Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) (66 page)

I glanced at Ross. She shrugged.
I asked Mia, "Is there a boat we can use?"

"Outboard tied up to the dock.
D.A. took one of the rowboats. Does that sometimes, the damn fool,
rowing around in the dark. I heard him cast off, went out to see what
was going on. Then I heard my babies crying."

"And you're sure he went to the
island?"

"He had a Coleman lantern. I
could see it until he got there and then it disappeared into the trees."

I asked Ross, "Can you pilot a
boat?"

"Of course."

"Good. Once I get those kids away
from D.A. I'll want you to bring them back to shore, while I try to
convince him to give himself up." Quickly I glanced at Mia, regretting
the way I'd phrased it. But she was staring off at the bay, probably
searching for light from D.A.'s lantern. When I touched her arm, she
started.

"We'll need some things," I told
her. "Flashlights—the most powerful you've got. Blankets. A first-aid
kit, if you have one."

She nodded and set off for her
cabin at a run.

Ross moved closer to me, said in
a low voice, "What do you think our chances are?"

I looked out at the dock, where a
pair of lights shone fuzzily through the fog. Imagined the expanse of
water beyond them, and the uncharted terrain of Hog Island. And wished
for my gun, which I'd locked away that morning-hoping never to need it
again after last night's shooting.

I said, "Not real good, but we've
got to risk it."

I killed the stuttering motor
as the boat scraped bottom off the island's shore. Ross jumped over the
side, sloshing in the shallow water. I moved toward the bow, stepped
out onto a flat rock, and together we hauled the boat up onto the
beach. There was another vessel to our left: a blue rowboat that had
seen better days. Ross reached for one of the powerful torchlights Mia
had given us and went toward it.

She held the torch up, moving it
from bow to stern. Then she bent, reaching for something inside the
boat. She turned, her face furrowed with concern, and held the object
aloft. It was a fuzzy white slipper, child-size.

I grimaced and reached under the
seat of the motorboat for the other torch, then raised it and studied
the fog-swept terrain. The island's rocky beach rose to jagged
outcrop-pings; then the thick and tangled cypress and eucalypti
started, covering it all the way to the top. I could see no light
anywhere. All I could hear was the soughing of the branches, the
lapping of small waves. Ross still stood by the rowboat clutching the
slipper, scarcely breathing.

The engine's racket had
prevented all but minimal conversation on the way over. Now I asked,
"Have you ever come out here?"

Although I'd spoken in a low
voice, the sound carried, echoing. Ross jerked, said, "Ssh!"

"For God's sake, he knows we're
here by now. No way he couldn't hear that engine."

"Sorry, I'm jumpy." She moved
closer to where I stood. "No, I've never been here before. When I first
came up from the city, D.A. was always trying to get me to come with
him. But there was something about the way he talked about the place
made me not want to do that."

"What about the kids? Did he ever
bring them?"

"Plenty of times, before these
past few months when he got so strange that Mia told him he couldn't.
They know the island as well as D.A. He said they would clamber all
over it like little goats."

"Well, that's something, anyway.
It's not unfamiliar territory to them."

"But in the dark . . . D.A. told
me that it's rocky all the way to the top. There're trails, but some of
them come to dead ends. Further up are big rocks, sort of like steps
that were built for giants. Where he liked to go was a flat rock at the
very top. He could look out through the trees, see the whole bay. He
said ..." She paused, shivering.

"He said?"

"He said he liked to lie on the
rock and . . . imagine what it would be like to be dead and at peace."

A chill that had nothing to do
with the wind off the bay enveloped me. "Then that's probably where he
went. Let's see if we can find the right trail."

The tide had gone out, but not
long ago. The rocks underfoot were slick. I trained my torch downward
so neither of us would slip. There were two trails starting at that
part of the beach—one paralleling the shoreline, the other snaking up
into the jagged rocks. We took the latter.
 

As we climbed, the smell of
cypress and eucalypti became more pungent; the ground was carpeted in
needles, making it easier to lose one's footing. I became aware of
night noises now, a scurrying to one side; branches rubbing together;
the rustling of birds in their nesting places. The wind was not as
strong as it had been on the beach, but still cold. It brought with it
the odor of brackish salt water and the fresher scent of the open sea,
not too many miles away. At the base of a high outcropping I stopped,
wiping fog-damp off my face with one hand, holding the torch aloft with
the other.

Nothing but a sheer rock wall.

Ross came up behind me. I said,
"It looks as if this is one of the dead-end trails."

"Shit! Better go back to the
beach. We can try the other."

We retraced the path we'd climbed
on, Ross tripping once and nearly pitching headlong into a declivity.
Passed the beached boats and began moving along the shoreline. Small
waves sucked at the island's edges, lapped at the rocks, and washed up
into the hollows between them. I lowered my torch once more,
illuminating the treacherous ground.

And saw her . . .

Little Mia Taylor lay in a rocky
depression that was partially filled with water, curled into a fetal
position. She wore white pajamas printed with red and yellow and blue
and green circus clowns, and one foot was bare. The other was encased
in a fuzzy white slipper, the twin of the one Ross had found in the
rowboat.

Behind me Ross gasped. She tried
to push around me, but I held her back. Briefly I closed my eyes,
bracing myself for what could easily be the worst discovery of my
entire life. Then I stepped across the rocks to the child.

Mia didn't stir as I approached
her. I squatted beside her, touched her arm. Her flesh felt cold and
clammy. A gust of wind ruffled her fine black hair.

And then I heard her suck in her
breath—a quick tremulous intake that was filled with grief and terror.
 

Relief washed over me. I placed
my hand on her head, smoothed her hair, touched her neck. Her artery
pulsed strongly. I said, "Mia, it's okay now. Libby and I are here."

"Sharon?" Ross called.

"She's alive. Go back to the boat
and get those blankets."

Ross's footsteps moved swiftly
away over the rocks.

Mia began to whimper. I started
to move her—carefully, in case any bones were broken. She didn't cry
out or wince; once I had her in my arms, she coiled her body even more
tightly.

"Daddy," she said.

"Mia, what happened to your
daddy? And Davey?"

"Gone." Her voice was muffled
against me. "Daddy let go of my hand. I fell. I called him, but he
didn't hear. Davey screamed for him to stop. But they went away and
left me."

D.A. probably hadn't even noticed
he'd let go of her. Too drunk or stoned to realize or care that she was
gone. Anger flared within me, and I held Mia more tightly.

Ross returned with the blankets.
We wrapped the little girl in them. I said, "Take her to the boat. I'll
go after D.A. and Davey."

"You'd better not—"

"For God's sake, Libby, you can't
leave her alone in that condition! I'll be okay."

Without a word Ross hefted the
swaddled child. I stood, focused my torch on the trail, and set out
alone.

After a few minutes I was
reasonably sure I'd found the trail that would take me to D.A.'s flat
rock at the top of the island. It zigzagged steadily upward, around
trees and jagged outcroppings, past deep declivities. The wind grew
stronger as I climbed; fog drifted in and out of the encroaching
branches. Silence lay heavy all around me, but I knew it was deceptive;
there was danger in the void that held an unbalanced man with a gun.
Soon my ungloved fingers began to stiffen from the chill; I flexed
them. My throat was
scratchy, and I kept swallowing to relieve it. I'd lost my bearings,
didn't know which side of the island I was on now, or how far I'd
traveled toward the top.

Finally the trail came out onto a
ledge. I stopped, breathing hard. Through rents in the fog I could see
the eastern shore of the bay—faint lights winking here and there on the
hillsides, others strung out along the water. I checked my watch, was
surprised to find I'd only been climbing a little over ten minutes. I'd
lost my sense of time, too.

After I went a few more yards,
the trail split. I took the arm to my left, but soon found it was
descending. I retraced my steps, took the other arm uphill. The terrain
quickly became more rugged, the vegetation sparser. I came up against a
rock ledge, raised my flash, and realized I'd come to the "giant
steps"—three feet or more in height, set one atop the other. A light
glowed beyond the highest step; I was very close to the place where
Taylor liked to lie and imagine the tranquility of death.

My heart beat faster. I stood
still, strained to hear. No sound up there but the wind.

I began climbing the steps,
boosting myself up, remembering the old schoolyard game of Mother, May
I?

Mother, may I take a baby
step? A banana step? A giant step?

One more giant step. Then
another. Light glowing brighter now. One last step, higher than the
others. Rest before you climb it.

I looked up, saw a ring of
eucalypti faintly illuminated by the lantern rays. Their branches and
ragged, curling bark were etched against a high-drifting fog. Nothing
else moved up there. No one spoke. Did anyone still breathe?

A sick dread of what I might find
filled me. And then I heard a sound ... a sob. Davey.

A soothing voice said, "Hush."
Then it began to sing. The voice was D.A.'s, the words in another
language. Miwok? The cadence was that of a lullaby.
 

Slowly I pulled myself over the
last step. The ground above it sloped upward; my sight was blocked by a
fallen tree. I flattened, wriggled forward on my stomach. Peered over
the tree trunk.

The slab of rock sat in the
middle of the clearing. The lantern stood at its far side. Taylor lay
on his back, one denim-covered knee bent upward, his left arm flung,
over his eyes. His right arm—the one closest to me—encircled Davey. The
pajama-clad little boy lay with his head on his father's shoulder. He'd
stopped crying, but his dark eyes darted around the clearing. I saw no
gun, no other weapon.

Cautiously I raised myself above
the tree trunk. Davey spotted me instantly, and his eyes flashed with
recognition.

I shook my head. Pantomimed that
he should pretend to sleep. For a moment he looked confused. Then he
shut his eyes.

Taylor's singing trailed off in a
minute or two. Resumed. Trailed off again. He sighed deeply, and then
his chest moved up and down in a regular rhythm. After a bit his mouth
sagged open and he began to snore.

Davey opened his eyes, looking at
me. I shook my head, waited another couple of minutes before I motioned
for him to come to me.

He sat slowly, watching his
father. Slipped away from his encircling arm. Stood and moved quietly
across the clearing. I pulled him down beside me on the other side of
the tree trunk.

Putting my lips close to his ear,
I whispered, "Everything's going to be okay now. Mia's down on the
beach with Libby. Can you get back there on your own?"

". . . If I have a light."

"Come on, then."

We wriggled back to the first
giant step, and I boosted him over it. Handed him my torch. He glanced
around at the encroaching blackness, but when he looked at me again,
his gaze was steady, resolute. In it I recognized the strength and
pride his father had possessed so long ago.

"Be careful," I whispered. "Tell
Libby I said to take you and Mia home. Then she can come back for your
daddy and me."

For a moment he looked longingly
upward, to the misty light coming from the clearing where his father
slept. Then he turned and let himself down the next step.

I remained where I was, giving
him a five-minute head start before I went to rouse D.A.

Taylor took a great deal of
rousing. He thrashed and mumbled and jerked violently away from my
outstretched hand. I got a firm grip on his shoulders and hauled him to
a sitting position. He hunched over, black hair down in his eyes. For a
moment his emaciated frame shuddered. Then he looked up at me.

Beneath the shaggy fringe of hair
his eyes were as burnt-out as the first time I'd looked into them. He
stared at me without recognition.