Killypso Island

by Kent Holloway

  I’ve been cautious about over-drinking, of course. The last thing I need is to stumble into the Customs Office in the dead of night in a drunken haze. But it’s given me something to do, as I while away my time waiting for sunset and the cover of darkness.

  Once night falls and the sounds of the town commerce drift to that of revelry and song, I slip from my spot and creep along the beach, hugging the edge of the jungle as I inch toward the old rickety structure that houses the St. Noel Customs Office. The building, which is little more than a few cross beams covered by four walls of corrugated metal and a tin roof, hasn’t been the most heavily guarded structure around, historically. However, as I approach, I immediately spot several differences from my last visits to the place.

  The first difference I notice is the chain-link fence, topped with coils of razor wire, that stretches around the property. The other new addition I spot are the two German Shepherds patrolling the grounds with their noses practically glued to the ground.

  “Huh,” I mutter. “Didn’t expect this.”

  Granted, it’s been nearly six months since I’ve found it necessary to visit old Monday’s place of employment. Our mutual arrangements have pretty much nixed any need to appeal whatever inconvenient confiscations that might have otherwise occurred. But from the shiny glint of the quarter moon reflecting off the fence, I’m willing to bet it’s been erected recently. Like, within ‘the last couple of days’ recently.

  I’m willing to bet my latest smuggling run has something to do with the updated security around here, but I still have hope. If the list was in my crates, there would be little need for such measures now. I can hardly see Governor Lagrange spending more money than necessary to upgrade security for a Customs Office that’s rarely used. Because of that, it seems to me that there’s good reason to believe that whatever was in my cargo that interests so many people hasn’t been found yet.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news is that while circumventing the fence should be a piece of cake, dealing with the dogs is something else entirely. Maybe someone like my pal Morris would just shoot them and be done with it, but despite my protests to the contrary when it comes to Moe, I’m an animal lover. I don’t hurt animals. Ever. And the watch dogs are going to present a particularly difficult obstacle for me because of it.

  After all, it’s not their fault their master is a greedy, no-good dictator in bed with commies. They’re just working for their next meal and maybe a good pat on the head. I can’t blame them for that.

  If I hadn’t left Moe in Malik’s care for this little excursion, I maybe could have used him as a distraction for the mutts. But I didn’t, so I can’t, and I figure I’ll just have to improvise when the time comes.

  Still huddled up against a stand of palm trees, I peer left and right to ensure the proverbial coast is clear. Although Port Lucine is a bit further away than the pier on which the Dream is moored, the sound of calypso permeates the air in crisp tones from steel drums and Trixie’s unmistakable voice. I can picture it now, her on stage, sensually gyrating to the beat of the drums, her luscious red lips pressed against the microphone, and every red-blooded male in the joint totally fixated on her every move. Her every word. Her every breath.

  Which is a good thing for me. It gives me plenty of time to do what I need to do now.

  I dash over to the fence, keeping as low as I can as I run. The guard dogs, by my calculation, are on the other side of the property. Once they catch my scent, it shouldn’t take them long to track me down, so I’m going to have to move quickly.

  I pull off my jacket and toss it over the razor wire, then step back before taking a leap and clambering up the chain link. Once at the apex, I reposition the jacket, making sure its leather fabric is sufficient protection against the barbs, and I climb over, dropping to the ground on the other side once I’ve recovered the coat.

  That’s the easy part. It’s the dogs that cause me the most apprehension. They’re the wild cards in this little poker game of mine, impossible to predict and viciously efficient—if well-trained.

  Not wanting to press my luck, I run over to the building and lean my back against the corrugated metal as I stop and listen. For a moment, I think I hear some snuffling around the corner, like a snout pressed against the ground, sniffing out intruders, but I can’t be certain. Fortunately, there’s a cracked ventilation window directly above me. I won’t have to peek around to see if I’m right or not.

  Taking a few steps back, I get a running jump, and scramble up the wall until my fingers find purchase on the lip of the window. There’s a low grumble behind me. As I hang from my fingertips, I crane my head and see one of the German Shepherds staring up at me. Its fangs are bared. Drool hangs from its black lips.

  Realizing my feet are only a couple of feet off the ground, I struggle to push the window open. The old white paint is chipped around the frame. Though it’s open by a few inches, it’s obvious the window hasn’t moved in years. It’s stuck in place, and I don’t have a secure enough purchase to get the leverage needed to force it open any farther without outright breaking the glass.

  The dog doesn’t appear to be the slightest bit put-off by my precarious dilemma. Before I can react, it lunges forward, taking the few feet necessary to leap into the air and grab hold of my ankle with its vice-like maw. I kick at the dog with my free leg, sending it rolling to the ground with a yelp, but the noise only draws the attention of the second animal, who is now bounding around the corner directly at me.

  With only seconds on my side, I pull on the window with my all my strength. I feel the frame give a fraction of an inch, bolstering my resolve. I strain, pulling for dear life, until finally, the frame creaks and the window lifts out from the building with ease. I then pull myself through the opening and slip into the building, just as the two snarling beasts snap at my heels.

  The dogs bark in rage outside the safe confines of the building, stopping only to allow themselves a frustrated growl here and there, to let me know with no uncertainty that they’ll still be there when I decide to leave. I file their warnings away in the ‘I’ll cross that bridge…’ category and turn my attention to the task at hand.

  The Customs Office is just a six hundred square foot rectangular building with two army surplus desks and chairs near the garage doors up front and four eight-foot-high shelves that stretch all the way from the front of the building to the back in two parallel rows. There’s a small storage room in the back, locked with a padlock, for the more valuable contraband. A room Monday affectionately, and maybe ironically, calls ‘The Vault.’

  Turning on the army flashlight Malik provided me, I move toward the desk to start my systematic search for anything that might be useful to my personal investigation. My key goal is to locate my cargo in hopes of discovering the top secret information, but I’m also hoping I can find something that might clear my name. Assuming that Monday Renot is in on the plot, he might have some sort of documentation that can help my case.

  I step to Monday’s desk and begin by scouring the paperwork and reports covering the ink blotter. Besides a few memos from the Governor’s office, almost all of what I examine are inventory reports and manifests from the various cargo ships coming into and out of Port Lucine within the last six months. There’s a memorandum from Governor Lagrange about me. However, it’s simply the orders that brought the customs agent and the porter to my slip three days ago. There’s nothing sinister about it at all. As a matter of fact, the wording is your typical bureaucratic fare, which leads me to believe that Monday has absolutely no idea about the true nature of the cargo—or the reasons for which the Governor wanted it confiscated.

  That doesn’t surprise me. Monday might be a greedy S.O.B., but he’s got no love for the Governor, and a communist takeover of the island would almost certainly interfere with the various ‘side businesses’ he’s involved in. I figured he wasn’t part of any Red conspiracy. This memo seems to clinch it.

  Having
exhausted everything on top of the desk, I turn my attention to the drawers, moving through them swiftly, but finding only more papers, a carton of smokes, and a handful of whiskey bottles I suspect have come directly from some of my previous shipments.

  I switch to the second desk, more than likely occupied by the porter, Lamont Kingston. On the surface, everything checks out pretty much the same as Monday’s desk. Then, I attempt to open the largest drawer at the bottom right of the desk and find it locked. By itself, it’s not exactly a surprise. However, given my circumstances, I find it suspicious enough to warrant more extreme measures to search it.

  I scan the top of the desk again, find a sturdy silver letter opener, and shove the point into the top of the drawer. With a few nudges, I hear the latch in the drawer snap, and I pull the opener out with a triumphant grunt.

  When I look inside the drawer, I instantly think I understand why it was locked. Like with Monday’s desk, there are stacks of folders in here. However, the difference between the two is the Nagant M1895 revolver—one of the favorite sidearms of choice for Soviet soldiers back in the war—that sits on top of it all.

  I stare at the weapon for a few long seconds, wondering what it means. Kingston’s possession of such a firearm wouldn’t be suspicious in and of itself, given his position. Lots of ships have come and gone through this port for the past few decades—including Russian naval vessels. Soldiers and sailors of any number of nationalities tend to sell off valuable goods, when on shore leave, to willing buyers. Lamont’s position as porter would put him in the perfect place to get first dibs on such transactions.

  But given the nature of my current mess, I’m having a hard time believing the Soviet firearm is a coincidence.

  Since I’m already wanted for murder, and I’m now in the process of committing burglary, I have no qualms about scooping the gun up and sticking it down the waistband in the back of my pants for safekeeping before concealing it with my jacket. I then begin perusing the file folders, sifting through them one by one, until my eye lands on one that confirms my suspicions.

  The folder, near the bottom of the drawer, is labeled with the familiar red and yellow hammer and sickle symbol and Cyrillic lettering I take from context alone to translate as ‘Top Secret’ or some other spook nonsense. With shaking fingers, I open the folder. Though the words on the pages are indecipherable to me, the photos and the subsequent meaning are not.

  The folder is filled with what looks like dossiers on the various important people on St. Noel—including Angelique and myself. The Governor, the Candyman, Nessie, and almost every adult individual of any political or social standing on the island, all complete with recent photographs, are contained within. There are a few hand-scrawled pencil markings here and there on the margins, which I assume were made by Lamont Kingston.

  So the scrawny little mook is a Red spy. Who’d have thought?

  Even more unsettling, it appears that he’s been documenting facts about us for several years now. Keeping tabs on us, gauging our loyalties.

  I grind my teeth at the thought. Next time I see him, Lamont Kingston’s going to have fewer teeth in that commie-loving head of his. I promise myself that much. My life might not be worth spit, and I might get myself killed by a mob of voodoo-practicing locals, but before I take the big sleep, I’m going to see that Kingston gets at least a knuckle sandwich or two.

  I close the desk drawer, leaving it slightly ajar intentionally, and I turn to the shelves full of wooden crates, wrapped parcels, and other knick-knacks confiscated by the customs agents. There aren’t that many. Maybe a total of eleven or twelve items.

  Like I said, St. Noel isn’t a big attraction in the Caribbean, so there’s not much contraband for Monday to deal with. It’s good news for me, because it means it doesn’t take me long to peruse the labels of each item and discover what I’ve already suspected is true. My cargo isn’t among the confiscated treasures on the shelves.

  I turn to the back of the building and look at the locked door of the Vault. I roll my eye with a sigh. It’s not that the vault is a formidable obstacle to anyone determined to break into the place. Getting in is going to be easy enough. A simple crowbar to the padlock and any burglar worth his salt would be in, free and clear. The problem is, I’ve heard enough of Monday’s drunken boasting to know that it’s going to be the most dangerous part of my venture tonight.

  You see, the space is reserved for the most precious of all contraband. Stuff so valuable, in fact, that the Governor spent a little more money on the bells and whistles for it—literally. Even though most of St. Noel is still crawling its way into the twentieth century, the vault is the only structure on the island with an alarm system. It’s loud enough to alert the entire island. As a matter of fact, the alarm is attached to the same loudspeakers used for our hurricane warning system. I have no idea how to circumvent it or shut it off.

  No matter what, the moment I break into it, the entire island will know I’m here.

  15

  Of course, I suspected I’d face this eventuality, and I figured I’d just have to deal with it, but there was a part of me hoping Monday would have made my life easier by simply placing my cargo on the easy-to-get-to shelves.

  Taking a frustrated breath, I grab a crowbar from its hook above a nearby tool bench and step over to the Vault’s door.

  The way I figure it, the moment I trip the alarm, I’ll only have a good five to ten minutes to search the room and get out, before the entire town comes running down the lane with torches and pitchforks. It’s not as much time as I’d like, but it’ll do. Though I’ve never been inside, the Vault appears to be small—no larger than a six-by-twelve-foot cell, and I’ve been in plenty of those in my time.

  I set the military flashlight on a desk, illuminating the door, and I plunge the crowbar into the padlock’s loop. Once firmly inserted, I heave. After a moment of exerted effort, the iron loop snaps open, sending the lock crashing to the floor.

  Taking yet another deep breath, I grab the flashlight, steel myself, reach out, and open the Vault’s wooden door. As expected, the moment it swings open, I hear the mechanical cranking sound of a rotor above the building, just before the civil defense siren begins to wail out into the night. The sound is deafening. But judging by the whines and howls of the canines outside, it’s even worse for them. Perhaps the alarm will be a blessing in disguise, as far as my escape goes.

  But I don’t have time to think about that. Right now, I have work to do.

  I step inside the room and stop in my tracks, when I spot two distinctively different things. The first is the wooden remains of four crates that have been smashed to pieces by what I can only imagine to be a sledgehammer/crowbar combo. The bottles of booze have been smashed against the concrete floor and have exploded into hundreds of razor-sharp shards. The acidic stench of spilled alcohol permeates the air inside. The candy packages have been opened as well, and all the individually wrapped treats are scattered throughout the room, as if thrown in a fit of frustrated rage.

  I’m not certain they found what they were looking for, but by the mess, I can almost guarantee they didn’t. And if they did, by some miracle, it was in the very last possible place it could have been.

  But the state of my crates and cargo isn’t the most unnerving thing I find in the room. The second thing that catches my eye is a single wicker chair sitting off to the right, by the northwest wall. Blood-covered ropes rest unused on the floor beside its legs. Next to it, there’s a large maroon spot staining the floor under the chair, and there’s a ghastly amount of dried blood spattering the wall behind it.

  In my time during the war, I had the good, but also nightmare-inducing, fortune to be part of an operation in the Pacific Theater where we rescued more than two dozen allied soldiers held captive by the Japanese. As I toured the camp after the mission was over, I came across rooms similar to this, stained with various shades of crimson, almost painting the walls with the blood of tortured service men.r />
  Torture rooms always have the same look. Always smell the same. And always ignite a rage in my gut that could set the entire jungle on fire with just a glare.

  Someone’s been tortured here. And from the amount of blood I’m seeing, I don’t think it’s possible they survived. Of course, two questions come to mind as I stare at the mess in front of me. Who was the sad sack that sat in that chair, and why was it necessary to torture them?

  I look from the smashed crates to the chair and connect a few dots.

  Whoever it was, the torturers thought they might know the whereabouts of the secret list. They brought the person here, along with the contraband, to coerce answers from them as they searched. At least, that’s the best guess I can come up from the scene. It also tells me something else. Whoever’s behind all this means business. I can definitely see them killing to get what they want, so the idea of them offing Angelique and framing me is starting to make a lot more sense.

  Except, why let me live? Why frame me? I’m not part of any of this. I’m just the mug who smuggled a few boxes of liquor and candy to the island. I didn’t even know about the list, until I went to have my blasted fortune told.

  I always knew that voodoo hooey was bad news.

  I back out of the Vault, taking a look at my watch. No more than two minutes have passed from the time I cracked open the door to now. I’m making good…

  The sound of an engine heading this way brings my optimism to a screeching halt. Only two people on the island have motor cars—the Candyman and Governor Lagrange. Neither one of them will be too pleased to find me here. Given the location of the security breech, I’m guessing Monday and the Port Lucine police force are riding shotgun or are close on their heels.

  It’s the cars I haven’t figured on, and it’s those kinds of mistakes that’ll lead to me becoming either a human voodoo doll or standing in front of a firing squad in Martinique. I’m not particularly keen on either of those things happening.