Escape (8 page)

He studied the sand at his feet. There was no reason to be jealous of JJ. now. The poor guy was probably dead.

A light touch on his elbow. Luke jumped.

Charla stood beside him, her eyes huge, “lan’s getting the stuff together.”

Luke didn’t move. “I can’t shake the feeling that if I stand here longer, I’ll think of something we missed — something that means we don’t have to do this.”

Soon the instruments were boiling in a pot, and the bandages were rolled and ready.

Ian presented himself, paper-white. Lyssa was already crying silently. She sat cross-legged beside her unconscious brother, cradling his limp hand in both of hers. The beach was their operating theater; the sun provided their work light.

First came a shot of fifty-six-year-old Novocain. Even though Will was unconscious, Ian had heard that the trauma of the operation could jolt him awake. That was unthinkable.

They waited. Five minutes passed to allow the freezing to take effect.

“Will that stuff even work after so long?” asked Lyssa in a whisper.

Ian could not answer. It was just more evidence of how little they knew about what they were doing. In any other situation, they would be arrested and locked up for trying this on a living creature. How had things ever gotten to the point where this butchery was the only choice?

And then it was time.

Charla held out the tray of sterilized instruments. Ian reached for the scalpel, but couldn’t make his fingers work. His hand started to shake, and when Luke looked at him, he realized that it was the younger boy’s whole body that was trembling.

Gently, he moved Ian aside. “I’ll do it.”

When the sharp blade pierced the skin, Luke was amazed at how easy it was. It reminded him of slicing into an orange with an Exacto knife from art class. He looked anxiously at Will, expecting him to jump up screaming. But the patient slumbered on. He cut a neat slit about one inch long right through the center of the bullet hole. For a second he could see the thin red line. Then the blood oozed and spilled over.

He fought through a moment of light-headedness and scolded himself inwardly. What did he expect — chocolate milk? Of course there was blood.

Charla did her best to clean off the incision with a sterilized cloth ripped from fifty-six-year-old toweling.

Luke put the scalpel back on the tray and picked up a pair of surgical tweezers. Grimacing in deep concentration, he inserted the instrument into the slit and began to probe around for the bullet. More blood. And resistance too. Since the tweezers couldn’t cut, moving it around was difficult.

Panic bubbled up inside Luke. This was crazy! He couldn’t do this! They were nuts even to consider it! He pulled out the probe and dropped it onto the tray.

“It’s no good/’ he managed to rasp.y/ l don’t feel anything!”

“We can’t stop now!” sobbed Lyssa.

“I’m hurting him!” Luke insisted hoarsely. “I don’t know what I’m doing in there! I might as well be using a pickax!”

Ian spoke up in a shaky voice. “I saw a show once where the doctors made a second cut across the first one. Like an X.”

And because lan’s TV knowledge had never failed them, Luke picked up the scalpel and tried again. There was a lot more blood this time, enough to scent the humid air. Charla gagged, but kept on mopping.

Luke felt the difference immediately. The second incision had opened the wound further, and the tweezers moved easily through the torn flesh. Then suddenly he felt it — something small and hard.

“It’s here!” he breathed. He began to probe more delicately, attempting to maneuver the tweezers around the bullet. Sweat poured off his forehead, stinging his eyes. Time and time again he felt the tines close over the slug only to slide off its awkward shape. A terrible frustration gripped his gut, magnified by the knowledge that every minute this went on could be damaging Will even more.

He was wallowing in blood now. There was far too much for Charia to sponge away. But Luke didn’t need to see. He had that bullet, knew exactly where it was.

A wave of nausea washed over him.Don’t stop , he exhorted himself. Youjust have to find the right angle! A little luck and a little wrist action and —

“Gotcha!” The tweezers held the slug fast. Without even daring to breathe, he drew the bullet straight up and straight out. It was maddeningly slow, but he couldn’t risk losing his grip. At long last, the tweezers came free. And there was the slug — ugly, misshapen, gory, but out.

Ian opened one of the old bottles from the dispensary and poured alcohol into the wound. Then another fifty-plus-year-old antiseptic — iodine — painted a bright orange spot on Will’s thigh.

Luke’s hands, surprisingly steady now, fit together the edges of the incisions and applied pressure. Last came a piece of modern medicine — an adhesive steri-patch from the first-aid kit off the lifeboat. It stuck like a second skin, holding the cut flesh together.

At last, Luke leaned back. They had done all they could do. The rest was up to Will.

It was only when Luke got to his feet that he noticed his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. His head was pounding. He took three shaky steps and passed out cold, face-first in the sand.

Day 27, 2:40 p.m.

JJ. sat on the floor of the storeroom, leaning on one knee. His thoughts were hundreds of miles away, back on the island. It was a dumb thing to do, but he found himself trying to conjure up a vision of the other five castaways, almost as if thinking hard would patch him into their frequency and give him an update. What were they doing? Was Will all right? What did they figure had happened to J.J.?

Well, that was an easy one, he reminded himself. He hadn’t sent help, so they assumed he was dead. He and Haggerty had talked about that — rescue would come quickly or not at all.

Hang in there, he tried to urge the others over all that distance.As soon as Dadcoughs up the ransom, I’ll send the cavalry for you.

What a disaster this mission had turned out to be. In his mind he’d always pictured himself either free or dead. Not locked in a bare room for days, with worry and boredom intermingling in him to form a lethal cocktail of — what? He didn’t know, but it was driving him crazy.

Especially with that never-ending sound track of twangy music!

He regarded Meaner, who was draped against the door, chain-smoking. “Could you please change the station?” he asked as politely as he could.

The guard looked back at him. His expression was so blank that JJ. couldn’t tell if he’d even heard, let alone understood.

JJ. stood up. “Theradio . How about somedifferent music ?” He pointed to the small portable and covered his ears.

He had Meaner’s attention, but the guy still didn’t get it.

“Here — I’ll do it.” JJ. took a step forward. It was a big mistake.

Meaner jumped up, pulled out his gun, and pointed it at J.J., screaming in Chinese.

JJ. raised his hands. “Hold on! Don’t get excited! It’s just the music, okay? The mus/c!”

The door was flung open, and in burst Naslund. The Englishman yelled back in two languages until finally he began to laugh. He turned toJJ.

“Don’t like the concert, eh? Can’t say I blame you.”

“I just wanted to change the station,” JJ. mumbled resentfully.

“No time for that now,” said Naslund briskly. He grabbed JJ. by the arm. “Let’s have a little chat with your father.”

JJ. brightened. “He’s here? He paid?”

“On the phone,” the smuggler amended. “He wants to hear his little boy’s voice before he ponies up the cash.”

JJ.‘s face fell the distance between speaking to home and actually going there. “Okay, where’s the phone?”

Naslund hustled him out into the hangar where a Mercedes stood waiting. “Your daddy’s probably got half the FBI tracing this call. We’re going to take a ride to a special phone.”

They tied a burlap sack over JJ.‘s head and pushed him to the floor in the back of the car.

JJ. guessed that it was mostly highway driving at first, but then the Mercedes entered what must have been a city. There were frequent stops, and he could make out horns and motorcycle engines all around.

He heard Mr. Big’s voice: “There’s a cop on horseback. Sit the kid up.”

So the sack was ripped off his head, and he was plucked from the floor and squeezed onto the backseat between Naslund and Meaner. They were in the middle of a bustling Asian city — Hong Kong? Shanghai? Neon billboards with

Chinese characters flashed everywhere. Hundreds of motor scooters threaded through the crush of vehicles. Just ahead, a mounted policeman was directing traffic. No sooner had JJ.‘s eyes locked on the cop than he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his side.

“Don’t even think about it/’ whispered Naslund.

J.J. stared straight ahead, his blood chilled to freezing. They passed the officer close enough to reach out a hand and touch his boot.

As soon as the policeman was out of sight, on went the hood, and J.J. was back on the floor.

There were a lot of stairs — forty-two, JJ. counted. Every landing seemed to have a different cooking smell. Weeks on the island had gotten him used to the heat, but this was stifling.

When the burlap sack was finally pulled off, he was in a small seedy apartment crammed full of computer equipment and piles of books and manuals.

JJ. looked around for the phone, but Naslund sat him down in front of a computer that ran some kind of Internet long-distance calling program.

A young Chinese man with shoulder-length hair was expertly pounding the keyboard. He

turned to Mr. Big. “It will be untraceable for two minutes.”

They heard a single ring and a quick pickup. “Jonathan Lane.”

It was all JJ. could do to keep from bursting into tears like a two-year-old. Since he’d last spoken to his father six weeks ago, the whole world had gone crazy. He’d been shipwrecked, marooned, and held at gunpoint. And here was this voice that came from a life before all that. It was a comfort and a torment at the same time.

“Hi, Dad.”

“JJ., you’re okay, right? They haven’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” he said shakily. “No, I’m not! You’ve got to get me out of this, Dad!”

“It’s being taken care of,” promised his father. “Just sit tight and stay calm.”

“Fasti”JJ. insisted, agonized that he couldn’t tell his father about the castaways still on the island. “You have to come quick! That’s the most important thing!”

His father’s voice was choked with emotion. “I know you’re scared, J J. But for me this ishappy’t Three days ago I thought you were dead! To talk to you, hear your voice — you can’t know what it means to me — “

JJ. was struck dumb. His father wascrying!

Jonathan Lane never cried, not even in the movies. He had instructed his agent never to consider a role that involved “blubbering/’

Mr. Big grabbed the microphone. “This is all very touching, but we have business. I assume you’ve got the money?”

“It’s ready.”

“Good. You get your plane fueled and sitting on the tarmac, and when the time comes, we’ll tell you where to fly.” He made a cutting motion across his throat. The longhaired man broke the connection.

Naslund let JJ. sit up in the car and look around on the drive back to the hangar. He even provided a bit of a guided tour. This was Taipei; there was downtown; the Grand Palace was on that hill; the haze was air pollution.

Air pollution. Smog. JJ. never thought he’d miss it. But after six long weeks, this was his first faint echo of his beloved L.A. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but enjoy the action and feel of a busy, crowded city.

Idly, he wondered about the change of attitude among his captors.They’re in a good mood.They know they’ve got abig payday coming .

It made sense. On the way over, they couldn’t let him see his surroundings for fear that he might let slip something to his father. But now that the phone call was over

He frowned. What was to stop him from giving up the smugglers once he was safe at home in California? He knew their location, their airstrip, and their secret island. He knew their faces and could testify against them and probably put them away for a thousand years.

How could they take that risk?

When the answer came to him, he realized that a part of him had always known it: He was never going to see California or his father again. When the smugglers had the ransom money in their hands, he was going to be killed.

Day 28, 11:15 a.m.

Will Greenfield came awake into a world of pain and confusion. His leg was on fire.

What happened? Yeah, it hurtbefore,but not like this !

He sat up and practically passed out from the effort. Trickling moisture on his cheeks. He was cry/ng! Sure, they’d all cried in the past few weeks — from terror, anger, hopelessness. Only a baby cried from pain.But it hurts so much !

He looked down. One entire leg of his fatigues was cut off, laying bare a thigh that looked like it had taken a direct hit from a cannonball. A square patch, crusty with dried blood, sat over the bullet wound at the center of a bright orange circle of iodine. Around that was an area of black-and-blue bruising that extended from knee to hip.

“Lyssa?” His voice was barely a rasp.

No answer.

“Lyssa!” He tried to drag himself to the flap of the sun canopy. Every inch of movement made his leg erupt with a searing agony. He had to bite on his sleeve to keep from screaming. Come on, you can dothis . With a muffled moan, he crawled forward and peered outside. An amazing sight met his eyes. The beach was a beehive of activity. Nine stills worked side by side, boiling the salt out of seawater. Enormous stacks of fruit stood everywhere — coconuts, bananas, mangosteens, jackfruit, and durians, all waiting for — for what? The castaways could never eat that much stuff.

Speaking of eating, was he hungry? He thought so, but he could hardly feel his stomach over the explosion in his thigh.

Ian and Luke passed his line of vision, carrying something odd. It looked like a sort of blanket made out of army fatigues sewn together. And it was stretched between the two oars that came with the lifeboat.