Phoenix Island (18 page)

As daylight died, a great whining rose from the jungle. Carl gripped the bars of his tiny cage and knew . . .

He was trapped in the sweatbox, and the mosquitoes and biting flies, rising with the coolness of dusk, would eat him alive.

A mosquito landed on his arm. He slapped it, wincing at the pain. He felt another on his neck. Another on his face. More on his lower back where he’d torn away part of the shirt. Heard a buzzing in his ear . . .

And then he was slapping as fast as he could with his left and using his demolished right hand to brush at his skin.

It was no good. Insects swarmed to his cage, covered his flesh, and attacked every bit of exposed skin, no matter how small, biting and stinging and sucking his blood. They packed his ears and his nostrils, whining and biting. They flew into his mouth, and he spit and screamed and breathed through clenched teeth. He swatted his arms, his neck, his face, crushing them by the hundreds, but no sooner had he cleared a patch of skin than they would descend upon him again, covering it, biting, sucking, taking. Finally, he rolled into a tight ball on the floor and covered his head with his arms, and they ate him alive for what seemed like an eternity.

He rolled in the straw trying to crush them and slammed up against the bars of his cell, making his ribs feel like they were breaking all over again. The pain in his head grew worse and worse so that after a while he just fell to the floor and brushed himself in a mindless repetitive motion. The mosquitoes became a living blanket, and Carl rolled onto his front and howled with rage and frustration in the filth and straw at the base of his cage. How long this went on he didn’t know—after a time, the unrelenting mosquitoes pitched him into a kind of madness—but then it was full dark, and all at once, the mosquitoes and flies disappeared. He returned to his mind, rolled over, and sat up. His skin burned with their bites, his head burned with fever, and his throat burned with thirst.

With the hard darkness of night, the jungle became a madhouse of sounds: cries and squawks, squeals and snorts, hoots and gibbers—something large bellowing deeper in the woods. And under it all, the constant, deafening chorus of insects pulsed with noise, and this peeping, bleating rhythm was to him the heartbeat of night in the jungle, wild with hunger and menace.

RAIN WOKE HIM.

It fell gently, pattering overhead, a soft sound like mice running across marble. He sat up, awake at once, ignored the several bugs he felt
crawling over him, and instead patted the darkness until he found the bowl, which he pushed out between bars.

The rain was cold and good on his throat, and as he washed his cuts and bites and wiped away at least some of the grime covering him, he said a silent prayer of thanks.

He believed in God and feared him, and tried to believe in heaven, hoping one day to see his parents again. But, despite his faith, he could not bring himself to wholly believe what others said about God, and he certainly didn’t think he could know the mind of God. He often said prayers of gratitude, but long ago, he had stopped praying with any real conviction for favors or protection. Life had not prepared Carl to believe in the power of those sorts of prayers. Nonetheless, he offered a sincere prayer of thanks, and the rain continued to fall, and Carl drank his fill and cleaned himself and then poured handful after handful over his head to battle the fever.

After a time, the rain slackened, and in the soft rhythm of its fall, Carl slipped once more to sleep, like sand before the tides.

HE DREAMED OF THE PAST.

His father, before the tragedy. Walking together, dirty snow flecked in cinders flanking the sidewalk. The old neighborhood in winter. The cold, the wisp of their winter jackets, his father’s height. Happiness.

Older boys, gathered around a shape on the ground. Mean laughter.

His father’s voice, loud and strong. The boys scattering, gone.

The lump, a man—old Cobbie, the drunk—his father helping him up, walking him down the street to Rose’s Diner. Seating Cobbie at the counter, handing Rose money. Telling her, “Coffee and a sandwich.”

Back out on the street, Carl asking what had happened. His father crouching down, placing his big hands on Carl’s shoulders. His father’s eyes, staring into his. His father telling him, “This is what I do, Carl. And someday when you grow up, it will be up to you to protect them, all the people who can’t fend for themselves. A good man won’t give in to fear when there’s work to be done and someone needs him. Will you do it?”

His own voice: “Yes. I promise . . .”

CARL WOKE IN THE HEART
of the night, still crouching. The dream had been lucid, like a window on the past. He brushed at his wounds and listened to the sounds beyond his cage. Dripping leaves. Jungle sounds, quieter now, birds calling back and forth, sounding somehow lost and mournful. A light breeze rustled the palm fronds and shed a patter of raindrops. The flag clasp dinged rhythmically against the metal pole, like a distant bell tolling a funeral.

He sat back against the cage bars and stretched out his stiff legs.

A deep voice said, “Carl Freeman.” It was not a question.

D
EEP IN THE NIGHT,
Octavia scratched the toothbrush across the bathroom tiles, pressing not the bristles but the plastic handle as hard as she could into the floor.

Periodically, her nerves got the best of her, and she stopped and rushed to the toilet. And each time she vomited, she hated herself for her weakness. She had to be strong.

Strong like Carl.

They said he’d fought Decker and three others all at the same time. Beaten them. Then beaten Parker.

She thought of his hands. The big knuckles, the scars. Thought of his square jaw and slightly crooked nose and the light scars around his hazel eyes. Remembered the way those eyes had pleaded with her the last time they’d talked.

And she’d turned on him.

Now she wished she could take it all back.

So what if he’d flipped when he’d seen the article? Of course he had—anybody would have, not knowing the story, just seeing the headline.

She remembered the night she’d set her house afire. Remembered the things her stepfather had done—again—and remembered how he’d looked, passed-out drunk, remembered the strength it had taken to spread the gasoline and strike the match. Counselors and psychiatrists and even the judge had urged her toward remorse, and she’d lied and told them she was sorry, but she was glad she had stopped him, glad she
had killed him. After all, hadn’t he done his share of killing? He had driven her mother to suicide, and he had so completely killed the innocent girl Octavia had once been that it was difficult now even to believe she’d ever existed as a happy child; it was as if, in destroying her innocence, he’d killed some sweet sister she once had. He was a monster, just as Parker was a monster, and it was not with remorse that she remembered his screams in the fire but with pride.

She just prayed she’d have the strength to slay another monster tomorrow.

It was too late to do anything else. Too late to explain herself to Carl or apologize for flipping out. Too late to really get to know each other.

Back and forth she scraped the brush, back and forth.

They said Carl’s fight started because he wouldn’t let Decker bully Medicaid. Then Parker came in and tried to break Carl with a stun gun, but Carl wouldn’t give in. He didn’t let Parker have it until Parker hit Ross.

Oh, Carl . . . they’re going to kill you for being decent
.

She couldn’t stop them all, but maybe she could stop Parker. Maybe then Carl would see who she was. Maybe he would see what she really thought of him. And maybe they both could spend their final moments in the comfort of knowing what could have been between them. In a place like this, where there could be no hope or mercy or justice, what more could one really want?

She paused at her work, not because of the cramping in her hand—she could grit her teeth through that—but to check her progress.

Good.

The end of the toothbrush handle now formed a crude point, still too blunt for her purposes but recognizably dangerous. She brushed away the fluffy shavings of scraped plastic, then got to work again.

Back and forth, back and forth.

By morning, she would finish, even if she needed to stay up all night. By morning, she would have a killing point and, God willing, the strength to use it.

F
OR ONCE, CARL’S PAIN AND
fatigue were a help, as he managed not to jump at the unexpected voice. He would show them no fear. He would give them nothing. He would die with honor.

“That’s me.”

A pair of eyes shone in the darkness. “And how are you, Mr. Freeman?”

Carl shrugged. It hurt. “You’re looking at it.”

“Indeed.”

Carl studied the darkness around the eyes. The shape of a man, crouching near the cage. Clothed in black. Face painted the color of night. A large man. Very large, Carl realized.

Not that that mattered. Locked in a cage, he was helpless. A six-year-old with a sharp stick and a mean streak could do him in. All Carl could do was wait and see . . . and show no fear.

The deep voice spoke again. “ ‘To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine: but this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood.’ Do you know Shakespeare?”

“Nope.”

“World War Two? The presidents? Dwight D. Eisenhower once said, ‘A soldier’s pack is not so heavy a burden as a prisoner’s chains.’ ”

“Well, good for him.”

“Perhaps you’re more attuned to the wisdom of another president and military man, John F. Kennedy. ‘Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth.’ ”

Carl said nothing.

“They were both right, of course,” the man said.

Carl slapped a bug. “Look, let’s get down to it, huh? Are you here to kill me?”

A pause. The man leaned his head back and looked up at the stars, and Carl saw his teeth, very white and straight in the darkness. “I’m here to
see
you.”

Carl waited.

The man looked at him again, his eyes bright liquid, the eyes of a black panther in the darkest jungle. “I wonder . . . what would you do if I were here to kill you?”

“I’d try to kill you first.”

A chuckle. “Excellent. And how would you attempt this?”

“Pretend I was weak. Hope you’d open the box, let me out.”

“And then?”

“You could always open the door and find out.”

More chuckling, low and burbling, like a subterranean river. “I don’t think that would do either of us any good. Some doors are better left unopened. Impatience is a great magnifier of suffering.”

“I’m patient enough.”

“I believe you are. These are rather unusual circumstances, yes?”

“Who are you?”

“I have many names.” Rolling his head back to look at the sky again, he said, “You can call me Captain Midnight.”

Carl tried to spit but came up dry. “Sounds like a jerky comic book name.”

“It’s an old name, the army name for commandos specializing in nighttime maneuvers.”

“Is that what you are?”

“Is what what I am?”

“What you said, a nighttime commando.”

“It’s something I do.” The man closed his eyes, and the whole of him became less distinct in the darkness. Carl heard him take a deep breath through his nose. “Do you love the night?”

Carl thought for a second before answering. The man was strange. Carl sensed confidence and power but no meanness. There was a darkness in his manner—something lethal, Carl thought, as if the man himself were a weapon, the personification of violence without the intent—yet for now, the man seemed simply curious, conversational.
I came to see you,
he had said.

All right, then,
Carl thought.
No sense holding back
. “I guess I like it all right. I like to walk at night, when nobody else is around, you know, back in Philly. Especially in summer. Like the back streets, the way everything is so still and the way the street seems so wide and you can hear the quiet sounds, like wind in the trees or maybe somebody practicing the piano or people talking on a porch. You see a lot of stuff at night, too. Cats. Skunks, junkies, guys walking their girls. Yeah, I like the night.”