Richard Laymon - Island

Nobody objected to Kimberly’s plan. Apparently, Andrew had made it quite clear to Billie and his daughters that he desired to be buried at sea.

I put on my shoes, and the four of us made our way out along the rocks to the point.

Kimberly hadn’t gone far. She was treading water, thirty or forty feet away. Andrew’s body floated beside her. In spite of the water being crystal-clear, you couldn’t see what a mess he was in. There was the distance. Also, Kimberly had him face down. The main thing, though, was probably the way the sunlight glittered on the water’s surface—it was almost blinding. All you could see really well was Andrew’s gray, furry back. And his right arm.

The arm was stretched across the water because Kimberly had it by the hand.

“I’m going to tow Dad out,” she said. “Is that all right with everyone?”

Connie and Thelma were both sobbing like crazy.

Billie wiped her eyes, then said, “I want to come, too.” Then she stepped down off the rocks into the water and swam out to Kimberly and Andrew. She went to the other side of Andrew, and came up with his left arm.

They both started swimming away, towing him between them.

It was a hell of a thing to watch. I ended up crying, myself—and I never even liked the guy very much.

That was a couple of hours ago. We all returned to the beach after the “burial at sea.”

It’s mighty gloomy around here.

Billie, Kimberly and Thelma have all lost their husbands (one way or another) since we came to this island a couple of days ago. If that isn’t bad enough, Kimberly, Thelma and Connie lost their father today.

I’m the only one who hasn’t lost one or two loved ones, and I’m worried about the killer coining for me next.

I’ve been writing in the journal, here on the beach. It doesn’t exactly take my mind off our plight, but at least it gives me a chance to think about something other than how much danger I’m in.

There’s no doubt that I’m next on the hit list, is there?

He kills me, then there won’t be any more men to stand in the way.

In the way of what?

The women.

He wants the women.

We’d better figure out something before it’s too late.

It was only mid-morning, but I was feeling hungry by the time I finished catching up with my journal. Nobody else had eaten any sort of breakfast. The way things looked, it might be a while before they got around to thoughts of food.

It seemed like bad castaway etiquette to eat by myself—which might be looked upon as trying to sneak more than my share. I didn’t want to bother any of the women, though. They were busy mourning.

I felt like more of an outsider than ever, since I was the only person who hadn’t lost a husband or father (or both). I hadn’t lost anyone I really cared much about. They were going through these huge, awful changes, while I was unseamed.

I actually resented it, to some extent. Maybe because I was keenly aware that I might be the next person to get killed. Also, because I was hungry and they seemed too wrapped up in moping around to care.

As far as they were concerned, I didn’t even exist. That’s how I saw it, anyway.

I figured nobody would miss me anyway, so why not take a hike? I’d been wanting to see the lagoon—and swim in it—ever since hearing about it from Keith and Kimberly. Now seemed like a good time to visit the place. So I put the book bag on my back, picked up one of the spears, and started striding toward the jungle.

I was fearless.

If any jungle creatures came after me, they’d better watch out.

As for the killer—I counted on him being too far away to nail me. Even though I had no idea how large the island might be, and he’d had about three hours to make his comeback, I was convinced that he must still be miles away.

Anyway, he was bound to kill me sooner or later.

And nobody would likely give a damn, anyhow.

I was still on my way through the sand, striding with bitterness and determination toward the place where the stream entered the jungle, when Kimberly called out from behind me, “Rupert! What are you doing?”

I glanced back. “Just thought I’d check out the lagoon.”

“Are you nuts? Get back here.”

“I won’t be long.” I started walking backward. All four of the gals were looking at me.

“Rupert!” Billie yelled.

“You can’t go off by yourself,” Kimberly called to me. “If you have to go to the lagoon, we’ll all go.”

“I don’t have to.” I suddenly felt a little bit like a jerk. Pleased that somebody cared, after all—but a jerk for being so self-centered and making myself a nuisance.

“I think we all oughta have something to eat,” Thelma said. “What do the rest of you think? Cause, I mean, I’m kind of starving here.”

“Good idea,” I said.

As soon as I started back, all the gals quit paying attention except for Kimberly. She didn’t take her eyes off me. I pretty much kept my eyes on her, too.

She stood in the sand with her feet apart, her Hawaiian shirt blowing behind her in the breeze, her hair blowing, too. Her left hand was planted on her hip, which was bare except for the thin band of her bikini pants. Her right hand held a spear. With its end in the sand by her foot, the spear was higher than her head.

I wish I could’ve taken a picture of her.

Andrew did bring a camera with him. (Which I’d forgotten about until seeing Kimberly in such an awesome pose.) It should be in the picnic basket. As far as I know, nobody has taken it out since the boat exploded. I guess I’ll leave it there. For one thing, the camera doesn’t belong to me. For another, I’d look pretty creepy trotting around shooting snapshots on a day like this.

We should’ve taken photos of the bodies.

Nobody thought of it. Everyone else must’ve forgotten about the camera, the same as me.

Photographs would’ve been a really good way to show the authorities how Keith and Andrew were killed. (Andrew is out to sea, but we could still unearth Keith and get some shots. I’m not about to suggest it, though.) Anyway, my mood underwent a major change because of Kimberly calling me back—not to mention the way she looked.

We gathered at the supply pile (preferring to avoid the campfire with its heat), and sat on the sand around it. As usual, Billie took charge of the food. We ate crackers and cheese left over from the picnic. There was sharp, Swiss cheese, and smoked Edam. She sliced the cheeses with Andrew’s Swiss Army knife. She also popped open a bottle of wine that Keith had brought up from the bottom of the inlet. It was a Glen Ellen Cabernet Sauvignon. Though warm, it tasted awfully good. We passed it around, and took sips while we ate our cheese and crackers—and talked.

There was “small talk” at first. About the food and wine and weather. Like everyone wanted to avoid mentioning the nasty stuff. After about ten minutes of that, Kimberly said, “I saw who did it.”

Wham.

Silence.

Everybody stopped chewing and stared at her.

We knew she meant the killer.

She’d been swimming out toward the dinghy with her head down, most of the time, so I think the rest of us assumed she hadn’t gotten a look at him.

We waited for her to say the killer’s name.

But her face told us who she’d seen.

Thelma said, “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Kimberly said. She looked terribly solemn.

“Wesley’s dead!”

“He isn’t. I saw him plain as day.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I’m sorry, Thelma. It was him. He’s the one I saw. He’s the one who murdered Dad.”

“You’re lying!”

Kimberly shook her head. “I thought long and hard about whether I should tell. I almost decided to pretend I hadn’t seen who did it. Pretending wouldn’t do us any good, though. I know it’s tough, but you’ve got to face it. Wesley’s alive, and he’s killing us.”