The Stranger (14 page)

Eighteen

“Oh, hell’s bells.” I used the phrase Mom would use when Chelle spilled her milk on the couch or the crotchety old car wouldn’t start.

“What’s wrong?” Michaela whispered from behind me in the boat.

“Damn battery’s dead.” I let out an annoyed hiss between my teeth as I checked the battery meter. Yup, the needle was in the red. Deep, deep in the red. “Damn thing . . . it runs off truck batteries, but from the look of them they’re older than my grandmother. They’re just not up to holding a charge for long.”

Michaela glanced anxiously at the thinning mist out on the water. “We’ll be in clear view soon. Can you find a replacement?”

“Not here.”

“How about recharging them?”

“I can only do that tonight when the juice starts flowing,” I said, nodding at the power cable that ran along the jetty. “But it will take around five hours to get enough charge in the batteries for a round trip across the lake.”

“Then we’re stuck.”

“At least until dark.”

“Shit. My friends need that food.”

“Will they wait for you?”

She shrugged. “They will unless some hornets find them. Then they’ll have to run for it.”

“Damn.” I slammed the boat’s steering wheel with my fist. “I should have checked that those batteries weren’t goddam antiques before I took the boat. Look at the crust on them.”

“Don’t blame yourself. After all, you weren’t planning this kind of operation when you took the trip across there, were you?”

“No. The truth was, I’d just downed a bottle of whiskey and needed to get out of Paradiseville here for a change of air.”

She tilted her head as if to ask why.

“Long story. I’ll tell you another time, but we need to get these supplies covered up. Can you give me a hand with the tarp?”

“What now?” she asked as she helped me pull the sheet over the bags of canned food and packets that I’d dumped into the bottom of the boat.

“You need to keep out of sight until dark. Then I’ll run you across the water.” I stepped off the boat onto the jetty and held out my hand.

She shook her head. “I’ll lay low here.”

“You can’t stay in the boat all day.”

“But from what you’ve said, Greg, if the townspeople find out that you’re helping me you’ll be in big trouble.”

“Don’t worry, they won’t find you. All you need to do is sit tight in the spare bedroom in the cabin. Then we’ll leave after dark.”

“OK . . . if you’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure; now give me your hand.”

I grasped her slender hand and helped her off the boat. After that I pulled the cable that ran from the boat’s batteries and plugged it into the jetty power point. OK, the batteries weren’t tip-top. But with a full charge they’d make the return trip easily enough tonight.

With the mist now melting fast we walked quickly back to the cabin. There, I showed Michaela the spare bedroom. At least she’d have the day to rest up.

“Don’t raise the blinds,” I told her. “Or use the electric light when the power comes on this evening. I don’t get many people down here, but there’s always a chance one or two will drop by.”

Yeah, it’s sods law, as the saying goes. No.
One or two
didn’t drop by; there was a steady flow. As if the whole freaking island had sniffed my little secret on the breeze and wanted to come and see the stranger for themselves.

First by was Ben. He stood there on the porch with his hands shaking worse than ever. He said he’d been down the day before, couldn’t raise me and guessed I was sleeping. Clearly he was concerned that I had done something stupid after Lynne had been murdered by the townspeople (no, he didn’t use those words exactly). But I told him my eyes had hurt like hell after getting a face full of Mace, and that I’d stayed in bed for the day with a companion by the name of Jack Daniel’s.

“I don’t blame you,” he said, his fingers fluttering like butterflies. Poor kid really
was
worried about me. “I just didn’t want you to—to go and do anything stupid.”

“I stayed home,” I repeated the lie (repeat a lie three times and it starts to sound like the truth—even to the person who mouthed the lie) but of course I did do something stupid. I took a nighttime cruise across to the ghost town. I got mixed up with something weird called a hive and a bunch of people late of New York City. Now there was an eighteen-year-old stranger hiding up in a bedroom in my cabin. But I couldn’t tell Ben that. He wouldn’t snitch, I knew that much; but he might give something away with that nervous, jumpy (note: small
j
jumpy) manner of his. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to burden him with my little secrets, would it?

He wanted me to roll up to his apartment in town for breakfast and maybe burn off a few hours listening to some music. I thanked him but said I needed to saw up a mountain of logs for the firewood deliveries (although I had no intention of doing the rounds that day).

I decided it would look good to any outsiders passing by if, for me, it was business as normal. So I fired up Big Bertha the chainsaw, then started chewing up logs. Yeah, business as usual, but in my mind I walked up-stairs to see Michaela lying there on the bed, no doubt listening to the buzz of the saw. Even though I tried to keep the image from my mind I recalled how she looked last night, lying on my bed naked but for the towel, her hair fanned out onto the sheet, her eyelids closed, those dark eyebrows that formed a pair of neat twin arches, the smooth rounded shape of her breasts and the way they—

Hell. The chainsaw bucked up at my face as it hit a nail in the wood.
You’re going to loose your nose if you don’t concentrate, Valdiva.
But then, it was hard to concentrate with Michaela lying on the bed upstairs, maybe gazing at the ceiling with her eyes that were as glossy and as black as onyx.

What’s more, if I managed to shut off images of her I replaced them with images of the thing that filled the apartment room as completely as water in a fish tank. The organic smell of the thing came back to me, the heat of it when I touched it. How that face came lunging out at it me. That was weird, believe me. Weird in a dark and dangerous way.

But somehow a familiar way—that was something that made no sense at all. There should be nothing familiar about it. I’d seen nothing like it before, had I?

Maybe I’d subconsciously linked it to the head Ben found in the driftwood a few days back. That was weird and inexplicable as well. There it was, lodged in the branches. A human head with a spare set of eyes bursting out through the skin of the cheek like a pair of tumors. Shit weird, if you ask me. Maybe that block of pink gel had got—

“Greg . . . Greg? Turn off the . . .”

I suddenly realized that someone was shouting my name. Killing the saw’s motor, I pulled up my goggles.

“Hello, Mel. What can I do for you?”

Mel was an easygoing redhead of around twenty-five who ran the fresh produce round. Milk, butter, bread, that kind of thing. She grew marijuana with her tomatoes on the other side of Sullivan. Although she wasn’t one of the town bastards she’d got old family going way back. You know the sort; she might be one of
us
today, but she could as easily switch to one of
them
tomorrow. It might seem a harsh judgment, but at a Christmas party she nearly sucked my damn face off, only the following day she pretended nothing had happened.

Today she seemed her friendly self. “I tried to leave your milk and bread in the kitchen, but you’ve locked your door.”

“Have I?” I shrugged, aiming to look casual. “I must have done it out of habit.”

“So I haven’t been able to put your milk in the refrigerator. I put it under the table. It’s not in the sun at the moment, but it might spoil if it’s left there too long.”

“Thanks. I’ll go move it.” I laid down the chainsaw, dusted my hands on the seat of my pants and headed off to the cabin. I was surprised to see that she’d followed me.

“How are you for fruit and tomatoes? I’ve got loads with me if you need more.”

“I’ve got plenty, thanks. The milk and bread will do me fine. I might go up to Ben’s later. He mentioned that someone was holding a barbecue.”

Shut up, Valdiva.
I realized I was talking too much. I was cooking up excuses I didn’t need.

Mel still didn’t leave.

She’s seen Michaela somehow
.

The smile on my face felt more unreal by the second. “Can I get you anything, Mel?”

She glanced back at the truck. I saw a young guy there. I didn’t know him, but I’d seen him and Mel hand-in-hand a week or two back. Her latest flame, I guessed. He was also a pal of Crowther junior—the man who tried to rearrange my features with a hunk of firewood. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades.

What’s more, Mel wore a sudden secret smile. “Mel?” I prompted, wondering what was coming next.

“Greg.” Her voice dropped. “This is something you don’t want to go spreading around . . .”

She knows about the outsider in my cabin
. “Just between us, Greg, I’ve grown a beautiful crop of grass. Do you want some? I’ve got a little of the first cut in the truck.”

Jesus. I thought she knew everything about Michaela, and all she was doing was pushing some homegrown narcotic. I shook my head, smiling with relief. She probably thought I was grinning like a loon.

“No, thanks, Mel,” I said.

“Go on, just take a little as a gift.” She leaned toward me, her eyes glittering. “You need something to help you to relax . . . you know, after what happened to Lynne.”

“I’m fine,” I told her in an honest-to-goodness friendly way. “Thanks, but I’m just going to get stuck into my work. That’ll help best of all.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Mel. Thanks again. I appreciate it.”

At last she went back to the truck. I watched her boyfriend fire up the engine and drive her away. She sounded the soul of compassion, the embodiment of neighborliness. But I recall she was one of the first to put a brick on Lynne’s chest. Funny old world, huh?

That afternoon a few more people dropped by. Old man Crowther with a request for more firewood. I’d drop it off, I said. No, he said, he’d be obliged if he could take some right then, as he’d run clean out; his brother had caught a batch of fish; they were going to eat them while they were fresh. Blah, blah, blah. So I carried bundles of wood to his shiny Lexus and put them in the trunk. Miss Bertholly called.
We regret what happened on Monday
, was the gist of what she said,
but we live in extraordinary times that call for extraordinary measures to maintain our security and our safety. So, please, Mr. Valdiva. No hard feelings. We want to embrace you into our community
. . . . Blah, blah, blah.

Then Mr. Gerletz trundled by to make sure his boats were all present and correct. I thought he’d check the lone battery cruiser tied to the jetty just down from my cabin, but he lumbered by in that old pickup of his. Almost immediately after that came my twice-weekly delivery of two-stroke for Big Bertha. Gordi Harper always wore a checkered shirt like a jacket over his regular shirt, even on the hottest of days. And this was a warm one. He rolled the drum of two-stroke into the tool-shed, took out the empty, then rolled it back to his truck. He waved. I waved back.

As each visitor left I shot a look up at the bedroom window, hoping so hard it hurt inside that I wouldn’t see Michaela’s face in the frame. But she had a powerful streak of survival. The blinds stayed shut. She must have lain there all day, not moving, just in case a movement of air disturbed a blind or a telltale-tit creak of a floorboard might give her away.

I cut more wood. Sweating, I glared up at the sun.
Set, damn you, set
.

Tick followed by tock followed by tick. Time dragged on. Snails moved faster than those hands of my watch. All I wanted was for it to get dark. Then I could sneak Michaela into the boat, then head for Lewis. Within the hour I’d be back home in bed. God knows I was ready to sleep twelve hours straight.

At six in the evening the juice started to flow through the wires again. Now I could fix a meal without having to light the little camping stove. Not that I had anything else but the eggs, bread and milk Mel had brought earlier in the day. I saw she’d also left a bag of fresh mushrooms. That would be enough for ome-lets with the bread and coffee.

I made a meal, took Michaela hers which she ate in her room. There was still a chance of callers, with it being so early in the evening.

Mine, I ate on the porch, washed down with ice cold water. I still aimed to present a picture of normality. Even though the tension compressed my stomach so much I didn’t want to eat much, I forced down a couple of omelets and almost half the loaf. It might be a while before I got the chance to eat again. I’d also have to find a way of replacing around two weeks’ worth of food (for me, anyway) in the kitchen without drawing attention.

At close on eight I decided to check that the batteries were charging properly on the boat. All that after-noon the thought of them nagged at me. I didn’t trust them. They were old. Maybe water had got into the electrics. Perhaps that’s why the juice had drained from them so quickly. And why the hell hadn’t I switched the boat for another? But then, that would mean hoisting the food into the replacement boat. In daylight that would be risky.

I’d reached the cabin door when I saw Ben pull up on that old 250cc dirt bike of his. He smiled when he saw me. He was still smiling when he walked up onto the porch; then the smile turned into an angry mask as he hissed.
“Greg, you idiot. They know what you’re doing. The damn Guard are on their way!”

Nineteen

“Michaela . . . Michaela!”

Heightened survival instincts made her move like a cat. In a flicker of movement she appeared on the stairs, aiming the shotgun at Ben’s chest.

“Easy,” I said as I grabbed a holdall. “This’s Ben. He’s OK.”

“They know I’m here?” she asked.

“And they’ll be here in around thirty seconds flat,” Ben said, his hand trembling like crazy. “I was in the editor’s office and saw the alert come up on the PD screen. I tore down through those woods like a demon.”

“Dammit to hell.” I shook my head as I grabbed the rifle from the rack. “How did they find out so fast?”

“Mel Tourney reported to old man Crowther that she thought you were acting strange.”

“Figures.”

“Christ, Greg.” Ben watched as I scooped boxes of ammo from a drawer. “What y’gonna do, shoot your way out?”

“Not if I can help it. We’ve got to run for it. Ready, Michaela?”

“When you are.” She moved to the doorway. “No sign of anybody yet.”

“I reckon it will take them a good ten minutes to assemble and drive down here.” The only road down here was a switchback track that took vehicles away from this part of the shoreline before it doubled back on itself to run alongside the lake. We might make it. Just. But there was another problem now.

“Ben, what are your plans?”

“Plans?”

“They’re going to find out that you tipped me off, buddy. That’s got to be a capital offense these days.”

“He can come with us,” Michaela said.

Quick as the old greased lightning I stuffed my file of notes and cuttings into the bag, pulled on my leather jacket, then shouldered the rifle. “Looks as if you’ve no choice, Ben.”

Michaela called out, “I see a cloud of dust . . . yup . . . around a dozen cars coming this way.”

“That’ll be the Guard; make for the boat, Ben.” Ben stood there, his fingers seeming to vibrate. He’d seized up solid. “You mean leave?”

“You can’t stay here, Ben, not now.”

“You fucking idiot, Valdiva! You’ve killed us, that’s what you’ve done! Why couldn’t you leave her wherever you found her?”

I heard the roar of approaching motors. “Ben, there isn’t time for this. Run. Just fucking run, will you?”

Michaela already tore down the path to the jetty.

“Oh, man, you’re an insane—” Ben started saying it, but I finished it by shoving him through the screen onto the porch. “Run!”

The sight of those cars barreling down the road did it for him. He followed Michaela, running so hard his arms became a blur. Me? I didn’t give my home of ten months a backward glance. With the holdall and the rifle bouncing like wild animals on my shoulder, I pounded across the dirt.

By the time I’d reached the jetty Michaela had already pulled the plug on the power cable that had been juicing the batteries. “Ben! Get the rope at the stern. . . . No, don’t untie it, pull it up over the post.”

The Guard were maybe half a mile away, clearly visible in the low sun that glinted like gun flashes from their windshields. They swept by bushes so fast they ripped off leaves and raised dust devils that swirled around them. I knew there’d be guys standing in the backs of the pickups, rifles cocked and ready. Jesus, this was going to be tight.

I made it to the boat’s control panel in one jump that sent the whole thing tilting madly to one side.

“Careful,” Ben yelled. “You’ll tip us in.”

“Keep your heads down!” I roared at them. “They’ll blast us with everything they’ve got.”

Sweet Jesus, I hoped those batteries had taken the charge. With the sun shining on the gauge I couldn’t see whether the needle was in the red or not. One thing in our favor—you didn’t have to fire up the motor like you would a diesel or gas engine. You switched the thing on like a goddam Hoover. The downside? There’s always a downside, isn’t there? The thing had the horsepower to match.

With the electric motor rising to a hum the boat moved away from the jetty. Slow, too damn slow. These things were built for tourists to amble around the lake while sipping Chardonnay or lazily peeling an orange.

I looked back to see the jetty moving away, the water white from the boat’s propeller. Cars, pickups, a police truck with lights flashing and siren whooping raced up to the quay. Michaela and Ben squatted on their haunches watching the Guard jumping down from the pickups, then running along the jetty.

Michaela chambered a round into the shotgun and aimed.

“Keep your heads down,” I shouted at the pair. “I’ll take it out of sight ’round the headland.”

I swung the wheel over, opened the throttle as far as it would go. On the jetty those guys were in a rage. In their eyes I was a traitor, I guess. I’d disobeyed the Caucus. I’d bought a stranger onto the island just like the old cop, Finch. But I had reasons that were good reasons. So I believed, anyway.

Then the Guard blasted us. Man, whatever they had they let fly. Even though we were more than two hundred yards out in the lake I heard a frenzy of cracks and thumps.

I threw myself into the bottom of the boat, allowing the thing to steer itself. The plastic windshield turned white as milk as buckshot tore into it. Bullets hit the hull as if a lunatic with a hammer beat it with a mad rhythm. Flakes of paint swirled all around us like snow. Michaela knelt up with the shotgun.

“Aim over their heads,” Ben yelled. “I know those people.”

“So why are they trying their damnedest to kill us then?” She squeezed the trigger, sending a bunch of shot back at the jetty. I saw she had aimed high. But still low enough to make the Guard duck their heads and spoil their aim. She ducked down herself behind the gunwale. “They weren’t ready for this kind of shooting,” she called at me. “They’re armed with shotguns and handguns. They’re not going to sink us with those.”

Yeah, maybe. Even so, there were enough hits to bite chunks of plastic out of the case that housed the control panel. If a bullet sliced a cable we’d wind up drifting like a leaf on the water. It wouldn’t be long before the Guard grabbed a boat and came out to find us.

The firing from the jetty began to falter as they emptied their guns. Now was the time to see where we were headed. I risked a look and saw we were heading straight for the rocks of the headland. I swung the boat’s nose ’round and took her ’round the reef. Seconds later the tip of the headland slipped between the Guard and us.

“You can put your heads up now. They can’t see us.” I glanced back to see heads raised. Flecks of white paint salted Michaela’s dark hair. They both looked dazed. “Are you two all right?”

They said they hadn’t been hit. But I noticed Ben running trembling hands over his limbs and chest like he couldn’t believe that a slug hadn’t found its way through the hull to pierce a lung or arm.

The boat had taken a mauling. Thin jets of water squirted in through the hull where bullets had punctured us below the waterline. All being well, the pumps in the bilges should cope with that for the short trip to Lewis, that godforsaken ghost town.

Come to think of it, the place was no fair exchange for Sullivan, with its bars, diners, stores and warehouses bulging with food. But I’d made my bed, as my mother would have said. Time to go lie in it.

The only sting of regret? Yeah, there was one: looking back at the headland to see the mound of milk-white stones that marked the graves of Chelle and Mom, I knew I’d never be able to visit them again.

After a while I swung the boat so its nose pointed across the lake to Lewis. Even though the sun shone I saw what a forbidding place it was. Skeletons of blackened buildings. Ghostly dark voids behind shattered windows. Streets lousy with human skulls where a peeled human face might roll by in the breeze like a tumbleweed. Boy, oh boy. It looked like the ’burbs of hell.