Lunatics

by Dave Barry

  He said, “At Fricker and Fricker, we may bend the law but we don’t break it,” which I recognized as his firm’s motto from those hideous television commercials. A shyster to the very end, those were his last words as his eyes rolled back into his head, his entire body went limp and, despite the darkness, I was able to tell that his face was turning bluer than the testicles of a pet shop dachshund when denied access to its mate in the cage next to him.

  Now I was scared. Really scared. Whether Fricker died from exposure or from whatever fall he took off that ship, I didn’t care. All I knew was I was holding a dead lawyer in the middle of the Caribbean, the SS Windsong was now cruising into the distance, making it no longer a real option as a destination. And, unless those fins I saw approaching belonged to a convention of upside-down surfboards, sharks were on their way.

  So, hoping like hell that aquatic sharks were attracted to legal ones, I let go of the erstwhile Fricker and started swimming as fast as my arms could propel me. With long overhead strokes that reached as far ahead of me as possible, and legs kicking like two Rockettes on Dexedrine, I moved forward. Fueled by fear-induced adrenaline, I kept going. Non-stop. For how long? One hour? Two hours? Hard to say. All I knew was that I was determined to keep going as long as I humanly could.

  God knows how much later, I noticed that once the sea became less choppy and calmer waters were under me, the current was running in the direction I was going. Did that mean I was getting closer to land? That these ripples would eventually build into waves that would crash onto some beach? I had no idea. So I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted. And when I was lifted up by the rising force of water, was that indeed the wave that would carry me ashore? I had no idea. So I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted. And when the wave sent me flying through the air and deposited me on what was definitely land, I kept my arms churning, as I took nothing for granted.

  And then after my arms started to really hurt from me just lying there and churning them into the ground, I stopped. And lay there exhausted. And then I fell asleep. For how long? All I knew when I finally awakened, before I even opened my eyes, I was able to tell it was daytime. Still exhausted and aching like I’d never felt before, I lay there with my eyes closed until I heard a voice.

  “Philip?”

  I opened my eyes and saw Maria.

  CHAPTER 26

  Jeffrey

  For a few seconds there, I thought about coming clean to Captain Lutefisk and his crew, showing them that all I had in my hand was a TV remote.

  What stopped me was Sharisse, who was giving me a look that said Do not fuck with me. Remember that this woman (a) was not particularly upset to see her husband go over the side, and (b) had a gun. So I kept the remote in my pocket.

  “What do you want?” said Lutefisk.

  “What we want,” said Sharisse, “and thank you for asking, is one hundred million dollars.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Lutefisk.

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Sharisse. “We want two hundred million dollars.”

  “We don’t carry anything like that amount of money on the ship,” said Lutefisk.

  “Of course not, Sven. That’s why you’re going to arrange to have it delivered to the ship by helicopter.”

  “This is impossible! We are in a hurricane!”

  “Sven, Sven, Sven,” said Sharisse. “I’m sure a great big strong ship captain like you can handle a little wind.”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot—what are you doing?”

  “I’m aiming the gun at your face, so you’ll pay close attention,” said Sharisse. “I want you to get on the radio or the satellite or the sonar or whatever the hell you get on, and I want you to tell your company that we want two hundred million dollars in unmarked bills, and we want it in twelve hours. And if we don’t get it”—she gestured with her non-gun hand toward my pocket—“my associate Jeffrey here is going to press the button, and what happens then will make the Titanic look like the SS Minnow.”

  Lutefisk looked puzzled.

  “What,” said Sharisse, “you never heard of Gilligan’s Island?” She started singing, off-tune: “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, da da da da da da dum . . .” She looked at me. “How’s it go?”

  I shrugged. She shifted the gun slightly in my direction.

  “Something something something,” I sang. “A three-hour tour.”

  “Right!” she said. “A three-hour tour!” She aimed the gun back at Lutefisk and his men. “Everybody!” she said.

  “A three-hour tour,” they sang, hesitantly.

  “That sucked,” said Sharisse. She looked at Lutefisk. “Get to work on the money, Sven. The clock is ticking. And have somebody bring me a satellite phone. I need to make some calls.”

  I spent the next two hours standing on the bridge with my hand in my pocket while Sharisse yakked on the phone a few feet away. I didn’t know who she was talking to, and she didn’t tell me. There was a TV monitor on the bridge tuned to international CNN. Horkman and I were on the screen basically all the time; they had worked our pictures into a logo that said AMERICA UNDER ATTACK. There was also a picture of the cruise ship, with a headline that said TERROR AT SEA; the passengers had found out that they’d been hijacked and were sending texts and e-mails to relatives back on land.

  I watched a CNN anchorwoman, frowning so hard she cracked her makeup, interview a man labeled “Terror Expert.” She asked him whether he expected the international terror gang, meaning me and Horkman, to strike again.

  “I hate to add to the climate of fear,” said the Terror Expert, “but yes, I believe they will strike again, probably soon. And they could strike anywhere. These are not bumbling amateurs; this is a highly organized, well-trained organization, led by a pair of very smart cold-blooded killers who have obviously been planning this operation for a long time while posing as ordinary suburban family men. These people managed to paralyze New York City and somehow escape from one of the most intense manhunts in NYPD history. Now, despite heightened security, they’ve taken over a cruise ship, which means they have more than two thousand hostages. God help those poor, innocent people if that bomb is detonated.”

  “One question about that,” said the frowning anchorwoman. “Why can’t the ship’s crew find the bomb and just toss it overboard?”

  “I’m sure they would if they could,” answered the Terror Expert. “But a cruise ship is a huge, complex vessel. And remember that this man Peckerman is a highly trained forensic plumber. He would have detailed knowledge of the ship’s plumbing infrastructure, and he could have hidden the device anywhere.”

  “Diabolical,” said the anchor, frowning even deeper to show she meant it. “Thank you, Dr. Smeltwater, for those insights. Meanwhile, the entire nation remains on edge, wondering where the terror gang will strike next. Nowhere is the mood more tense than in New York City, which is still reeling from the recent wave of attacks. City wildlife authorities were finally able to recapture Hansel and Gretel, the two bears let loose from the Central Park Zoo by the terrorists during what experts believe was some kind of sexually deviant celebration ritual. In a highly dramatic scene this morning, the bears were felled by tranquilizer darts when they burst from a cluster of trees in Central Park and attempted to attack Donald Trump, who was doing a remote appearance on Good Morning America in the park to discuss the terror attacks and promote his upcoming special all-transgender edition of The Apprentice. The bears are now safely back at the zoo, along with a third animal, a rare endangered lemur, which was also inexplicably in the area.”

  “Buddy,” I said, to the screen.

  “What?” said Sharisse, who had just finished a call.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Listen, how far are you planning to take this?”

  “What do you mean?”

&nb
sp; “I mean, you don’t really think they’re going to give us two hundred million dollars, do you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, say they do. How do we get away? Every cop in the United States will be looking for us.”

  “They were already looking for you, and you got away, right? You and your terrorist friend.”

  “I told you, we’re not terrorists. I’m a fucking plumber.”

  Sharisse looked at the TV, still showing me and Horkman, international terrorist kingpins. “Right,” she said. “You’re a plumber. And I’m Hillary Clinton.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Fine. Stick to that story. I don’t give a shit. The point is, the money’s coming.”

  “Great. So we’ll be rich until the ship gets to port. Then we’ll be in jail.”

  “No, we won’t. We’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about where we’re going,” she said, holding up the phone. “It’s all arranged. They’re very excited to meet you.”

  “Who is? Where the hell are we going?”

  Sharisse only smiled.

  CHAPTER 27

  Philip

  I was standing now. My legs were incredibly wobbly, but I’d somehow staggered to my feet, and Maria and I were looking at each other but not saying a word. For about a minute. Overwhelmed by the fact, by the impossible odds, by the miracle that must’ve occurred to have the both of us survive a night in the raging waters of the Caribbean and then deliver us onto this beach.

  “How is it that you’re here?” she asked.

  I’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Especially when compared to the faux Maria I had tried to save from drowning. The Maria with the hairy back, the breastless chest, and the penis-toting crotch.

  “I jumped off the ship to try to save you.”

  She smiled. Then we hugged. Then I collapsed to the ground because my wobbly legs gave out on me.

  “You okay?” she asked, laughing.

  “By any chance, would you happen to have a long string on you?”

  “String?”

  “To tie around me and a big stake in the ground so I won’t topple over. Like you do when you’re growing tomato plants.”

  Laughing again, she extended her hand and helped me back onto my feet. Still holding hands, we started walking.

  “Any idea where we are?” I asked.

  “None whatsoever,” she said. “There are a lot of islands in the Caribbean that you never hear about. Some are privately owned. And some of them are uninhabited.”

  Uninhabited appealed to me. For the time being, anyway, as it would offer a much-needed respite from the uneasiness you feel when inhabited places are filled with people who think you’re a hunted terrorist. Besides, how often does the fantasy of being stranded on a deserted island with a beautiful woman actually materialize in real life? A beautiful woman that if you ended up sleeping with her it wouldn’t affect your marriage, as your wife would just roll her eyes when you told her, “Hey, guess what? I had sex with a nun on a deserted island,” and then change the subject to her mother’s new titanium hip.

  Unfortunately, that break from other humans was short-lived. Because as we walked a little farther, hearing no sounds other than the ones the sea was making and the words of our own sparse conversation, we suddenly heard voices. Faint at first. But with each step we took toward a small bluff that rose beyond the water’s edge, they got louder. A small group of people. A small group of people in what sounded like a chorus of plaintive murmurings. Responsive incantations, as if in prayer. With one voice in particular wailing above those of the others.

  I looked at Maria, who seemed to have a better sense of the urgency we were overhearing. She said nothing, but started walking faster. Up the slight incline and through some brush, before coming upon five women on their knees, rocking back and forth with their focus alternating between the heavens and a young boy lying on the ground in front of them.

  From the looks of him, I gathered that he was about fourteen years old. I also gathered that something was terribly wrong, as he was hardly breathing, his eyes were dilated, his skin had large black blotches on it, and there was foam frothing at his mouth. I also immediately recognized that these women were speaking Spanish, which was fortunate as I’d taken Spanish II my sophomore, junior and senior years in high school, so communication would not be a problem. When they saw Maria and me emerge from the forest, they fell silent.

  “Lo siento, pero la biblioteca está á la izquerida,” I said to them.

  Maria looked at me and smiled.

  “Philip, may I ask you what you’re doing?”

  “Trying to instill some confidence in these women, who are obviously upset about that young boy,” I whispered.

  “By telling them you’re sorry that the library is on the left?”

  Right there was still another reason I was so attracted to Maria. She had just called me an idiot without using the word “idiot.” That had never happened before.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Fluently.”

  “Hablamos Inglés,” said one of the wailing women.

  “But I don’t think I’m going to have to speak Spanish,” said Maria.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because that woman just said that they speak English.”

  “She said in Spanish that they speak English?”

  “Yes,” said Maria.

  “Why would she do that?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t she say in English that they speak English?”

  “Maybe because she didn’t know that we speak English.”

  “Then how did she know to even tell us that they spoke English?”

  “Maybe she just assumed we did after she heard how you spoke Spanish.”

  Again I was an idiot without being called one, and I think I would’ve kissed her right then had our attention not been drawn back to the women, who resumed their wailing over the fallen boy, who was now making the same sounds an old car makes when it has post-ignition syndrome.

  “What happened?” Maria asked the woman who was wailing louder than the others.

  She told Maria that her son had been bitten by a spider and that their village’s doctor was on his way with medicine. She also told her that the village was about an hour away.

  “This kid won’t last an hour,” I told Maria. “I’ve seen this before.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  I looked around. Back at the woods we’d just walked through to get here from the beach.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Right now, have these women make a fire. I don’t care how they do it. Aim the sun’s reflection on a mirror toward a piece of paper, or try to create friction between a flint and a rock, or rub two sticks together . . .”

  “How about these?” asked one of the wailing women, showing a book of matches she’d just taken from her pocket.

  “Matches would also work,” I said, before telling Maria to have them boil water once they got the fire going.

  “What for?” she asked

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, before asking Maria to then put the boiling water in a cup or some vessel from which a person can drink.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You’ll tell me later.”

  “No, I’ll tell you now. I want to make tea,” I said, and then ran back into the forest and found an old oak tree whose protruding bark made it easy for me to remove small sections of it with my hands. I grabbed a few pieces, placed them on a flat stone that was embedded in the ground, found a rock with a sharp edge and started pounding the white oak bark until it was crushed into tiny pieces. Not a fine powder, which would’ve be
en preferable, but still small enough that when I sprinted back to the wailing women and mixed it with the hot water, I was confident it would be effective when I lifted the young boy’s head and carefully had him sip the brew.

  “The active ingredients of oak bark, especially tannin, make it an herbal cure for a lot of medical conditions, including the effects of insect bites,” I told Maria. “I’m just hoping it’s not too late for it to handle that spider’s toxins.”

  Maria was looking at me with a combination of awe and disbelief.

  “What other ailments does it cure?”

  “Internal bleeding, bladder infections, hemorrhoids . . .”

  Big mistake. Because upon hearing the word “hemorrhoids,” all five of the wailing women raised their hands and asked that I make tea for them as well.

  “You said you’ve seen this before,” said Maria. “May I ask where?”

  “In my pet shop. I once ordered two tropical parrots, and a brown recluse spider had somehow gotten into the crate, and that’s when I learned about Dengue Shock Syndrome, which is what I believe this young man has.”

  “Were you able to save the parrots?”

  “Oh yeah. The spider didn’t bother the birds at all. But he bit my assistant, Hyo, who started looking like this kid until the owner of the GNC in my strip mall came in and gave him some of this stuff until the ambulance arrived.”

  And that’s what happened here. After the second cup, the young boy’s high fever apparently dropped, and he slowly started to show signs of awareness by the time a jeep pulled up with two men in it. The passenger was obviously the doctor, as he jumped from his seat before it came to a full stop and raced to the boy’s side, while the driver was met by the mother of the ailing boy, who spoke to him and then pointed to me.

  After checking on the boy and getting the doctor’s assurance that he was going to be all right, the kid’s father approached and hugged me while crying his thanks. I introduced him to Maria and he invited the two of us to his home for dinner as a way of showing his appreciation. We accepted.