Escape from Shadow Island (12 page)

“Please, listen to me,” he said urgently. “Your dad
helped my dad. I need your help now. You can't turn me away.”

“Is too dangerous.”

Isabella pushed hard on the door, trying to force Max's foot out.

“Don't you want to know why your father was murdered?”

Isabella froze. She stared at Max. “What you say?”

“Let me in—we need to talk.”

“Murdered?”

“Let me in, Isabella. This is important.”

She hesitated for a second. Then she unhooked the chain and pulled back the door to let him in.

“My mother, she is at work. My brothers and sisters, they asleep. We must talk quietly. Come in here.”

She led him into the kitchen and closed the door. She didn't turn on the light.

“What you know about my father?” she said.

Max sat down on a chair. He suddenly felt tired. The stress of being locked up, of escaping from the police station, was taking its toll.

“I know your father took my dad out in his boat. And I have a feeling they went to Isla de Sombra.”

“No one goes there,” Isabella said. “Is not allowed. I tell you that yesterday.”

“Where else did they go? My dad didn't fish; he
didn't like the sea. He had to have a reason for hiring your dad and his boat—and there's something odd about that island, something sinister.”

“Sinister? What that mean?”

“Evil.”

“And my father? Why you say he was murdered?”

It was dark in the kitchen, but enough moonlight was filtering in through the window for Max to see how tense Isabella's face was. “I don't know it for certain,” he said gently. “But it's suspicious, isn't it? Your father takes my dad out in his boat. A couple of days later my dad disappears. Everyone thinks he's dead. Then shortly afterward
your
dad dies.”

“He fall into sea and drown,” Isabella said.

“How could that have happened? He was an experienced sailor.”

“The sea, it is rough. Fishermen drown—it happen a lot.”

“But the timing's suspicious. It's too much of a coincidence.”

Isabella's hair was loose around her shoulders. She scooped it away from her face and looked hard at Max. “Who would kill him? Why?”

“I don't know,” Max answered. “But I think that island is the key.”

He told her what had happened. About Consuela
disappearing from the hotel, his arrest, his escape from custody. Everything.

“You escape from police?” Isabella said in alarm. “They will come here. The police here in Santo Domingo, they are not good men.”

“I'll go soon,” Max said. He couldn't put Isabella and her family at risk. Maybe he shouldn't have come there. “That ruined building you took me to yesterday—is it a safe place?”

“For a few hours, yes.”

“I'll hole up there.”

“Then what you do?”

“I think they've taken Consuela to Shadow Island,” Max said. “What more do you know about that place?”

“I never been there. All I know is what I already tell you. Señor Clark, he own it. Before him, government own it. It was prison. And long time ago it was pirate fortress.”

“Do you have a map of it?”

“No map. I never see map of the island.”

“Or any books? Are there any books about it that I could look at? Anything that might show the layout of the fortress?”

“You want to know where rooms are?”

“Yes, that kind of thing.”

Isabella was silent for a time. Max could see she was
frowning, thinking about what he'd told her.

“You can trust me, Isabella,” he said reassuringly. “If I find out what really happened to my father, maybe I'll find out what really happened to yours, too.”

“There is man,” Isabella said. “Angel Romero. He was friend of my father's. He has been to Isla de Sombra.”

“He has? When?”

“Years ago. When it was prison.”

“He was a prisoner there? Could I talk to him?”

“He is old now, sick.”

“Does he live in Rio Verde?”

“Yes, with his daughter.”

“Can I meet him?”

Isabella didn't reply immediately. Max didn't push her. She knew almost nothing about him. He'd come there in the middle of the night, asking her for help, perhaps putting her and her family in danger.

“Okay,” she said finally. “In the morning I come and find you. I take you to him.”

RUPERT PENHALL GAZED ACROSS THE DESK at Colonel Pablo de los Mantequillas. His face was expressionless, but the chief of police was clearly a very angry man. Beneath the suntan, his cheeks were hot and flushed and his eyes burned with fury. If there was one thing he hated, it was being made to look a fool.

“The oafs! The incompetent, stupid, lazy oafs!” he exclaimed vehemently. “I'll have every last one of them lined up in the yard, where I'll take great pleasure in giving their backsides a good kicking.”

“How did it happen?” Penhall asked.

“I don't know. No one knows,” Colonel Mantequillas
replied. “Someone went down to his cell at six o'clock this morning and found the door unlocked and the boy gone.”

“Do you know when he escaped?”

“No. It could have been anytime during the night. My men had strict instructions to check him at regular intervals, but they were all too idle to bother. They'll pay for that; I'll make sure of it.”

“I advised you not to underestimate him, Colonel.”

“He was handcuffed and locked in a cell. Someone must have helped him. He can't have done all this by himself. He's just a boy. What is he—thirteen, fourteen years old?”

“He's fourteen.”

“He must have bribed one of my men. I'm having them all questioned, and when I find out who it was, I'll—”

“He didn't have help,” Penhall broke in.

Mantequillas eyed him narrowly. “No? What makes you so sure?”

“He's an escape artist—like his father. That's what he does. He gets out of handcuffs, picks locks. How did he get out of the police station?”

The chief looked away, embarrassed by the question. “We believe he may have hidden in the back of a police
car that was going out on patrol,” he admitted.

“You mean, your men actually
drove
him away from the station?” Penhall said incredulously.

“It would appear so.”

“And the officers didn't notice?”

“They have both been suspended without pay. Far greater punishment will follow, you can take my word for that.”

“You are looking for him?”

“Of course we're looking for him,” Mantequillas snapped. He disliked being questioned by this arrogant Englishman. “We are searching the entire city. I have men watching the bus station, the airport, the river. He won't get far.”

“What about the Gonzales house?”

“We have checked it. He isn't there.”

“I know where he'll try to go,” Penhall said. “To the island.”

Mantequillas looked skeptical. “You think so? What does he know about it?”

“Nothing much, I'm sure. But he's a clever kid. He can work things out.”

“Then I'll put more men on watch by the harbor,” the police chief said. “We'll catch him.”

“No, don't do that.”

“What?”

“Let him play into our hands. Let him go out there. But tell the guards to expect him.”

“And then what?”

Penhall shrugged. “There's no way he will escape from there alive.”

 

Max spent a cold, uncomfortable night huddled in the ruined building down the street from Isabella's apartment. He didn't sleep much. It was too chilly and he had too much on his mind.

At daybreak, he heard someone scrambling over the rubble, a voice whispering his name. He stood up. “Over here.”

It was Isabella. She'd brought him a piece of bread and a bottle of water. Max realized he'd eaten nothing since lunchtime the previous day. He wolfed down the bread and took a long gulp of water.

“The police, they came,” Isabella said.

Max swallowed. His stomach lurched. He lowered the bottle and gazed at her. She looked pale and strained. “When?”

“An hour ago. They search the apartment, ask us questions about you. They know you come to the apartment yesterday afternoon. But not during the night.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Some truth, some lies. I say you come, yes, ask about your father and the boat trip. I say nothing about Isla de Sombra.”

Max looked over her shoulder, scanning the entrance to the ruined building. “What if they're watching your apartment?”

“I am careful. I look. There is no one. Come, I take you to Angel Romero now.”

They didn't go back out onto the street. They went through a hole in the wall on the far side of the building, slithered down a dirt bank, then crossed a yard, emerging in an alley lower down the hill.

It was a ten-minute walk to Angel Romero's house—a small, single-story wooden shack tucked away in a gloomy courtyard behind what looked like a warehouse. Max waited outside while Isabella went in to talk to Romero.

“He will see us,” she said when she returned. “But he is not well. We cannot stay long.”

Angel Romero was a hunched, frail-looking man with thinning gray hair and a lined face. Isabella had told Max he was only in his late fifties, but he appeared at least twenty years older. Judging by his bone structure, he must once have been a strong man,
but now the flesh had fallen away from him and he was stooped and shrunken. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner of his kitchen, drinking coffee. When he lifted his mug, his hand shook so much that the coffee spilled over the rim and trickled down onto his knees. His daughter, Victoria, immediately stepped forward with a dishcloth and dabbed at his trousers to dry them off. Romero waved her away impatiently. “Don't fuss, child, I'm all right,” he said in Spanish.

Then he turned to Max and spoke in fluent English. “Sit down. So you want to know about Isla de Sombra.”

Max sat on a stool. Romero's gaze was shrewd and direct. His body might have deteriorated, but his mind was still sharp.

“Isabella told me you were once a prisoner there,” Max said.

“Yes, I was. A long time ago. Do you know anything about the history of our country?”

“Only a bit,” Max said. “I read some stuff on the internet before I came out here.”

“You know about Juan Cruz, the Partido Democrático Popular leader?”

“Juan Cruz? He was the president who was assassinated, wasn't he?”

“Gunned down outside his house by paramilitary thugs working for the generals who'd been in power before Cruz. I was one of his supporters, as were millions of other people in this country. Juan Cruz was a fine man, a man who believed in justice and equality. He wanted to remove the gap between rich and poor so that everyone would have clean water, enough to eat, schools and health care for their children. When he died, that dream died with him.”

“The generals took power again after he was assassinated, didn't they?” Max said.

“And they've been in power ever since,” Romero replied. “And look what our country is like now. Have you seen much of it?”

“A bit of Rio Verde and Playa d'Oro, that's all.”

“You've been to Playa d'Oro? That sums it up perfectly. On the one hand you have peasant farmers and workers who can barely earn enough to feed their families. On the other you have Playa d'Oro, that playground for the rich and idle where no one does anything except sunbathe, gamble, and eat. In Rio Verde, there are power cuts every night. You know why? Because Playa d'Oro takes all the electricity to light the casino and the restaurants. In Rio Verde there is no water after nine
P.M
. Playa d'Oro takes it all. Not for
people to drink, but to water the golf course and fill the swimming pools. That is what the generals have done for Santo Domingo.” Romero broke off in a fit of coughing.

Victoria came forward again, a concerned expression on her face. “Papa, you shouldn't talk so much. It's not good for you,” she said in Spanish.

Romero took a sip of coffee. “I am fine,” he said hoarsely. “Leave me alone.”

He looked back at Max, speaking in English again. “My chest is not good. I have Shadow Island to thank for that. The conditions in which we were kept there destroyed my health.”

“Why were you sent to that place?” Max asked.

“Because I opposed the generals. I was a member of the PDP. After Cruz was killed, there were demonstrations all over the country. The people took to the streets to protest, and the generals used that as an excuse to send in the army. Dozens of peaceful protesters were shot. Others—like me—were rounded up and imprisoned without trial. The ones the generals regarded as the biggest threat were executed. I was only a small fish, a teacher of English in a secondary school, so I was sent to Shadow Island.”

“For how long?”

“I was there for eight years. It is a terrible place. The memories still give me nightmares. Why would you, a young boy from England, be interested in it?”

Max told him about his father, and about Consuela being taken by the police. “I think she may be on the island. If I wanted to go there, how would I do it?”

“You can't. It is not possible,” Romero said.

“There
must
be a way. Do you remember much about the fortress?”

“I remember everything. There are some things in life you never forget. Shadow Island is one of those things.”

Max turned to Isabella, who was sitting on a bench with Romero's daughter, listening intently to every word of their conversation. She passed him a pad of paper and a pen she'd brought with her.

“Could you draw a plan of the fortress for me?” Max asked Romero.

“You shouldn't think about even attempting to go there,” Romero said. “You will never get into the fortress. And you could be killed trying.”

“Consuela is there. I'm not going to leave her,” Max said staunchly.

Romero studied Max's face, seeing the steely determination in his eyes.

“Give me the paper.” Romero took the pad and pen and began to draw, describing the layout of the fortress as the pen moved across the paper. “It's on several floors,” he said. “The heart of the fortress dates back to the sixteenth century, when pirates built a stone tower on the top of the cliffs to keep watch for Spanish ships carrying gold coming north from Panama. There are rumored to be caves and tunnels beneath the fortress that the pirates dug in case they ever had to escape from the island, but I never saw any sign of them.”

Romero paused again as another bout of coughing racked his body. He doubled over, his shoulders and chest heaving.

Max watched anxiously. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm asking too much of you.” He looked at Victoria. “Should we go?”

It was Romero who answered. “No, stay. I will be all right. Just give me a moment.”

His breath was coming in loud wheezes and his face was flushed. He drank some more of his coffee and cleared his throat. A minute passed before he found the strength to continue speaking. “After the pirates had been driven from the waters off Santo Domingo, the Spanish turned Shadow Island into a naval fortress
and added most of the buildings that are still there today.”

Romero drew a square surrounded by smaller squares and rectangles. The pen lines were fuzzy and uneven because his hand was so unsteady. “There is a central courtyard here, and round it are different rooms. When I was there, this area on the north side was the guards' quarters and the governor's office. These rooms on the west and south were the kitchens and dining area. I don't know what they're used for now.”

“And you?” Max said. “Where were you and the other prisoners kept?”

“All over. There were cells up here on the third and fourth floors, and more down in the dungeons. They were the worst. They were infested with rats and had no windows, so the prisoners lived in permanent darkness. When they eventually came out, some after many years, the sunlight blinded them. Literally burned out their eyes, they were so unused to it.”

Romero added some more lines to his sketch. “These are the staircases. One in each wing. And this is the main door. It was made of wood studded with iron rivets and was guarded day and night by armed soldiers.”

“Did anyone ever escape?” Max asked.

“A few tried, but none succeeded. Some jumped off the battlements into the sea and tried to swim for it, but the currents around the island are very strong, very dangerous. Not one survived. Another man tried to get through an old sewage outlet—a long pipe leading underground from the toilets to the sea. But the pipe was narrow and full of water. The man drowned. The guards dragged out his body and left it hanging in the courtyard for a week, as a warning to the rest of us of what would happen if we tried to escape.”

“This pipe—show me where it was on your plan.”

“Here, on the southeast corner. You're not thinking of trying to get in that way, are you?”

“I don't know what I'm thinking,” Max said.

“It would be suicide. The pipe is a hundred yards long. It is full of water and too narrow for scuba equipment. No one could get through it.”

Romero held out the pad of paper. “I admire your concern for your friend,” he said. “But if she is on Shadow Island, you will not be able to get to her. The island is heavily guarded. No one knows what they do there now. Scientific research, some people say, but I do not know if that is true. Julius Clark, the island owner, can do whatever he likes. He has
powerful friends in the Santo Domingan government. In America, too.”

“And Britain?”

“Yes, Britain. He controls many businesses. He is like an octopus. His tentacles are everywhere. If you cross him, he will throttle you.”

Max took the pad. It was only then that he noticed Romero's left hand. One of the fingers was missing. Max stared at the scarred stump.

“What's the matter?” Romero asked.

“Your hand…,” Max stammered. “It's…”

“I know, it's not a pretty sight,” Romero said. “Another legacy of Shadow Island. There were beatings and other punishments for minor breaches of prison rules, but if you did something really serious, the guards would take an axe and chop off one of your fingers, sometimes more than one.”