In John Donne’s 17th meditation, the English metaphysical poet and cleric famously claimed, “No man is an island.”
But Merritt didn’t trust.
Anyone other than himself.
So he would have to be an exception to Donne’s great wisdom. He would have to be an island unto himself.
He would have to feed all of the others to the water as well.
Men, women…and children.
One by one.
Snakes in the Grass
Coal black T-shirt and dark cargo pants, the leg openings neatly tucked into rain-speckled Timberland boots; the cloying odors of raw earth and sweat trapped in the clothes—Dmitri’s second appearance at the door of the hen house today. As had been the case earlier, there was none of last night’s phony warmth in his voice. “Lunch’s up. Hot dogs and French fries.”
In Aiden’s heart he knew this man had killed Lemon. Despite that, he forced himself to look over, and taut with a teetering rage, forced himself to relax. Deep breath. No quiver in his voice, no hesitation, a steely yet understated resolve. “I’ll pass.”
“Pass on hot dogs and French fries?” Dmitri called from the doorway. “What are you, a communist?”
Delivered in the humorless tone of a eulogy.
Aiden repeated the “I’ll pass,” and fell silent.
They eyed one another, both of them still as a breezeless day. Then Dmitri stepped inside, moving slow and deliberate. He settled beside the wooden pallet where Aiden lay, and turned to gaze outside, his back exposed if Aiden chose to attack. “I guess I haven’t made myself clear, Doc,” he said softly. “You don’t decide if you’re hungry. You don’t decide if you’ll eat. You don’t decide if you need to take a shit after you’ve eaten. I make all of your decisions for you. You’ll appreciate this—your medical background and all—I’m the nerve endings that send messages to your brain. In fact, I am your brain.” He gave up gazing at the outside landscape and turned to face Aiden, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Now get your ass up and stop wasting my time.”
The sky was cloaked in gray, fat clouds hanging low, the promise of more rain in the air. A bleak, desolate, ashen, washed out day. There were a million adjectives that could be used to describe the look and feel of the moment—none of them even remotely good.
“Wise not to test me,” Dmitri said, prodding Aiden onward with a rough shove. “No sense in making things harder for yourself than they need to be.”
Aiden didn’t reply.
“You have to be hungry,” Dmitri went on, “despite all that false pride. I understand that you rejected the pancakes this morning.”
Still nothing.
“You’ll need your strength, Doc, so eat up. Tomorrow we’ll start using you for labor,” Dmitri said.
Aiden finally came alive, shook his head. “Why wait for tomorrow what you can start today?”
Dmitri chuckled behind him. “I knew you’d eventually start begging for it.”
“Begging. I’m sure that’s a new one for you,” Aiden replied, and snorted. “I can’t imagine the ladies are exactly throwing themselves at your feet. You’ve heard that saying…a face for radio? Fits you to a tee, my friend.”
Dmitri’s laughter faded like the end of a song. After a beat of silence, he said, “Consider it an act of mercy I haven’t caved your head in.”
“Same mercy you showed Lemon?”
“We need to test you for Schedule I drugs? ‘Cause you must be on something, something hard, the way you’re talking to me.”
“Tell me about this lunch,” Aiden said, changing course. Keep Dmitri off-balance. “Crinkle-cut or shoestring fries? Beef hot dogs?”
Dmitri was about to respond but a cell phone rang. He tapped Aiden to halt, Aiden turning to face him as a frown creased Dmitri’s brow and he plucked the phone from his right front pocket. “What’s up, Navin?”
A coarse voice on the other end, still clear enough to make out. “We’re ready to roll out, D. What’s your ETA?”
“Give me five minutes. I’m on transport.”
“Front gate.”
“Five minutes.”
Aiden smiled as Dmitri pocketed the phone. “Somebody’s going on a little trip. Where you headed off to in the middle of the day?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Dmitri barked.
“Just promise me you’ll be safe.”
“Why don’t I believe you’re being sincere?”
Aiden shrugged. “Deep-rooted trust issues.”
Dmitri sniffed and all was forgotten. His shoulders relaxed. “You’re a character, Doc.”
“Hero or villain?”
“I’m the villain,” Dmitri said. “And a hero ain’t nothing but a sandwich.”
Aiden pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s deep.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“A character,” Dmitri repeated, shaking his head and gesturing for Aiden to turn around and resume walking.
They moved in silence through the overgrown pasture enclosed in rotting fence, past the rusted metal cabins, the barn finally looming ahead, a hundred yards off.
“Thanks for the lively chat,” Aiden said as they walked the few remaining steps. “But I do believe this is my stop.”
Dmitri rolled the breezeway door of the barn along its wobbly track, stretched out his arm and said, “Bon appetit,” the door moaning as he closed Aiden inside.
Aiden surveyed the space. Four forty-three gallon oak barrels, arranged with two on either side of the breezeway door, one stacked on another. Carpenter bee holes drilled into the staves, rusted metal hoops holding the barrels together. Horse stalls at the sides and running the length of the aisle before him. A community of wooden picnic tables arranged in the aisle itself. The only available spot to sit and eat the same one where he’d snubbed his pancakes at breakfast this morning. The wooden picnic table set farthest down the aisle. And as earlier, Shepherd was there now, his head bowed, gnarled fingers quietly working at his food. The old man had sold Aiden a bill of goods last night. There was no leaving this place. There was no escaping whatever fate Dmitri and his goons decided to dole out. And yet, in his vulnerability, Aiden had chosen to believe in Shepherd. With Lemon dead in his lap, he’d believed that Shepherd had some masterful plan that would result in freedom for all those being held captive. Believed in the old man just as Lemon once had. But this morning, at breakfast, Shepherd hadn’t even looked up from his meal. Aiden had sat across from him, not touching his own pancakes, Shepherd carefully breaking his into small chunks and eating them seemingly without moving his mouth. Not once did he look up. Not once did he look into Aiden’s eyes to see the confusion and hurt and fading hope that lived in them. What a fraud.
Aiden thumped over to the table and sat down heavily. Stared across at Shepherd. The old man broke off a piece of his hot dog, the cheap bun crumbling apart in his fingers, and eased the piece into his mouth. His mouth didn’t appear to move.
“Don’t snakes eat without chewing?” Aiden asked as if the question was not for anyone in particular to ponder.
“Pterygoid walk,” the old man said without looking up. “The snake opens its jaw and ratchets the toothy parts of its upper plate over the surface of its prey. Walking its mouth over and around whatever it happens to trap between its jaws.”
Aiden bit his lip and breathed out through his nostrils. Below the table he could feel his hands balling into fists of their own accord. He couldn’t say what would happen in the next seconds. And as if they were aware of the brewing storm and wanted out before it reached its zenith, several of those eating lunch at other tables rose and quietly left the barn.
“You’re a fraud,” Aiden said.
Shepherd spoke in a soft voice. “It’s English slang for second breakfast or lunch. Originated in British India. Came about when Indian custom superseded the British practice of afternoon tea.”
“What are you talking about now?” Aiden s
napped, hating himself for getting sucked in. But Shepherd had a pull.
“Tiffin,” the old man replied. “Lunch.”
“Lunch?”
Shepherd finally looked up, his eyes soft and hard at the same time. His voice strong, unwavering. “Dmitri and half his men have left to attend to business on the outside. Stock replenishments, or profligacy with bought women, or possibly recruiting, I don’t know. I do know that they stick to the same schedule each week. One of the few areas where they are slipshod in their approach. Which makes me believe they’re engaging in debauchery of some kind. Only a woman can make a man’s head that hazy.”
Aiden nodded. “Your point?”
“It’s time,” the old man said. “Tiffin. Are you ready?”
“Ready?”
Now Shepherd nodded. “For your liberation.”
“I…I still don’t know what you expect me to do.”
Shepherd simply smiled and rose from his seat. The other two nameless, soundless men seated at their table did the same. Left Aiden there, sitting alone. Later, he would reflect on how quickly it all happened. Economical, smooth, precise. The nameless men settling on both sides of the breezeway door with their backs pressed flat against the wall, in the shadows thrown by the stacked barrels. Shepherd easing himself down at the table closest to the door. Bowing his head as if in prayer. The barn’s breezeway door opening. One of Dmitri’s guards stepping inside, closing the door behind him, barking, “Five minutes to clear out,” and then stepping back against the door with his arms folded across his chest, seemingly all in one fluid motion.
Shepherd raising himself up slowly, his hands down near his waist. Shuffling to within a few feet of the sentry and announcing, “I’m quite febrile.”
Then dropping his pants.
The fabric pooling around his ankles.
The guard taking a step forward, frowning. “What the hell are you doing, old man?”
The nameless men from the table skulking out of the shadows and clobbering the sentry from behind, taking his weapons and other belongings and laying them out on the table near Shepherd.
Shepherd reaching down and grabbing hold of his pants. Pulling them up and fastening the belt buckle. Out of one of his pockets, pulling a tangle of rope and a knife. Out of another, a wad of wrinkled bandannas. Smiling and saying, “I’ve become a bit of a packrat. Oh, and one other area where Dmitri and his men have been slipshod. Careful what you leave sitting around.” Then, looking down at the unconscious guard, and barking orders with the force of a military general. “Remove his pants and shirt. Tie his hands and legs with this rope, but don’t be wasteful. Cut it in lengths from your fingertips to your elbow. Shove the shirt in his mouth and use a bandanna to secure it as a gag.”
Things slowed a bit after that.
“Stow him in the loft?” one of the nameless men asked.
Shepherd nodded. “Quickly. Another will come shortly.”
And another did, about five minutes later.
Same routine: Shepherd dropping his pants; the guard stepping forward with a frown; the nameless men emerging from the shadows; the guard drubbed and tied and trundled off to the loft as Shepherd piled the guard’s personal items on the table. Wallet, cell phone, sunglasses, watch, keys. Rifle, Swiss army knife, a .45 with six rounds he’d strapped to his ankle.
After taking a fourth guard, Shepherd directed the two nameless men to “Dress quickly,” then he turned to Aiden, taut with nerves and cemented in place still at the end of the aisle, one hand on the picnic table to keep himself upright. “You too.”
“What?” Aiden risked a move, started stumbling toward the action.
“Take off your clothes and replace them with theirs,” the old man said gently. “I’ll walk out as-is and wander toward the back gate. Your destination as well. Except you won’t tarry.”
“I…”
“This should give you the requisite confidence,” the old man said, smiling, and handing Aiden a rifle.
A SIG 716 tactical rifle, he’d learn later. Gas operated, short stroke piston, rotary bolt locking. 10- or 20-round capacity.
They stripped and swapped clothes as Shepherd detailed how the rest of it would go. There would be two men on sentry at the back gate, Israel and Montae, both of them several degrees more flexible than Jaceon and Christopher at the front gate. “Israel’s and Montae’s numbers are programmed in these,” he added, holding up the captured guards’ cell phones. “I’ll wait three minutes to call them. That should give you time enough to make your approach. I’ve walked it myself in four and allow that you’re all a mighty bit more spry than me.”
“Not so sure about that,” one of the nameless said.
“I’ll do the heavy breathing play,” Shepherd went on. “Both their phones at the same time…it should be surreal enough for you to catch them with their figurative pants down. A state which has been quite effective for us today.” He smiled. “Israel has the salt-and-pepper goatee. Wears a dark wool cap. Take him out expeditiously. Cover Montae with your weapons but leave him alive until he’s punched in the key code to open the gate. After that…”
“We’re killing these men?” Aiden said, rising up.
“Just stand by and look minacious, Aiden. These gentleman can handle the rest.”
It progressed just as Shepherd scripted it. At the gate in three minutes, Israel and Montae with their phones pressed to their ears, frowning, barking, “Hello? Hello?” into the receivers and looking at each other with puzzlement.
And then a moment later, Israel convulsing on the ground after two quick gun taps to the head and then going completely still, Montae’s cell phone clunking the dirt as he raised his hands in surrender.
Shepherd easing up quietly behind Aiden, asking Montae nicely to open the gate.
“You know I can’t do that, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Shepherd’s fine,” the old man said. “No need for such formality.”
“This is a tough thing you’ve done,” the shaken guard said. “All the conversations we’ve had…I feel used.”
“Open the gate, Montae.”
But the guard didn’t move.
Shepherd sighed. “In your hesitation, I see the echoes of Heidegger and Jaspers, Marcel and Sartre. You’re considering your unique position as a self-determining agent responsible for the authenticity of your own choices.”
Montae said, “Huh?” an interrogative to which Aiden could relate.
“Open the gate or we’re going to paint it with your blood,” Shepherd said calmly.
Montae hesitated for another beat, and then let out a breath and punched in a code on the keypad built into the fence. The gate groaned as it crawled open. “Now what?” he asked, turning to face Shepherd.
A shot sounded and Montae’s head exploded like an overripe watermelon. The sound of his body hitting the dirt would stay with Aiden for days to come. Shepherd shook his head and clucked his tongue as one of the nameless men riffled Montae’s pockets. He pulled out a set of keys from the third pocket he searched. One of which presumably started the truck parked outside the gate.
Shepherd turned to Aiden. His face was completely blank of any expression. “I noticed you haven’t eaten all day. You must be starving.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The air was charged with a pungent, electrical odor—ozone—a lightning storm fast approaching, fat hungry clouds low and drizzling down a fine mist of rain. Not enough to chase Merritt off under the trees for cover. Not enough to chase Will off, either. He stood out in the open, turned so Merritt could see a Kool dangling from his lips, one of his hands up, the thumb striking the sparkwheel of a Bic lighter, his other hand shielding the flame. Merritt carefully avoided the dry leaves and twigs on the ground as he came up behind Will without being noticed. “Those things’ll kill you,” he said.
Will whirled around, inadvertently spitting out the cigarette and fumbling the lighter, catching the Bic just before it hit the ground. “Shit.” He pocketed the
lighter and reached to retrieve his Kool from dirt turning to mud. “Scared the shit out of me, boss.”
Boss. The word grated Merritt. He didn’t buy it. No part of him actually believed that Will held him in such high regard. He believed it was an act. Perhaps this feeling was paranoia on Merritt’s part. Then again, maybe it was pragmatism. In the end, call it whatever. Merritt simply didn’t trust anyone on the island anymore.
“Thing with the boats has us all a little concerned,” Will said, wiping the muck off his cigarette on the front of his shorts. Sliding it back between his lips.
Merritt settled beside him. “Just a little?”
“Come again?”
“You said ‘a little concerned.’ I’d think it would be several degrees more than that. How many Kools you have left?”
“This one and two more in the hard box.”
“Carry you through the night?”
“Week, maybe. I’ve been itching to quit anyway.”
“I don’t know,” Merritt said, shaking his head, “why it bothers me to hear you talking like that. Everything is copacetic. No worries. I’ll follow you to the end of the Earth, boss.”
Will frowned. “That’s supposed to be me? I never said none of that.”
“Oh?” Merritt said. “I got it wrong? So it’s the opposite?”
Will sighed. “Got a feeling whatever I say you’ll find offense with. I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”
“Mmm.” Merritt placed his left arm up on Will’s shoulder, felt him shudder. “Didn’t mean to dampen your spirits. Charge it to my head and not my heart. I should probably reread The One Minute Manager.”
Will took hold of his cigarette, hands shaking, and dropped it in the mud near his feet again. The ember glowed like a demon’s eyes but he didn’t toe it out with his sneaker. Just dropped it. And looked over at Merritt. And swallowed. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have to—”
Merritt raised his right arm and sank a knife in Will’s chest, all the way to the hilt. Not the decade-old switchblade. An eleven and a half inch blade forged from spring steel. Quarter of an inch thick, convex edge, curly maple handle. A holdover from Merritt’s dusty rucksack. Unlike the people on the island, this blade he could actually trust, it had never let him down or considered betraying him.
Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel Page 29
