Randy White - Ten thousand isles

When I heard them, I cupped my fingers around Nora's bony arm, pulled her close to me and said, "We've got company. Probably the looters."

She'd heard them in the same instant. Her amber eyes had widened and become rounder, the characteristic reaction of fear as her brain tried to gather sensory data. It is a primitive response, signaled from deep beneath the cerebral cortex, an atavistic reaction. The brain seeks a quick answer so that it may make an ancient, ancient decision: Should we fight? Should we take flight?

Our revulsion for snakes is stored in the same dark little crevice. Right there next to our panicked reaction to lightning and our dread of murky water.

I whispered. "Stand your ground. Stay behind me."

She said, "You sure? Boy, are they gonna be pissed off!"

"Oh, I think that's an understatement. Furious is what they'll be."

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

"You want someone chasing you through this jungle? That's what'll happen. They take one look at this mess, they'll be hunting us. Panic's contagious. And what if they have a gun?"

The voices were closer now. Adult voices; at least two males.

Nora laced her arm under mine and pulled herself close. "Damn it, Ford, I don't think this is smart! But I'll tell you one thing"-she released my arm, began to search around in the brush, then stood, finally, holding a chunk of button-wood-'Tm not going to let them give me any crap. Not the bastards who did this."

I released a long, deep breath; told myself to stay calm, don't react to her anger, because I'd have enough to deal with in a minute or two.

What I would have preferred to do was hide in the brush; do some first-hand surveillance. Watch them to make certain they were the ones who'd been digging at this site. Listen while they went about their work; maybe discover what they'd found, if anything, what they hoped to find. Also, maybe find out what cemeteries they'd tried to rob lately.

Let them incriminate themselves while we stayed back in the shadows, taking it all in.

I looked at the mess that, minutes before, had been an efficient, high-tech dig site. The flume and the generator were in pieces. No way the pump would still work with all the sand Nora had jammed into its fuel tank. Same with the backhoe. Lots and lots of expensive damage, with air still hissing out of industrial tires, telling anyone with an ounce of sense that the person who'd slit those tires was still on the island, very close by.

I said, "At least you didn't set their machinery on fire."

Nora was holding the club like a bat, looking in the direction of the approaching voices. "Uh-huh, that's the one bad thing about not bringing cigarettes. You never have a lighter when you need one."

When the punk rockers came crashing down the path into the clearing, I stood facing them, wearing a big smile. I said in a loud, cheery, voice, "Well, well. Look who just stepped into our trap. You boys have some explaining to do!" Acting very friendly but vexed, like a school principal unhappy with their behavior.

I wasn't certain it was the punkers at first. There were two males, no doubt about that, but they wore mosquito head nets and long sleeves. It gave them an entirely different look: forty-year-old beekeepers or butterfly collectors on expedition. They could have been that.

But when they stopped, surprised to find us standing there, it allowed me a moment to observe the knobby hands of the leader; it was the tall guy with the dragon tattoo. Yep, and the distinctive body width of his slouching partner suggested he was the kid with the snake crawling up his arm.

When categorizing strangers, the brain differentiates by that which is most obvious: Female/male, black/white, Dragon/ Snake.

The chubby girls weren't with them?

Yes… but only one. She came stumbling down through the brush, fanning at the haze of mosquitoes around her head net and making a woo-woo-woo wailing sound that I initially thought was sobbing, but translated after a few seconds of listening: "You two… hey, you two! Bastards went off and left me-!" But then she saw me and said very quickly, "Oh, shit!" and froze as if she was playing that old kid's game, statue.

Her abrupt silence accentuated the hushed stares of the two men who'd stopped a few yards from me. We stood there listening to the birds and insect whine and steady thud-a-thud-a-thud of construction over on Marco.

Dragon was closest; Snake a follower's pace or two behind. The girl now pulling in closer, using Snake as a shield. Dragon was the spokesman as well.

"What'd you just say mister? I must'a not heard you right."

I repeated myself, remaining cheerful but adding a condescending note, letting them know who was in charge.

Dragon had an unexpectedly deep voice, the hint of a New Jersey accent, and his words were accompanied by a mysterious metallic clicking noise. It took me a moment to realize that, along with the horseshoe in his lip, he had something skewered through his tongue. A silver bead, it appeared to be. It kept hitting his teeth, which created the clicking. Tough to see through the netting.

"Trap? I got no idea what you're talking about, man. We don't know nothing 'bout no trap. This machinery here, that what you mean? We never seen this stuff before-" He stopped, saw the wreckage for the first time and it really hit a nerve. An expression of shock crossed his face, and his chest started heaving.

"Holy shit, the whole fucking place is wrecked, man!"

I stood smiling, saying nothing.

'Jesus Christ! Who did this? Did you people do this?"

I said, "Do what?" Still cheery, but virtuous, too.

"Who the hell… hey, do you know how much that equipment's worth, mister? Fucking backhoe alone is like fifty, sixty grand. Fucking pump, the generator-goddamn it, I bought that myself-" He caught himself just in time, and stood there, visibly trying to regain control.

I said mildly, "I thought you'd never seen the equipment before."

Snake was peeking out to see; so was the girl. 'Jesus Christ, Tony, your dad's gonna shit when he sees what happened to his gear."

"Shut the fuck up, Derrick!"

So the spokesman, Tony, was Dragon. Derrick was Snake.

Very gradually, I had been moving toward them, trying to force eye contact. In return, I'd been receiving all the comforting signs of submission that are similar in primates and pack animals. Tony would not return my glare. He kept his head down when listening; looked beyond me and to the side when speaking. For each step I moved toward him, he scooched back a foot or two.

I didn't have a very clear plan of what I wanted to do, but I knew if I could bully their leader, the followers wouldn't be a problem. They certainly recognized me from the funeral. Already, they'd identified me as someone in authority. I couldn't say I was a cop. Lie about being a cop and, no matter what, you're going to court along with the bad guys. But if I could reinforce the impression of unquestionable authority, I might be able to leverage them into giving me information. If I got real lucky, I could maybe con them into following me to Marco for a meeting with Detective Parrish.

Dr. Ford, did you tell the accused that you were an officer of the law?

Absolutely not.

This deposition is being taken under oath.

I'm aware ofthat. I have no idea why those three peoplefollowed my orders. They must'a jumped to the wrong conclusion.

That was the best I could hope for. It was a stretch, but what other options did I have?

I said to Tony, "Know what I think you boys ought to do? First thing is, take off those nets. Makes you look like someone tied a bag over your head. Like the old joke about being so ugly?" I watched them slouch in sullen protest before I barked, "Get 'em off now!"