by Jason Frost
Phelps continued scratching himself. "Shit, I dunno. Sounds like some dude don't know how to play the piano."
Fallows turned to Tim, who sat within arm's reach on the edge of the gas pump island, next to the unleaded. "What do you think, Tim? Some tone-deaf Beethoven?"
Tim listened again, though he'd heard it every time Fallows had played it. "No, there's a pattern, but it's not based on sound. Probably a code."
"A code, kid?" Phelps guffawed. "You been playin' with yourself too much."
"He's right, Phelps," Fallows said. "It's a code."
Phelps face crumpled. "Sure, Colonel, a code. But what for?"
"You can get back with the others now," Fallows said.
Phelps hesitated, fighting his anger and embarrassment, not wanting to say anything Fallows would make him regret. He wandered back to the rest of the men.
Fallows listened to the tape a few minutes longer. Mentally he transposed notes with corresponding numbers and letters. A gift, really. Perfect pitch. His piano teacher had fussed over young Dirk Fallows, encouraging the lad to develop his remarkable talent even further. "You could be great," Mr. Letweller had rhapsodized. "Perhaps among the best." But Dirk's mastery of the instrument had come so easily, as with many other things, he became bored with it. He wanted something more active, more exciting. Skydiving, hot-rodding, mountain climbing. Dirk Fallows's hair had turned completely white by the time he was eighteen; some joked it had burned out on all of Dirk's dangerous exploits. Doctors theorized it might have been a vitamin deficiency, a kind of birthmark.
He punched the Stop button. "We'll be there in a few hours, Tim. Give the men a chance to rest up first, then we march straight for that shuttle."
"What makes you think it will still be there? My father and that astronaut won't rest. They could be there and take off."
Fallows grinned. "I know your father pretty well. Better than you realize. She may want to get back and take off, but not your dad. He'll come back."
"For me," Tim said.
"For me," Fallows said. "I told you, if he'd wanted you, he'd have grabbed you by now."
Tim didn't say anything. He reached into his pocket and fondled the thick bullet.
Fallows looked away, but still watched Tim. Good, the longer he kept the bullet, the more he'd lose his desire to use it. It would become more of a charm then. Fallows had seen the same brainwashing technique in Cambodia. Give the prisoner a small weapon, but within circumstances that make it suicidal to use it. The longer they don't use it, the more they convince themselves that there's a reason why they don't. That they don't really want to harm their captors. That, in fact, the captors trusted them with a weapon, so they must care. Loyalties become confused. Looking at Tim, Fallows realized it was only a matter of time.
Fallows smiled to himself. Soon he and Tim would be aboard the Columbia and on their way back to civilization. Part of him would miss this place. He liked its rawness, the potential to become anything. In time, maybe even a monarchy, a kingdom, with you-know-who playing the part of the wise king. His only regret was that he hadn't killed Eric. That desire was an ache deep inside him that was always there. Beating a reminder. But maybe this was even better. Yeah, leaving the island with Eric's son, and poor Daddy unable to follow, having to live the rest of his life here knowing his only son was being raised by his worst enemy. He chuckled to himself. Yes, that was even better than killing him, letting him slowly kill himself.
"Coming in, Colonel," Eli Palmer called through the brush.
Fallows stood up, reached for his Walther. What was Palmer doing back here so soon? He was supposed to be stationed on the southeast perimeter keeping watch.
"Move it, bitch," Palmer said, stepping through the underbrush onto the road. He shoved Paige Lyons in the back with her own HK 93 and she stumbled face-forward into the buckled pavement. Shards of macadam dug into her palms and arms. Palmer kicked her buttocks. "Move your fucking ass before I blow it off."
Paige struggled to her knees, brushing off some of the pebbles that were embedded in her palm.
"Faster," Palmer barked, grabbing her blond ponytail in his fist and yanking her to her feet. Then he started running, dragging her after him. "Hup, hup, hup." He laughed.
Fallows was smiling, hands on his hips, as Palmer gave her a final rough tug on her hair.
"Found her sneaking through the woods about a mile south."
Fallows nodded. "Following the same trail they'd taken up."
"Just like you figured," Palmer said.
"Where's Ravensmith, Dr. Lyons?" Fallows asked politely.
Paige pecked at the pebbles in her hand, digging one large one out of her thumb. Blood swelled into the tiny hole. "I don't know."
Fallows's right hand lashed out and clamped around her throat, his thumb denting her windpipe. "Are you sure?"
Paige looked into Fallows's face for the first time and felt a tremor of terror as if her whole insides were suddenly shrinking. The eyes, so pale they reminded her of special contact lenses they use in the movies for vampires. The bristly white hair like a thicket of snow-covered thorns. The mouth, thin and sharp. If his lips were pressed against paper and he smiled, he would probably shred the paper. But even more than the physical features was the sense of energy. Relentless throbbing energy ready to flood and drown anybody around him.
She shook her head, unable to speak as his thumb dug deeper into her throat. "Don't… know," she finally croaked.
He released his grip.
Paige coughed twice and clutched her own throat, rubbing feeling back into it. "We argued," she explained. "I wanted to get back to the ship as quickly as possible and take off. He wanted to stay around here, try to get his son back."
Tim stood up.
Fallows's smile turned cruel. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know. I told him I wouldn't help him and we split up."
"He let you go, huh?" Fallows said skeptically. "Just like that?"
"He didn't want to," Paige said. "But his crossbow is no match for an HK 93."
Fallows studied her a moment. That ache inside, the animal that gnawed at his guts every time he thought of Eric Ravensmith, was at it again. Worse than ever. There was still time. Time enough to find Ravensmith and still get to the shuttle. If he knew where to look. "Where did you split up? Exactly."
Paige shrugged. "I don't know exactly. Not too far from the house with those, uh, kids."
"Yes, them. Creators of the New California Diet. Well, they won't be dining out anymore."
"You killed them?" Disbelief.
"Of course. It's not wise to leave enemies behind, especially here."
Paige looked into Tim's eyes, but he stared at her without any expression.
"Now, Dr. Lyons," Fallows said. "Once more. Exactly where did you leave Eric?"
"I told you where. I can't be more exact."
"Do you know what direction he took when he left you?"
"South, I think."
He shook his head. "Why do I have trouble believing you, Dr. Lyons?"
"I'm telling you the truth."
"Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not. Only one way to be sure." He slid his knife from the sheath. "Palmer, take her into the garage and tie her across the hood of the Rabbit."
Palmer grinned. "Like a deer, you mean?"
"Arms and legs spread."
He licked his lips. "Naked?"
"Naturally."
Palmer grabbed Paige's ponytail again and dug the HK 93 into her back.
"But I told you the truth," Paige pleaded.
"You probably did," Fallows agreed. "But a little pain will help convince me." He followed behind them, tapping his knife in the palm of his hand.
22.
Eric listened to the screams as he cooked the last of the squirrel. The orange sky was draining into gray as the bright smear of the sun was replaced by the pale smear of the moon.
Another scream. Paige's husky voice stretched into a high shriek of ho
rror.
He poked a stick at the squirrel brains as they cooked. They were not only edible, but they could be used to tan hides. That's what he liked about nature, it was so damned efficient. Nothing is wasted. The skin, tongue, heart, liver and kidneys-all edible. Even the cheek pads. The eyeballs contain a liquid that can be used for paints and dyes, or mixed with pitch to make a hard-setting glue. Behind the eyeball was a small piece of tasty fat.
Paige's scream pierced the air like a sonic boom.
And then there's the blood. Rich with iron, salts and other nutrients. Makes a good stew or soup.
He tore a chunk of cooked meat from the squirrel's rib. Some hunters claimed squirrel tasted like chicken or rabbit. It didn't. It was more exotic than that, as if it had been seasoned with rare herbs.
"God, please," Paige cried. Her sobs bounced along the deep crevice and into Eric's ears as he sat barely a quarter mile away from the Union 76 station. But on the other side of the ten-foot cleft. The crevice was even wider further north, spanning almost twenty feet at one point. About a mile south, where he and Paige had crossed on the way up and he had crossed a few hours ago, the rift in the earth disappeared completely. He'd looked over the edge earlier, but there was nothing to see but endless dark. He'd thrown a rock over, but he'd never heard it hit bottom.
Paige cried out again, her voice hoarse from abuse. It was a long scream this time, maybe ten seconds. Eric could imagine what Fallows was doing. He'd seen it all before.
But he wasn't thinking about that now as he pulled off another strip of squirrel meat. He wasn't thinking about Paige. He was thinking about Tim. About the look on his face when Fallows had shot Peter in the head. The lack of expression, the missing cry of outrage. Was this the same boy who'd once accused Eric of murder for overwatering the Boston fern? The same young face but with hollow eyes and an indifferent mouth. Eric wondered if he looked as dispassionate as his Tim had, as he sat there eating squirrel and listening to Paige's screams.
23.
"You've got four hours," Fallows told them, his arm around Tim. "Four hours to track him down and bring him back to me."
"Alive?" Phelps asked.
"If possible."
The twelve men stood around Fallows checking their weapons. The torture of Paige Lyons hadn't taken more than fifteen or twenty minutes. She hadn't said anything new.
Fallows stooped down and drew a map in the dirt with his knife. Some of Paige's blood was still on the blade. "This ravine curves down here for another mile, then ends. Ravensmith could cross anywhere along here. It would take him too far out of his way to go any further south."
Palmer glanced over at the ravine that split the service station. "That's a ten-foot jump across, Colonel. Not to mention eight feet up. Only way to get to the other side from here would be to leap across and grab hold of the edge of the cliff there, then pull yourself up." He shook his head. "Hell of a chance."
"Believe me, one this man would take. Besides, the cliff levels out the further south you travel, so chances are he'll be down there somewhere, probably waiting for us to cross so he can start picking us off."
"With nothing but a fucking crossbow?" Phelps scoffed.
Fallows smiled. "How's he done so far?"
The men exchanged nervous glances.
"One other thing," Fallows said. "If you don't find him, don't come back. Ever."
"We'll find him, Colonel," Phelps said. "Don't worry."
Fallows turned around and guided Tim away.
"All right," Phelps snapped, "let's move out."
The men double-timed down the road, their heavy boots pounding like a team of horses.
Fallows deployed the remaining men to positions deeper in the woods. "Anything moves," he warned, "blast it. This is one time I don't care if you waste bullets."
Tim said, "What about her? The lady astronaut?"
Fallows looked over his shoulder into the darkening garage. Paige was still tied across the hood of the Rabbit. Her clothes lay in a pile next to the car. "What about her?"
"What are you going to do with her?"
"What do you think?"
"Kill her."
Fallows grinned. "Bingo. But not yet. Not until we see if my men can find good ole Eric. Besides, we might need her to bargain our way aboard the shuttle."
This was the first Tim had heard anything about going aboard the craft. "What do you mean?"
Fallows lowered his voice, even though he and Tim were the only ones left in camp. "I'm taking you out of here, kid. I mean off this crazy island." He walked over to the campfire they'd built on the far side of the garage.
Tim followed eagerly. "I don't get it."
"I told you before, Tim, the time would come when you'd see who really had your best interests at heart. Your dad wasn't able to protect your mom or sister. Or you. And for all his chest-beating, has he even come close to getting you back? Weren't we the ones who chased after him? Huh?"
Tim didn't say anything.
Fallows tossed a log onto the fire. Sparks burst up into a tiny fireworks display. "Come on, we'll get some more wood. We've got a four-hour wait."
They walked along the chewed-up pavement, gathering dried branches from the side of the road. Fallows spoke as they walked, his tone easy and caring, a stiff imitation of Eric's. "But when I promise something, Tim, I deliver. You and I are going to get off this island, courtesy of NASA."
Tim picked up a few small branches.
"And once we get back, I'll take care of you, just like I am now."
Fallows let Tim think it over as they continued to stroll along the road, adding wood to their armloads. He knew the anguish going on in Tim's mind now, but he also knew how it would all be resolved. The walk in the woods away from the woman's tortured whimpering, the compassionate tone so like Eric's, and most important, the hope of freedom. There was only one way Tim could go.
It was all working out so perfectly. If his men found Eric, they'd bring him back broken and humiliated. Or dead. Either way, Fallows won. If they didn't find him, Fallows would kill the men he had left and use the tapes to bargain his passage back to the States.
The woman's arrival had only delayed him a few hours. But it was worth it if he could find Eric. Maybe he wouldn't kill Eric, just mutilate him somehow, cut off his hands or feet, or maybe one of each. Then leave him here to contemplate the life his son would be having with Fallows as his parent. That thought made the small gnawing inside him go away. Yes, death was too sudden, too final.
Fortunately the woman had been able to confirm his own conclusions about the tapes. He'd played them for her while he'd tortured her, the staccato notes echoing around the garage while she screamed. Yes, it had been a stroke of luck finding her wandering nearby. He stopped in the middle of the road. Maybe too lucky. Eric must have known they'd capture her. Yet he let her go.
"Damn," he cried, throwing the wood down.
"What?" Tim asked.
"That son of a bitch!" Fallows pulled his Walther from his holster and began running back to the service station.
Tim followed, fumbling in his pocket for the single 9mm bullet.
Eric ran as fast as he could, straight for the ravine. As his right foot slapped the ground only six inches from the edge, he pushed off, his feet bicycling through the air over the endless drop below him. The weight of the crossbow on his back made him a little nervous, but once he was airborne, he forgot about it. He forgot about everything except how good the ground would feel beneath his feet. He pictured himself missing, tottering on the far edge, slipping backwards, bouncing down against the dirt and rock walls…
His feet bumped dirt and he pitched himself forward like a runner diving for home plate. He was safe. About a hundred yards away he could see the outline of the garage backlit by the campfire. He had waited until he'd seen where Fallows dispatched the guards. That Fallows had then led Tim away had been a bonus.
Eric found the first guard north of the Union 76 station, crouching b
ehind some burned bushes that had obviously been caught in a brush fire. The guard was maybe thirty-five with a red checkered bandanna tied over his head. A gold cross dangled from one ear.
Eric sneaked up behind him as the guard's head swung back and forth, scanning the dark woods. Eric threw his arm around the guard's head, pressing his forearm into the man's mouth to prevent him from crying out. With his right hand, he tried to dig his knife into the man's throat. But the guard used his powerful neck muscles to force his chin down, making it hard for Eric to find his target. Instead he plunged the blade into the man's heart. The cries of anguish were muffled against Eric's forearm as the guard sagged to the ground. Eric picked up the dead man's carbine and trekked quietly toward the garage.
The dead guard was the closest one to the garage, and with him out of the way, Eric figured he had a chance. Free Paige, get her across the ravine to safety, then eliminate the other guards one by one while the rest of the troops were out looking for him. And finally, Fallows.
He crawled along the wall of the garage, looked around, then ducked inside. The fire from the other side of the wall cast a flickering light through the dirty window. A large sign against the back wall said: OUR INSURANCE FORBIDS CUSTOMERS INSIDE GARAGE. Next to that was another sign: PLEASE DON'T ASK TO USE OUR TOOLS.
Eric stooped between the yellow Rabbit and the wall and crab-walked to the front of the car. Paige was still stretched out on the hood. One eye was swollen shut, but she saw him with the other.
"What… kept you?" she said slowly, her lip split in front.
Eric tried not to look at her as he untied her wrists. He'd already seen enough. The dozens of little cuts across her body, the long S that started between her breasts and curved down to her pubic hair. There was blood dripping down her hips.
When he'd finished untying her he helped her dress. "No time," he said, throwing away her bra and panties. "Just the basics." Finally, with painful, halting movements, she was dressed. He handed her the carbine. "Let's get you out of here."
"Aren't you going to say something?"
