At that, Weedy let loose an evil laugh, tossing his head back and really howling. “The town is going to burn down. I’m not scared of the cops. Better run!” Suddenly his laughter ceased. His eyes narrowed and from his lap, he lifted his cellphone to show Edgar.
Somehow he’d gotten it from Flounder!
Edgar turned and made for the front doors of the store, limping like crazy. As he did, the three boys leapt from the truck and bolted after him. With his leg convulsing in pain, he hobbled as fast as he could, making for the automatic double doors just a few feet away.
“Punk!” Chris shouted, right behind him now, but just then Edgar made it inside.
“Hello sir!” he said loudly to the Walmart Greeter, then turned to the stacked-up boys and smirked, knowing he had made it to sanctuary.
Chris glared back like the devil.
“You’re dead,” he grumbled.
Then Chris and his boys backed away toward the double doors, retreating into the dry night. “We’ll see you outside,” he hissed, just before the doors closed.
Once they were gone, Edgar crept to the door to see what they were doing. Chris and his two boys were busy rummaging through his stuff! In a panic, Edgar limped over to the help desk and asked for security.
“What’s wrong?” asked an associate.
“I am being robbed,” said Edgar. “There are three boys—I mean gang members—stealing all my stuff.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed the lady.
Moments later Edgar was outside flanked by a uniformed guard. He had a stern, wrinkly face, and a shiny badge on his shirt.
“Are those the boys?” he asked Edgar.
“Yeah, that’s them!” said Edgar loudly, and when Chris looked over, he summoned his goons and they bolted for the truck.
The night guard tried to get the tag number as they fled, but he wasn’t fast enough. Squinting, he flopped his note pad shut in frustration and turned to Edgar.
“Did you say that kid is fourteen years old?” he asked, “and driving around parking lots like that?”
“Yes,” said Edgar. “That’s probably the safest thing he does.”
“Well, he’s gonna kill somebody if we don’t get him off the road,” said the guard. “I’m gonna go call the police, not that they’ll be able to do anything tonight, what with everything else that’s going on in town.” He pointed to the red skyline. There, set against the dark sky, the glowing fire raged like hell itself. Finally, it had become visible, something no longer on the TV or to be talked about as if still far away, but it was here, in town: it had arrived.
Edgar and the guard stood in silence and, for a long moment, they watched the glowing flames against the backdrop of a night sky.
When the guard returned inside to call the police, Edgar returned to his trailer and retied the bungees on the tarp that Chris and his guys had undone, making sure that the dynamite was still there and perfectly strapped down.
Luckily they hadn’t located the dynamite, probably because Edgar had buried it beneath his other supplies.
With the trailer secured, Edgar walked back into Walmart and marveled at the amount of people who were still there shopping. These were the last remaining people in Mount Lanier, he figured. All of them stood in long lines seeking last minute items: buying generators, coolers, tie downs, gas cans, food, water, and all other sorts of things. Edgar thought about the last minute shopping dashes of people back home in Bon Secour before a hurricane, and as he walked past all the waiting people on his way to the Sporting Goods section, he noticed that they were all looking at him. Forlornly, wearily, every single one of them gaped at him. For a moment he wondered why; but then, suddenly, he remembered.
He was wearing his father’s yellow raincoat. He forgot he was still wearing it! It stretched comically down to his shins and engulfed his arms, and suddenly he realized how strange he probably looked, especially since there had not been a drop of rain in Mount Lanier for almost a half a year now.
__________
After forty-five minutes of shopping, collecting all the other supplies he would eventually need, he emerged from the store with two heaping shopping carts full of stuff, then scanned the hazy lot for signs of Weedy’s truck. Positive that Chris was gone, he quickly proceeded to the trailer where he unloaded the goods, piling them up, then strapping them down with caution.
Then, afterward, he pedaled off into the night, making a wild dash for the suburbs, and for Flounder.
He was almost home.
He was almost to the point of no return.
Twenty-Two
From the darkness beyond the glow of the streetlights, Edgar watched the Sinclairs pack up their house. The lights were on in every room, lighting up the whole yard outside. In one room, Shay’s mother helped Shay wrap china. In another, Shay’s father packed fancy guns into polished leather sheaths.
Edgar lingered a bit, trying to see if Shay might break away from her mother so he could tap on a window—maybe signal her to come outside, but soon he lost heart. They seemed sad and were moving along pretty slowly. It might take all night.
Glancing at the momentous inferno behind him that slowly crawled along over the hill—its smoke billowing forth like a coughing volcano—he could now see the red of the monster’s simmering against the dark, bleak, polluted sky.
Creeping up the lawn of the Sinclairs, he slipped the letter he wrote for her under the door, and once it was irretrievable, a sudden pang of fear shot through him.
This was suddenly real, now. What if they overlooked the letter in their dash to get out of town? The contents of the letter would be his only way back home. Without her seeing it his life might be in serious jeopardy.
He thought about that for a long moment, standing frozen on the Sinclair’s porch, knowing that if he knocked on the door and told her his plan, outright, just explained it to her, she would certainly try and stop him because his plan was absolute insanity.
He couldn’t let her talk him out of it.
So, backing away, hobbling in retreat across her lawn, he took one last, lingering look at her through the windows—the lip gloss girl, the true best thing about Washington State.
When he reached his bike—heartbroken and lonelier than ever—he pedaled away toward the suburbs so he could say goodbye to Flounder.
__________
Parking the bike and its overloaded trailer on the sidewalk, he limped to the front door and rang the bell.
“Hello Mrs. Artese,” he said when she answered the door. She immediately showed signs of sympathy and concern.
“Hello, honey,” she said kindly. “Is everything OK?” He nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” she said, placing a hand over her heart.
“That’s OK,” Edgar said confidently, “they’ll find him. Is Flounder home?”
She pursed her lips and asked, “Flounder?”
“Oh, I’m really sorry, Mrs. Artese,” he said, correcting himself. “I meant to say ‘Anthony.’”
As she stepped aside, Flounder emerged, and Edgar could only stare in absolute disbelief. His friend’s lips were busted apart, and both eyes were blackened, like a raccoon. He wore two cotton balls in his nose and both were soaked through with fresh blood.
Flounder looked like he’d survived a wood chipper—barely.
“I crashed my bike,” Flounder explained, flashing a glance up at his mother. He gave Edgar a sharp look to insist he ask no questions in front of her. Flounder’s voice, muffled from the plugged up nose, hung heavy in the air like humidity.
He glanced up at his mother again. She looked down sorrowfully and caressed his thick, black hair.
“My poor Tony,” she said, then, turning, she left the two alone.
Flounder closed the door behind her and stepped out onto the porch, saying,
“Weedy got th
e phone, man! My mom found it in my sock drawer and made me ride to Weedy’s house on my bike and return it while they packed the house. It took no time for Weedy and his goons to catch me on the way home and rough me up.”
“Oh man,” said Edgar, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Weedy just came after me, too. I’m so sorry, Flounder.”
“Don’t be!” insisted Flounder. “Because we fought back. We kept them off of us for a good, long while, Edgar. We did what we had to do!” A wide smile unraveled across his busted lips and he nudged Edgar on the arm. “Besides, my mom went from being super pissed that I stole Weedy’s phone to, you know, she feels sorry for me now. Besides, I proved I can take a beating like one of those mafia guys, right?”
“Flounder,” he muttered, wishing he’d never introduced his friend to that mob boss stuff, “I’ve got to go. I came to tell you goodbye.”
As if refusing to let him leave, Flounder pointed at Edgar’s cast. “What happened there?” he asked.
“Uh . . . that’s a jellyfish sting. From the island. I’ll tell you all about it later.” Shifting his weight to his good leg, he asked, “So when do y’all leave?”
“As soon as we’re finished packing.” Flounder glanced over Edgar’s shoulder and spotted the loaded trailer. “What’s with all the stuff?” he asked, then a troubled look emerged on his face. “Wait,” he said thoughtfully. “Edgar is that a load of fish? The fish stand’s closed, you know.”
“No, it’s not fish. It’s . . . nothing,” he replied.
Flounder suddenly seemed to realize what he was up to. “Oh, no, Edgar—you can’t go to the hole tonight, man! What’s wrong with you? If the town starts burning and you come back up the hole while the cabin is on fire . . .”
“Flounder,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I will be fine. I promise.”
Flounder could not persuade him, and hung his head in frustration. “You’ve got an addiction, you know that? To the hole. You’re addicted.”
“Yeah, well, maybe so,” admitted Edgar. “But the island’s been good to me. Listen, Flounder, California has a lot of earthquakes. So when you get out there, try not to fall into the sea.”
He smiled and extended a hand to Flounder, who readily reached up and took it even as he stared over Edgar’s shoulder at the ominously loaded trailer with all the stuff piled up.
“Edgar . . .” he said again.
“I’m telling you, Flounder,” he said. “Please. Do not worry about me. I’m going to be perfectly fine, OK?”
“OK,” said Flounder, squeezing Edgar’s hand tight.
A lump rose in Edgar’s throat. Before he cried in front of Flounder, he quickly swallowed it down and turned to the sidewalk, and to his supplies. Then, climbing up on his bike, he pedaled away into the night.
As he did, he lifted a hand to Flounder and held it high, as Flounder waved back, both their arms extended above them until the moment that Edgar made it beyond the streetlights and became completely engulfed in darkness.
Down the road, as he pedaled, he found it increasingly hard to shake the look he’d seen in Flounder’s eyes: it wasn’t worry. It was outright fear.
Things were about to get insane. There was a lot to carry, and it would take several trips and plenty of time to get all the supplies up the hill, Edgar knew, because even with two good legs, it would’ve taken a while.
In the faint light of the harvest moon, Edgar grabbed an armful of duffel bags and walked them up to the brook, then across the stepping stones and through the leaf partition to the clearing, then up the hill into the cabin. Once there, he dropped everything at the hole’s edge and felt his way to the corner of the room where he lit the lantern, illuminating the cabin with a bright, warm glow. Pausing to catch his breath for a moment, he massaged his wildly throbbing leg, then began another grueling journey across the dark meadow and trickling brook.
He figured to himself as he walked along. It always helped him to keep his nerves under control—helped him forget about the dark, unseen forest around him. During this time, he cemented his plans, restating them, refiguring them, so that when the time came to act, he would have no time to think. Sometimes thinking could be deadly in a situation such as this.
Fall down the hole, he thought. Get your supplies to the island. Unpack them. Prepare the island. DO what you need to DO.
After several trips back and forth to the bike, he soon built a large pile of supplies at the hole’s edge. Standing on the bricks, he unfurled a large net beside the pile—a net his father used to use for bait while fishing in Bon Secour. Edgar tossed the pile of supplies into the net and gathered up the other end, yanking everything into a large, tight, netted ball. On the other end of the rope, he tied a wrought iron plant hook, then yanked on this to make sure it would hold.
It felt nice and tight.
Then he made for the bike and trailer one last time to collect the one lone remaining duffle bag, the heaviest bag of them all.
Down by the bike, he slipped off the hot raincoat and slung the contents of the duffel around his shoulders. Then, replacing the raincoat over himself like a poncho, he nodded at the bike and told it, so long.
“Good bike,” he said aloud. “Best money I ever spent.”
Stepping carefully back across the stones, he headed for the cabin one last, final time. He looked down into shimmering water beneath his feet and wondered if the rainbow trout still swam around down there. He’d meant to go fishing for them so many times, but he’d been so distracted. Life had gotten so complicated lately. The stream was so low now. The drought had been so relentless.
“Let’s fill you up,” he said with a smile to the stream.
In the dark woods, as usual, he felt lonely and afraid. Fear reverberated through his chest almost painfully, but quickened his breath and heightened his senses, and yet, as he crossed the creek toward the shack, he also felt a certain peace. The peace came from his doing something now, from acting, from having a plan. He felt that, at the very least, he was doing his part, even though his act would be, at best, suicidal.
Putting one gimpy foot in front of the other, he was doing it all in the name of his father—and also, for his mother.
Moving up the hill toward the cabin now, he knew he would rather die falling down than lying in a hospital bed and falling apart.
Just waiting for his dad to die.
Yes, he was weary, and there were miles yet to go—many, many miles—thousands of them, and his head buzzed woozily from the lingering medicines and his leg throbbed angrily, but still, he rambled on.
“‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ came a voice through the quiet forest.”
Twenty-Three
Edgar froze, startled so tremendously by the strange laughter that he almost came out of his skin.
“I knew you’d be here,” a voice called. “What a dumb redneck! Wearing that stupid raincoat all around town and everything. It’s not even raining, you dumbass.”
It was Weedy.
The bully’s evil chuckle rang out into the night. Edgar strained in the moonlight to see, and there, in the doorway of the cabin, stood his dark silhouette against the warm glow of the lantern. His figure was skinny, angular, threatening, and totally unmistakable.
“Jesus,” sighed Edgar. “I thought you were somebody. You scared me for a second!”
“Oh, Edgar,” said Chris joyously. “Don’t you know? I am somebody!”
Still yards away from the cabin, Edgar nodded and clenched his fists.
“Yep,” he said in his best get-down-to-business voice. “I’m right here, Weed.”
Edgar knew by the way Chris was blocking the doorway, with arms folded and chin high, that the kid had no intention of moving.
“You alone?” asked Edgar, glancing around the woods.
“Of course I am!” chuckled Weedy. “Who else would I need?” Edga
r could see that Chris was clenching his fists, too.
“You do realize,” said Edgar, taking a small step toward toward Chris, “that there’s an evacuation going on around town, don’t you, idiot?”
“Oh yes,” said Chris. “Which is what made it easy to find you! And Flounder, too. Have you seen him? I have . . .”
“Weedy, I am going to say this just one time. I don’t have time for this. You better get out of my way.”
Silence ensued as they glared at each other. Edgar knew his injury was too much to sustain a fight—a fight that he couldn’t survive, all half-exhausted and half-medicated as he was. He couldn’t punch through wet parchment paper right now, let alone Chris Weedy. He only had one option left, and it would have to work, or else.
He would have to bluff.
He took another step towards Weedy and tried not to limp this time. He would have to keep his weakness a secret.
“Are you crazy?” hissed Weedy, his eyes widening. “I know your leg is hurt! I saw you limping through the door of the Wal Mart, you idiot.” The bully departed the door frame and stood straight, taking a menacing step toward Edgar, but even so Edgar took a relentless step towards him.
A pissed Weedy shook his head angrily, like an obstinate grizzly being taunted by a badger, and raced toward Edgar. Enraged, he marched into the night and stood before Edgar, who glared back at him.
The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt Page 19
