as a chambermaid at Chainplates, the island’s only functioning inn. She was married, Whitey said, but her husband worked as a crewman on an out-islands supply ship and was seldom home. Unlike her friends in similar circumstances, she refused to share her favors with native men, for such liaisons always created social problems. By servicing drop-in trade like Whitey, she was able to achieve satisfaction and yet remain emotionally faithful to her husband.

Whitey used Wescott’s CB radio to call the girl, and she arranged for Maynard and Justin to have a room at Chainplates for the night.

The cab they took to the inn was a battered Corvair, kept alive beyond its time by parts cannibalized from other cars, construction equipment, and outboard motors. No two of its tires were the same size, and it limped along the dirt roads like a cripple.

Despite the bouncing and the noise of the unmuffled engine and the dust that clogged the air, Justin put his head in Maynard’s lap and slept.

Maynard carried Justin to the room—half of a two-family bungalow perched on a hillside overlooking a primitive marina—and tucked him into bed.

The boy did not awaken to questions about food or drink, did not stir when Maynard swabbed the caked dust from his face and lips with a wet washcloth.

Maynard kissed him on the forehead and walked up the hill to the bar.