The beach looked churned and torn up as if some jungle animals had struggled across it. Sam looked for the source of the screaming sound he had heard, but the bright, placid sunshine shone only on the sea and the sand and the underbrush nearby. No one else was in sight.
"To hell with you," he said.
He swayed forward to meet them and saw Al grin and lift something in his hand and then there was an explosion of brightness that pinwheeled down and down in a dark void…
***
He did not go out completely. He heard voices. They came from far away, somewhere above him, echoing, curiously garbled. The words made no sense to him. He knew when he was being carried, when he was dumped in the back of a car, when the car reached the highway. There was a weight on his chest and when he opened his eyes once to see what it was, he saw that it was a man's foot, pinning him down. Sand burned in the skin of his face. He coughed and choked on it and someone laughed. He cursed his own weakness. There was no feeling of shame in his defeat. He remembered the guns the two men had carried and he knew that what had happened was inevitable. He didn't think it would have gone any easier with him if he had not resisted.
The journey on the floor in the back of the car seemed interminable. Time lost its meaning for him and he had no idea of the distance they had traveled when the car finally stopped. Nor did he wonder what was going to happen to him now. He was too consumed by the pain in his head, the aching bruises on his ribs and throughout all his body to care very much. Occasionally he recognized the voices of the two men and when the car halted he heard another man's voice, but it meant nothing to him and he let himself be carried through a pattern of light and shadow involved with the pain he felt.
The light dissolved from the patterns flickering behind his eyelids and became all darkness. Perhaps he slept. He wasn't sure. He was aware of time moving sluggishly through the heat and darkness that encompassed him. Once someone came in and poured some liquor through his clenched teeth. He started to spit it out, then tasted the rum and drank a little of it. A voice complained querulously about his condition, but he could not identify the speaker. He was left alone for a long time after that.
He knew that he had been justified in resisting the two men, since if this was an arrest, it was certainly irregular and being carried out in a state of secrecy. He was not in a jail. Curiosity finally impelled him to open his eyes and study his surroundings.
There was nothing familiar about what he saw. Not at first. He was on a cot and when he tried to sit up, he found his wrists and ankles bound to the four corners of the narrow bed and he was unable to raise himself more than two or three inches. It seemed an irrational sort of restraint and he wondered about it. From what he could see of the room he was in, it was not too unlike the cabin in which he had been sheltered last night at Cap'n Joe's. It was even smaller, however, and dirtier. The dark green shade drawn over the single window was old and cracked and patched and through the worn, frayed edges of the shade came a bright lance of sunlight. He wondered vaguely how many hours had gone by since he had seen Mona. He could not raise his wrist high enough to see his watch. Somehow it did not seem too important. By twisting his body, he tested the ropes that held him to the cot, but he saw no chance of getting free and he gave up the attempts that only exhausted him and accomplished nothing else. He lay still afterward to quiet the throbbing in his head.
He heard the sound of the sea and once he smelled cooking, the odor of cheap frying food. A man went by the cabin, his feet crunching on the coral and Sam debated crying out for help and then was silent. He wondered where he was. Hunger came to him presently as the light behind the green blind lost its bright intensity and faded. Once he heard the sound of a boat passing nearby. Another time he heard the arrival of two cars and lay still in expectancy for long minutes; but nothing happened. He told himself to be patient Whatever the future held for him, it would not be good.
It was almost dark outside when the door to the cabin was opened. He had not heard anyone approach. The man came in quietly and moved through the shadows to stand over the musty cot where he lay spread-eagled and helpless. Sam looked up at the man and saw it was Johnny Capp.
Johnny said: "You son of a bitch. So you came out of it, finally. They musta slugged you pretty hard."
Sam looked at him again. "So this is your place, Johnny?"
"Where did you think you were? You hungry?"
"I could eat."
"Well, you ain't gettin' anything."
Sam grinned wryly at the little Irishman's petty malice. It did not trouble him. In a way, he was relieved to learn that he was being held here at Capp's fishing camp; it meant that he had been right about the two men at the beach in thinking they were not real deputies. He was not in the hands of the law.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing."
"You'll laugh outa the other side of your face soon. I got a good idea to pay you back a little for the other morning. I owe you something for that."
Sam said nothing. He did not want to goad the vindictive little man to anger while he was helpless like this. He saw no point in provoking Johnny Capp to working him over when he couldn't help himself.
Capp circled the cot, testing the ropes that held him bound down. The little man smelled of whiskey and onions.
Through the window came the quiet throbbing of another boat pulling into Capp's fishing dock.
"Suppose I yelled for help?" Sam said.
"Go ahead and yell. It won't do no good. Nobody'd hear you. I'm closed down."
Footsteps approached the cabin and Sam saw Al, the man whose nose he had broken. Al no longer wore his phony deputy's badge. Al spoke briefly to Johnny and Johnny Capp went out. Al didn't look at Sam. He went to the window and raised the blind. It was almost dark outside, but the gloom persisted in the cabin, enough for Sam to see by. He felt tension tighten his stomach. He lay still and said nothing. Al lit a cigarette and stood by the window, scowling. His nose was badly swollen and misshapen. Occasionally he touched it gently. It was warm and stuffy in the little cabin. Sam wished he had a cigarette, too, but he didn't ask Al for one. Johnny Capp came back and with him was Deputy Hank Frye.
Frye seemed like a fat, smooth cat, all smiles and comfort as he came toward the bed where Sam was spread-eagled. He wore a white linen suit and he had shaved, so that his jowls looked pink and suety in the dim light. In the few moments when the cabin door was open, Sam could see that Johnny Capp had told the truth-his camp was wrapped in tight darkness with not even his extravagant neon sign going. There could be no help for him if he raised an alarm. There was nobody around to hear him.
Frye came over and said: "How are you, boy?"
"Worried about you," Sam said.
"About me?"
"You're going to lose your job for this. If I'm under arrest, I'll sue the pants off the county. If not, you're guilty of kidnapping."
"Who do you think you're going to complain to? And when?"
"When I get out of here," Sam said.
"You're optimistic."
"You'll have to kill me to shut me up," Sam said… Frye grinned. "It's an idea, ain't it? But maybe things won't be so bad. Maybe you'll be sensible and tell us what we want to know. A little cooperation can be a big help. Would you like me to untie your hands?"
"Sure."
Frye smiled to Al and Al cut the ropes with a knife. Sam sat up rubbing his wrists. They felt numb and he had little control over his finger muscles. He leaned forward on the edge of the cot, alternately massaging wrists and ankles. Frye lit a kerosene lamp in one corner and came back to him.
"After all," Frye said quietly, "we're all looking for the same thing. There's no reason why we can't cooperate. We can work on this together and come to an equitable agreement."
"What do you want?" Sam asked.
"The money."
"I don't have it."
"But you know where it is, don't you?"
"No."
"Then why
did you come back to Isla Honda?" Frye asked. "You came back in order to look for it, didn't you? You had lots of time in which to look, too. You must've had some idea where to look. What was your idea, anyway?"
Sam said: "To hell with you."
"You ain't being sensible, talking like that."
Al said: "I can knock some sense into him, Hank."
Johnny Capp said: "Let me. It'll be a pleasure."
Sam looked helplessly at the three men gathered around him. Even if he knew the answers to Frye's questions, he would not have told them, no matter what was to come. Frye made a sighing sound of exaggerated disappointment.
"You want to answer me the hard way?" he asked.
"You're wasting your time," Sam said.
"I've got all night. It won't mean anything to me. But it will be the longest night you ever spent, Sam-the longest and the worst. Why not be reasonable? Tell us where you've been looking for the money."
"I haven't been looking for it."
"Then what were you doing at Isla Honda, besides try in' to make Mona Somerset?"
Sam was silent. Frye came nearer and Al stood beside him. Both men looked down at him expectantly. Frye said patiently: "It won't hurt us if we have to kill you. Maybe you don't understand that. You're tabbed as a killer, a guy who killed his best friend because he wanted his wife. The whole state is alerted for you. You'll never get off the islands. If you're found dead, nobody will be too upset about it. And maybe they'll never find you. Maybe nobody will ever run across you again except the barracuda."
Sam lunged up and butted his head into the fat man's face. Frye fell back with a curse and reached for a handkerchief. Al cuffed Sam, knocking him back on the filthy bed. Sam's hands still lacked the circulation for him to help himself. He bounced, came forward again. Al looked at the deputy sheriff.
"Shall I start now?"
Frye shook his head. "What were you trying to prove at Isla Honda, Sam?"
Sam drew a deep breath. "I'll tell you. I don't want the money. All I want to find out is how my brother died."
"Charley killed himself. I investigated it myself."
"I know you did. That's what bothers me. I don't think Charley committed suicide. I haven't thought so all along. I think he was murdered and you covered up for the murderer."
Frye turned to Al. "All right, Al. Go ahead."
Al swung at him.
12
The hours dissolved into nightmare. He tried to fight back at first, but this only added to the relish Al found in his job. It was as if Sam's blunt accusation had touched off something frantic in Frye's mind and he urged Al on as if to hammer Sam's blurted words back into oblivion. It was the first time Sam had voiced the suspicion he had always felt. It was the first time, too, that it had crystallized as clearly as this with an inner conviction that roared in him even while Al worked him over. An exultation flowed through him while Al's big fists hammered at his body. He fought back mechanically, but he did not think of his pain or his humiliating helplessness. For three years he had carried the weight of his brother's guilt on his back. Always it had tormented him, underlying everything he did, everywhere he went. Now that he had voiced an alternative that had been only an intangible before, it was as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He revelled in Frye's fury. Charley had not been either a thief or a suicide. Charley was the victim not the guilty one. He felt that at last he had touched the edge of truth and lifted a corner of the net that enmeshed him.
Somehow he got up from the cot and took Al's blows standing on his feet. He tried to fight back. He broke Al's nose again and snatched up a chair and swung it across the room at Frye and saw the pink, sleek deputy go down suddenly with a squawk of fear. Exultation burst in him again.
He swung at Al and Al's fists hammered his bruised ribs and he slipped and went down and then Al jumped on him. Johnny Capp seized the advantage to add a few kicks of his own. He made a great effort to get up. He rose to his knees and saw. Al towering over him, grinning and then the ceiling came down on him and he knew he was prone on the floor, face ground into the harsh dust and sand. Blood flowed from a cut over his eye. When he tried to look about, he was aware of pain and a pulsing white light sharp in the back of his head. He started to crawl for the door. He got as far as the sill and Al stood in front of him. His foot was poised to kick him in the head.
"Wait," Frye said. "Maybe he'll talk now."
Al hauled Sam to his feet and pushed him back toward the bed. "Take it easy, kid. You're tough, but not that tough."
Sam fought to get air into his lungs. His lower lip was split and it was difficult to grin, but he managed it.
"We're not through yet. The second dance is mine."
Frye stood in front of him. "What did you mean by that crack?"
"About my brother?" Sam asked.
"Yeah. Who says he was murdered?"
"I do."
"Listen, you bastard," Frye said angrily, "we'll kill you if we have to. Get that through your thick head. You don't mean anything to us. We'll get a medal for handing over your body-but we'll take our time about it. You won't enjoy it. You'll be wishing you were dead before we finish you." His voice went up and became shrill. "What did you say that for? What proof have you got?"
"You," Sam said.
"You're crazy. You've been clouted on the head once too often."
"Not this time."
"Listen, all I'm interested in is the money. Never mind about your brother. It don't make any difference about him."
"It does to me."
"Where is the money? Where were you looking for it on Isla Honda?"
Sam laughed. His mouth hurt. "Ashton is going to be mighty sore at you, Hank. You're double-crossing him. Why don't you ask him about the money?"
"He doesn't have it"
"How do you know?"
"I know," Frye said. He sighed to Al. "Go on, Al."
Sam tried to lunge up and get in the first blow this time. Al jumped him and Sam carried him on his back all the way to the cabin door before he went down. Furniture crashed under him. He tried to grab the leg of a shattered chair and Johnny Capp brought his heel down on the back of Sam's hand. The pain wiped out all other thought. The dark edge of despair touched his mind. He knew he would never get out of here alive. He had already talked too much. Frye could not afford to let him go now. He fought harder, but the darkness crept over him like a deep overcast creeping over the horizon, of the sea. He fought in futility and when he could no longer fight he felt the blows that rained on him as if they were impersonal, falling on someone else. He closed his mouth and kept it shut. When Frye grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, he managed to spit in the stout man's face. After that there were alternating periods of light and darkness and he was no longer sure of what happened. He knew that Johnny Capp had gone to get the other man, Al's companion in the deputy masquerade, and that Al rested while the second man worked on him.
***
Once he awoke and thought himself alone. The cabin was dark. There was a peculiar odor in it, a mingling of sweat and tidal beach and blood. Pain lived in him, a grotesque entity that swallowed all thought and reason. He started for the door and crawled on hands and knees for an infinite distance. When he reached it, someone laughed at him from the darkness of the cabin. A soft laugh, with a cultivated voice behind it. Sam stopped crawling.
"Ashton?" he asked. It was hard to form the words around his swollen mouth. "Is that you?"
"Yes, Sam."
"Are you working with Frye?"
"Frye is working for me."
"It won't do you any good."
"We shall see, Sam."
"I don't know where the money is."
"But you know where to look for it, don't you?"
"Suppose I told you?" he asked the darkness. "What good would it do you?"
"I need it. I need money to live the way I like to live. One has but one life and it might as well be spent in comfort and the pursuit of one's int
erests. You will tell me where the money is."
"It won't do you any good when they hang you."
"Why should they hang me?"
"Because you killed Bill and you killed Charley."
"Frye told me about that. You upset him very badly, Sam. You shouldn't have said that. Everything might have been reconciled if you hadn't suggested that about Charley."
"Because it's too close to the truth?"
"I didn't kill him."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know."
"But I'm right. He was murdered?"
"Perhaps."
He tried to stand up, but he couldn't. He tried again, willing himself to rise to his feet. He wanted to get at that quiet, disembodied voice that spoke from the filthy darkness of the cabin. He got up, swayed and fell down again. Laughter mocked him. He felt consumed by a murderous hatred. He wanted to kill the smug, complacent voice that laughed at him. He got up on the third try. He had no sense of direction. The darkness was a velvet wall into which he pitched headlong into an eternity of night.
Afterward, he wasn't sure if he had spoken to Ashton or not. He wasn't even certain that Ashton had been there at all. He lost track of time and place and his few conscious moments were forgotten in the long suffering of pain. The questions came at him endlessly and he could only shake his head and deny their existence. There was no hope for him. He felt a detached anger at the injustice being done him, but he knew that the road of self-pity would get him nowhere. He had to help himself. He tried to. The voices threatened and cajoled him. They offered an easy way out, a release from the repetitive pain being inflicted on him. He ignored them. He no longer bothered to answer in any way.
Finally he was left alone.
He thought he heard a boat come and go at Capp's fishing dock. He couldn't get up to look out through the window. The bed claimed him, though he was no longer tied in it. Another time he thought he heard a car start up and roar away into the night. Voices murmured outside and he braced himself for Al's return, but no one came into the cabin again. Footsteps circled the cabin. Someone had been left on guard outside. He closed his eyes and lived with the pain in him. It flooded and ebbed in tides. After a long time, it seemed to him it was slackening. After an equal period of time, he slept.
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