The Island (17 page)

Shit, shit, shit.

Callie’s reply was just what he’d expected, and exactly what he needed to hear:
It’s not your job to give a fuck.

I know
, he sent back, feeling his resolve strengthen once more.
Thanks.

And Callie answered:
Good luck.

Shaw waited for his phone to charge and then slipped it into his pocket.

* * * *

Dusk was softening into darkness when Shaw dressed Lee and led him by the cuffs up toward the main house. The air was heavy with perfume; frangipani blossoms littered the ground. Shaw could hear the endless roar of the ocean, but it didn’t calm his nerves tonight. Nothing could.

Lee was silent, trembling, and his breath caught in his throat as he shuffled along in front of Shaw. His whole body was tensed, flooded with fear and adrenaline. Fight or flight, and he couldn’t do either.

The breeze sighed. The palm fronds shivered. From somewhere close by, Shaw heard a bird calling; a low, mournful note in the night. The air smelled too sweet tonight, too warm, too sickly, and too much like decay. Shaw hated it.

The main house was illuminated from inside, a shining beacon in the soft darkness. Shaw had never seen anything so terrible. He felt like he was leading a lamb to the slaughter and probably was.

He hated himself for this, really hated himself. But all the self-loathing in the world didn’t stop him from leading Lee up that path. And that, Shaw supposed, was what made him so fucking good at his work. It also made him a monster, but such a clever monster.

“Please,” Lee murmured as they headed up the path. “Oh, please.
Oh.”

Such a tiny exhalation of breath but it spoke to Shaw of regret and fear and the elegy of all Lee’s dreams. Dreams, Shaw thought, that had been formed on a different side of the world, under a different field of stars. Wherever Lee came from, the boy he’d been could never have imagined it would come to this.

And neither did the boy Shaw had been. Shaw caught a glimpse of himself in his mind’s eye: a gangly teenager with braces, still growing into his own limbs. Sitting on the bag racks at Ayr State High School, the metal burning the backs of his thighs, and trading friendly punches with his best mate Paul.

Shaw drew a deep breath.
Holy fuck
. He didn’t know that kid anymore. And that kid would be scared shitless of him now, for all his adolescent bluster and bullshit. Shaw had owned the world when he was fifteen. Stupid, ignorant kid.

Shaw looked up at the house and remembered the first time he’d seen it from the chopper as he came in to land. He’d gone straight back to high school then as well, straight back to Year Nine English.
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

The irony, Shaw thought, and that was the point. But it didn’t matter that the great statue of Ozymandias was ruins in the future. Not to those whose lives had been sacrificed to the king of kings, because nobody remembered them at all.

Shaw tightened his grip on Lee’s cuffs and pressed the buzzer on the front door.

Irina admitted him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mr. Vornis is in his study.”

“Thank you.” Shaw kept his hand on Lee’s cuffs and walked him up the stairs.

“Art?” He heard a familiar voice sneer as he approached the door. “Art is for fucking faggots!”

“Mr. Bertoni,” Shaw said as he stepped inside. “Nice to see you again.”

Bertoni was standing with Vornis at his desk, looking down at
Jeune garçon au gilet rouge
as John Gatehouse inspected it carefully. Gatehouse looked up when Shaw spoke, saw Lee, and almost dropped his magnifying glass.

Usayd was standing at the cabinet, decanter in hand. “Drink, Mr. Shaw?”

“Thank you,” Shaw said. He pressed a hand on Lee’s shoulder, and Lee sank, shivering, onto his knees.

“It is beautiful here,” Usayd said.

“Yes,” said Shaw.

Usayd looked at Lee and back to Shaw, his dark eyes curious.

Vornis was nervous, Shaw realized. He was watching everything Gatehouse did as though he was half afraid the man would suddenly seize the canvas, hold it up, and scream forgery. Shaw tried not to let his surprise show. Vornis really did love his art after all.

Shaw sat in one of the leather armchairs, nursing his drink, and waited for Gatehouse to pass judgment. He kept his eyes off Lee.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Gatehouse straightened up at last, clearing his throat nervously.

Shaw wondered what sort of man Gatehouse was. He clearly hadn’t dealt much with people like Vornis before, but that didn’t make him morally pure. He must have known it was a stolen painting he’d been asked to evaluate. He was here for the money, the same as everyone else. No better and no worse than the monsters around him.

“It’s astonishing, Mr. Vornis,” he managed at last. “Astonishing. I have no doubt it is genuine. It is the
Jeune garçon au gilet rouge
.”

Shaw had known the painting would pass scrutiny. It already had, no less than seven times in the last year and by better experts than Gatehouse. Ninety-five million for a bit of paint on a bit of canvas. It was ridiculous, even if it had been the real thing. And it wasn’t. Shaw had met the man who’d painted it.

It was so much more honest than the real thing, Shaw felt. Any man who bought a painting knowing it was stolen deserved a forgery. And at least this
Jeune garçon au gilet rouge
wasn’t tainted with the smell of Nazi death camps.

Shaw sipped his drink. He’d expected this moment of secret triumph to be more gratifying. Getting one over on Vornis? Gold. But it wasn’t how he’d imagined, and Shaw knew it had everything to do with the boy kneeling by the door. Shaw wanted to look at him, and couldn’t. He wanted to comfort him, which was worse.

“So you have connections with the art world, Mr. Shaw?” Usayd asked him, giving Shaw the opening he’d been waiting for.

“I have more connections than that,” Shaw said. He felt Bertoni looking at him, appraising him as carefully as Gatehouse had appraised the painting. He allowed himself a glow of satisfaction at that. This was why he was here.

Usayd raised his eyebrows. “Weapons?”

“Depends what you’re after,” Shaw said. “I know a lot of people.”

Usayd smiled. “I think we have a lot to talk about, Mr. Shaw.”

“I look forward to it,” Shaw said.

Vornis clapped him on the shoulder. “Shaw, I didn’t doubt you for a second.”

You should have, Shaw thought but laughed instead. “A sensible precaution, Vornis. Anyone would have done the same.”

Vornis didn’t move his hand. “Of course.”

Shaw forced himself to relax under the heavy touch.

Vornis released him at last. “Well, gentlemen, shall we eat?”

Vornis shepherded the others out of the office, holding up a hand to stop Shaw as he went to move past. He looked down at Lee and back to Shaw. “You hardly touched him, my friend. I don’t see any new marks on him.”

Shaw raised his eyebrows. “I was always taught, Vornis, that it’s the height of bad manners to return something in worse condition than when it was borrowed.”

Vornis’s mouth twisted into a smile. “But the bag?”

Shaw thought back to the contents of the bag, untouched except for the condoms and lube he’d used as props for Vornis’s sick little peepshow. “Very thoughtful of you. And if I’d known your other guests were arriving so soon, I might have played a bit harder. Got my money’s worth, as it were.”

Vornis’s smile grew. “Well, we will make up for it tonight, yes?”

Shaw pretended not to hear the strangled whimper from the floor. He returned the smile. “That sounds promising.”

He always knew the right thing to say to monsters. He spoke their language too well to pretend it was a coincidence. He was no better than any of them.

They walked out of the room.

* * * *

The dining room was open to the landscaped gardens behind the main house. From the top of the slight hill, Shaw could see over to the far bay where Vornis anchored his yacht. The lights of the yacht glittered on the dark ocean, and put Shaw in mind of that old fantasy: a boat, Lee, and escape. It was far too late for any of that now, he thought half-regretfully. Only half. Shaw was enough of a hypocrite to realize he was almost glad the choice was now out of his hands. He’d finish what he’d come for, he’d get off the island, and he’d make that call for Lee. That was all he could offer. It was more than Lee had any right to expect.

I’m so sorry, Lee.

Shaw ate his dinner, made polite conversation that didn’t stray too much into business, and wondered which of the other men were players. Which of them would join Vornis in his games with Lee tonight?

Not Bertoni. He hated faggots, although it wasn’t unthinkable that he was one of those men who could fuck another man and believe he was straight. Rape wasn’t about sexual preference, and men like Bertoni knew it. But Shaw had the feeling Bertoni wouldn’t use Lee in that way. He would probably still torture him, though, given the choice.

Atmadja, Shaw still didn’t know. He didn’t look like the sort of man who liked bloodshed. He could order it, sponsor it, and support it, but only from a clinical distance. If Shaw was right, that made him the biggest hypocrite at the table.

Guterman, no doubt. Shaw knew his reputation. Money, violence, power, sex. Guterman liked to get his manicured hands dirty.

Usayd, no way. He wouldn’t get too involved, but he wouldn’t protest either. He was too clever for that.

That left Gatehouse. Gatehouse would probably be dead before Lee. He was wearing a look like a deer caught in the headlights. He stank of fear, and that would amuse them when they killed him.

“Eight weeks,” Vornis said in response to something Usayd asked. “He fought like an animal before we drugged him. Now he opens his mouth for cock without being asked.”

“That’s a shame,” said Guterman.

Vornis raised an eyebrow.

Guterman snapped his lobster claw. “I do like it when the pretty things fight.”

Bertoni laughed, but Atmadja didn’t. Shaw was right about him.

“He still makes all the right noises,” Vornis said, “given encouragement.”

Rape and torture. Charming fucking subjects for the dinner table. Shaw leaned forward and poured himself a glass of water.

It was Usayd who brought the discussion back to business, and Shaw was grateful for it. It gave him the chance to make an impression on these men. And Vornis was only too happy to back up everything he said. Shaw had procured for him what he thought was a genuine Cézanne, and Vornis was glad to return the favor. He talked Shaw up like he was the Second Coming.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Shaw,” Usayd said, and Shaw knew it was the only genuine thing he’d said since he’d arrived on the island.

Meanwhile, Gatehouse was trembling so much that he was playing a samba on his dinner plate with his cutlery.

Shaw looked at him sideways, and Gatehouse almost shit himself.

Dinner was good. They ate and talked and listened to the dry rustle of the breeze stroking the palm fronds. As the talk drifted away from business, Shaw found that the company was almost pleasant. He embraced the delusion. Anything to stop thinking about Lee.

“Trust,” Vornis announced over dessert, “is not an easy commodity to deal in.”

His guests murmured their agreement.

“So, a proposition,” Vornis said. His dark eyes gleamed. “Tonight I am going to kill my prisoner. As a gesture of my trust, you will bear witness.”

Shaw felt his heart skip a beat. He caught Usayd’s eye across the table for a brief moment. Everyone had fallen silent. Even Gatehouse was too shocked to tremble.

Oh shit. Oh, Lee
. Shaw reined in his wild thoughts with difficulty and silently castigated himself. He’d always known this was a possibility. He should have been more prepared, because killing Lee tonight was the logical thing to do. Shaw was enough of a realist to recognize that and to admit to himself that, in Vornis’s position, he would have done exactly the same thing.

It was an audacious move, Shaw thought, but a smart one. Any one of these men could one day use Lee’s life as a bargaining tool with the U.S. authorities, if it came to that. Shit, it was exactly what Shaw had been intending. Lee had to die sooner rather than later. He had to be made worthless, and the only way that could happen was if he was dead. Vornis called it a gesture of trust, but it wasn’t just that. It was a demonstration of his ruthlessness. Such a demonstration would go further in present company than any empty gesture. With one single act, Vornis could impress upon all of them his brutality, rid himself of a thing they might one day use against him, and make them all accomplices as well. It was perfect.

And it was too late now to make that call like Shaw had promised Lee. Jesus, was that actually relief that washed over him? He had become a monster after all.

Shaw sipped his water and wondered when that had happened. It must have been a gradual process, he supposed. He’d always been so worried about it, and it turned out he’d never seen it coming.

Usayd spoke first. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, dinner and a show. How nice.”

Shaw laughed.

Chapter Twelve

Hanson had brought him into the room and forced him down onto the floor by applying pressure to the back of his neck. He’d squeezed as well, even though Lee had been compliant, and grinned when Lee winced.

“Good puppy. Stay.”

It felt like hours had passed, but time always lost its meaning in this room. A minute could be drawn out to last a lifetime in this place. An hour could vanish in the blink of an eye as consciousness fled. There was no time here. There was only sensation.

Lee’s body ached from kneeling, from his neck all the way down his spine. The muscles in his thighs had already cramped once, and he’d swayed from side to side to try and alleviate the pain and soothe the muscles. The cuffs dug into his wrists and scraped against the wounds from last time.