“I don’t know! You? I’m sorry, Rupert!”
I hurt him again.
Had to wait.
Then, “Who? Please! Who?”
“Apologize to your wife. Don’t you think Thelma deserves an apology?”
“Yes! I’m sorry, Thelma!” he cried out.
I sliced off a pretty good section down the front of his left thigh, and slapped him across the face with it a couple of times.
Had to wait.
Then, “What? What? Who?”
“You forgot Kimberly.”
“Kimberly? No, I… Yes! I’m sorry, Kimberly! I’m sorry, Kimberly! I’m sorry, everybody! Everybody!”
“Very good,” I said.
He hung there against the bars of the cage door, sobbing wildly, blood all over, and blubbered, “Thank you. Thank you.”
Fool thought I was done.
“One more thing,” I said.
He shuddered. “Yes! Yes! Anything! Please! Whatever you say! Anything!”
“Make Kimberly be alive.”
“What? No! I can’t! I would, but I can’t! Please! I can’t do that! She’s dead! I can’t bring her back to life.”
“Didn’t think so,” I told him.
That’s when I did what Connie had suggested in the first place. When his mouth was full, I clapped a hand across his lips and kept it there until he was dead.
Then I went over to Billie’s cage.
Without being asked, she handed the machete to me.
I returned to Wesley.
“This is for Kimberly, too,” I said.
With one blow, I chopped off his head. It fell and thudded against the ground, and rolled. It came to a stop, face up, the tip of Wesley’s penis peering out from between his lips like a curious passenger.
Then I chopped off his arms and legs.
I found a wheelbarrow in one of the storage buildings behind the mansion, brought it over, piled it with Wesley, then rolled him off into the jungle and dumped him in some bushes.
Far enough away so we wouldn’t have to smell him rot.
King of the Island
Almost three weeks have gone by since that morning.
My women are still in their cages.
Including Kimberly. After disposing of Wesley’s body, I did what was necessary. I tried for a while to break into the cage. I couldn’t get in, though. So she would have to stay.
There were sacks of concrete in the storage building where I’d found the wheelbarrow.
I mixed the concrete in the wheelbarrow with a shovel. I carried it in a bucket up the ladder, and dumped it through the bars. The heavy gray glop fell on Kimberly, bombed her, splatted her body and spread out, rolling like lava, some spilling down her sides to join the concrete of the floor.
I don’t want to get into how I felt. Or which parts of Kimberly I covered first. Or last.
After many trips up the ladder with the paint bucket, none of her showed anymore.
Wesley’s two knives, one in her thigh and one in her chest, stuck up out of the gray mass like miniature Excaliburs. But no hero arrived with the strength or magic to draw them out.
I gave the concrete a while to set, then mixed more batches in the wheelbarrow and hauled them up to the top and poured. I couldn’t pull out the knives, but I could bury them.
When I finally quit, Kimberly’s resting place was a long, low hill of concrete at the bottom of her cage.
Billie had watched all this from her cage. She’d given me useful advice, from time to time. She’d spoken softly, sadly. It was good having her there. To Connie, Alice and Erin, I’d apparently turned into a leper. It didn’t bother me, though. Mostly, I felt numb.
We didn’t say anything over Kimberly.
Maybe we each did, privately. At least those of us who loved her.
Which probably included only me and Billie, when you come right down to it.
I thought about singing “Danny Boy” for her. I couldn’t do it, though. Maybe someday.
After cleaning up the tools, I returned to the mansion and took a long, hot shower. Then I stayed in. I went to where I’d hidden the Swiss Army knife. With the knife in my hand, I searched for a good bedroom. I picked Erin’s, on the second floor. I flopped on her bed.
I stroked my cheek with the knife’s smooth plastic handle, and remembered Kimberly. Next thing you know, I started bawling. I cried like crazy, like I’d never cried before. And then eventually I fell asleep.
I dreamed of Kimberly running on the beach. It was our beach on the inlet. She ran toward me, smiling. She wore her white bikini, and her husband’s gaudy Hawaiian shirt. As usual, the shirt wasn’t buttoned. It flowed behind her as she ran. And so did her long black hair. She was tanned, sleek, gorgeous. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It must’ve been a mistake about her being dead. Maybe I’d only dreamed that she’d been killed.
She came into my arms, held me gently, kissed me on the mouth.
After the kiss, I murmured, “I thought you were dead.”
“You think too much, Rupert.”
“You’re not, then?”
Her smile. Her fabulous smile. “Of course not. Do I look dead? Do I feel dead?”
No, she didn’t. She looked and felt alive and very wonderful. Shaking my head, I began to weep in my dream. She kissed my tears away. “Do you love me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to marry me, Rupert?”
“Yes!” I blurted. “Yes!” But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t marry her, no matter how much I wanted to.
She saw the change in me. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t. I love Billie. I love both of you.”
Kimberly’s smile beamed. “Then marry us both,” she suggested. “Why not? You’re the king of the island, you can do whatever you want.”
“Okay, then. That’s what we’ll do.”
“Don’t you think you’d better ask Billie, first?”
“Oh, yeah. Good idea.”
“I’ll be back,” Kimberly said. She kissed me, whirled around and started running away down the beach.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Don’t go! Come back!”
I must’ve called out in my sleep, and I think that it was the sound of my own voice that woke me.
The room was dark.
I crept through the house and went outside. I walked across the front lawn, sad that the dream had lied about Kimberly being alive, but feeling less desolate than earlier. Wherever else her soul might’ve gone, it had found a home inside of me.
I would hold her in my heart forever.
Along with Billie.
Though I approached silently and invisibly in the full darkness, Billie touched me when I tried to find the bars of her cage. She took my hands and guided me forward. We hugged each other. Hard bars pressed against us, but
