On the Wing (26 page)

“In that case, I'll ignore it,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, shading his eyes to try to see who was behind the blinding light.

“This time,” I snarled, “but not next time.”

“There won't be a next time. Honest.”

“Peter, let's get out of here,” whispered
Spirit.

“We can't go yet,” I told her in a hasty whisper. “This is some kind of ambush—we've got to find out how many other thugs are in the gang—and where they're hiding—if we're going to get out of this alive.”

“Ambush? Thugs? Gang? G-get out alive?” she wailed.

“Are you talking to me?” asked the skinny kid.

“Just giving some orders to my men,” I said. “Now about those signs. The way I see it, somebody's playing tricks with those signs.”

“Tricks? What kind of tricks?”

“Somebody's been switching the signs back and forth, changing the direction of them at every fork, so that first Eldritch is one way and Happy Valley is the other way, and then it's the other way around, and then it's the other way around again, and then—”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Me? No! No. Certainly not.”

“That's good, because funny kids make my trigger finger itchy.”

He swallowed hard and said nothing. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Again he shaded his eyes and tried to see beyond the screen of light.

“Who do you suppose did that to the signs?” I asked.

He blinked and swallowed again.

“Did you do it?”

“M-me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“You're accusing me of tampering with road signs to confuse travelers—lead them astray—?”

“I was just thinking that you're stuck out here in the middle of nowhere—you must get pretty bored. You might be looking for something to enliven your existence. In your desperation, you might turn to pranks.”

“P-pranks?”

“They might be harmless pranks—or they might be something worse.”

The boy's eyes grew wide. “L-look,” he said, “this wasn't my idea, honest. I—”

Suddenly, looking at him there, in front of me, trembling, squinting into
Spirit
's headlamp light, I realized that chance had given me something I had always wanted, something that I had heard of but had never actually seen before—

“Can't we just get out of here?” pleaded
Spirit.

“Not now,” I said, “not when chance has given me what every storyteller longs for.”

“What's that?”

“A captive audience,” I said. Then, to the skinny kid, I said, “I'm going to tell you a story.”

“A s-story?”

“Yes,” I said, “and you are going to listen closely, because this is a story about what happens to people whose pranks are not so harmless.”

“Is it a long story?”

“Not too long.”

“Can I put my hands down while you're telling it?”

“Okay, but keep them where I can see them, and remember what I said about no false moves.”

“No false moves. I remember.”

“Long ago,” I said, “in Babbington, New York—where I—where I grew up—and lived until I became a special agent—”

“Special agent?”

“That's right—Special Agent—ah—Panmuphle.”

“Pan … what?”

“Panmuphle. It's my code name.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, long ago, in Babbington, there was a gang of young punks who called themselves the Bolotomy Pirates.”

“Bolotomy?”

“That's what the name of the town was before it became Babbington.”

“Oh. I see. Probably an old Indian name.”

“That's right. The bay is still called Bolotomy.”

“Oh, so it's on a bay.”

“Look, kid, shut up and listen. This is my story.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Bolotomy Pirates started out as pranksters—just a bunch of bored kids looking for something to put a little spark in their lives—you know what I mean?”

“Well—I guess—”

“Back in those days, a lot of shipping passed by the part of Bolotomy called Over South. That's a little settlement on a barrier island across the bay from the town itself, just a strip of sand that separates the bay from the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Mm-hm.”

“The Bolotomy Pirates often visited Over South because it was a place where they could get cheap liquor and easy women.”

He muttered something.

“You got something to say?” I growled.

“I said I wish there was a place like that around here,” he said.

“Yeah, well, the Bolotomy Pirates fell in with some hard types Over South. They took to gambling, and it wasn't long before they were deep in debt to people who didn't like waiting to be paid.”

“Gosh.”

“One of those hard types told the gang that if they didn't want to end up gutted like flounders, they'd better come up with the money they owed.”

“Gutted like flounders—gee—”

“Then he suggested a way that they could get the money.”

“Yeah?”

“He reminded them that a lot of ships passed by on their way to New York. This was long ago, remember, in the days of sailing ships. The ships would pass Bolotomy, and then, farther west, they'd turn into a channel where there was a break in the barrier islands and head into the sheltered waters of the bay. Then they'd have smooth sailing all the way to New York Harbor.”

“Mm.”

“The channel entrance was marked by flags during the day, and at night it was marked by a primitive sort of lighthouse, not much more than a signal fire.”

“Like a road sign—” he said, more to himself than to me.

“The plan that the hard type offered the boys was this: they would wait for a night when the sea was rough, and then build a false signal fire on the beach Over South. When the captain of a ship saw the fire, he would think it was the fire that marked the channel, but that would actually be miles away. The captain would steer a course toward the false signal fire and run the ship aground in the surf off Over South. In that rough surf, it wouldn't take long for the ship to break up. The idea was to steal the cargo as it washed ashore, of course, but the gang wouldn't be able to do that right away. They would have something else to take care of first. They would have to make sure that there were no witnesses, no one who could report being deceived by a false signal fire. That meant that there couldn't be any survivors. A good number of the crew were likely to drown in the surf, of course, but anyone who managed to swim to shore—well, the boys were going to have to kill those.”

He had been holding his breath. He let it out now and gulped another.

“One of the boys was given the job of lighting the false fire and keeping it burning bright, while the rest of the gang hid in the dunes and waited until the time came to do their grisly work.”

He swallowed hard again.

“The one who tended the fire told himself that his part in the scheme wasn't nearly so reprehensible as the part the others were playing. After all, he wasn't actually going to kill anybody.”

“That's right,” he said. “He was right. He wasn't actually going to kill anybody.”

“That's just what his friends, the other Bolotomy Pirates, got to thinking. They got to thinking that he wasn't actually going to kill anybody—and that might be a problem.”

“A problem—” he muttered.

“A ship came. They couldn't be sure at first, because they couldn't see it, and they couldn't be sure that they were hearing the wind in its rigging over the sound of the surf, but then they began to hear the sound of its masts groaning and cracking, and its sails shredding, and its hull being torn asunder, and the screams of its crew.”

“I don't want to hear—”

“The cracking and shredding and rending and screaming went on and on, as the waves tore the ship apart. It wasn't long before a couple of sailors came staggering through the surf, trying to make it to the safety of the shore. The gang swept out of the dunes and down upon the sailors, swinging their clubs and bludgeons. The boy who had charge of the fire stayed at his post. He tried not to hear what he was hearing, and when he found that it was impossible not to hear it he tried not to recognize what he was hearing. He tried to tell himself that what he was hearing was not the sound of living people being battered to death by the boys he thought of as his friends.”

“Oh,” said the boy.

“But then out of the dark came two of those friends, and between them they were dragging the nearly lifeless body of one of the sailors. They dragged the poor wretch into the firelight and dropped him at the feet of the boy who was tending the fire. Then they handed the boy a club and told him to finish the job that they had begun.”

“They wouldn't do—”

“The boy stood there, holding the club, and one by one the rest of the gang came out of the night and formed a circle around him. There was no way out. He turned this way and that, looking into the eyes of his friends, looking for some sign that they were his friends, that they weren't going to make him do this, that they were going to allow him to be the one among them who didn't do anything more than change the road signs—”

“What?”

“—that he would be the only one who didn't do anything more than light the false fire—”

“You said ‘change the road signs.'”

“—that there would be no blood on his hands.”

“There wouldn't be. I mean, technically, if I just changed the—I mean—if he just lit the fire—”

“The circle began to tighten around him. The other boys advanced on him, step by step, swinging their clubs, with fire in their eyes.”

“No.”

“He remembered what the hard type had told the gang: there must be no survivors.”

“Ahhhh,” the boy cried. He fell to his knees. He clasped his hands together and extended them in imprecation. “Help me. Please help me. You've got to help me.”

“Where are your friends?” I asked.

“At the old quarry.”

“Where's that?”

“Not far. Half a mile. That way.” He jerked his head to the right.

“What's the plan?”

“We—I—switch the signs so that anybody who comes along ends up at the old quarry. Eldritch or Happy Valley, it doesn't matter. If you follow the signs you'll end up at the old quarry.”

“And there?”

“It's dark. You wouldn't see the quarry's edge until it was too late. You'd fall—to the bottom.”

“And then?”

“The gang is hiding in the woods—and they—just like what you said—” He hung his head. A moment passed. He lifted his head and looked into the light. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Yeah, Special Agent Panmuphle,” said
Spirit,
“what are you going to do?”

“I wish I could turn you around and get out of here, without looking back, without ever giving another thought to this skinny kid or his friends lurking around the old quarry—”

“Great. Me too. Let's go.”

“—but I can't do that. I know too much.”

“Don't say that!”

“Maybe we could—make a deal—” said the skinny kid, shading his eyes again, trying desperately to see who he was dealing with.

“The right thing to do would be to take him to the police,” I said.

“Oh, sure,” said
Spirit,
“and spend hours telling them the story and waiting while they check it out, search the woods around the old quarry, round up the gang, bring them in, and question them.”

“Suppose I turn myself in—” the kid suggested.

“Then there is the matter of your driver's license,”
Spirit
continued. “That is, the matter of your not having a driver's license. Why should the police believe
you,
a kid without a driver's license? Why shouldn't they throw
you
in the clink instead of a fine upstanding local lad like Skinny?”

“I'm on the horns of a moral dilemma,” I said.

“Come on, mister,” Skinny wailed, “gimme a break!”

“Huh?” I said.

“Help me out of this jam,” he pleaded, “and I'll go straight, honest. I'll never do anything wrong again. All I've really done so far is change the signs. And the rest of the gang hasn't done anything yet, either. There's still time for us. I've seen the error of my ways, and I can reform. I know I can! So can the others. When I tell them that story, they'll see the light. I know they will. They're good kids at heart. Honest they are. We were just bored—you know, like you said—just bored. That's what got us up to this mischief. You know, idle hands are the devil's playground. Or workshop. How does it go? ‘Idle hands—'”

“Shut up, kid,” I growled.

“Yes, sir. I was just trying to recall whether it's ‘Idle hands are the devil's playground' or—”

“Can it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here's the deal.”

“Yes?”

“I'm going to let you off—this time.”

“Oh, thank you—”

“But—”

“But?”

“If I ever hear that you or any of the other young punks in your little two-bit gang of would-be pirates has strayed from the straight and narrow I will track you down—and when I find you I will shoot to kill.”

“‘Sh-shoot to kill,'” he said. “I understand.”

“Don't forget it, and make sure the others don't forget it, either,” I said, mounting
Spirit.

“‘Shoot to kill,'” he said. “I've got it.”

I made
Spirit
growl again. Then I took off, heading back the way we had come, flouting the rule that adventurers do not retrace their steps.