by James R Benn
“You had it figured pretty close,” I said. “I saw John Kari in Chinatown, but I missed you.”
“Jesus, if I knew things would end up like this, I never would have started. I’d be glad to be plain, penniless Peter Fraser again. But I was in so deep, I didn’t see any other way out. I mean, after two killings, it’s almost a sacrilege to let the fear of a third stop you. Otherwise, the first two would have died in vain,” he said, in the remorseless logic of a murderer. “Don’t you see, Deanna’s death would have finished things? I’d be Silas Porter for the rest of my life. A plantation owner, a man of property, and a war hero to boot.”
“Except for Josh Coburn being alive,” Kaz said. “Do you not see? You never would have gotten away with it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It was like a curse came over me, and I had to protect this terrible secret. The first killing was almost an accident, then the second was so easy; it was as if it were fated. I never imagined it could be so easy. The rage I felt towards Daniel was nothing like I ever felt.”
“It was fate that made you stick a knife into Deanna’s heart,” I said evenly. “Not greed or fear?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Boyle. Yes, I was afraid of being found out, terribly afraid. I think it was fear more than money. The fear of public shame and ridicule. I desperately didn’t want to be found out, to be unmasked as a common murderer. Now that it’s over, I’m almost glad you found me out. No, I am glad. I never really felt like Silas Porter. Sometimes I felt it was him doing those things, not me.”
“The insanity defense isn’t going to work, Porter,” I said. “So can it.”
“Believe what you will. I’ve finally told you the truth, such as it is. All I want is to ask you to do me one small favor.”
“What?” I said, disdain for this pitiful killer foul in my mouth.
“Could you call me by my real name? I’m tired of being Silas Porter. I am Peter Fraser, after all.”
Kaz and I were both silent, stunned at the fawning self-justifications of this man. Whose name I could not speak.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The late-afternoon sun cast shadows through the coconut grove, long slivers of darkness lengthening between the rows. We were on lookout, searching the ground in every direction, watching for an enemy expert at infiltration. Everyone except Porter, who sat slumped against a log, passive amidst the activity around him.
“There!” Trent focused his binoculars. “Hold your fire! It’s Ariel.”
He was alone, and he didn’t look good. His weapon was gone. Blood flowed from his shoulder, and he grimaced as he ran, his one good arm waving back and forth. Trent sent two men to help him up the hill and into the perimeter.
“What happened?” Trent said as a corpsman handed Ariel a canteen and began cleaning his wound. It looked like a through and through in his upper shoulder. Not bad, if you were near an aid station. Out here, it wasn’t good news.
“Hem dae,” Ariel gasped, then took another drink.
“Who? Johnston?” Trent demanded.
“No, other marine. Jap takim Johnston. We cross stream, see no denja. Japs jump us, shoot marine, shoot me, grabim Johnston. Hitim, drag away. I come kwiktaem.” His eyelids fluttered, and he collapsed.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the corpsman said. “But he’s alive.” He and another marine carried Ariel to rest under the shade of a shelter half rigged up to a coconut tree.
“Now what?” Trent said, looking to the two officers present, even though we weren’t marines. “G Company still has no idea we’re here or the boats are coming.”
“Send your most expendable man,” Porter said. “We all know who that is.”
Trent looked to me. “He’s got a point. And he knows the way.”
“What if he skedaddles?” I said.
“Boyle, where the bloody hell am I going to go?” Porter demanded. “You know who I am; there’s nowhere I can hide. If I fail, well then justice has been served. If not, then those men have a fighting chance and we’re back to where we started.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why volunteer?”
“Two reasons,” he said. “First, think about my reputation as a Coastwatcher. Has anyone ever said anything about a lack of dedication?”
“No,” I said. “Sexton seems to hold you in high regard.”
“Right. This is part of my job. It’s what we do.”
“And the second reason?” Kaz asked.
“To start balancing the books. There’s a lot of lives need saving up there, John Kari included. Just because I’m a right bastard doesn’t mean I want them on my conscience, too.”
“Okay, but I go with you,” I said. “And you go unarmed.”
“Wait, Billy,” Kaz said. “You don’t know your way around the jungle.”
“But he does, and I’m not letting him out of my sight,” I said. “Sergeant Trent, you okay with this?”
“Yeah, I think it’s our best chance,” he said, giving Porter a hard stare. “You mean all that?”
“I do, mate.”
“Okay, here’s what we do.”
Trent gave me a flare gun with two red flares. Once we reached G Company, we were to send them both up, Porter assuring us they could be seen from our position. That would tell him to expect Bigger and his men by morning, as planned. A fire team of four marines would accompany us to the edge of the plantation, ready to move in if we ran into trouble. But only for the first thirty minutes. After that, we were on our own. Kaz, of course, was coming along with the fire team, promising four tough marines he’d pull his weight. They chuckled, not knowing how deadly he really was.
It was dusk as we walked through the coconut grove, nearing darkness as we came to the end of the cultivated rows. Porter explained to the corporal in charge where we’d be entering the bush and the route we’d be taking. Passwords were given: the call “little” and the response “Lulu” because of the difficulty the Japanese had pronouncing the letter L.
“Good luck, Billy,” Kaz said. “Keep an eye on him.”
“He’ll be in front of me the whole time,” I said. I was about to tell Kaz I’d see him in the morning, but it seemed like bad luck to repeat what Johnston had said not too long ago. So we shook hands, and I turned to follow Porter into the black jungle.
Once we were under the canopy, my eyes adjusted and I began to make things out. There was a partial moon and the reflected light filtered through the dense overgrowth, casting shades of black and grey everywhere, as if I were watching a motion picture.
“Stay with me,” whispered Porter.
“Right behind you,” I said. When I’d asked Porter why he didn’t balk at not having a weapon, he’d said it wouldn’t matter. If we stumbled onto the Japs, they’d have us in no time. Our only weapon was stealth, he said. Still, the feel of the M1 in my grip was damned reassuring.
We made our way through the bush, the sound of a stream off to our left, the distance never varying by much. I figured that was how Porter was navigating, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions. We walked carefully, Porter sometimes halting to point out a root or slippery stone. We were both wearing the new rubber-soled canvas boots, and it made for quieter going. My eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and as long as I kept focused on Porter’s back, I could make out where we were headed.
Stepping over a rotting log, Porter snapped a twig as he came down. We froze, the noise deafening even with the usual jungle sounds around us. There were no shouts, no sudden rustling of branches that signaled a Japanese patrol heading our way.
Porter looked at me and exhaled. I smiled, nodding, relieved that the misstep hadn’t drawn the enemy to us. Then I remembered: this man was the enemy. Out here, alone in the darkness, it was easy to see him as an ally. I needed to guard against thinking of him that wa
y. A temporary ally, perhaps, but not one to count on.
We neared the stream, Porter looking up and down the waterway, listening for signs of movement.
“Is this where Johnston crossed?” I whispered. He nodded yes, his finger to his lips, his eyes fixed on rocks jutting out from the stream. I tried to focus, but I didn’t get it.
“Boots,” he whispered. Then I saw what I had thought were rocks. We moved silently, going stone to stone to avoid the splashing sound of water. Porter leaned down and lifted the torso up to remove his dog tag. “Not Johnston,” he said as he dropped the disc into my palm. It was the marine who’d had the Australian stiletto.
I followed him up the opposite bank, senses on alert, fear tingling in my gut.
The landscape opened up as we walked over limestone rocks, climbing higher every minute. The bush was less dense, the trees farther apart, the grasses thicker underfoot. A few feet ahead of me, Porter stopped. He hadn’t stumbled or held up his hand to signal a halt; he stood there, staring into the darkness. I walked closer, moving toward whatever he was looking at.
Some sort of large plant? A tree trunk? My eyes couldn’t put together a shape that made any sense. Then I saw.
It was Johnston. His hands tied with vines stretched between trees. His legs bound with more vines. He was still. Thank God.
Long slashes had left his skin in ribbons, from his chest to his thighs. His face was half cut away, his jawbone obscenely on display in the moonlight.
“Swords,” Porter said. “This was done by officers. Their sport for the evening.”
“My God,” was all I could say. I wanted to remove his dog tag, but as my hand neared the bloody mess that was his neck, it shook like a leaf.
“Sorry, Boyle,” I heard Porter say, and I thought how odd it was that he was giving me condolences over the tortured death of Lieutenant Johnston.
Until the lights went out.
I awoke on my back, hidden in the tall grass. The M1 was by my side, and a bloody dog tag was pressed into my palm. The flare gun was gone, and so was Porter.
Pain raced through my skull as I got up. Porter knew a thing or two about lethal force, and he had held back on me, but my head still hurt like the blazes. I stuffed Johnston’s dog tag into my pocket along with the other and drew my knife, about to cut him down. I stopped, realizing that if the Japs came by this way again, they’d notice someone had moved their handiwork.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I whispered. “You’ve got one more job to do.”
I headed back, having no idea which way G Company was, barely certain of the way to the coconut plantation.
At the stream, I gathered water in my cap and doused my head, washing away the drying, sticky blood, wondering what Porter was up to. He could have slit my throat and taken my weapons, but he hadn’t. Maybe Bigger and his men had a chance after all.
After an hour and a couple of wrong turns, I heard the password.
“Little.”
“Lulu,” I answered, as loudly as I dared.
“Billy, what happened?” Kaz asked, rushing forward to help me, marines at his side.
I told him and repeated the whole thing for Trent back on the hill.
“They butchered Johnston,” I said, draining what little there was in the canteen I’d been handed. I winced as the corpsman put iodine on my wound, telling me it was a little scratch.
“Look, Sarge!” a marine said, his face raised to the darkness.
There, in the distance, two tiny red dots rose into the night sky. Porter had made it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I was exhausted, but sleep would not come. My eyes felt like they were coated in grit, my head hurt, my muscles ached, and my throat was parched. I took a careful, small sip of water, shaking my canteen to take a measure of what was left. One good gulp. A couple of guys volunteered to take canteens to the river and fill them, but Trent vetoed the idea.
“No one else is getting taken by the Japs,” he said. Case closed.
“How’s Ariel?” I asked Kaz as he joined me in the trench.
“Stoic,” Kaz said. “He refused water, saying if he couldn’t fight he wouldn’t drink. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just can’t sleep.” Mainly because I kept seeing Johnston’s mutilated body whenever I closed my eyes. But I was fine. Really.
“Do you think he’ll come back with Bigger?” Kaz asked.
“If he’s Porter the Coastwatcher, then yes,” I said. “He has to guide them here. And I think he means what he says about doing his job. But if he’s more Fraser the murderer, then all bets are off.”
“A strange man,” Kaz said. “He has talked himself into thinking he’s acted rationally. It makes sense to him, each act leading to the next in a logical sequence, even if the end result is one he now regrets.”
“Mainly because he was caught,” I said. “Regret usually comes after an arrest.” I was feeling bitter, but I had to admit Porter might be feeling genuine regret. Hard to tell. Perhaps he was his own white ghost, haunted by what he’d done and how close he’d come to getting away with it.
“We have radio confirmation the landing craft are on their way,” Trent said as he knelt by our trench. “It’ll be daylight soon. If G Company makes it, you’ll have to secure your man and get him to the landing site pronto. We’re not waiting around a second longer than we need to, Lieutenant.”
“Got it,” I said. “You’re staying up here until they’re clear?”
“Yeah. Once Bigger’s men get to the river, I’ll send squads down one by one. The machine-gun team last, in case we need covering fire.” As soon as he said the words, gunfire erupted beyond the coconut grove, the sounds echoing along the hills.
“Over there,” Trent said, looking to our right. Small sparkles of light dotted a distant hillside like a swarm of angry fireflies.
“Can’t tell how far away,” I said. “No way to know if that’s all of them or one small group.”
“Porter said coming out in small groups would be best,” Trent said. “I hope that’s a rearguard action, and they’re not having to fight their way through the Japs.”
“Should we go to their assistance?” Kaz asked.
“Negative,” Trent said. “If we split our forces and get lost out there, we might not be able to stop the Japs from getting to the river. We need to stay put. And it looks like we might need suppressive fire at the landing site.” He called for the radioman to request PT boat assistance at the Warrior River.
After that, we waited, watching a running firefight draw closer and closer, the drumbeat of shots growing louder as faint lines of rosy light appeared in the eastern sky. Finally, figures appeared on the fringes of the coconut grove, moving between the neatly spaced rows. Every man in the platoon aimed his weapon, jittery after the night of waiting and watching.
“Hold your fire,” Trent said calmly, his binoculars to his eyes. “They’re ours.” A wary marine led the way, waving to Trent who had stood up, his helmet held high. More riflemen followed, guarding a group of wounded marines, their filthy bandages stained with dried blood. These were the walking wounded, followed by two stretcher cases. I could only wonder at how difficult the trek had been for them and their bearers. Gunfire sounded behind them, moving closer as the rear guard gave ground.
“Sarge,” hollered a marine who jogged up the rear slope. “LCs have been sighted, still a ways out.”
“PTs?” Trent asked. He shook his head no. “Okay, head down and lead the wounded to the river. They go first. Lieutenant, you two can look for Porter if you want. But don’t stray far.”
“No wariwari,” Kaz said, and we both clambered over the logs and descended into the grove.
“Have you seen Porter?” I asked the first G Company man I saw. “The Aussie?”
“He went back to help the rear guard,” he said,
“soon as we got to the edge of the plantation.”
We hustled to the edge of the jungle, passing more marines walking numbly out of the bush, sunken eyes ringed with fatigue, blinking in the dawning light. John Kari stumbled by, supported by a native scout, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and covering one eye.
“Keep going boys, almost there,” I said, as dozens more filed by.
“Are you Boyle?” The voice belonged to an officer sporting a major’s oak leaf insignia.
“Yes. Major Bigger?”
He nodded. “Porter told me to look for you, said you’d likely be waiting. What’s the situation?”
“Landing craft are within sight. We’ve asked for PT boats to provide cover, but they haven’t been sighted yet.” More gunfire sounded, followed by the boom of grenades. Close enough that I flinched. “Where’s Porter?”
“With the rear guard. I’ve got to get the rest of the men to the river. Porter and the squad he’s with are going to hold them up for ten more minutes, then hightail to that hill. Johnston’s platoon still there?”
“Yes sir. Sergeant Trent is going to send men down to the river by squads, as soon as you’re all clear.”
“It’s going to be close,” he said. “There’s beaucoup Japs on our tail.” With that he was off, shepherding his company through the grove, leaving Kaz and me alone, waiting for the last of our men, not to mention the enemy. The firing reached a crescendo a few minutes later amidst another round of grenade explosions. The first man to appear nearly fell out of the jungle path, clutching his leg, blood oozing from his thigh. Two more marines followed, scooping him up as they passed us.
“Porter?” I yelled.
“Back there,” was all one said, not wanting to hang around and chew the fat. The firing was close enough now to make out each weapon. Two M1s and a Thompson, against a whole lot of Arisakas.
