Jonathan Nasaw - Twenty-Seven Bones

“I know where the cave is.”

I’ve been in tighter spots than this, Pender told himself. Whether he believed it was another matter. But there did seem to be plenty of food and water in the backpacks the Epps had left behind, a bottle of Darvocets for his headache, and more than enough batteries to keep the flashlight going until long after he’d run out of air.

Air-that was going to be the problem. Or more precisely, oxygen. As far as Pender could tell, he was in a sealed chamber. He thought of those nine Pennsylvania miners who’d been trapped that past summer-how had they survived? Yes, of course: there’d been an air shaft.

Never mind the miners. Bad example. There was only one of him and the chamber was ten paces wide, fifteen paces long, with a ten-or twelve-foot ceiling. How long would it take to use up that much oxygen?

Frankly, my dear, I have no fucking idea, he told himself. He knew you were supposed to get down on the floor and conserve energy-or was that only in fires? Heat rises, but is CO 2heavier or lighter than oxygen? Or would they be evenly distributed? Again, no fucking idea. But he was pretty sure about the conserving energy part.

And what a lucky coincidence that conserving energy just happens to be one of the things at which I am both naturally gifted and well practiced, Pender, slightly buzzed from the Darvocets, reminded himself, taking off his slicker and laying out layer after layer of the clothes he’d found in the backpack to make himself a reasonably comfy mattress. Then he remembered you weren’t supposed to let yourself fall asleep after a concussion. He recalled seeing a rolled-up typewritten manuscript in the pack with the women’s clothes-he took it out, rolled onto his side.

They met at S University, the manuscript began. He was her professor, and although he was over a quarter of a century older than was she, it was love at first sight. …

Dawson had eavesdropped. Shamelessly and without apology, she had flattened herself against the side of Holly’s cabin and listened through the screen overhead for word of Pender’s fate. She had winced, jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out when she heard how Pender had been pistol-whipped into unconsciousness, and almost missed the next part.

But when Dawn had mentioned hiding behind an elephant’s ear tree, that caught Dawson’s attention. Necklaces strung from the reddish brown seeds and the curiously shaped seedpods that gave the tree its name were among her best-selling handicrafts.

There were several elephant’s ear trees on the island, but Dawson only knew one that was near a cave. The reason she knew that was when she’d climbed the tree at dusk last summer, during the dry season when the pods were the easiest to get at, she’d seen cloud after cloud of the enormous island bats, hundreds, maybe even thousands of them, emerging from a hole in the ground only a couple hundred yards uphill, at the summit of the rain forest ridge.

It was all Dawson could do not to rush into the cabin. But all those years as a fugitive had bred caution in her. I’ll tell Holly to tell them, she told herself. I’ll write an anonymous note. I’ll make an anonymous phone call.

But Holly couldn’t lead them to the cave, any more than a note or phone call could. And besides, she’d already made that deal with the G/G/W, offering the only thing of value she had to offer-her freedom-for the safe return of Dawn and Pender. If she was going to turn herself in anyway, what did it matter whether Chief Coffee recognized her or not?

She caught up with Coffee, voluntarily confronting a police officer for the first time in thirty-two years. She told him what she knew about the tree and the cave.

He leaned forward, well into the intimate conversation zone. “You’re Dawson, aren’t you?”

She held his eyes, held her breath-had Pender told him? “Yessir.”

One beat, two beats; she thought her lungs would burst. Finally: “You’re even prettier than Pender said you were.”

Dawson thought then that her heart would burst-from relief, not the compliment. Okay, maybe a little from the compliment-because it was Pender’s, indirectly. He can’t be dead, she thought. It just wouldn’t be fair.

But then, life hadn’t exactly been fair to Robert Fassnacht, had it? Or his widow, or his three fatherless children. Was this going to be her payback? After all these years of penitence? If so, life was a petty son of a bitch and so was the G/G/W. Dawson decided to go back to being a Mysterian. Much less trouble.

Lying on his side, his head propped up on one elbow, with the toilet paper stuck to the back of his scalp starting to unwind, Pender managed to get halfway through the manuscript before his eyes began to close of their own accord. I can’t fall asleep, he told himself, pillowing his head on his arm. I won’t-I’ll just rest. Have to rest. My eyes. Just for a second.

Emily opened her eyes, found herself naked on the horizontal cross. Phil had been wrong as usual-there were no ropes in the cross chamber-so Bennie had used her poncho to secure her ankles to the long axis, her blouse, torn in strips, to tie down her left arm, and her brassiere, with its heavy elastic straps doubled over and tied under the board, to hold her right wrist in place. And apparently he’d brought along a lighter, because the old torch was sputtering feebly in the sconce on the wall.

He had failed to strap down her head. She raised it, looked around. Bennie was to her right, his back turned. From behind, it looked as though he were grating carrots or sharpening something, making quick repetitive motions with one hand against the other. He glanced over his shoulder to check on her. Emily let her head fall back and closed her eyes, then opened them a slit. He turned. When she saw what he was holding, her bladder let go. He followed her eyes, saw her staring at the Swiss Army knife in his hand. He shrugged. “It’s all I got,” he said.

The letup in the storm was short-lived. By the time the search party (everybody at the Core who could wield a shovel or a flashlight; every cop and fireman and spelunker on the island) hit the road, the rain was driving so hard it stung like hail when it hit bare skin.

Still no wind, though-you had to be thankful for that, Chief Coffee told Dawson. They were in the lead, in the front seats of the department’s only four-wheel-drive vehicle, a modified Jeep Cherokee with a light bar, a radio, and a steel mesh cage welded into place behind the front seat, enclosing the entire rear compartment, backseat, fold-down seats, cargo space, and all.

Holly, Marley, and Dawn were in the backseat. Holly had of course argued vehemently against the Chief’s proposal that Dawn come along to help them locate the mouth of the tunnel. But Dawson might or might not be able to bring them to the exact spot, Coffee argued-it had been months, it had been daytime, it had been the dry season. If she could get them to the general area, however, Dawn might be able to lead them the rest of the way.

In the end, it wasn’t Coffee’s words that persuaded Holly, but the mute appeal in Dawson’s eyes. All right, all right, she told them, but on two conditions: Dawn volunteers, no pressure, and I go with her.

Marley’s presence was accounted for simply enough: the only way to keep him from coming along would have been to lock him in his room, and even then she’d probably have had to chain his ankles to the bed frame.

The sharp stench of urine filled Emily’s nostrils. She could hear it drip drip dripping onto the ground. To anger and terror, add shame-for wetting herself, for being naked, for the way her weighty, aching breasts had flopped sideways off her chest like water wings. She knew, of course, why Bennie had tied her to the cross, but it was the machete she’d been picturing in her mind-or trying not to picture. A downward flash, a moment of pain. Or maybe impact, not even pain.