Richard Laymon: Island

On my way to the veranda stairs, I spotted my book bag under the bush where I’d left it. It could stay there until I’d finished with Wesley.

I also happened to catch a look at myself. My shorts had been so demolished by the outboard motor that they no longer had pockets. I’d lost Andrew’s lighter, Billie’s sunblock, and the snacks of smoked fish that I’d never gotten around to eating. A good thing I’d transferred the straight razor to my sock. The razor was still in place.

So little remained of my shorts after their run-in with the prop that they’d hardly been worth putting back on. Andrew’s belt was scarred but intact. Most of the area below the belt, however, was either shredded or completely missing. A few flaps hung here and there. Otherwise, there was nothing much save fringe and gaps and me.

Which I sort of liked.

I wouldn’t want to walk down Broadway wearing them, but hell, this was a tropical island. A wilderness. Nobody here but me and my women.

And Wesley.

Can’t forget Wesley.

Not quite yet.

Machete in one hand, razor still in my sock, I trotted up the veranda stairs. The front door stood wide open. Was that how Thelma had left it? Of course. She sure hadn’t slowed down to shut it after her mad dash onto the veranda.

I stepped through the doorway.

Looked all around, fast, to make sure nobody was coming.

Then turned my attention to the stairway. I could see to the top of it. But not to the place where Wesley had landed after tumbling down from the top story.

I sure hoped he was still there.

Very slowly, I made my way to the foot of the stairs.

There, I stopped and listened. My heart was thumping awfully loud and fast. That was about all I heard other than the outside sounds—the usual jungle noises—squeals and screeches and twitters and stuff.

Nothing inside the house.

Nothing that might come from Wesley.

I switched the machete to my left hand so I could use my right to hold the banister. Then I started to climb. I set each foot down with great care. Silently. Once in a while, a stair creaked under my weight. Each time that happened, I halted, waited and listened.

Nothing from Wesley.

Maybe he is dead, I thought.

Or just sleeping.

No, not sleeping. Not where I’d last seen him. I should’ve been able to hear his snores.

Which left three possibilities:

1. He was dead where he’d fallen.

2. He was too hurt to move, lying very still and silent, aware of my approach.

3. He was gone.

Number one would’ve been okay with me, but I was pulling for number two. Still pumped from my encounter with Thelma, I looked forward to dealing with him.

I did not want possibility number three.

But that’s what I got.

After all that slow sneaking up the stairs, I finally climbed high enough to see the next floor. I wanted—expected—really thought for sure that I would find Wesley’s naked body sprawled out there on the hardwood floor.

Crippled, but alive.

Or dead would’ve been just fine and dandy.

But not this.

I groaned and clutched the banister. Shivers scurried up my back.

He might be anywhere.

I twisted sideways and glanced down the stairs.

Thank God, he wasn’t sneaking up behind me.

Thinking that perhaps he’d managed to crawl a short distance from where he’d originally landed, I climbed the final six or seven stairs.

No sign of him.

He might’ve gone into one of the rooms off the hallway, or back upstairs, or downstairs… or anywhere.

Now what? I wondered.

Easy. I’ll find him, or he’ll find me.

I thought about doing a room-by-room search. But quickly gave up the idea. A search like that would be scary, dangerous and time-consuming. Possibly a waste of time, too.

He might not even be in the house.

He might’ve gone over to the cages.

What if he’s with the gals, right now? Doing things to them?

Whatever he might be doing, he wasn’t attacking me at the moment. He wasn’t available for me to deal with. I needed to figure out my next move.

Go to the cages?

No, no, no! Find the keys, and then go to the cages.

Wesley hadn’t seemed to be carrying the keys when he fell down the stairs. Which meant they were probably still in the upstairs room, unless he’d returned for them.

I dashed up the stairs. Most of them were pretty wet, so I kept a hand on the banister, ready to catch me if I should slip. But I reached the top without any trouble.

Though the hallway was lit, the bedroom was dark. I rushed in and searched the wall near the doorway until my hand hit the switch. An overhead light came on.

No keys on the rumpled white sheets of the bed. I snatched up both the pillows. Still no keys. Nor could I find them on the floor or nightstand or dresser. After scurrying around the room, I even dropped to my knees and looked under the bed.

Not a completely thorough search.

No luck. By then, however, I wasn’t expecting to find them. Wesley had returned to the room, all right. He’d either hidden the key-ring, or taken it with him.

Taken the keys to the cages?

I rushed to one of the windows.

Seeing little more than my own reflection in the upper pane, I crouched and peered out through the screen.

Out beyond the moonpale front lawn, a small area of the jungle shimmered with an orange-yellow glow of firelight.

It gave me a nasty sinking in my stomach.

I muttered, “Oh, jeez.”

And ran from the room.

On my way down, I took a fast detour and grabbed up Connie’s fishing spear.

Spear in one hand, machete in the other, razor in my sock, I trotted the rest of the way downstairs and raced out of the mansion. I leaped down the veranda steps. I sprinted across the front lawn, leaving the lights behind.

From ground level, I couldn’t see the fireglow. Too much jungle in the way. I was certain the glow had come from the area of the cages, though.

And wondered if I might be running into a trap.

Wesley seemed good at traps.

Maybe he wanted to play it safe just in case I should win against Thelma. Maybe he’d even watched us, and knew I’d taken her out.

And figured I’d be coming after him next.

Just his style, he might light a fire to draw me into position. But he wouldn’t be at the fire. He’d be nearby, instead, waiting to ambush me.

With that in mind, I changed course. Instead of heading straight for the cages, I veered to the left and ran to a far corner of the lawn before entering the jungle. I went in fairly deep, then turned to the right and started making my way back.

I was quick about it. If Wesley had gone to the cages for some reason other than to ambush me, he needed to be stopped fast. There wasn’t much need for quiet, either. With all the regular jungle noises, he wasn’t likely to hear me crashing through the bushes. Not, at least, until I was very close to him.

When I spied the glow in the distance and off to my right, I slowed down. It seemed to come from a strange height, shining on leaves and limbs about ten or fifteen feet above ground level.

I couldn’t recall any hills near the cages. Had Wesley climbed a tree and planted a fiery torch among its branches?

Reminding myself that he was probably not at the torch, I hunkered down and crept closer to the area. I listened for voices, but heard none.

I figured Wesley would probably jump me at any moment.

The last time I’d seen him, he had been holding one knife and wearing a belt with one empty sheath. There’d probably been a second sheath on his other hip, holding his other knife.

So I could expect him to be armed with two hunting knives.