Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

Tuck looked at the check, looked back at the doctor, then looked at the check. If it was good, it was the largest amount of money he’d

ever possessed at one time. He said, “I just want the guards to lighten up, give me some room to breathe.”

The doctor smiled. “I think we can do that. But I need your word that you won’t try to leave the compound.”

“To go where? I’ve seen this island from the air, remember? I can’t be missing much.”

“I’m only interested in your safety.”

“Right,” Tucker said, as sincerely as he could muster. “But I want a TV. I’m going nuts sitting around in that room. If I read one more spy novel, I’ll qualify for a Double-O number. You guys have a TV, so I know you have one of those satellite dishes hooked up. I want a TV.”

Again the doctor smiled. “You can have ours. I’m sure Beth won’t mind.”

“You gave him what ?” The Sky Priestess looked up from a copy of Us magazine. She was draped in a white silk kimono that was untied and cascaded around her into a shimmering pool at the foot of her chair. Her hair was pinned up with ivory chopsticks inlaid with ebony dragons.

The Sorcerer stood in the door of her chambers. He’d felt rather proud of himself until the tone in her voice struck him like an ice pick in the neck.

“Your television. But it’s only temporary. I’ll have another one waiting for you at the airstrip on the next flight.”

“Which is when?”

“As soon as I can set up an order. I promise, Beth.”

“Which means that I also have to do a performance without my soaps. I depend on my soaps to practice my sense memories, Sebastian. How do you expect me to play a goddess if I can’t find my emotional moment?”

“Maybe, just this once, you could try emotions that don’t come by satellite feed.”

She dropped her magazine and bit her lip, looking off to the corner of the room as if considering it. “Fine. Give him the TV.”

“I gave him ten thousand dollars, as well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What does he get if he blows himself up again, a night with the Sky Priestess?”

“If I can bargain him down to that,” the Sorcerer said. He turned and walked out of the room smiling to himself.

Tucker Case spent the next week watching the compound, trying to get a clue to what was going on. The doctor had brought the TV as he promised, and even loaned Tucker a seven iron, but since then Tuck had only seen him from a distance, making his way back and forth from the clinic to one of the small bungalows at the other side of the beach. The guards still watched him, following him at a distance when he went for a swim or a search-and-destroy mission for roosters, but there had been no sign of Beth Curtis.

If indeed the doctor was doing some sort of research, there was no hint as to what it involved. Tuck tried stopping by the clinic several times, only to find the door locked and no response when he knocked.

Boredom worked on Tuck, pressed down on him like a pile of wet blankets until he felt as if he would suffocate under the weight. In the past he had always fought boredom with alcohol and women, and the trouble that ensued from that combination filled the days. Here there was nothing but spy novels and bad Asian cooking shows (the doctor had refused to let him hook up to the satellite dish) and although he was pleased that he now knew nine different ways to prepare beagle, it wasn’t enough. He needed to get out of the compound, if for no other reason than because they told him he couldn’t.

Fortunately, over the years, Tuck had acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of women-in-prison movies, so he had at his disposal a plethora of escape strategies. Of course, many of them weren’t applicable. He immediately rejected the idea of seducing and shiving

the large lesbian matron, and faking menstrual cramps would only get him sent to the clinic with a Mydol IV, but strangely enough, as he was acting out the gratuitous shower scene, his plan burst forth: soap-slathered, silicone-enhanced, and in total defiance of time, gravity, and natural proportion…

The shower drain opened directly onto the coral gravel below.

He could see it down there, the ground, and a small hermit crab scuttling to escape the soapy water. He’d lost weight, but not enough to slide down the drain. The entire bottom of the shower was no more than a tray of gal-vanized metal. He bent, grasped the edge, and lifted. It didn’t come free, but it moved. A little time, a little patience, and he’d have it free. Planning and patience. Those were the keys to a successful escape.

So he could get out of the bungalow without being seen. The next obstacle would be the fence.

Tuck found out early on that the fence around the compound was electrified. He’d found a rooster stuck to the wires, doing a convulsive imitation of the funky chicken while its feathers smoldered and sparks shot from its grounded foot. Satisfying as the discovery was, Tuck realized that there would be no going over the fence, and the gate to the airfield was locked with a massive chain and padlock. The only way past the fence was around it, and the only place to get around it was at the beach. Sure, he could swim out and come in farther down the beach, but how far did the minefield extend? He began testing it by hitting rocks into the minefield with his seven iron under the auspices of practicing his swing. He managed to produce several impressive craters and scare the guards with the explosion before finding the edge of the minefield some fifty yards down the beach. He decided to risk it.

He picked up a coconut on his way back to the bungalow, then climbed into bed and waited for darkness to fall.

After the sun set and the three-quarter moon rose, Tuck waited for the guard to peek through the window, then as he heard him crunch away, began building the decoy (a trick he learned from Falling Fingers: Leper Bimbos Behind Bars II ). Two pillows and a coconut head made for a reason-able likeness, especially when viewed by moonlight through mosquito netting. He slipped out of bed and crawled below window level to the bathroom, where he had left his mask, fins, and a candle.

He shoved a towel under the door to keep the light from leaking out, then lit the candle and began working the metal shower tray

out of its frame. After five minutes of tugging, stopping for a moment when he heard the guard’s boots crunching outside, he released the shower tray and leaned it up on its side.

Tuck blew out the candle and dropped to gravel four feet below, then reached back and pulled his fins and mask through the opening. The coral gravel felt like broken glass on his tender feet, but he decided to endure the pain rather than risk the noise of shoes. Tuck heard the guard coming again and dropped to the ground where he could look out under the bungalow into the courtyard.

The guard thumped up the steps, paused as he looked through the window, then, satisfied that Tucker was asleep, walked across the compound to the guards’ quarters and sat in a folding chair outside the door.

Tuck checked behind him, then scrambled out of the crawl space into the grove of coconut palms. He paused and caught his breath, then planned his path to the beach. He would have to cover fifty yards between his bungalow and the clinic, fifty yards that weren’t completely open but visible from where the guard sat. He could hop from tree to tree, but if the guard happened to be looking that way, he was done.

A lizard scampered up the tree he was leaning on and Tuck felt his heart stop. What was he thinking? There could be scorpions out here, sharks and barracudas and other creepy stuff in the dark ocean. And what happened when he got to the other side of the fence? More sand and scorpions and possibly hostile natives. He was waiting, thinking about how easy it would be to crawl back through the shower and go to bed, when a lighter flared across the compound and he saw the guard’s face illuminated orange, and Tuck bolted for the rear of the clinic building, hoping the lighter would blind the guard long enough for him to cover the fifty yards.