Lights Out

The bluff was steep but not sheer; Eddie found tree roots and toeholds in its face. He could hear nothing but the wind, blowing harder now, and the falling pebbles he dislodged. No gunfire, no shouting, no running men. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Jack had escaped somehow and come to the island by himself, and El Liberador was just a businessman’s pleasure boat. He was beginning to consider going back when he heard a woman scream, somewhere above.

Eddie lost his grip on the face of the bluff, fell ten or fifteen feet to the road. He got up, took a first running step in the direction of the lane that led back up to the house. Just one step: then a light glared in his eyes, blinding him, and a heavy collar landed on his shoulders. He ripped off the backpack, swung it toward the light, hit nothing. The collar tightened around his neck, hard and itchy, tightened and tightened more. He dropped the pack, clawed at the rope cutting off his air. He could do nothing.

A voice spoke. “Be very careful with this one.” Eddie knew that voice, a cultured voice that reminded him of maple syrup.

“Believe me, I know,” said another voice. Senor Paz. The rope tightened more around Eddie’s neck.

The first man laughed. There was nothing cultured about that sound, harsh and crowlike: El Rojo’s laugh. Be seeing you. A joke after all; too late, Eddie got it.

He lay on his back in wet sand. He could feel it in his hair, feel windblown grains against his face. Jack was crying. “You promised I could go. You gave your word.”

No one answered him. Eddie couldn’t see. He realized his eyes were closed, and opened them.

Flashlight beams shone at different angles in the night. Eddie caught glimpses of men standing above him: several big olive-skinned ones he didn’t know; Paz, holding the rope; El Rojo, wearing the backpack; Jack, with tears on his face.

“Where the hell is Julio?” Paz said to one of the olive-skinned men.

The man pointed to the bluff.

Karen was up there somewhere. Eddie started to rise.

“Jesus,” said Paz, “he’s come to already.” The rope tightened around Eddie’s neck, then jerked him back down, flat on the sand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said.

No one answered him. The rope remained tight around Eddie’s neck. Jack moved closer, loomed over him, looked down. A light shone on his face, exposing every line, making him look much older, old enough to be Eddie’s father.

“Brought them to our little island, Jack?”

Tears filled Jack’s eyes, overflowed them. “They made me.”

“You get to keep the money, is that it?”

“Money? They cut off my balls, Eddie.” His voice broke again; this time he couldn’t hold the sob inside.

“For Christ’s sake,” Eddie said. “They were just trying to scare you. It’s a computer trick, like at the nightclub.”

El Rojo stepped onto the beam of light. “Computer trick?” he said. “Show him.”

Jack pulled down his pants. A bloody bandage covered the flatness where his scrotum had been.

A killing urge flooded through Eddie, raw and animal. He rose again, grabbing at El Rojo’s legs. Paz yanked him back down. Then El Rojo came forward and placed his foot on Eddie’s face, slowly increasing the amount of weight he made Eddie take.

“Would a computer trick be adequate punishment for murder and armed robbery?” he said. “You know the way punishment works, Nails. That’s one of the things I liked about you, why I offered my friendship.” He leaned harder on Eddie’s face. “You repaid me by scheming, robbing, killing.”

“That was bad,” said Paz.

“But not the worst.”

“No.”

“The worst was what you did to my little boy. He has dreams about you, every night. He thinks you’re in the closet and wakes up screaming. How can I forgive that?” He peered down at Eddie. “How?” Eddie didn’t make a sound. El Rojo lifted his foot from Eddie’s face. “Answer.”

“He belongs in a nightmare,” Eddie said.

El Rojo’s features-eyes, nostrils, mouth-all seemed to expand at once, replacing his civilized look with something wilder. He stomped back down on Eddie’s face.

“What are we going to do about poor Gaucho?” he said, grinding his heel as though to put out a stubborn little fire.

“Devise a program of therapy for him,” Paz said.

El Rojo smiled, revealing the blank where his canine had been. The wild look faded.

“We’ll have to take him with us for that,” Paz said.

“We’ll take both of them,” El Rojo said. He raised his foot from Eddie’s face. Eddie, finding he couldn’t breathe through his nose, opened his mouth. Blood trickled in.

“You promised I could go free,” Jack said.

No one answered him.

“You gave your word.”

Eddie spat out some blood and said: “Shut up, Jack.”

El Rojo nodded. “Hombre,” he said to Eddie, “explain to your brother here that it’s simply a matter of protecting my business reputation, like filing a suit.”

“Tell him yourself,” Eddie said.

El Rojo laughed his crow laugh. “I feel wonderful.”

Julio moved into the circle, wearing his Harvard sweat shirt, holding a gun.

El Rojo frowned. “What kept you?”

“Sorry, senor,” he said, unable to restrain a smile. “He had a girlfriend up there. I got to know her a little bit.”

Eddie kicked out at Julio, striking him in the side of the knee. Julio cried out, lost his balance, fell. Eddie rolled on top of him, got a hand on Julio’s ponytail, a thumb in Julio’s eye. Then the rope dug deep into his neck and something hit his head. He got lost in a fog.

For a while he was aware of nothing but the wind and the sea, both growing louder. Then Julio was screaming, “I can’t see, I can’t see.”

Paz said: “Quiet. You’re all right.”

Julio screamed: “I can’t see.”

El Rojo said: “Control yourself.”

Julio went silent. Eddie, still in the fog, saw him glaring down, blood seeping from the corners of his eye, saw Julio’s foot draw back, saw the kick coming, waited. It came. The fog went red.

The sea was angry. It put on a spiky face and tried to toss the speedboat away. Eddie, sprawled over the transom between two outboards, with the rope around his neck and his face almost in the water, felt the power of the sea. The sea was his friend. It slapped his face, stinging and cold but friendly, driving away the red fog.

In Spanish, someone shouted, “I don’t see it.”

“They’ve moved farther out,” El Rojo said, “because of the weather.”

“I don’t like it,” said the first man. “How will I find the cut in this?”

“Steer,” said El Rojo.

A wave lifted the boat high, banged it back down. Eddie fell on something hard-edged. The fuel tank. Hoses dug into his chest.

The next wave was bigger still. It raised the propellers out of the water and almost threw Eddie overboard. Only the rope around his neck kept him in place. In the weightless moment before the stern dropped back down, he glimpsed two plugs in it, one above the deck line, for drainage, and the other about a foot below, indicating a double hull.

The boat rose again, swung sideways. The engines stuttered, the props came up, whining in the air, someone heavy fell on Eddie’s back. The rope tightened around his neck. Then the boat crashed down in the trough,