Island

My Quest for the Mystery House

I’ve gotten hold of a new notebook.

A lot has happened since my last entry.

I’ll take my time, though, and tell about it in the proper sequence—starting with the morning when I went off to hunt for the house.

The island obviously had no shortage of vacant beachfront property, so nobody in their right mind would’ve built a house somewhere deep in the jungle. You’d want an ocean view. You’d want easy access to the water.

If I just followed the shoreline, I was almost certain to spot the home of Matt and the dead woman.

I started out early in the morning. After a light breakfast of smoked fish, I filled an empty booze bottle with water from the stream (just in case), put the bottle in my book bag, shouldered the bag and set off, heading north.

This had been our route on the morning of the “last stand,” until Kimberly ran off without us.

Now, I was alone as I hiked the beach.

Though I started my journey with eagerness, sure of success, my optimism dwindled along the way. There might not be any house. Its existence was nothing more than a theory of mine.

For all I knew at the time (I’ve found out plenty since), Matt and the woman hadn’t necessarily been residents of the island. They might’ve come to it for a brief visit—parked their boat and come ashore to do some exploring, have a picnic, who knows? Or they might’ve been castaways: survivors from a boat wreck or airplane crash. If so, I was searching for a home that didn’t exist.

No, no, I told myself. There has to be a house. If not, where did Wesley get his hands on the ax, the rope, the machetes, the sheath knives he wore on his belt, the belt itself… ?

That argument comforted me for a while.

But then I remembered how, within a day or two after being marooned, Billie and I had come up with the theory that Wesley must’ve made a prior visit to the island.

He had obviously toured the region to search for a good island to use. Just as obviously, he would’ve taken steps to avoid becoming a victim of his own plot. That is, he planned to maroon the bunch of us, but he sure didn’t want to find himself trapped on an island without the means to ensure his own survival.

So we had figured out, way back at the start of the whole mess, that he must’ve come ashore earlier and hidden a load of supplies.

Supplies that might’ve included the ax, rope, etc.

By the time I’d spent a few hours hiking along the shore, I had pretty much convinced myself that I wouldn’t be finding any house. The house was a phantom, thrown together by bad logic and wishful thinking.

It would’ve been too convenient, too easy.

Find them all in a shack by the shore. Go sneaking in late at night, commando-style…

No, it wasn’t going to be that simple.

I would probably need to hunt for them in the jungle. In the region above the lagoon and in the areas beyond where I’d never been before. Who knows? Maybe they had a cave.

The problem was, I didn’t want to go looking for them in the jungle.

I wanted to stay on the beach, where I could feel the sun and the soft breezes, where I had a fine, open view in all directions and nobody could sneak up on me.

Besides, the house might exist.

Even if it didn’t, there were plenty of good reasons to continue along the beach. No telling what I might find. We’d always intended to explore the boundaries of our island, but had never gotten around to it. Thanks to Wesley, there’d always been more urgent matters to deal with first.

I was finally getting around to it.

I decided to keep at it, too. Any journey into the jungle would have to wait for a day or two, or however long it might take me to circle the island.

I felt as if I’d been granted a reprieve.

Then I found the house.

Some time earlier, I had rounded the north end of the island and started back along the eastern shore. I’d been hiking southward for quite a while when I came to a cove.

From a distance, the cove had been out of sight. I’d seen nothing ahead except more beach—ocean on one side, jungle on the other. Though my view had been obstructed, here and there, by rocky areas, I assumed that I was approaching a continuous shore-line.

I was climbing over a low spine of rocks when I first noticed a break in the beach ahead.

Seeing my forward progress blocked by water, I felt frustrated and annoyed; it was an inconvenience that would force me to walk a lot farther than I’d expected. Within a few seconds, though, my curiosity took over.

I could see across the water to where the beach started again, but very little of what lay to the right. The trees at the edge of the jungle got in the way. What seemed to be ahead, however, was a small bay, or cove, that looked at least five times as large as our little inlet on the other side of the island.

Hurrying down from the rocks, I ran through the sand. With each stride, more of the cove’s opposite shore came into sight. More and more.

Nothing but sand and rocks; jungle further back.

When the boat loomed into view, it scared the shit out of me. I dived for the sand.

Stretched out on the beach with my head up, I gazed at the vessel.

There’d been no need to panic; it wasn’t under way, as I’d thought.

I saw anchor lines stretching down into the water.

I saw nobody aboard.

It was a big white cabin cruiser—about a forty-footer.

Matt’s boat, I figured.

And our ticket out of here.

Now all I’ve gotta do is find my women…

That’s what ran through my mind, for a few seconds. I was elated. Then scared, realizing I might’ve already been seen. Just because the boat looked deserted…

I stared hard at it, and wondered if Wesley or Thelma might be staring back at me through a window or port.

No sign of anyone.

I scurried on my belly for the edge of the jungle. In the shelter of the bushes and trees, I got to my feet. Then I snuck through the thick foliage until the cove came into view again.

From my new position, I had a full, wide view.

Off to the right, perhaps a hundred yards beyond the anchored cabin cruiser, a dock jutted out from the shore. Floating at the end of the dock were two dinghies. One of them had probably been used to transport people (Matt and the woman?) ashore from the anchored cruiser. The other looked a lot like our dinghy.

I’d last seen it heading north, Wesley aboard, when he was making his getaway after splitting open Andrew’s head.

He must’ve brought our dinghy here, and docked it.

I hardly got a chance to think about the dinghies, though, because the house suddenly caught my attention.

For my high-school graduation present, just last summer, my parents took me on a special trip.

It started with spending a week in Memphis, Tennessee.

There, I almost got trampled to death by a mob of spectators in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel when I tried to catch a glimpse of the damn ducks that march through twice a day. I almost got scared to death when we visited the Civil Rights Museum at the old Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King got shot. My white parents and I were pretty much the only people of that shade roaming through the museum, which seems to be a monument to the evils of the white man.

Memphis wasn’t all bad, though. It had delicious barbeque and fabulous music. Every night, we walked from our hotel to Beale Street, where the blues were born. Beale Street was great.

While staying in Memphis, we also visited Elvis’s home, Graceland.

The house on the cove didn’t remind me of Graceland.

No, this house was what I’d imagined Graceland would be like: a huge plantation-style mansion.

Graceland had turned out to be smaller, more modern than I’d expected. But I had a chance to see plenty of actual plantation houses after leaving Memphis.

My real graduation present wasn’t the visit to Memphis, but a trip down Old Man River on an authentic paddlewheel steamboat, the Mississippi Queen. (For one thing, I’m a big fan of Mark Twain.) We spent six days and nights on the river, and ended up in New Orleans.

Along the way, we stopped at places like Vicksburg and Natchez. And visited God-only-knows how many antebellum homes. These were plantation houses built in the period before the War Between the States. Big old hunchers, usually three storys high, full of narrow stairways and tiny rooms, their outsides loaded with columns, balconies and verandas.

They were very interesting until you’d been through about two of them. After that, they mostly looked alike. (Mom is big on antiques and Dad is a Civil War buff, so they were happy as pigs in slop. My fondness for Mark Twain didn’t extend far enough, though, to cover endless, dreary tours of mansions.) The deal is, the white mansion beyond the cove looked as if it had been plucked off the grounds of an old cotton or tobacco plantation on the Mississippi, and plonked down here.

I gaped at it, stunned.

What the hell was an ante-bellum mansion doing on a little lost island like this one?

My imagination told me that a Southern Gentleman had settled here, long ago. Maybe he’d lost his original plantation house during the War Between the States (most of them went up in smoke, though you wouldn’t think so if you ever got pushed into touring them), so he’d sailed to this island to start over again—far from the Yankees—and built this home in the image of the one he’d lost.

Sort of a romantic notion, and probably wrong.

Maybe it was built in the 1980s by a rich guy with a weird fondness for Scarlett O"Hara (or Rhett).

I kept staring at it from my hiding place at the edge of the jungle.

I would’ve been pretty thrilled to find any house at all.

But this!

I felt as if I’d taken one small step into The Twilight Zone. All I needed was Connie to give me the “doo-de-do-do” music and her Serling intro—One Rupert Conway, eighteen, took a little walk along the beach one day in search of his missing ladies. Instead of finding the ladies, he found himself venturing into a strange land ruled by the limits of the imagination…

I stared at the mansion for a long time.

It had probably been the home of Matt and the woman I’d found in the lagoon. Just as the cabin cruiser and one of the dinghies must’ve been theirs.

Theirs until Wesley came along.

He had taken everything from them: their home, their boats, their lives.

And then he’d taken over.

All his, now.

Maybe he’d brought us to this island—killed our men and captured our women—because he wanted belles for his cotillions.

Or servants for his mansion.

Or slaves.

Recon

After watching for a long time and seeing nobody, I made my way through the jungle. I moved cautiously, stopping often to check around and listen. Usually, I stayed away from the cove. Every so often, though, I snuck closer to it for another look.

I saw nobody: not on the cabin cruiser, not on the dinghies or dock, not in the water or along the shore, not in or around the mansion. Nowhere.

Nor did I hear any voices or other sounds, such as pounding, that would tell of people nearby. Of course, it would’ve taken some major noise to reach me through all the squawks and squeals and shrieks from the birds and other animals. (Some of the shrieks sounded almost human, but I figured they probably came from birds.) Finally, when I took a left and snuck toward the cove, I came to a lawn instead of the shoreline—a broad field of grass that led to the rear of the mansion. The lawn looked as if it had been well-kept until recently. It needed a mowing.

At the far side of the lawn was a red tractor mower. It didn’t seem to belong there. The way things looked, someone might’ve started to cut the grass, but quit before getting very far and never got a chance to put the tractor away.

Off beyond it, past the side of the house, were a couple of brick outbuildings. One had an open door large enough for the mower to fit through.

I couldn’t see what was inside. Just a small, empty space near the front—probably where the mower should go.

In places where you keep your lawn mower, you usually store other equipment and tools. Things like shovels, picks, pruning shears, hammers, saws…

Axes.

My heart pounded a little faster.

This could be the place where Wesley had gotten hold of the ax.

Maybe the rope, too. The rope he’d used for hanging Keith.

He’d strung Keith up during our first night on the island. So he must’ve come here immediately after blowing up the yacht. Is that when he killed Matt and the woman?

No. Impossible. Neither of them had been dead that long. Matt had probably been alive for most of the first week—killed only when they needed a body to double for Wesley. And the woman must’ve been killed the very same night I found her body in the lagoon.

Wesley had probably held both of them captive from Day One until their deaths.

Where had he kept them?

In one of the outbuildings?

Aboard the yacht?

Inside the mansion itself? Maybe in a bedroom or attic or cellar?

Somewhere else?

The place where Matt and the woman had been kept was, almost for sure, the prison where Wesley now held Kimberly, Billie and Connie.

If they’re still alive.

He took them alive. Otherwise, I would’ve found their bodies at the battlefield.

He took them alive, and he’s keeping them alive.

I had to believe that.

I had to hang on to that belief, no matter what. It was like a rope over the edge of a chasm—only not a shallow chasm like the one beyond the falls.

One so deep I would fall for a mile. If I lost my hold, down I’d go, screaming all the way to the bottom.

They’re alive, I told myself. I just need to find where Wesley’s keeping them, set them free, and take Wesley and Thelma out of the picture.

Not necessarily in that order.

What should I do first? I wondered.

Find someone. If not my women, at least find Wesley or Thelma.

Get up and go, I told myself.

But I stayed put.

I just couldn’t force myself to break cover.

That’s because Thelma and Wesley were almost sure to be nearby. If one of them should spot me sneaking around, I’d lose any chance of taking them by surprise.

Then I’d probably lose my life.

If that happened, I’d not only be dead (which I hoped to avoid for as long as possible), but I would pretty much cease having a chance to rescue my women. If I couldn’t save them, who would?

More than likely, I was their only hope.

Barring some sort of miraculous rescue by outside forces, they would remain at Wesley’s mercy for weeks, months… maybe even for years.

Maybe for the rest of their lives.

For their sakes (not just for my own), I needed to be extremely careful, take no chances; under no circumstances allow myself to be captured or killed.

What I oughta do, I thought, is get the hell off the island and bring back help.

It sounded like a chicken way out

But it also seemed like the smartest move—by a long shot.

Take the cabin cruiser to the nearest inhabited island, get in touch with the authorities, and come back with a rescue team.

For a while there, it seemed like the perfect solution to my problem.

I could wait for dark, then swim out to the cabin cruiser, cut the anchor lines, start the engine…

Start it with what key?

Even if Matt and the woman had been trusting or stupid enough to leave the boat’s key in the ignition, Wesley wasn’t. He would’ve gone out there, at some point. Checked the vessel from stem to stern. Taken whatever he felt an urge to take.

Not much chance he would’ve left the starter key behind.

Not a crafty bastard like Wesley.

And I’m not exactly the kind of guy who knows the first thing about how to hotwire an Evinrude or Johnson, or whatever. Without the key, I had no chance in the world of starting the engine.

Where would I find the ignition key?

Probably in Wesley’s pocket.

Great. If I could hunt down Wesley and take the key off him, I wouldn’t need to run off on the boat and go for help.

So much for fleeing on the cabin cruiser.

Just as well. It would’ve been the “smart” thing to do, but I sort of hated the idea.

I don’t really think I could’ve done it—left the island without knowing what had happened to my women, whether they were even still alive. And if I had found them alive, I couldn’t have gone off without rescuing them.

Sometimes, you just can’t do the “smart” thing because it leaves out the heart.

That sounds sort of sappy.

The deal is, those three women had gotten to mean a lot to me. (Not just that they made me horny, either.) I couldn’t abandon them, not even if that would’ve been the best way to save them.

I could make them wait, though.

They’d been captured (if captured) at least five or six days ago, maybe longer. A few more hours shouldn’t matter very much to them. The hours might make plenty of difference to me, though.

I needed to wait until dark.

Darkness would hide me, so I’d be able to move about without so much risk of being spotted. Also, somebody might put on a light.

I really hoped for a light; it would give me a location.

It might even light my way to Wesley and Thelma.

Night, however, was a long time off.

I crept away from the edge of the lawn. When I was surrounded by jungle so thick I could see no trace of the lawn or mansion, I lay down on my back to rest. I used my book bag for a pillow.

There seemed to be little hope of falling asleep. I was too nervous and excited. Also, I ached nearly everywhere from my injuries. The plan was simply to rest and wait for night to come.

Shutting my eyes, I thought about my plans. Soon, I began daydreaming about the women. The next thing I knew, I found myself waking up in the dark.

Not knowing where the night might take me, I decided against leaving my book bag behind. I sure didn’t want to lose it—not with the journal inside. The only way to make sure it stayed safe was to keep it with me.

I made my way back to the edge of the lawn. The windows of the mansion—those within sight—all looked dark. There was no light anywhere except for what came from the moon and stars.

Staying hidden, I kept watch for a long time. Nobody appeared. No lights came on.

Maybe I had the wrong house.

Maybe this house had nothing to do with Wesley, and was simply deserted.

No, no. Our dinghy was at the dock.

This had to be the right house.

But maybe Wesley wasn’t using it. He might’ve simply raided the place, taken what he wanted (including the man and woman who lived here), and returned to some secret base camp in the jungle.

If he wasn’t here, I’d already wasted hours upon hours.

I suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of waiting any longer, so I broke cover and dashed across the lawn. Nobody yelled. Nobody shot at me. Nothing happened. I stopped at the side of the house, near its rear corner. Leaning against the wall, I tried to catch my breath and calm down.

So far, so good.

I’ll just walk around the whole building, I thought. Check to see if there are any lights on.

If the place is dark, I’ll try to get in.

The Game

I was about to push myself away from the wall when a fluttery, dim glow seemed to drift out the window just to my left and hover in the darkness. The murky light was so faint, at first, that I wondered if it might be a trick of the moonlight—or my imagination.

It grew brighter.

I gazed at it, stunned. For a while, I couldn’t move. Then I forced myself to sneak toward the window.

I was afraid of what I might find, but I had to look. My heart slammed. My stomach trembled. My legs felt weak and unstable.

The fact is, I was shaking all over by the time I reached the window and peered in.

The room on the other side was lit by candles and several kerosine lamps with glass chimneys. Thelma, walking about with a candle in her hand, ignited more candles while I watched.

She wore a glossy, royal blue robe that looked like satin. It was too short for her. She had to reach high, now and then, to light wall sconces. Each time she did that, the lower half of her ass showed. Not a pretty sight. Her big buttocks, ruddy from a sunburn, looked dimpled and lumpy. They were bruised, too, and striped with red marks from being lashed.

Her legs also looked banged up—a lot more so than they’d been the last time I’d seen her.

When she turned in my direction, I saw that her robe wasn’t shut all the way. She was bare down her middle—except for the loosely tied sash that crossed her belly. The opening was too narrow to let me see much. Only that she’d gotten a sunburn all the way down.

I realized she was coming straight toward me, so I dropped to a crouch.

Directly above my head, the window scooted upward. Thelma sighed.

What if she leans out!

She can’t, I told myself. A screen’s in the way.

I wondered if she could see me, anyway. Screen or no screen, she might be able to spot the top of my head if she looked downward.

Or she might hear my slamming heart.

No sounds of alarm came from her, though. Just that one sigh. A few seconds later, I heard her bare feet thumping away.

Up again, I put my face to the window screen.

Thelma seemed to be gone. The room she’d left behind was bright with tiny flames. She had lit perhaps twenty of them with her candle, but those twenty were caught and doubled by a mirror that stretched the length of one entire wall—the wall way over to the left, not the one straight across the room from me, so I’d probably not been reflected in it.

Attached to that mirror wall, at about waist-height, was a wooden rail. It looked like the sort of rail that ballet dancers use during practice.

Dance practice would also explain the long, full-length mirror.

In one corner of the room stood a baby grand piano.

In another corner was a sound system. It appeared to have a turntable, radio, twin speakers, the works.

I saw light fixtures on the ceiling.

Lamps with cords snaking across the floor to wall outlets.

So the mansion came with electricity, after all.

I wondered if there might be a generator, somewhere, that had broken down on Wesley and Thelma. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to work it.

Possibly, they’d made a choice not to use any electricity. Maybe they feared it would give them away, somehow. Or perhaps they simply preferred candlelight.

Most of the floor was empty. To give the dancers plenty of prancing space, I suppose.

The room was more than a dance studio, though. Apparently, it doubled as a reading room, or library. It had a few small tables, lamps, and some thickly padded chairs over near the wall to my right. A wall of floor-to-cefling bookshelves.

Movement in the mirror suddenly caught my eyes.

It reflected the doorway near the middle of the bookshelf wall.

I saw Wesley before he even came in.

If I can see him in the mirror, he can probably see me.

I ducked and waited, my heart hammering.

A few quiet sounds came: bare feet, wood creaking, a noise like a chair being scooted, the snick of a striking match. Then Wesley said, “What would you like if you win tonight, my dear?”

A voice murmured, “Nothing.”

“Oh, you must want something.” Wesley sounded very cheerful. “What’ll it be?”

“As if she’s gonna win, anyhow,” Thelma said. “Hasn’t got a chance.”

“Of course she has a chance. There’s always a chance.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thelma said. “There’s a chance I’ll get struck by lightning.”

“Name your prize, my dear.”

I eased myself higher until I could see in.

The girl stood with her back to me, facing Wesley. She was slender and several inches shorter than Thelma. She had blond hair in a ponytail. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse, a tartan kilt that seemed mostly green and blue, forest green knee socks, and no shoes. The mirror, off to her left, gave me a side view of her face.

I had never seen her before.

My guess was that she might be thirteen or fourteen years old.

Matt’s daughter? Daughter of the lagoon woman with the rocks in her belly?

I wanted her to be Kimberly, Billie, or Connie. I’d come here to find them, not some stranger. Where were my women?

My mission wasn’t a complete failure, though; at least I’d found my two enemies.

Thelma, off to the girl’s right, was facing Wesley.

Wesley sat in a padded armchair, grinning at the girl. He wore a square white bandage on his chest. It reminded me of a pirate’s eye patch, the way it covered only one side while his other boob bulged out, bare.

Because of how he sat deep in the chair, with one leg crossed, he looked naked. I’d had that glimpse of him in the mirror, though, while he’d been coming in from the hallway. He’d been wearing a belt, two sheathed knives, and some sort of blue bikini-style shorts—briefs or a swimming suit, I couldn’t tell which. The way he was seated, I couldn’t see any of that.

Except for his bandage, he looked like an acre of bare, hairy skin. (He even had hair on the tops of his shoulders.) He had a dark tan.

Other than his chest wound, he didn’t have any signs of injury. Nobody’d been whipping him, slapping him, punching him, kicking him, biting him. (I’m aware, of course, that he was sitting on a good wound. I couldn’t see it, though.) Pinched between Wesley’s thumb and forefinger was the long, silver tube of a cigarette holder—but not the one I’d seen him using on the yacht. (That had been ivory.) A cigarette was plugged into the end of it. A thin, pale stream of smoke climbed the air in front of his face.

“Your prize, Erin?” he asked again.

The girl’s shoulders shrugged slightly. A moment later, she muttered, “Doesn’t matter.”

Wesley seemed amused. “Of course it matters! Certainly! You must have an incentive. We can’t have you giving up too easily, can we?”

The way Erin looked from behind, she had already given up.

“What would you like more than anything else in the whole world?” Wesley asked. “But no fair asking for your mother and father.”

After a few moments, Erin said in a soft voice I almost couldn’t hear, “Let us go?”

Thelma gave a snort.

Wesley said, “Let who go?”

“My sister and I.”

“Good try! I’m afraid that’s out of the question, though. Name something realistic.”

“Like what?”

“How about a Pepsi?”

Thelma snorted again.

“Okay,” the girl said. “But one for Alice, too.”

“Alice can win her own.”

“If she can’t have one, I don’t want one, either.”

Wesley blew smoke at her. “Have it your way. I’m trying to be nice, offer you a prize. Where’s your gratitude?”

Erin said nothing.

Wesley took a puff, then gave a nod to Thelma.

She stepped up behind Erin, reached around her, and ripped open the front of her blouse. She peeled the blouse off the girl’s shoulders and down her back. Then she stepped aside and tossed it to the floor.

Erin was bare down to her kilt. She had narrow, fragile shoulders. Her back was smooth and tanned, and looked as if it might’ve had a few days to heal since her last beating. It had seen a lot of abuse, though. Along with livid blotches, there were several old, fading yellowish bruises. Along with numerous crusty brown scabs that criss-crossed her back, she had pale, shiny pink stripes where older scabs had come off.

She just stood in from of Wesley, arms hanging by her sides, not even trying to cover herself.

The mirror gave me a side view of her breasts. They came to points and looked like small, soft cones. They were almost as tanned as her back.

“Lovely,” Wesley said. “You’re a very lovely girl, Erin.”

She didn’t respond.

“When someone gives you a compliment, you’re supposed to say thank you.”

Thank you,” she mumbled.

“I’d like you to put up a good fight, tonight,” he told her. “No slacking, like last time.”

She just stood there, limp, her head and arms hanging.

“Let’s start the fun,” he said.

Thelma’s blue satin robe fell to the floor. She looked as if she’d watched a lot of television wrestling, the way she stomped toward Erin.

But this was no “gorgeous lady of wrestling.”

This was a monster, battle-scarred, growling, hunched over, arms open, fingers hooked like claws. She attacked from behind, hugged Erin, hoisted her up, swung her around and hurled her.

Flung her in my direction.

The girl came toward me, feet first. Under her kilt, she was bare all the way to her waist.

In midair, she made a frightened noise as if she suddenly realized she had a long way to fall.

She hit the hardwood floor, thudding and bumping as she tumbled, letting out whimpers and grunts, her skin squeaking as she skidded. When she came to a stop, she just lay there on her back and sobbed. Her kilt was up around her hips. I had a hell of a view. I felt guilty, looking. I couldn’t help looking, though, I mean, the way she was sprawled out on the floor with her feet no more than about two yards in front of my window.

It ran through my mind that I ought to help her.

But what could I do? I’m not a big guy. I didn’t have a gun. My only weapon was the straight razor in the pocket of my shorts. If I just tried to Rambo my way in and save the day, Thelma would wipe me out. She probably wouldn’t even need Wesley’s help.

I watched her storm across the floor, her huge breasts swinging and flopping. Her eyes were fixed on Erin.

Who didn’t even try to get up or defend herself.

“Fight, ya little twat,” Thelma gasped. She clamped the girl’s head between her ankles and hopped. Erin’s trapped head was jerked up off the floor, then slammed down.

Then Thelma dropped on top of her.

A lot happened, after that—nasty stuff I don’t want to write about.

I’m ashamed of myself for watching. Looking back on it now, I know that I should’ve done whatever I could to stop it. But I was enthralled. Horrified and disgusted, but entranced. I’d never seen anything like this before. As much as I felt sorry for Erin and wanted to help her, I couldn’t force myself to stop watching the spectacle.

I told myself there was nothing I could do, anyway.

Which was pure shit. I could’ve stopped it. One way or another.

Didn’t want to, that was the thing.

The girl never did put up any struggle.

Thelma didn’t let that stop her. She stripped off Erin’s knee socks, wrestled her, squeezed her, tugged the kilt down Erin’s legs, kissed her and sucked her and bit her, pinched her, twisted her, slapped and probed her.

They were a rolling tangle of bare flesh. Both of them gasping for air. Both of them groaning and whimpering. Both shiny with sweat and spittle and God-knows-what.

I watched from my window.

Wesley watched from his chair across the room, puffing cigarettes, leaning forward, eyes fixed on the action. He squirmed around a lot. Sometimes, he licked his lips.

I only glanced at him from time to time. Mostly, I watched Thelma and Erin.

By the time I noticed that Wesley had gotten out of his chair, he no longer had his shorts on. His belt was gone, too. He wore nothing but his bandages. His cigarette holder jutted upward from between his teeth, and smoke drifted into his right eye as he strolled toward the women.

His penis led the way, big and solid, pointing at the ceiling.

From his right hand dangled a length of electric cord. (I don’t know where it came from—hadn’t noticed it before.) Its end trailed along on the floor beside him.

When he got to where Thelma was working on Erin, he began to use the cord on them. He didn’t seem to care whether he hit Thelma or the girl. Either of them seemed fine with him.

He started off by casually flicking them with the cord. Toying with them. Slowly, though, he worked himself into a frenzy. He became like a madman. Wild-eyed, huffing for breath, slobbering down his chin, he pranced around them, swinging the cord so hard it whistled. It cracked against their skin. Made them jerk rigid with pain. They writhed and shrieked and bled on the floor.

Through all of this, Thelma never stopped holding on to Erin. Never stopped offering the girl’s body to Wesley’s lash. And never stopped hurting Erin with her own hands and mouth.

Again, I don’t want to dwell on all the nasty details.

I’ll skip to the finish.

This is how it ended—with Thelma on her back on the floor, Erin on top of her.

Thelma used her arms and legs to pin the girl to her—face up and spread-eagled. They were both very bloody from the whipping and other things that had been done to them. But now, with Thelma holding Erin helpless, Wesley dropped on top of them both.

He raped Erin.

While he did it, Thelma went nuts on the bottom as if she was the one getting screwed.

Then it was over.

They unpiled. Thelma and Wesley took Erin by her arms, helped her up, and walked her out of the room.

I sank down against the wall under the window, shaky and exhausted. Dazed by what I’d seen.

I wished I hadn’t watched.

Also, though, I wished I could get to see it all again.

I know, sick.

The thing is, you don’t get a chance to see something like that every day.

Like a car accident.

Only better.

Never mind. I know I shouldn’t have watched. I should’ve risked my life to stop it. But I didn’t. How come?

A. I’m a miserable, horny pervert.

B. I didn’t even know the girl.

C. Thelma and/or Wesley would’ve killed me.

D. I owe my allegiance to Kimberly, Billie and Connie, not to some stranger.

E. All of the above.

After the Game

After they left the room, I didn’t know where they might be. I figured they would probably return pretty soon, though, if only to gather their clothes and put out the candles and lamps. You don’t leave flames untended, not for long. Not unless you want to burn down your house.

I could burn the place down!

Standing up, I peered through the window.

Nobody’d come back into the room, yet.

All I needed to do was remove the window screen (or slit it with my razor), climb in and spread around some kerosine, toss a candle…

And maybe burn up Kimberly, Billie and Connie—not to mention Erin and her sister, Alice.

As far as I knew, they might all be locked inside the house, somewhere.

Maybe others, too.

I couldn’t take any sort of action until I knew where they were being kept.

I’d missed a great opportunity to find them, I realized. While Wesley and Thelma were busy brutalizing Erin in the dance room, I should have gone exploring. I probably could’ve searched the whole house—with no danger of being caught. Instead, I’d just planted myself at the window and gotten my kicks watching the show.

I’d blown it.

Maybe I’d blown my single, best chance to find and save my women.

All because I’m a low-life, horny pervert.

On the other hand… I didn’t know in advance that they’d be spending an hour or more messing with that girl. If I hadn’t stayed and watched, maybe I would’ve been in the house when they got done. I might’ve bumped smack into them and gotten myself nailed.

Being a low-life, horny pervert might’ve saved my life.

Might’ve saved my women, too, since there was nobody to rescue them except me.

You just never know.

Maybe it was a good thing that I stayed and watched.

While I stood outside the window, peering in and thinking about all that stuff, Thelma came back into the room. She was still naked, but no longer bloody. Apparently, she’d gone off somewhere to wash up.

She hurried about, crouching to pick up what they’d left behind: her robe, Wesley’s pants and belt, Erin’s kilt and blouse and knee socks. Clutching them to her bosom, she circled the room and blew out the candles and lamp flames.

When she finished, the room was dark except for faint light from the doorway—and its reflection in the mirror. The mirror showed her backside as she hurried down the hall. Then she disappeared.

I decided to climb in through the window and try to catch up with her.

The only safe way to play: keep my eyes on Thelma and Wesley. So long as I never let them out of my sight, they wouldn’t be able to take me by surprise.

Also, they were sure to lead me to my women. (Unless my women were dead, which I couldn’t allow myself to believe.)

The window screen was attached to the sill by small hook-and-eye catches. A simple flip of two hooks, and the screen should swing out for me.

But the hooks were on the inside.

At the bottom of the screen, just above one of the hooks, I sliced a small flap with my razor, I pushed against it with the tip of my forefinger. The flap lifted inward. I inserted my finger to the second knuckle and shoved the hook sideways. It was tight in the steel eye. But it suddenly popped out.

I started to work on the screen above the other catch. When the flap was made, I put away my razor. Then I poked my finger in. I shoved at the hook. It slipped free.

The screen went loose at the bottom.

I stuck my index fingers into both the flaps.

I started easing the screen toward me. It came easily.

But all of a sudden, a door banged shut somewhere to my right—in the direction of the front of the house. The sound, though not very loud, startled the hell out of me. I jumped. I felt as if I’d gotten zapped by lightning—a hot current sizzling through my heart and every vein and artery.

I damn near fell down.

Somehow, though, I kept my hold on the screen. I eased it gently back into place, in spite of my quaking hands. Then I let myself collapse.

I lay on the ground, head up, eyes on the grounds by the front of the mansion. I no longer sizzled from the sudden fright, but my heart wouldn’t slow down. It whammed like a madman. I had a hard time catching my breath, too. I was a wreck.

Nobody walked into view.

I heard voices, though. Probably Wesley and Thelma, but the sounds were soft and masked by a thousand jungle noises. I didn’t have a clue about what was being said.

After a few seconds, the voices faded out completely.

I pushed myself off the ground and ran alongside the house. Glancing around the corner of the veranda, I found my quarry; Wesley and Thelma, walking Erin toward the jungle.

They had their backs to me.

Thelma’s right hand clutched Erin by the arm. She carried a flaming torch in her left hand. It lit the three of them with an aura of shimmering gold.

Thelma wore shoes, and nothing else. Erin wore nothing at all. Wesley, holding her by the right arm, wore his knife belt, a bandage on his right buttock, and high-top sneakers.

Erin limped along between her two captors. She’d been cleaned so that she no longer looked as if she’d been rolling in blood. But I could see a mad pattern of stripes on her back and buttocks.

Her head hung. She looked hugely weary.

They led her away from the mansion, following a dirt pathway that curved to the left and vanished into the jungle.

I watched until they vanished into the jungle. When all I could see was the haze of Thelma’s torchlight, I broke cover. I dashed past the side of the veranda and across the front lawn (book bag whapping against my back), and didn’t slow down until I came to the dirt path.

Crouching low, I crept forward. With bushes in the way, I could no longer see the glow of Thelma’s torch. But she and the others couldn’t have gone far. They had to be just a short distance ahead.

I snuck around a curve in the path.

And found them.

Found them on the path, no more than fifty feet in front of me.

Loading Erin into a cage.

A cage the size of a small room, bars on all sides, bars across the top, a door of bars in front.

At the fading edges of the torchlight, I could just barely see a second cage. A space the width of a sidewalk separated it, from Erin’s cage—enough distance to stop the prisoners from reaching each other, touching.

A girl stood in the second cage, her face pressed between two of the bars. She was poorly lit. She looked too small, though, to be any of my women.

I guessed she might be Alice, Erin’s sister.

Wesley shoved Erin through the door of the first cage, then swung it shut and locked it with a key.

He had a whole bunch of keys. They hung on a ring the size of a bracelet. After locking Erin in her cage, he slipped the key-ring over his right wrist.

I figured he and Thelma might turn around soon, to start back, so I scurried off the path and crawled in among the bushes and tree trunks. I’d just gotten myself turned around when they came down the path.

I couldn’t see them, so they couldn’t see me, either.

I saw the glow of the torch, though. It drifted slowly by, no more than six feet in front of me but high off the ground.

Wesley and Thelma weren’t talking. I couldn’t hear their footsteps, either. All I heard was the soft jangle of the keys.

The light moved on and vanished. The jangle faded away.

I didn’t move.

What if it was a trick? Maybe Wesley stayed behind to spring a trap an me. He could’ve given the key-ring to Thelma.

Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. They almost certainly think I’m dead, and they sure don’t know I’ve tracked them down.

Unless they do.

Unless they spotted me somehow. Somewhere. When l followed them over here to the cages. When I spied on them through the window. Or earlier. Maybe they’d even spotted me before dark.

No.

They don’t know I’m here. They think I’m dead. Wesley didn’t stay behind to jump me. He and Thelma are on their way back to the mansion.

Probably.

I sure hoped so.

I couldn’t see myself staying put all night, hiding there in the bushes on the off-chance that Wesley might be waiting to jump me at the cages.

So I crawled out.

On hands and knees, I looked both ways—up and down the path.

No sign of anybody.

I couldn’t see the light of Thelma’s torch, either.

Nor could I see the cages. They’d been eaten by the darkness.

Getting to my feet but staying low, I hurried down the path to where it opened with a view of the front lawn and mansion. Thelma and Wesley had almost reached the veranda.

As I watched, Thelma stepped over to a bucket by the side of the veranda stairs. She swept her torch down and plunged its blazing end into the bucket.

No more light.

At least it seemed that way for a few seconds. But then I saw—or thought I saw—Wesley and Thelma climb the veranda stairs. Vague, moving blurs, not quite as dark as the darkness that gave them shape.

One small, pale bit was slightly more distinct than the rest. I figured it must be the bandage on Wesley’s ass.

All traces vanished at the top of the stairs, killed by the shadows from the veranda’s roof.

Then a door bammed.

They’d gone inside the mansion.

I hoped.

Waiting no longer, I turned around and rushed up the path toward the cages.

Caged Birds

In the absence of Thelma’s torchlight, I couldn’t see the path. I couldn’t see anything at all except for a few different shades of darkness that were flecked, here and there, with dabs of white from the moon.

I remembered Andrew’s cigarette lighter. I could feel it in the right front pocket of my shorts, along with the straight razor and Billie’s sunblock. They bumped and brushed against my thigh as I walked.

I dug the lighter out. Got my thumb ready to flick it. Then changed my mind.

In the darkness, I was almost invisible.

I like being invisible.

You’re so safe and powerful when nobody can see you.

I slipped the lighter down inside my pocket, then made my way slowly forward, watching and listening.

Soon, I heard voices. Girl voices, softly spoken, coming from ahead and over to my right. I crept toward them. When I was near enough to understand the words, I crouched down and listened.

“Don’t be dumb,” one girl said. “We aren’t old enough.”

“You’re the dumb one.” This sounded like Erin’s voice, though it seemed more lively than the other times I’d heard it. It isn’t how old you are, it’s whether you’re having periods yet.”

“Who says so?”

“Dad.”

“How come he didn’t tell me?”

“Maybe you never asked.”

“Mom never said so.”

“Mom never said anything about anything. Not that sort of stuff. That’s how come I asked Dad.”

“You asked him when you can start having babies?”

“Sure.”

“How come?”

“Just wondered.”

“So if you already know, how come you’re asking me?”

Erin didn’t answer at first. When she spoke again, she sounded more like the timid kid I’d heard in the room with Thelma and Wesley. It’s just… do you think he’s gonna make us have babies?”

“Jeez, don’t ask me.”

“That’s what’s gonna happen, I think. You know?”

“I honestly don’t think you can have a baby till you’re eighteen.”

“Eighteen? You’re nuts. You don’t have to be any eighteen.”

“Do, too.”

“Ask Connie.”

Connie!

My heart gave a quick lurch.

“No way. Are you kidding? I’m not gonna wake her up just to ask her some dumb question. She’d kill me.”

“Would not.”

“I’m not gonna.”

“Well anyway, I happen to know for a fact you don’t have to be any eighteen. You only gotta be old enough to be having your periods, because that means you’ve got eggs going. Once that’s happening, you can have all the babies you want.”

“No. Huh-uh. You’ve gotta be eighteen.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Am not. I read it someplace.”

“Eighteen must’ve meant something else.”

“Like what?”

“How should I know? I didn’t read it. I just think we’re all gonna end up having babies if we keep letting Wesley screw us.”

“Who’s letting him?”

“He’s doing it anyway, isn’t he? I mean, how many times have you ever stopped him?”

Alice didn’t answer.

For a little while, neither of them spoke. Then Erin said, “I wonder how many times it takes.”

“For what?”

“You know. To make you pregnant.”

“You tell me. You know everything.”

“I don’t know that,” Erin admitted. “I wonder if you have to do it, like, twenty times or something.”

“I wouldn’t know. You should’ve asked Dad.”

“Very funny. But don’t you think we’d maybe be pregnant by now if it only took once or twice or something?”

Alice sighed. “I guess so.”

“But we aren’t, right? He did us both the day he showed up for the first time. Then he got me twice more before he went away. So that makes a total of three, all the way back then.”

“Twice for me,” Alice said.

“But we had our periods since then, so obviously it wasn’t enough. So how many does it take?”

“Who knows?”

“At least it’s not us all the time, now that he’s got everyone else.”

Everyone else!

I couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Excuse me,” I said.

They both gasped.

“It’s okay,” I told them. “Don’t be scared. I’m a friend. I’m here to rescue you.”

Erin said, “Rupert?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Yes,” I said. “You know who I am?”

“Just a guess. They told us all about you. Where are you? I can’t see you.”

I crept closer. No moonlight, at all, made it down to where the cages were. I could see nothing. Not the cages, not the girls, not even my own hands. It was like being shut up at night in a closet.

Reaching out with one hand, I touched bars. “I’m at your cage.”

“I can’t see you,” Erin said.

“I can’t see you, either,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Alice asked. “You can’t see either one of us?”

“If we can’t see each other or him,” Erin said, “how is he supposed to be able to see us?”

“It’s possible. It all depends.”

“Alice is just worried ’cause we don’t have much on.”

“That’s okay. I can’t see a thing.”

“She’s Alice, by the way. I’m Erin. We’re Alice and Erin Sherman. We’re fourteen, and we’re twins.”

“Identical twins?” I asked.

“No,” Alice said.

“Yes,” said Erin.

“We are not.”

“In the technical sense, we are. Only we just don’t look exactly alike, that’s all. Alice thinks she’s prettier than me.”

“Liar.”

“But I’m actually the pretty one,” Erin said. I imagined her smiling as she said that.

“You’re so full of crap,” Alice said, “it’s not even funny.”

I started moving sideways, following the bars. They felt warm in my hands. They were at least an inch thick. The gaps between them seemed to be about four inches across.

“What’re you doing?” Erin asked. “Rupert?”

“I’ll get between your cages so we won’t have to talk so loud.”

“Have you been here long?” she asked.

I blushed, but nobody could see it. “No,” I lied. “Just got here.”

“Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated,” I explained—Mark Twain had said it first.

“Boy, this is great,” Erin said. “You being alive.”

“And not in a cage,” added Alice.

I found the corner of Erin’s cage, and crawled around it. To make sure I was between the cages, I stretched out my arms. I touched bars to my right and left. So I sat down and crossed my legs. “Okay,” I said.

From both sides came quiet sounds—rustling, sliding, breathing, a couple of small moans—as the girls moved in closer. The moans had come from my right, from Erin. After the beating she’d taken in the room, it probably hurt her a lot to move.

“Are you there?” she asked.

As quietly as I could, I slid myself toward Erin’s cage. I stopped when my upper arm touched a bar.

“Can you get us out of here?” Alice asked.

“I sure hope so. One way or another. Is there any way to open these things without a key?”

“Nope,” Erin said. Her voice was much closer to me than Alice’s. I thought I could feel her breath on my arm. Though I couldn’t see even a hint of her, I pictured her sitting cross-legged, leaning forward, elbows on her thighs, the tips of her breasts almost touching her forearms, her face only inches from the bars.

I wished I could see her.

I thought about the lighter in my pocket.

I didn’t go for it, though. Better for us all to stay invisible, at least for the time being.

“You can’t get in or out,” Erin said, “unless you’ve got keys. These’re really strong cages.”

“They were made to hold gorillas,” Alice explained.

Monkey Business

“Gorillas?” I asked.

“This used to be a gorilla zoo,” Erin said.

“Before we moved here,” her sister added.

“Yeah, a long time before we moved here. We’ve only been on the island a couple of years.”

“It’ll be two years in June,” Alice said.

“The gorillas were all dead before we ever got here. Long dead. Like before we were even born. This guy massacred them all. How do you like that? The same guy that brought them here.”

“To save them,” Alice added.

“Yeah,” Erin said. “There was some sort of revolution going on some place in Africa. Like back in the sixties? And this guy was afraid all the gorillas might get killed off.”

“He was a naturalist,” Alice explained.

“You know, like that Gorillas in the Mist woman. Sigourney Weaver?”

“Dian Fossey,” Alice said.

“Yeah,” Erin said, “like that.”

“He lived right here in the big house when he wasn’t running around places like Africa.”

“So anyway,” Erin said, “he captured like a dozen of these gorillas and shipped them over here to this island. He had the cages built especially for them. Made himself a nice little private zoo.”

“It wasn’t really a zoo,” Alice pointed out.

“Not if you wanta get technical,” Erin said. “It wasn’t like a public zoo. He kept the apes for himself, like pets. Then one day he slaughtered them all.”

“Killed them?” I asked. “Why’d he do that?”

“Maybe he got tired of them,” Alice suggested.

“Or they done him wrong,” Erin said. Again, I pictured her smiling.

“Nobody knows why,” Alice said.

Then Erin went on. “He must’ve gone nuts, or something. He chopped them all up in their cages with a machete, and then he shot himself in the head. Anyway, that’s how come the cages are here.”

“We weren’t permitted to play in them,” Alice said.

“Now we gotta live in them,” Erin said.

“Who else is here?” I asked.

“In the cages, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Connie and her mother, and Kimberly.”

All of them!

I started to cry. I tried to be quiet about it, but couldn’t help letting out a few little noises. Erin and Alice didn’t say anything. It was like they were both sitting in their cages, listening to me.

Then something rubbed the top of my head.

I flinched.

“It’s just me,” Erin whispered.

Her hand gently stroked my hair, then eased down along my cheek. Petting me.

I’d started crying out of relief at the news my women were here and alive. With Erin caressing my face, though, I started crying for her, for what had been done to her.

And for myself because I’d allowed it to happen.

I’d enjoyed watching.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “They’re fine.”

“Are not,” Alice said.

“They’re as fine as we are.”

“You call that ‘fine’?”

In a softer voice, Erin said to me, “They’re really gonna be shocked. They thought you were dead, for sure. You fell off a cliff or something?”

I nodded. I tried to stop crying.

“That was after Thelma got him in the head,” Alice reminded her.

“Yeah,” Erin said. “Anyway, they were awfully upset about you getting killed. They thought you were the greatest.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. They’re gonna go nuts when they see you.”

“They’re in… some of the… other cages?” Even though I was getting better, I could only talk between sobs.

“Connie’s in the one next to mine,” Alice said. “Then’s Kimberly. Billie’s cage is on the other side of Kimberly’s. And then the rest of ’em are empty.”

I said, “Maybe I’d better… go over now, and…”

“No.” Erin’s hand dropped to my shoulder and squeezed it. “Don’t go yet. Please? They’re probably all asleep, anyway. Can’t you just stay here and talk to us for a little while more? Please?”

I didn’t much want to go over and see my women, anyway, until I’d completely finished the crying. Besides, I wanted to find out a lot more about what had been going on. I said, “Okay. I won’t go yet.”

“Thanks,” Erin said.

“How long… when did they get here?”

“Connie and the others? About a week ago.”

“This is their seventh night,” Alice said.

“What about you two?” I asked.

“It’s night twenty-four,” Alice said.

I gasped, “What!”

“Yeah,” Erin said. “Twenty-four.”

“My God!”

“Wesley put us in the day he got here.”

“The first time he came,” Alice pointed out.

“He knew about the cages,” Erin said.

“He’d read about them.”

“Yeah. An article in some old National Geographic magazine, or something, and he wondered if they were still here, and could he see them.”

“He said maybe he’d buy them if they were in good enough shape.”

Erin’s hand glided down my arm. She found my hand, and took hold of it. Then she continued with the story. “Anyhow, Alice and I were off swimming, so we weren’t around when he came along. Mom and Dad had to fill us in. I guess they were showing him the cages, and all of a sudden he grabbed Mom and put a razor to her throat. So then Dad was afraid to do anything, ’cause he didn’t want Mom to get her throat slashed. Wesley made them both get in cages, and locked them in. Then Alice and I got back home and he put us in cages, too.”

“We could’ve gotten away,” Alice said.

“Yeah. It would’ve been a cinch. There was only Wesley. He didn’t have a gun or anything, either. But he said he’d kill Mom and Dad if we didn’t do everything he told us.”

“And he told us to get in the cages.”

“So then he ended up killing them, anyhow—only not right away.”

“Maybe not Mom.” Alice sounded a little offended.

“If he didn’t kill her, where is she?”

I figured I knew where she was, but I kept my mouth shut.

“I don’t know,” Alice muttered.

For my benefit, Erin explained, “He kept Mom in one of the cages just like the rest of us. Dad, too, but they took him away a long time ago. With Mom, she was here the whole time till she got away.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“A few nights ago.”

“Four,” Alice said. “Counting tonight.”

Four. That would’ve been the night I hiked upstream, searched our battlefield, and found the woman at the bottom of the lagoon.

“Yeah,” Erin said. “They were bringing Mom back to her cage after… it was her night for going to the house. She hadn’t ever tried anything before. Because of us, you know? What Wesley said he’d do to us if she ever tried to escape. But she figured we didn’t stand any chance unless she made a getaway. Then she could sneak back, you know? And save us. So she waited till they were trying to put her back inside her cage, and then she shoved free and made a run for it. They both went chasing after her, though. And they got her.”

“Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t,” Alice said.

“They got her.”

“Just because they said so…”

“Come on, Alice. You think they would’ve been acting like that if they hadn’t caught Mom? You know darn well.”

Alice went silent.

I thought about asking more questions. What time had their mother made her break? Were they familiar with the lagoon? How far was the lagoon from here?

But I didn’t have to ask.

The dead woman I’d found in the water had to be their mother. Who else could it be?

And Matt, I’d already figured out, was their father.

Wesley had made orphans out of these kids.

One of his many crimes, and one of his worst.

“Anyhow,” Erin said, “back to what I was saying. The day Wesley got here? We all ended up in cages. Then he hung around for a couple of days. He never did anything to Dad, but he like… took turns… fooled around with the rest of us.”

“He likes to hurt people,” Alice muttered.

“He’d take us out of our cages. Just one at a time. And make us do stuff.”

“Awful stuff,” Alice added.

“And if we didn’t do everything just right, he’d make someone else pay for it. Like he wanted me to… do something to him. I wouldn’t. So then he put me back in my cage and took Mom out. He whipped her right in front of us, then made her do it to him. ’Cause I’d said I wouldn’t.”

Erin’s hand felt hot and sweaty, holding mine. I gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Anyhow,” she said, “he did that sort of stuff to us right from the start, when he was here the first time. He didn’t stay very long, that time. When he went away, he left us in our cages with some food and water, and said he’d come back.”

“But not when,” Alice added.

“Yeah. After a while, we started to think he wasn’t gonna come back at all. We got really low on the food and water. Before it was totally gone, though, we heard this huge explosion.”

“Our yacht going up in smoke?” I asked.

“Yeah. And next thing we knew, he was back. He came in from the jungle, all smiling and happy.”

“And not wearing a stitch,” Alice added.

“He hardly ever does,” Erin said. “Like he thinks everybody wants to be looking at his thing all the time.”

“Which they don’t.”

“Not me.”

“Did he say how he blew up the yacht?” I asked.

“Sure,” Erin said. “He bragged all about how easy it was. He used that razor of his to cut open a fuel line. Down in the engine compartment? Then he made a fuse out of a bedsheet. After he lit it, he snuck overboard and swam away underwater.”

“He was laughing about it,” Alice said. “He thought he was so smart.”

“He outsmarted us, all right,” I told them. “We all thought he blew it up by accident and got himself killed.”

“That’s what he wanted you to think,” Erin explained. “Billie says you figured it out pretty quick, though.”

“Well, we guessed. After people started getting murdered. I mean, who else could’ve been doing it? As far as we knew, the island was uninhabited. We didn’t know there was a whole family… Are there any others?”

“Other what?” Erin asked.

“People. Families. Houses. Do you have neighbors?”

“We’re it.”

“Nobody here but us,” Alice said.

“We had the island all to ourselves. It was great. Until Wesley came along.”

“Mom and Dad brought us here so we’d be safe,” Alice said. “That’s a good one, huh?”

“We lived in Los Angeles,” Erin said. “We moved when the riot happened. That was the last straw, you know? They were afraid we’d all get killed, or something. They wanted to take us someplace where we wouldn’t need to worry about stuff like crime and drugs.”

“And look what happened,” Alice said.

“We know what happened,” Erin told her. “But it was great while it lasted.” To me, she said, “We did home study. No school. Mom and Dad taught us. She used to be a schoolteacher, and Dad was a writer. It was great, not going to some awful school full of nasty kids. And we went swimming and fishing almost every day. It was the greatest, till Wesley came along and ruined everything.”

“I wish we’d stayed in Los Angeles,” Alice said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Mom and Dad’d still be alive.”

“Maybe. But you never know. Maybe the quake would’ve killed us all.”

“Would’ve been better than this.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been.”

“I’d rather be dead,” Alice blurted. “I’d rather be dead any day of the week than get… Rupert, you don’t know what he does to us.”

“Huh-uh,” I said.

I wasn’t about to let on that I’d watched him and Thelma with Erin. It would’ve been too embarrassing. And it would’ve made the twins wonder what was wrong with me—how come I watched them mess with Erin, but didn’t try to help her?

“They play with us,” Alice said. “It’s bad enough we’ve gotta stay in these cages, but it’s a lot worse when they take us out. They take us out to play with us. They play dress-up with us. They play house with us. They make us eat with them and dance for them and fight with them. Anything they can think of, they make us do. And it always ends up the same way, with getting beaten to a pulp and getting fucked.”

“Hey,” Erin said. “You don’t have to get crude about it.”

“It is crude. Everything about it is crude! I wish I was dead!”

“No, you…”

“Hey! Knock it off! Jesus H. Christ, it’s the middle of the night. Some of us are trying to sleep around here, thank you very much.”

“Connie?” I said.

Silence.

Then she asked, “Who said that?”

“Me.”

More silence.

Then, “Rupert?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Holy fucking shit! Rupert!”

Reunion

“Rupert?” Now Billie had joined in, obviously awakened by Connie’s excited voice. “Is that you?”

“Yeah. How are you?”

Instead of answering, she sort of gasped, “Oh, my God” in a shaky voice.

“Haul it over here so we don’t have to yell,” Kimberly greeted me.

“Hi, Kimberly,” I said.

“You’re a little late for arriving in the nick of time,” she said, “but better late than never. Come on over here.”

I whispered, “I’d better go. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” I eased my hand out of Erin’s.

“You’ll get us out of here, won’t you?” Alice asked.

“Yeah. Somehow.”

“Just be careful,” Erin told me. “And come back to our side of things when you get a chance, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“We don’t even know what you look like,” she said.

I thought about the lighter in my pocket. She’d pretty much invited me to strike it up. I wanted to do it. The flame would give me a close-up look at her, sitting there in her cage. I’d get a chance to see her twin sister, too.

Both of them probably naked.

A good way to find out whether they were really identical.

But they’d already been badly treated—to put it mildly. I didn’t want myself adding to their troubles by lighting them up and embarrassing them.

So I kept the cigarette lighter in my pocket.

I said, “You want to know what I look like? I’m so gorgeous I make Tom Cruise look like he got hit by an ugly-stick.”

Soft laughter came from Erin.

“Really?” Alice asked.

From farther away, Connie said, “What kind of shit are you handing those girls, Rupe? Tell ’em the truth! You look like a fucking chimp! An albino chimp that lost all its hair!”

She was sure in fine form.

“I don’t, either,” I said to Erin. “Chimps have tails.”

“You’d better go,” Erin said, “or she’ll start saying really bad stuff about you.”

“Okay. See you later. You, too, Alice.”

I made my way out of the space between their cages. I got to my feet in front of Alice’s cage. Running a hand along its bars to keep myself oriented, I hurried toward the cages where Connie and my other women were waiting for me.

“What’ve you got, nine lives?” Connie asked when I was in front of her cage.

“Just lucky.” I kept moving slowly, following its bars. “Something broke my fall.”

“You must’ve been hurt,” Kimberly said. Her voice came from a distance ahead of me. “It was a long way down.”

“Got banged up pretty good. That’s why it took me so long to get here. I was out cold for a couple of days or so, then I was too messed up to do much.”

“We’re lucky you’re alive at all,” Billie said from her cage on the far side of Kimberly’s.”

“And lucky that you finally found us,” Kimberly added.

“Yeah.” Connie sounded a little annoyed. “Better late than never.”

Reaching out, I felt no more bars. I’d apparently arrived at me corner of Connie’s cage. Leaving it behind, I crossed an open space. My searching hand bumped against steel.

And got grabbed around the wrist.

“Stay.” Kimberly’s voice. Her hand clutching me.

It felt strong and warm. Heat from it seemed to flow up my arm and spread through my whole body.

“You’ve gotta get us out of here,” she said.

“I will. Are you all okay?”

“Yeah, right,” Connie said. “They’ve had us for a week. All they wanta do is figure out new ways to fuck us over.”

In a low voice, Kimberly said, “They’ve raped all of us.”

“Even you?”

“Yeah, even me.”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how?”

“You’re so… tough.”

“They make you go along,” she muttered.

“It’s my fault,” Connie said. She sounded different, suddenly. Quiet and upset. “They use me. If Mom or Kimberly don’t go along, I’m the one who gets it. They don’t want me getting wrecked, so they… keep cooperating. No matter what Wesley wants.”

“You’ve gotta get the keys away from him,” Kimberly said. Her hand tightened around my wrist.

“I will,” I said. “Are you all okay, though? I mean, I know you’re not okay, but…”

“We’re fucked,” Connie said.

“We’re fine,” Billie said.

“We are not.”

“Our injuries aren’t too serious,” Kimberly explained. “Superficial stuff. We probably don’t need a hospital, nothing that bad.”

“I had you all figured for dead,” I told them.

“Hate to disappoint you,” Connie muttered.

“I couldn’t find your bodies, though. I went back to where we had the fight. I thought… you’d all still be there. But when I couldn’t find your bodies…”

“We gave up,” Kimberly said.

“Thanks to me,” Connie said. “My fault. I plead guilty.”

“Wesley got her down,” Billie explained from her distant cage. “You were already out of it, by then. Thelma’d clobbered you in the head with a rock. You never even saw it coming. Next thing I knew, Connie was flat on her face.”

“I was still on the rope,” Kimberly said. “By the time I got to the top, Wesley had a foot planted on her back. He was all set to kill her with a machete. We had to give up.”

“Glad you did.”

“You wouldn’t be so glad,” Connie said, “if you had to go through this shit.”

“Rupert?” Billie asked. “Do you remember all our talk, those first few days, about Wesley’s motive? How we figured he wanted to kill everyone?”

“Yeah, for the money.”

“We were wrong. It didn’t have anything to do with money. He wanted us. The three of us. He had this fantasy about trapping everyone in a remote place, killing the men, and keeping us as his prisoners.”

“He admitted it?”

“Yeah. Told me all about it. He had me alone—Thelma’d wandered off somewhere—so I started asking questions. He happened to be in a talkative mood. Real pleased with himself. He’d just finished… having a fine old time with me. So I found out a lot. For starters, we were all together the first time he met Thelma. So right from the beginning, he knew what we looked like. Me, Connie, and Kimberly.”

“Three hot babes,” Connie muttered.

Billie said, “He told me that he’d never in his life scored with anything but bow-wows. Women like us would never even think about going out with him.”

“’Cause he’s a fucking loser,” Connie threw in.

“From then on,” Billie said, “everything was a set-up. He started by going after Thelma. She was easy.”

“Being also a fucking loser,” Connie added.

I half expected Kimberly to speak up in her sister’s defense, but she kept silent.

Billie said, “What Thelma didn’t know is that he only wanted her as a way of getting at the rest of us. He figured he would have plenty of access to us if he married her. Then—surprise, surprise—it turned out she was as kinky as he was.”

“A match made in Bedlam,” Kimberly muttered.

“Both of ’em a couple of fucking sadists,” Connie said.

“Was Thelma in on everything?” I asked.

Billie answered. “She sure didn’t know her loving husband had the hots for every other woman in her family. He kept that to himself. Along with his big plan to blow up the boat and maroon us.”

“He knew the cages were here,” Kimberly said.

“He did research,” Billie explained. “My God, he hadn’t even gone on an actual date with Thelma before he started studying up—trying to find just the right place for his little caper. He thought about cabins in the mountains, ghost towns, abandoned factories, warehouses, barns—every sort of place he could imagine where nobody’d be likely to get in his way. Where he could keep us for as long as he wanted, and do anything to us that suited his fancy.”

“Fucking degenerate,” Connie said.

Billie ignored her. “It wasn’t long before he realized that an uninhabited island would be perfect. You’re cut off from everyone. You’ve got the run of the place, so you don’t have to keep your prisoners hidden away. Nobody around to hear them scream. And it’s tough for them to escape.”

“Tough, all right,” Kimberly said, her voice low. “Look what happened to Dorothy.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Their mother. Dorothy. She made a break for it—Christ, just a few nights ago—but they ran her down and nailed her.”

“I heard about it,” I muttered.

“Those poor children,” Billie said, keeping her voice quiet, not wanting Alice and Erin to hear her. “They’ve been through worse than any of us. They’ve been in the cages for almost a month. They’ve lost their mother and father. And… Wesley and Thelma do such awful things to them. My God, they’re only kids.”

“Kids with tits and…”

“Knock it off, Connie,” Kimberly snapped. In a softer voice, she said, “Billie, go ahead and finish what you were saying about Wesley looking for an island. Rupert oughta hear this.”

“Yeah,” Connie said. “So he can put it in his fucking journal.”

“You still keeping it?” Kimberly asked me.

“I ran out of paper.”

“Aw, ain’t that a shame,” Connie said.

“Finish it after you save us,” Kimberly told me. “And put in how Wesley planned it all, how he picked which island, and everything. It’ll help show he had premeditation.”

“Like he’s ever gonna stand trial,” Connie said.

“However it all turns out,” Kimberly said, “it’ll be a good thing if Rupert has a detailed record of the whole situation. It might be the only way anyone ever finds out what happened here.”

“If I’m dead anyhow,” Connie said, “I’m not exactly gonna give a rat’s ass.”

“Billie, go ahead and tell him the rest.”

“Okay. Let me see.” She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Wesley decided an island would be the perfect sort of place, so he started doing research. At first, he thought mostly in terms of islands in places like Wisconsin and Michigan. You know, on lakes and rivers. He concentrated on the Midwest. Probably because he was raised in that area. Grew up near Chicago. The minute he broadened his horizons, though, he realized that the Bahamas would be ideal. Beautiful, tropical islands with great weather. Conveniently located off the coast of Florida. Handy airline service. The best part was, he found out that there’re hundreds of uninhabited islands in the area.”

“He didn’t pick an uninhabited one,” I pointed out.

“That’s because he read about the cages. He ran across an old magazine article…”

“Erin and Alice told me about that.”

“When he saw the bit about gorilla cages…”

“Thought he’d died and gone to Heaven,” Kimberly said.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Connie said, “we’re in Wesley Heaven.”

“Everything seemed to be falling into place for him,” Billie explained. “It was almost uncanny. First, he finds the absolutely perfect place for fulfilling his nasty little daydreams about us. On paper, anyway. Then, it turns out that Andrew and I are about to have our twentieth wedding anniversary.” With mock eagerness and an edge of bitterness unusual for her, Billie proclaimed, “Why not celebrate it with the whole family aboard a rented yacht in the Bahamas?”

“It did sound great,” Kimberly admitted.

“It was great… until…” Billie stopped speaking. I heard her start to cry.

For Andrew, her husband. That’s what I figured. Or maybe she was crying because of everything. Not only had she been made a widow during her twentieth anniversary celebration, but she and her daughter were locked in cages, kept like slaves for the amusement of a couple of demented perverts. She might’ve been crying for the others, too. Kimberly’s husband had also been murdered, and Kimberly’d ended up in a cage. The twins, too—Erin and Alice.

All five of them had lost people they loved. All five had been toyed with by Wesley and Thelma—beaten, whipped, raped, and God-only-knows what else.

It’s a wonder that they weren’t all bawling their heads off.

You can’t cry all the time, though. This was Billie’s time for it.

Kimberly still held my wrist.

“Let go,” I whispered.

Her fingers opened. I slipped my hand free, then felt my way along the front of her cage. I crossed the open area and came to Billie’s cage. She was still crying.

“Billie?” I asked.

“Rupert?”

I pressed my body against her cage and reached through the bars with both arms. “Over here.”

She found my arms and moved in between them. We hugged each other, bars sandwiched between our bodies. She sobbed quietly. The sobbing and gasping made her shake. I started to caress her back, but the smoothness there was broken by ridges—welts and scabs from the beatings she’d taken. She twitched slightly when I touched one.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s okay, honey.”

Then I was crying, too.

I stopped caressing her back, afraid of hurting her. As I lowered my arms, she said, “No, hold me. Don’t stop.”

So I put them around her again, but very gently.

Jealous Dogs

“What the hell are you two doing over there?” Connie called out.

“Shut up,” Kimberly told her.

“We aren’t doing anything,” I said. Which was true. We were only embracing each other while Billie continued to cry.

“Thank God you’re all right,” Billie whispered. Her breath tickled my lips. Then she had her mouth there, wet and open, pushing against my mouth. It was a kiss, but not like any kiss I’d ever had before. She was still sort of crying while we kissed. It was strange, but awfully nice.

I’d been trying to ignore the fact that her bare breasts were pressed against me. You don’t want to notice that sort of thing when a woman is crying in your arms. But now that she’d begun kissing me, it seemed okay to think about them.

They were pushed out between the bars, soft and springy against my chest.

While we kissed, I squirmed so I could feel them slide on me. We were both sweaty. Our skin was slippery as if we’d been oiled. Her nipples were stiff, and rubbed against my chest like little tongues.

I tried to pull away so Billie wouldn’t feel how hard I was getting. But she held me tightly, so I couldn’t.

Her kiss was astonishing and wet.

By the time it ended, Billie didn’t seem to be crying anymore. We were both gasping for air, though. And she didn’t let me go. She kept her arms around me, just like before the kiss. We stayed pressed together.

“Thank you, honey,” she whispered.

“My pleasure.”

She made a quiet “Hmmm” sound, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you okay?” Kimberly asked.

“A lot better, now,” Billie said.

“I’ll bet,” Connie called.

“Why do you always have to be such a snot?” That one came from Erin—the first I’d heard from either of the twins since I’d left their cages. I grinned.

“Up yours,” Connie yelled at her.

“Same to you and many more.”

Alice got into the act. “Erin! Shhh!”

“She’s such a bitch.”

“You’re a shit-eating little twat!” Connie shouted.

“Cut it out, children,” Kimberly said. “Let’s not fight among ourselves.”

“Blow it out your ass,” Connie told her.

Kimberly laughed.

Billie, still in my arms, called out, “Connie. Stop it. What the hell is the matter with you!”

“Oh, nothing. What could possibly be wrong? My mother’s over there in the dark, bare-ass naked and messing around with my guy…”

“We’re not messing around,” Billie said.

“My former guy. My ex-guy. My worthless fucking loser of a wimp…”

Very quietly, Billie whispered to me, “You should go over to her. Give her a hug.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I mean it. Go.”

“I don’t think she’d like that at all.”

“Sure she would. Go on over to her, let her know you care about her.”

“I want to stay with you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you want me here?”

“Sure. But Connie… she’s really hurting. Go over and be nice to her.”

“She hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t. When she thought you were dead… she was devastated.”

That was fairly hard to believe. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ve never seen her so upset. Now, go over to her. Please.” She kissed me again. This was a quick one, a thanks-and-get-going sort of kiss. Then her arms went away from me.

“Okay,” I said. I felt almost sick with disappointment, but I had to do what Billie asked. Whispering, “Is it okay if I come back later?” I slid my hands all the way down her back. I was gentle about her wounds.

“Sure,” she told me. “Later. But help Connie first.”

She wore nothing around her waist. My hands curved down over her buttocks. She didn’t try to stop me.

But she kissed me once more, and whispered, “Go on, now.”

I stopped caressing her and brought my hands back through the bars. As I stepped away from the front of her cage, I said fairly loudly, so everyone could hear and stop wondering what was up, “So, what about Thelma? She didn’t know anything about Wesley’s plans?”

“Not a thing,” Billie said, sounding a little surprised about the return to that subject. “She actually believed he’d blown himself up.”

“Why didn’t he tell her?”

Billie was probably wondering why I was still standing near the front of her cage, instead of heading for Connie’s. The truth is, I wanted to please Billie, but wasn’t very eager about confronting her daughter.

Connie was not in one of her finer moods.

“He planned all along to kill her,” Billie explained.

“What?”

“Wesley intended from the start to murder Andrew, Keith, you and Thelma. That’s what he told me.”

“Why Thelma?”

“You ever take a good look at her?” Connie called out. “Oh, yes. Forgot. Sure you have. But apparently you found her so attractive you wanted to wrestle naked with her. You got this thing for older women, don’t you? Thelma, my mom, Kimberly. Bet you’d like to wrestle naked with…”

“Knock it off,” Kimberly told her.

“Wesley hated Thelma,” Billie said, speaking loudly and firmly. “He hated everything about her, but most of all that she was so much like him.”

“Bet he didn’t tell you that,” I said.

“You’re right. That was a personal observation. But he did say he hated her. Called her ugly and disgusting. He fully intended to kill her as soon as he’d finished off the men. He’d had enough of her. He didn’t want her getting in the way. He only wanted us.” She lowered her voice. “And the twins, too. He didn’t know about them. He picked this island because it had the cages; the twins were a special bonus for him.” Lowering her voice even more, she whispered, “Go and see Connie. Go on.”

“I will,” I whispered back. Then I asked in my normal voice, “Why didn’t he kill Thelma?”

“Because she saved his ass,” Kimberly said.

“When we tried to ambush him at the beach?” I asked.

“Right,” Billie said. It went sort of like we thought: he was wounded so badly that he needed her help. After they got away, he put on a big show of breaking down and confessing. He basically admitted everything.”

“Not that he hated her, though,” Kimberly added.

“No, not that. He kept that to himself. Claimed he loved her. Said he’d done all this for her, because he knew how much she despised us.”

“How could she possibly despise you?” I asked.

“For one thing, we tried to kill her husband.”

“She didn’t take kindly to that,” Kimberly added. “Also, she just hates our guts on general principle.”

“’Cause she’s a jealous fucking dog,” Connie called out.

I heard a bit of grim humor in Kimberly’s voice as she said, “Apparently, we make Thelma feel ugly.”

“Make her feel like the worthless loser she is,” Connie said.

“And she’s been making us pay for it,” Kimberly explained. “She’s been having a great time with us.”

Billie said, “She’s worse than Wesley.”

Connie let out a harsh laugh. “At least Thelma hasn’t got a dick.”

“She makes up for it,” Billie said.

“They’re a hell of a team,” Kimberly said.

I knew that. But I didn’t say anything. Nobody was supposed to know I’d watched them in action with Erin.

“Does that about cover it?” Billie asked.

I didn’t know who she was asking.

“That’s the important stuff,” Kimberly said. “He doesn’t have to know everything.”

“I bet he’d enjoy hearing all the juicy details,” Connie said. “He can write all about ’em in his diary. Isn’t that right, Rupe?”

“I ran out of…”

“Oh, yeah, right. But you wanta hear it all anyway, don’t you? Wouldn’t you just love for us to tell you how they raped us? Which orifices Wesley preferred, and how Thelma…”

“Shut up!” Kimberly snapped.

“Connie?” Billie sounded worried. “What’s the matter with you? Stop that.”

“Come on over here, Rupert,” Connie said. “I’ll tell you the good stuff. I’ll give you an earful.”

Thanks, anyway,” I said. “I don’t…”

“You wanta know what Thelma did to Kimberly with a stick yesterday?”

“You’d better shut your mouth,” Kimberly said.

“Come on over, and I’ll tell you all about how Mom sucked Wesley’s cock.”

“Rupert,” Billie said. She sounded upset, but still fairly calm. And she wasn’t whispering. Apparently, it was all right now for Connie to hear what she had to say. “Go on over to her,” she told me. “Quick, okay? She’s sounding… I don’t know, I’m afraid she’s about to lose it.”

“Lose it?” Connie blurted. “You’re afraid I’m gonna lose it? Ho ho ho! Surprise, surprise! It’s lost!”

I started to hurry in the direction of her cage.

“Connie?” I asked.

“Over here, Rupert. Right over here.” The mocking, coaxing tone of her voice gave me the creeps. “I’m waiting for you.”

“Hey,” I said. Take it easy.”

“You miss me?”

“Sure.”

“Bet you missed my mother more.”

Right on the money, I thought. I said, “No, I didn’t.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

From the direction of her voice, she seemed to be straight in front of me. I stopped walking, and faced her cage. Reaching out, I moved my hand from side to side.

The cage was too far away to touch.

Just the way I wanted it

“How about Kimmmmm-berly?” she asked. “Bet you missed herrrr.”

“I missed all of you.”

“Bullll. Bull, bull, bull! You missed her more than me. You missed ’em both more than me. Admit it. You wanta fuck ’em, don’t you! Or maybe you’ve already done it. Have you? Huh? Have you fucked my mom yet, Rupie? Or the fabulous Kimmmm-berly? Have you? How were they? Were they good and… ?”

“And you called Thelma a jealous dog?” I said.

Which was not the best thing to say, just then.

Connie screamed.

Not a fright-scream like you hear in the movies. This was a rage-scream, a shrieking snarl. “RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

She sounded nuts.

My skin crawled.

I dug the lighter out of my pocket, raised it in front of me and thumbed it. A yellow flame spurted up.

“Kill that light!” Kimberly gasped.

I didn’t.

I kept it going, and stared at Connie.

Still shrieking, she clung to the bars of her cage about halfway up the front. Her feet were planted wide apart, her knees bent, her back hunched. She jerked her body back and forth, up and down, as if she were trying to shake apart the cage.

Which didn’t budge.

I’d expected her to be filthy, for some reason. She looked clean, though. Clean, but shiny and dripping with sweat.

“Rupert!” Kimberly snapped. “Put that light out! They might see it from the house!”

My thumb stayed, holding down on the gas lever. The flame stayed up.

Connie stopped all her jerking and shaking. She stopped the shrieking, too. But she didn’t climb down. She clung to the bars, panting for air, and grinned at me.

She was too high on the bars for me to see her old shoulder injury from the time Thelma had thrown the rock over the falls. Her short blond hair was wet and clinging to her scalp, but there wasn’t any blood on it that I could see.

Her face looked okay.

If you forget about the wide, mad eyes and peeled-back lips. If you ignore the fact that she grinned at me like a maniac.

Which is to say, they’d been careful not to wreck her face.

From the neck down, her bare skin was a map of bruises, raw abrasions, scabs, welts, scratches and cuts.

The visual handiwork of Wesley and Thelma.

I groaned at the sight of her.

I muttered, “My God, Connie.”

“Pretty as a picture,” she said. She tilted her head to one side, and licked her lips. “Gimme a little kiss?”

Kimberly said, “You’d better get out of here, Rupe. They might’ve heard the screams. If they looked out and saw your light…”

“Come here,” Connie said. “Come, come, come.” Leering, she thrust her pelvis toward the bars. Somebody had shaved her. Instead of pubic hair, she had smooth, glistening skin. “Come and gimme a little kiss. Gimme a little kiss on the lips.”

As if to punish me for looking, for seeing what I shouldn’t, my lighter suddenly died.

Blackness clamped down on us all.

I let up on the gas lever and got ready to strike the lighter again.

“Go!” Kimberly said. “Get going!”

“No, no no,” Connie said. “Come. Come right over here, Rupie. I got something for you.”

“Rupert,” Billie called from her distant cage. “Leave. Right now. Run. If they get their hands on you, we’re all finished. We won’t have a hope.”

Turning away from Connie’s cage, I scanned the darkness. In the jungle and down the trail, I saw a bit of moonlight—and nothing else but black and vague shapes of gray. No sign of the house. No sign of anyone.

I heard plenty.

Jungle noises.

Nothing that sounded like anyone approaching us.

If Wesley and Thelma realized I was out here, though, they wouldn’t come dashing after me, yelling and waving a torch. They would come in darkness and silence.

It might already be too late for me.

“I got something for you, Rupie. Come a little closer. Or are you scared? You aren’t scared of me, are you? I won’t hurt you. Promise. I’ll make you feel real good.”

“Bye, everyone,” I said.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Connie cried out.

I hurried away from her cage. Behind me, she shrieked and raged and called me horrible names.

Into the Lair

I stumbled through the jungle, feeling my way in the darkness, until I came to the edge of the mansion’s grounds. Staying in the bushes, I crouched low and peered out.

After the nearly complete blackness near the cages, the moonlit lawn and house seemed amazingly bright.

No sign of Wesley or Thelma.

I’d last seen them entering the house. Were they still inside?

Off behind me, Connie continued yelling things like, “You bastard, come back here!” Billie and Kimberly were talking to her, trying to calm her down. Their voices, and Connie’s wild shouts, got mixed in with the usual squeals and squawks of jungle creatures.

I doubted that they could be heard inside the house. Even Connie’s first and loudest raging shriek had probably gone unnoticed by Wesley and Thelma. They might’ve caught the noise if they’d been standing, quiet and listening, near an open window in one of the front rooms. But the chances were against it. In a huge house like that, they were more likely not at a front window.

They probably weren’t standing quiet, either, straining to hear sounds from outside. More likely, they were doing something in there. Moving around, talking, sleeping, whatever.

It was unlikely that they’d heard Connie.

There seemed to be a better chance that they’d noticed the glow from my cigarette lighter. For one little dab of flame, it had really knocked a hole in the darkness. A fairly narrow strip of jungle separated the cages from the mansion’s lawn. If the foliage wasn’t really thick, the light might’ve been visible from the mansion.

It would’ve gone unnoticed, though, unless Wesley or Thelma happened to be watching from a front window.

After a while, I reached the conclusion that we’d overreacted. I could have stayed with the gals.

Better safe than sorry, though.

I am their only chance.

Besides, it’s just as well that I got away when I did. Things had gone a little haywire with Connie. No telling what might’ve happened.

My departure improved the situation with her. After a while, she quietened down. Within about fifteen minutes, no more voices were reaching me.

By then, too, it was obvious that nobody had shown up to check on the prisoners.

I tried to figure out what to do.

There seemed to be three choices:

1. Do nothing.

2. Sneak back to Billie’s cage.

3. Sneak into the mansion.

Doing nothing sounded pretty good. It held the least risk of unpleasantness—or death. As long as I remained hidden in the jungle, I stood a good chance of staying alive. It might also be the smartest course of action, since I didn’t know exactly where Wesley and Thelma might be.

I was very tempted, though, to sneak back to Billie’s cage. If I could do it with complete stealth and somehow get her attention without any of the others catching on… My God, no telling what might happen. I got excited, just thinking about it.

But why restrict myself to Billie? I could sneak over to any of the cages.

Wouldn’t want to get near Connie, of course.

How about Kimberly? Man!

No. Kimberly’d be all business. She might grab my hand, but she wouldn’t want to mess around.

What about paying Erin a visit?

I liked Erin.

She seemed to like me, too.

She’s too young, I told myself. You can’t do anything with her.

Who says so? She’s only four years younger than me. That isn’t so much. When I’m thirty, she’ll be twenty-six.

But she’s only fourteen now.

So what? In some cultures, people get married when they’re fourteen.

I imagined myself over at Erin’s cage. Touching her in the dark. Both of us exploring each other through the bars. In my mind, I could almost feel the smoothness and warmth of her small, pointy breasts.

The more excited I got, the more guilty I felt.

I couldn’t let myself sneak back to the cages.

If I went to Billie, I might end up going to Erin.

Which would be a very wrong thing to do, in spite of the arguments I could give myself in its favor. How could I even think about trying to mess around with Erin? I’d be no better than Wesley.

I was angry at myself.

Maybe I wanted to punish myself for being so tempted over Erin. Or maybe the awful urge to take advantage of her—the wrongness of it—sort of shone a spotlight on the right thing that needed to be done.

I’ll go back to the cages, all right. I’ll go back when I’ve got Wesley’s key-ring in my hand.

And not before.

There weren’t three choices anymore.

Only one.

Number three: sneak into the mansion.

Staying in the jungle’s darkness, I made my way along the perimeter of the lawn until I came to the area that faced the side of the house.

Then I gazed out.

Directly ahead of me, a short sprint away, was the window where I’d watched their vicious abuse of Erin.

The window was dark.

No light showed anywhere.

I saw no sign of Wesley or Thelma. Most likely, though, they were someplace inside the house. I’d seen them go in. There was no reason to believe they’d left.

But they might’ve left.

They might be almost anywhere.

Just watting to nail me.

I broke from cover and dashed through the long grass. I was so scared that I did that thing where you separate into two people: one of them doing this crazy and dangerous thing while the other watches, astonished, from a distance—sort of cheering on the fool.

I thought, Oh, man, you’re asking for it.

But I kept running, and didn’t stop until I reached the side of the house. I leaned my shoulder against the wall. I gasped for air. It didn’t take long to get my breath back, but my heart wouldn’t slow down. It pounded like mad. Because it knew what was coming.

The dash across the lawn had been the safe part.

I stepped over to the window. Pressing my face against the screen, I peered in.

Saw nothing.

Actually, I could see a lot. This wasn’t the sort of blackness I’d found at the cages. The room seemed to be filled with a dim mist—moonlight that had spilled in from the window and spread itself around.

Enough to show me that the room was cluttered with darkness.

Plenty of darkness to hide two people—or twenty.

Exploring the bottom of the screen, I found the pair of flaps that I’d made earlier with my razor.

What if Thelma found them?

I wished I hadn’t thought of that. If she or Wesley had spotted my handiwork with the screen, they’d know a prowler had paid them a visit. They’d be ready and waiting.

But they probably hadn’t spotted it.

They probably hadn’t so much as entered the room after Thelma’s return visit to pick up the clothes, blow out the candles, and so forth.

I poked my index fingers through the flaps, bent my fingertips downward and swung the screen toward me.

A few seconds later, I had my head inside. Without the screen in the way, the view was much better.

I could see the darkness a lot more clearly.

I stood there, the screen pressing against the back of my head while I scanned the room.

Black blotches all over the place.

Nothing appeared to be moving, though.

There was a lingering, somewhat foul odor of cigarette smoke. I smelled candles and blood, too. Or thought I did; those might’ve only existed in my imagination.

I pictured Wesley and Thelma sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, smiling as they patiently waited for me to enter their lair.

With the moonlit outdoors behind me, I would be easy to see. Like a black bust of Pallas perched upon the windowsill.

I went ahead and started to climb in, anyway.

The “other” me seemed to stand back and shake his head and warn me, It’s gonna be your ass.

The book bag on my back caused some trouble. I had to elbow the screen up out of its way. Finally, though, I got myself over the sill and into the room.

Sidestepping away from the window, I put a wall to my back.

Then I just stood still and listened to the house. The only human sounds came from me: my own breathing and heartbeat—and my stomach gurgling now and then.

Too long since my last meal.

I had food with me, but this was no time to pause for a snack.

I dug into the right front pocket of my shorts. First, I took out the lighter. I switched it to my left hand, then reached down again and brought out the straight razor.

I kept its blade shut.

Wanted it ready, but not that ready.

Then I tried to make myself flick the lighter.

The Bic was slippery in my hand. My thumb didn’t want to move.

Go on and do it, I thought. What’ve you got to lose? If they aren’t in the room, they won’t see it, anyway. If they are here, you’re already a dead duck and just don’t know it yet.

I struck the lighter.

So did a guy standing off to my left in the corner of the room.

I jumped. I gasped, “Yah!”

Then I realized the guy over there was a mirror-made duplicate of yours truly.

(I know, I know, I’m an idiot.)

I killed the light and stood in the darkness for a long time, waiting for someone to come and investigate my odd little yell.

Nobody came.

I ignited the lighter again. This time, the guy in the mirror didn’t scare me. In fact, I appreciated him; he doubled the brightness.

We both stood motionless and scanned the room.

It seemed to be deserted, except for us.

I started walking slowly. He and his flame followed me.

When the floor suddenly went slick under my foot, I skidded but didn’t fall.

I turned around and bent over to see what I’d stepped in. On the floor was a wet, reddish smear. This was where Thelma and Wesley had finished their fun with Erin. Thelma had come back into the room for their clothes and to blow out the lights, but she hadn’t bothered to wipe up the blood, sweat, and so on.

Now, I’d made skid marks in it.

After taking a step backward, I found a clear imprint of my sneaker’s tread pattern.

I killed the flame. I dropped the razor into my pocket. Holding the lighter in my teeth, I slipped the book bag off my back and brought it around in front of me.

Inside, I found the towel-vest that Connie had made. I held it between my knees while I put the pack on again.

Standing in the dark, I lifted one foot, wiped the bottom of its sneaker, stepped backward, wiped the other, and repeated the process. Then I got down on my knees and lit the lighter. My mirror-double and I crawled forward, mopping away our tracks. We stopped at the edge of the wet, blood-smeared area. The skids could stay; since they didn’t show tread marks, they might’ve been made by someone barefoot.

We stood up and walked backward slowly. No new tracks were being made.

In darkness again, I rolled the towel-vest and returned it to my book bag. This took a while. Also, the towel made my hands wet and sticky. I had to wipe them on my shorts.

When I lit the lighter, my double reappeared. He didn’t last long—only until we got close to the doorway and I killed the flame again.

Keeping the lighter in my left hand, I took out my razor and stepped through the doorway into the corridor.

Sleeping Dogs

Room by room, corridor by corridor, stairway by stairway, I searched the enormous house. Last summer’s long, boring tours of ante-bellum mansions along the Mississippi paid off: the general layout of this mansion was similar to many of those I’d seen. I felt as if I’d been here before. Much of the time, I sensed what was coming.

Though I held on to the lighter, I didn’t use it.

I searched in darkness, creeping along, often stopping to listen.

After a while, I put the razor back into my pocket; I needed a free hand for feeling my way.

The house seemed terribly silent.

Except for the thousand times its floors moaned and squawked under my footsteps.

I made very little sound, myself. My breathing and heartbeat seemed noisy, as did the frequent growling of my hungry stomach—but they were quiet compared to the outcries of the wood under my feet.

The flooring of the house seemed to be in cahoots with Wesley and Thelma. Sure it is, I thought. It likes those naked bodies tumbling around on it, enjoys the feel of all that bare skin, loves having its planks oiled with blood and sweat and semen. I was here to put a stop to such things. So, of course, it wanted to cry out warnings.

(You think odd thoughts at times like that. It gets you, being alone in the darkness, never knowing if you’re about to stumble and fall down, or crash into a wall, or knock over a lamp, or bump into someone who wants to slit your throat.) It would take me hours to write about every stumble and collision, fright and false alarm I had while searching the mansion—the nightmarish scenarios that fumbled through my mind—the terror I felt each time I crept around a corner or entered a new room.

The searching seemed to take hours.

I expected the sun to come up.

To be realistic about it, though, I probably spent no more than an hour sneaking through the place before I found Wesley and Thelma.

I was beginning to think that they weren’t in the house, after all. Maybe they spent their nights on the cabin cruiser. But then, as I climbed the stairs to the third and final story, I detected a quiet, grumbly sound. I stopped moving, and listened. The sound went away, but soon came again. Again, there was silence. Then came a harsh snort.

Some sort of animal snuffling around?

After listening a while longer, I realized that the sounds were probably being made by someone asleep.

Asleep and snoring.

Ever so slowly, I started climbing again. I set my feet down gently and eased my weight onto each tread. Most of them squeaked, anyway. Every time that happened, I cringed, stood still and listened until I heard the snoring again.

At last, I reached the top of the stairs.

I found myself in the middle of a hall, surrounded by walls with open doors. From where I stood, I could see into four moonlit rooms—one near each corner.

The snoring sounds, more distinct than ever, seemed to be coming from the doorway in front of me and over to the right. I stopped beside the newel post, and faced the sounds.

The doorway looked vaguely pale in the darkness.

I snuck carefully toward it.

This had to be Wesley and Thelma’s quarters.

With the entire house at their disposal, why had they chosen to sleep in such an out-of-the-way room? It seemed very strange, especially considering Wesley’s wounds. Why climb three flights of stairs when there were plenty of fine, comfortable rooms on the ground floor?

I stopped at the doorway. I peered in.

The two windows at the other side of the room were bright with moonlight.

Of course!

This is the room with the view.

From this height, they could probably look down through gaps in the foliage and see the cages.

Watch the women.

From here, they probably could’ve seen the glow of my cigarette lighter.

But only if they’d been looking.

The way things sounded, they hadn’t been looking. If they’d seen my light, they sure wouldn’t have gone ahead and turned in for the night.

Along with the snoring, a sound of deep, slow breathing came from inside the room.

Both of them were in there, both asleep.

Apparently.

In a way, I was glad I’d finally found them. The mystery of their whereabouts, at least, was solved.

But part of me wished I hadn’t found them.

What the hell was I supposed to do, now?

I could think of only two possible courses of action.

1. Get the hell out of the house.

2. Enter their room.

To be honest, I ached to get out of there. If I stayed, bad stuff was bound to happen.

I thought about getting out and setting fire to the house. It would be a fairly safe, effective way to kill Wesley and Thelma.

Not a half-bad idea.

Trapped this high up, their chances of escape would amount to zilch.

There was only one drawback.

(Seems like there’s always a drawback.)

Wesley had probably taken the cage keys into the room with him. If I burnt down the house, what would happen to the keys? For starters, I might not be able to find them in the rubble. For enders, what if they melted in the heat? I’m no expert on the melting temperature of gorilla cage keys. After going down with the blazing house, they might be reduced to puddles—or at least distorted enough to be useless.

In which case, how would I get the cages open?

If that’s the only drawback, I thought, then what you’ve gotta do is sneak into the room and find the keys. Take the keys, then get the hell out of the house and set it on fire.

It seemed like a very good idea.

It had only one drawback: to get my hands on the keys, I would have to enter the room and look around.

And how could I hope to find them in the dark?

Into my head came a voice that sounded like Kimberly. It said, “Quit thinking about all this shit. Just do it.”

She was right.

Or I was right, since the voice wasn’t really Kimberly’s, but mine.

I didn’t want to do it.

But I’d found Wesley and Thelma. They were sleeping. Asleep, they were helpless. They were in my power. This might be the best chance I would ever get. If I chickened out, I would hate myself forever.

If I blew it, the women would be the ones to pay.

Before entering the room, I slipped the razor out of my pocket. I thumbed open its blade.

By then, I was doing that schizo thing again: standing outside of myself, a critical and worried observer.

You must be outa your ever-lovin’ mind, I thought.

I stepped over the threshold.

The floor squawked.

One of the sleepers snorted. (Wesley, I think.) The other continued to take those long, easy breaths.

They’re dead to the world, I told myself.

Unless they’re faking it.

And then I thought, What you oughta do is slit their throats right now.

I knew I couldn’t do that, though. You’d have to be damn cold-blooded to murder people in their sleep. And even if I could bring myself to nail Wesley that way, Thelma was a whole different story.

Being a woman.

How could I slit the throat of a woman?

I couldn’t, that’s how.

(But I could burn her by setting fire to the house? Apparently. Even while deploring the notion of slitting throats, I fully intended to burn the house down around those two monsters. Go figure.) Stopping just inside the room, I saw Wesley and Thelma sharing a bed. At least, I supposed it must be them.

I couldn’t see them very well at all.

On each side of the double bed was a lamp table. The lamp tables and the bed stood against the wall between the windows, so they were bypassed by most of the moonlight.

Wesley and Thelma (at that time, I could only assume it was them) lay side by side—vague, dark shapes on the white sheet.

The body on the left side of the double bed appeared to be larger than the one on the right. The snores came from there. Also, the body had a patch of white that I took to be Wesley’s chest bandage.

Which put him on the left, Thelma on the right.

I made my way toward Wesley’s side of the bed. He was the keeper of the keys. If I were him, I would’ve placed them on the lamp table, where they’d be within easy reach.

I needed a free hand. I wanted to hang on to my razor, though, so the lighter went into my pocket.

Both the sleepers continued to make their usual noises while I crept closer and closer to Wesley’s lamp table.

When I got there, I turned sideways so I could keep my eyes on them.

If you stare at people, though, they seem to feel it.

One or the other of them would wake up, for sure.

So I looked toward the doorway, instead, while I gently patted the top of the lamp table.

Not gently enough.

Searching blindly, I nudged the key-ring with my fingertips. It moved, scraping against the wood. A few of the keys must’ve bumped into each other. They made two or three clinking sounds.

Wesley snored on.

Thelma popped up off her back.

I froze.

She sat there on the mattress on the other side of Wesley, not moving, not saying a word.

I couldn’t tell which way her head was turned.

She had to be staring at me, though.

Could she see me?

I didn’t move. I tried not to breathe.

Maybe I can wait her out.

If she couldn’t see me, and if I made no sounds, she might relax after a while, lie down and go back to sleep.

Pretty soon, I had to breathe. I did it slowly. She probably couldn’t hear me over Wesley’s loud snores.

She still sat there.

I was turning into a wreck. I felt as if I couldn’t get enough air. My heart raced. My whole body trembled—including my hands.

The key-ring was pressed against the tabletop by the fingertips of my left hand. If my trembling got much worse, I might not be able to stop myself from giving the keys another jangle.

I thought about lifting my hand.

But taking it away might cause a jangle.

Maybe I oughta just snatch them up and run like hell.

No no no no no!

Wait her out, I told myself. Any second now, she’ll lie down. Before long, she’ll be sound asleep.

“Come here, Rupert,” she whispered.

I flinched and gasped and clutched the keys. They clanked together for a moment before my hand squeezed them silent. Wesley made a choky-sounding snort. Moaning, he rolled onto his side. Which put his back toward me, his face toward Thelma. She stayed silent. After a few seconds that felt like an hour, Wesley resumed snoring.

I stood by the bed, the keys in one hand, the razor in the other.

I stared at Thelma.

Though I couldn’t see her eyes—or even which way her head was turned—I knew she was watching me.

Slowly, I began sidestepping toward the foot of the bed.

She’ll think I’m coming, I told myself. Right up to the instant I bolt for the door.

At the foot of the bed, however, I didn’t bolt

One step in the wrong direction, and Thelma would let out a shout. I knew it. I didn’t have the slightest doubt. Her outcry would wake up Wesley, and they’d both come after me.

Deal with her alone, or deal with them both.

Also, I was curious. It seemed very strange that she’d whispered, Come here, Rupert. Why had she done that instead of yell?

She continued to sit upright while I crept past the foot of the bed. Wesley continued to snore.

When I rounded the corner, she eased herself sideways and lowered her legs. She sat on the edge of the mattress and waited for me.

A pace or two away from her, I stopped.

She grabbed the front of my belt. Not resisting, I let her pull me until I was standing in front of her. She pulled me closer to her. I stepped in between her knees. Her legs rubbed against mine.

Still gripping me by the belt, she whispered, “Give me the keys.”

This time, her whisper didn’t seem to disturb her husband. He kept snoring, and he didn’t move. The way I towered over Thelma’s head, I had a fine view of him. I just couldn’t tell whether or not his eyes were open.

“I don’t have ’em,” I whispered.

“Wesley?” Not a whisper. Not terribly loud, either, but enough to make him sputter and give out a moaning noise that sounded like a question.

I had the keys in one hand, the razor in the other.

One quick slash with the razor…

Even if she deserved such a fate—and she did—I couldn’t do it to her. Not this way, surprising her in the dark. For one thing, she was a woman. For another, it would’ve been cold-blooded to kill her except as a last resort, to save myself.

Wesley’s snoring had stopped.

Instead of slitting Thelma’s throat, I pushed my left fist against her body. It met warm, yielding skin. Her hand fumbled with my fingers. I opened them and she took the keys. They jingled a few times, then went silent.

“Mmmmm?” Wesley asked.

“Nothing, honey.”

“Mmm.”

A few seconds later, he was snoring again.

I heard a couple of quiet clinks—Thelma setting the keys down somewhere, I suppose. Maybe on the mattress behind her.

Still clutching my belt with one hand, she used her other hand to rub the front of my shorts. Then she slowly slid my zipper down. She reached in.

Something like that should’ve gotten me hard really quick. But I was damn scared, and Thelma wasn’t quite in the same class as the other gals. In fact, I might’ve been just as horny if she’d been Wesley. I was shrunk up so small I’m surprised she could find what she was hunting for.

She found it, though.

And started working on it.

I remembered the time by the campfire, and how she’d tried to split me with a razor.

The same razor I was holding in my right hand while she squeezed and stroked and pulled on me.

I knew she didn’t have a weapon, this time. Not in her hands.

One hand held me by the belt, the other by the dong.

Reaching out with my left hand, I found the top of her head. I caressed her short, damp hair. I slid my fingers in and held on. Then I felt along the side of her head with the wrist of my right hand.

I located her ear.

I put the razor against it—in the valley between the top of her ear and the side of her head.

The hand inside my pants quit trying to arouse me.

It took hold.

“Let go or I’ll cut you,” I whispered.

“I’ll rip your cock off.”

“Just give me the keys, and I’ll get out of here.”

“In your dreams, dickhead.”

Wesley was still snoring.

“I won’t hurt you,” I whispered. “I’ll just go.”

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me, and maybe I’ll let you have ’em.”

You’ve gotta be kidding, I thought.

“Right now.” She gave me a gentle tug.

“I can’t. Not with him there.”

“Want me to wake him up?”

“He’ll wake up anyway if I… do what you want.”

“Who knows? Let’s find out.”

“How about somewhere else?” I suggested. “If we go to a different room…”

“Here. Right here beside him.”

“Just let go of me and give me the keys. Please?”

“That my razor?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Wanta shave me?”

“No.”

“You sure? I haven’t had a nice, close shave since I lost it.”

“Since you tried to kill me with it.”

“If you aren’t gonna give me a shave, how about putting it away?”

“I’m going to cut off your ear if you don’t give me the keys.”

She made a quiet, laughing sound. “Go on ahead, then.”

As I started to think about doing it, she said, “If you had the guts to go around cutting people, me and Wesley’d be dead right now with our throats slit open. You’re just too nice a fella for that sort of shit.”

“Think so, do you?”

“I know so. And anyhow…” She gave me a squeeze. Not hard, but hard enough. It made me flinch, gave me a sick feeling. “I got you by the nuts, boy. You’re gonna do what I say. Now, take that razor away from my ear, or I’ll scramble your eggs for you.”

I hesitated.

She squeezed harder.

Maybe I should’ve gone ahead and sliced off her ear when she did that. Instead, I groaned and bent over a little, trying to ease the pain.

“Okay,” I whispered.

I lifted the blade away from her ear.

The hand holding my belt let go. It brushed against my belly. “Give,” Thelma said.

“What?”

“The razor.”

“How do I know you won’t cut off my whang?”

She laughed softly. “You won’t be much good to me without it.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

I could hardly believe that Wesley was sleeping through all this. My luck wasn’t likely to continue forever, though.

I tried to concentrate on what I needed to do.

“The razor,” Thelma said.

“Let go of me, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Think I’m an idiot?”

“It’ll be a fair trade,” I whispered.

“Long as I’ve got hold, you’re gonna do whatever I say.”

“You’d better let go,” I said.

“The razor.”

I let go. I’d been holding a lot more than the razor. It seemed like about a gallon. I opened up on her.

She still clutched me for a second or two. Probably not sure what was going on—what was that hot liquid squirting all over her hand and up her arm? Then she must’ve figured it out. She went, “Yuuuuuh!” Her hand leaped away. “You bastard!” she shouted.

I was probably catching her in the chest, so I reached down and gave myself some elevation.

“Westley!”

She got his name out. A moment later, she began to sputter and spit as I hosed her face.

I backed off fast.

Wesley sat up in bed. “What… ?”

“Get him!” Thelma squealed. She sounded as if she’d lost her mind. “Kill the little shit!”

I couldn’t wait around to finish what I’d started. I couldn’t manage to quit, either. So I whirled around and ran for the door, still squirting.

The Chase Is On

From behind me, I heard thuds and voices.

“Who?” Wesley asked. He sounded mighty damn scared. “Who was it?”

“Rupert!”

“He’s dead!”

“My ass!”

Just outside their door, the wet floor sent my feet sliding. I gasped and flapped my arms. My legs flew out from under me. My butt whammed the floor.

Behind me, Thelma was still talking. “He snuck right in here. Had my razor. Gonna slit our throats!”

“You sure?”

“Yes! He peed on me, the little cocksucker!”

I was still peeing. My shorts were drenched.

My feet stuck out into space. I pushed myself forward. My legs lowered. My feet found a plank of flat, slippery wood, which I figured to be the second stair down from the top.

“The keys!” Wesley blurted. “He got the keys!”

“I got ’em,” Thelma said.

“You sure?”

I switched the razor to my left hand, reached up with my right, grabbed the banister, and pulled.

“Right in my hand,” Thelma said. “He had ’em, but I got ’em away from him.”

On my feet, I looked back toward the doorway. Thank God Wesley and Thelma had decided to have a discussion instead of a hot pursuit.

“Good going,” Wesley said. “Here, give them to me.”

The way they were thumping around in the room as they talked, I figured they must be grabbing stuff. Not just the keys, either. Weapons, more than likely.

What if they’ve got flashlights?

I took a step down. My feet skidded on the wet stair. I might’ve fallen again, but I kept a good grip on the banister. In the meantime, I was still going. You can’t just shut things down at the drop of a hat, not if you’ve been holding it a while, and especially if you’re scared. Anyway, I’d probably only been at it for half a minute or less even though it seemed like ages.

Somewhere along the way, my tool had gotten out of alignment with my open fly. Which meant I’d been splattering the insides of my own shorts. A lot came back at me, the rebound drenching my groin and spilling down my legs and soaking my socks.

“Come on, come on,” Wesley said.

“You ready?”

“Yeah. Here, take these.”

I hobbled down the slippery stairs, my sneakers squelching.

From above and behind me came the thuds of quick footfalls.

I tried to move faster.

I wished I could see where I was going.

Suddenly, I could.

They’d turned on the lights!

The mansion had its power on, after all.

I suddenly missed the darkness. The darkness seemed like an old friend that used to hide me in its closet.

Now I was out in plain sight.

But at least I could see, and move fester.

I was about three steps up from the bottom of the stairway. I leaped. The book bag sort of lifted off my back. A second after I landed on the floor, the pack swung down and gave me an extra shove. As I stumbled, a spear shot by. (Connie’s special fishing spear with the carved barbs.) It missed me by inches. It clattered and skidded on the hardwood, and went scooting down the hallway.

I thought about chasing after it.

Which would mean leaving the stairs behind.

Which would mean a fight, not an escape.

Two against one.

The spear wasn’t worth it.

From the sound of things, Wesley and Thelma were already rushing down the stairs.

Not daring to look up at them, I made my turn-around and lunged for the next stairway. About to start my race down, I heard someone cry, “Yeeee!” Then came some quick thuds.

I looked.

Wesley seemed to be poised on top of his head, about halfway from the bottom of the stairs. He was barefoot, bare-ass, bare everything. Except for the soiled white squares patching his boob and butt, all he wore was a belt around his waist.

I glimpsed an empty leather sheath at one hip as his legs and rump slammed down. The hunting knife was in his hand. He held on to it all the way as he somersaulted and crashed down the rest of the stairs.

He came to a stop on his back.

He was all sprawled out.

He looked unconscious or dead.

Up near the top of the stairway, he must’ve slipped on my pee.

And now he was out of the picture.

Now there was only Thelma…

Maybe she’ll fall, too.

She came sliding down the banister like a demented swashbuckler—legs wide apart, rail squeaking between her buttocks, a strange and terrible grin on her face, both arms raised, a machete in each hand.

She didn’t seem worried about the wooden knob atop the newel post at the bottom of her banister.

I was tempted to stick around and watch, but didn’t dare.

I turned away and started leaping down the stairs toward the mansion’s ground floor.

Somehow, Thelma dealt with the newel post. I heard thumps, but no outcry. Seconds later, I looked over my shoulder just in time to see her start down my stairway. This time, not sliding on the banister.

Pounding her way down the middle of the stairs, machetes waving above her, sweat (and maybe some of my urine) flying off her hair and skin, jowls and arms and thighs shaking, her enormous breasts hopping up and down, swinging every which way.

Each heavy step sounded like a battering ram trying to demolish the stairway. I felt the tremors through my own feet as I raced for the bottom. I also felt air coming in through my fly, and realized I’d finally run out of piss.

About four steps from the bottom, I jumped.

I landed on both feet. The book bag whapped my back. I plunged across the foyer, staggering more than running toward the front door. The razor would do me no good—not against Thelma’s machetes. Afraid of hurting myself with it, I whipped its blade shut on my way to the door.

I put on the brakes. Skidded. Not able to stop in time, I twisted sideways and slammed against the door. As I reached for the handle, I glanced back.

Thelma, chugging her way down, had about three steps to go.

I lurched backward, jerking the door open.

The veranda was brightly lit by a couple of spotlights on the front lawn. It surprised me. I wished they’d been off. Wesley or Thelma must’ve activated them, somehow, the better to chase me down.

It worked both ways, though. I could see better, too.

On my way out the door, something struck me in the back. It felt like a fist slugging my book bag. A punch, but no real pain.

The moment I got outside, I dodged to the right. As I raced for the end of the veranda, I took a quick look over my shoulder.

Thelma didn’t slow down enough. After charging onto the veranda, her momentum swung her out wide. Yelling “Wahhh!", she crashed a shoulder against a front column. The blow knocked her to a quick halt. The way her tits swung, I half thought they might fly off and land in the front yard. But they stayed attached and rebounded as she bounced off the column. She couldn’t stay on her feet after that.

I watched her crash onto the floor of the veranda.

She hit it hard with her right side.

I quit running as she skidded and rolled onto her back. By then, however, I had almost reached the railing at the end of the veranda. A fine distance for my escape. But a bad distance for any hope of rushing back and jumping Thelma; she would have plenty of time to recover and get up.

Even as I watched, she rolled off her back and raised her head and met my eyes.

She had a machete in her left hand. Her right hand was empty.

She started to push herself up.

I suddenly spotted her other machete. It lay on the veranda floor about midway between us.

How had it gotten there?

I remembered the blow to my back.

But that had happened while I was still in the doorway.

My guess (later confirmed by gashes in my book bag and journal) is that Thelma had thrown the machete at me. It must’ve penetrated my book bag and had probably been sticking out for a few seconds while I dashed along the veranda. Then, shaking loose, it had fallen to the floor.

Thelma saw me looking at it.

She glanced at it.

We looked at each other.

I suddenly felt as if I’d become the star of a Sergio Leone film. We’re just waiting for the music to stop. That’ll be the signal. With the final note, we both break into mad dashes for the machete—in slow motion.

But there was no music.

This was no film.

Neither of us waited.

There was no slow motion, either, but I can play it that way in my mind. When it happened, though, it happened fast.

As I sprinted for the weapon, Thelma scurried forward and onto her feet. She already had a machete. And she raised it high, ready to chop me.

I had the greater speed, though. My chances looked good for reaching the other machete first.

By maybe half a second.

Then I’d have to swoop down and snatch it off the floor and swing it up in time to stop Thelma from whacking my head off.

The distance between us closed fast.

She wasn’t even paying attention to the damn machete.

Her eyes were on me.

She knew she had me. I knew she had me.

This was just me. Rupert Conway, not Clint Eastwood or Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger or Mel Gibson. This was real life, not a scene in an action movie. These were real machetes.

I was about to get myself killed.

Thelma, threatening the veranda floor with each thundering stride, yelled “Yahhhh!”

I yelled, “No!” and swerved away from our collision course and dived over the white-painted railing. I smashed through some bushes. They scratched me, but broke my fall.

Thelma didn’t leap the railing. She must’ve gone ahead to the second machete, picked it up, then run back to the veranda stairs.

Which gave me a little time.

I used the time to pocket the razor, shuck off my book bag, stuff the bag under the bushes for safe keeping, scramble to my feet and get a start on my dash for the corner of the house.

When I looked back, Thelma was charging down the veranda stairs. She turned toward me and broke into a run, pumping her two machetes.

Now that we were out in the open, I figured she didn’t stand a chance of catching me.

Not unless I fell down and broke my leg, or something.

I’d never broken a leg in my life, so it didn’t seem likely to happen tonight.

After turning the corner of the house, I slowed down a little. No point in wearing myself out. Anyway, I needed to think.

For a while there, my survival had looked iffy.

Now that I’d gotten out of the mansion alive, I had to make up my mind about what to do next.

I wanted the keys to the gorilla cages.

They were probably still inside the house.

I could hardly go after them with Thelma on my tail.

Wesley might not remain out of action for long. It had looked like a very nasty fall, though. It could’ve put him out of commission for hours, or days, or for ever.

So Thelma seemed to be my main problem. Sure, I could outrun her. I could hide, or run circles around her. But I didn’t want to fight her. Not while she had those machetes.

They were my real problem.

She had to be disarmed.

Bet she can’t swim with them, I thought.

The lagoon crossed my mind, but I rejected it. For one thing, how do you get there from here? For another, the ocean was dead ahead.

Swim out to the boat, I thought.

I remembered the two dinghies tied at the dock.

Can’t leave either of them behind.

Dealing with them would take a while.

Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t slowed down. I poured it on and sprinted at top speed for the shore.

How the Chase Ends

If I’d had another ten seconds, maybe I would’ve had time to slice through the mooring line of the second dinghy. As it was, I only cut through one.

My plan, formed as I dashed for the cove, had been to cut both the dinghies loose, hop into one, and tow the second away from the dock. Which would force Thelma to swim after me, leaving her machetes behind.

Probably not such a terrific plan, anyway.

But I didn’t get a chance to find out, because Thelma came pounding onto the dock before I even had a chance to start cutting the second rope.

I dropped the line of the first dinghy, sprang up and ran like hell for the end of the dock.

My sneakers clumped on the planks. Thelma, barefoot, slapped and thudded after me, wheezing for breath.

Again, she didn’t stand a chance of catching up.

On my way to the end of the dock, I flipped the razor shut and dropped it into my pocket.

I raced to the very edge, then dived.

My dive carried me way out over the water. I hit the surface flat out with a whop that hurt. Then the water shut down on top of me. I stayed under and kicked hard, trying to pick up speed.

No big splashing sound came from behind me. I kept waiting for it. My headstart hadn’t been much; Thelma should’ve already reached the end of the dock.

Obviously, she’d decided not to jump in.

Needing air anyway, I kicked to the surface. As I filled my lungs, I looked back.

I was closer to the dock than I’d expected or hoped. The shoes had probably slowed me down—as had my big, baggy shorts. Even though I wanted more distance between myself and Thelma, I began treading water.

The shoes made it tough, but I wasn’t about to kick them off and lose them. Pumping my feet as if I were racing a bicycle, I managed to keep my head above the surface.

Thelma, pale in the moonlight, was stepping down into the first dinghy. She held her arms out for balance. Beyond her hands, the blades of her machetes gleamed like silver.

She set the weapons down inside the boat. Then she bent over the outboard motor.

For a few seconds, I could only see her rump and the backs of her thighs. Then the drifting dinghy gave me a side view. Thelma had already planted one hand against the motor’s cowl. With the other, she jerked its starter cord. Her breasts swung like crazy. The motor coughed but didn’t start. She gave the cord another pull. The motor sputtered and caught.

Next thing I knew, she was sitting down and steering the boat in my direction.

I started swimming like mad for the cabin cruiser.

In this race, Thelma had the advantage. The dinghy was no speed-demon, but it moved faster than I could swim.

I had a fair headstart.

Not good enough, though. At the rate Thelma was coming, she’d overtake me long before I’d reach the cruiser.

I swam as fast as I could, and didn’t look back. The growing noise of the motor told me all I needed to know.

From the sound of things, Thelma was straight behind me, coming on, probably planning to run me over and chop me with her propeller blades.

I caught a deep breath and plunged for the bottom.

The motor sounded like a tinny, grumbling buzz as the dinghy passed over me. Abruptly, the pitch lowered. My guess, Thelma’d throttled down.

The noise faded, then swelled.

Thelma had turned around.

She’s going to stay up there, I realized. Circle and wait me out. Knows I can’t stay down forever. When I come up for air, she’ll try to nail me.

Rolling onto my back, I looked up and saw the moonlight shining on the water. I also saw the dark underbelly of the dinghy. It glided over the surface like a shadow.

I had a shark"s-eye view of the dinghy.

Inside my head, I started hearing the theme music from Jaws.

If I were a Great White, I could shoot straight up and ram the dinghy hard enough to capsize it. In the water, Thelma’d be at my mercy.

Ramming the dinghy wasn’t likely to work, though, me being a little guy and having nothing to push off against. If I shot up like that, playing shark, I might rock the dinghy a little bit. Mostly, though, I’d simply end up shoving myself downward off its hull.

While I considered these things, the boat slowly circled above me. And my lungs began to burn from holding air too long.

Getting some fresh air shouldn’t be terribly difficult. I could probably surface a safe distance from the dinghy, grab a breath, and have enough time to submerge before Thelma could reach me. Just a matter of picking the right moment to pop up. And being quick about it.

A fresh breath would give me extra time, but it wouldn’t solve my main problem.

If I could keep going up and snatching breaths…

Doing that, I might swim all the way to the cruiser. Or back to the dock.

What would that accomplish? She’d be right there, ready to chop me.

Sooner or later, she’ll run out of gas.

At first, the idea thrilled me.

No gas, no motor. The dinghy would be useless to her. She’d end up drifting around aimlessly. She’d either have to sit there and hope for the best, or start swimming.

Perfect!

But I had no idea how empty her tank might be. For all I knew, the gas might last for an hour.

An hour of me bursting to the surface, every minute or two? No way. I might be able to pull off a stunt like that three or four times, but then she’d catch on. I wouldn’t last ten minutes.

Unless the dinghy was already running on fumes…

Not much chance of that.

But maybe I could think of a way to kill her motor. Something that didn’t involve an endless wait.

By the time I’d gotten that far with my thoughts, my lungs ached so much that I could no longer think straight. I looked for the dinghy.

Damn!

It had just reached the far curve of its circle—as far away as it was likely to get. With each passing moment, now, it would be moving closer to me.

I rushed for the surface, jabbing my arms up, kicking hard. I went up so fast that I almost lost my shorts. I felt them slipping, but didn’t dare make a grab for them.

When they were down around my thighs, I remembered the razor in my pocket.

If I lost the shorts, I’d lose the razor.

So I reached down, grabbed the waist with one hand and held on. An instant later, I burst up out of the water. I gasped for air. With both hands, I pulled up my shorts.

The"ma’s head suddenly jerked sideways. She’d spotted me. She shoved the steering arm. The bow swung sharply and pointed at me. The motor noise swelled to a roar.

I dived.

A near miss. I felt the shivering water of the prop-wash against my back.

That’d be one way to stop the motor, I thought. Let it hit me.

Which probably would stop it. But the price seemed a bit steep.

During family vacation as a kid, I’d spent enough time in outboard motor boats to have them quit on me any number of times. Not always because of a fuel problem. If the prop hit a large rock… got tangled with weeds.

Yes!

Staying as deep as possible, I shoved a hand into my pocket and dug out the razor. I slid the razor under the top of my right sock. Then I tugged the shorts down and off.

After missing its chance at me, the boat had slowed down and resumed its casual circling.

I wadded the shorts.

Holding them in both hands, I started toward the surface.

Probably lose a few fingers, I thought.

Might be worth it, if it works.

I watched the gliding black belly of the boat. Slowed my climb. Watched. Waited. Felt the push of water as the bow passed over my head.

And suddenly shot both arms up, ramming my shorts into the propeller. In an instant, they were ripped from my grip. I jerked my arms down.

Fingers and hands intact.

Above me, the motor groaned, coughed and quit.

Yes, yes, yes!

Motor dead, the dinghy glided on by. I started swimming underwater to stay with it.

In a few seconds, I managed to get underneath it again.

A few seconds after that, the dinghy wobbled. Then the entire submerged portion of the motor swung up and broke the surface—taking along the remains of my shorts.

You can swing these outboard motors up on their hinges to get at the props. I’d done it myself a few times. So I knew that Thelma had to be standing at the stern, bent over the motor, both her hands busy.

A good, precarious position.

I lunged for the surface.

Reached high.

As my face cleared the water, I grabbed the gunnel with both hands and jerked down on it like a guy desperate to climb aboard.

My side of the dinghy lurched downward.

The other side jumped up.

Thelma, looming above me, was bent over the raised motor just as I’d hoped. Both her hands were on it. By the time I saw her, she had already turned her head to see what had gone wrong.

Already lost any chance of staying on her feet.

Crying out with alarm, she flung up her arms. She swayed sideways, shoulder first. For a moment, she stood on her right leg while her left leg lifted like a boy dog about to wet a tree. But her left leg kept rising higher. Then she was plunging down over the side of the dinghy. The gunnel jerked out of my grip and the dinghy scooted off. I kicked to keep my head up.

Thelma’s right shoulder struck the water.

The rest of her followed.

Then came a concussion that buffeted me, shoved at me, and slapped a load of water into my face.

Blind from the drenching, I began to swim after the dinghy.

My goal was to reach it, climb aboard, and take control of the machetes. Once I had them, Thelma wouldn’t dare give me any more trouble.

I’d have nothing more to fear from her or Wesley.

As I swam, I blinked the water out of my eyes. The dinghy was about twenty feet away.

No sweat.

I glanced back. No sign of Thelma. She still hadn’t come up. Though glad she wasn’t hot on my tail, I felt a twist of worry.

Maybe she’d drowned.

I actually thought about going back to see if she needed help. Which sounds nuts. But I had this idea that she might be grateful, might even change her tune and decide to stop fighting me. Maybe we would join forces, be a team…

She grabbed my left ankle.

Stopped me cold and jerked me down.

When her other hand clutched the back of my right leg, it gripped me above the top of my sock—missing the razor, thank God.

I felt myself being dragged backward.

A hand released me, grabbed me higher on the leg.

Knowing Thelma, she’d be going for my nuts. So I squeezed my legs together to stop her from reaching between them. Just in the nick of time, too.

She shoved a hand between my thighs. As she drove it in, prying her way deeper into the crevice, I suddenly tried to fling myself over. Her one hand stayed trapped between my thighs. Her other let go of my calf. I twisted, flung myself about, and kicked with both legs. In seconds, Thelma no longer had me.

I clawed to the surface. Gasping to fill my lungs, I whirled around as her head popped out of the water. She sucked in a single big breath. Then I clutched her shoulders with both my hands and drove her down.

She didn’t go straight down—she went over backward, me on top.

She fought me. When I lost hold of her slippery shoulders, she wrapped her arms around my back. She gave me a hug as if trying to crush my ribcage. My arms were free, so I grabbed her by the hair and one ear, and twisted her head.

Both of us kicked and squirmed.

I quickly lost track of who was on top—or where the top might be. We both stayed underwater, though. Neither of us could breathe.

And neither of us let go.

We stayed in our clinch as if each of us figured we had the upper hand.

It seemed like hours that we struggled under the water in that fierce embrace. It might’ve been as long as a minute.

Finally, Thelma seemed to tire out. Her thrashing and writhing and kicking slowed down. Her arms no longer squeezed my ribcage so hard. Soon after that, she ceased all her struggles. Her arms loosened their hold, then slid away from my back.

I let go of her ear. With the hand that clutched her hair, I eased her away from me.

She seemed limp.

Unconscious, maybe dead.

Maybe faking.

Keeping my grip on her hair, I rose to the surface. I breathed, but held her head under—at arm’s length, just in case she was playing “possum.

I had to tread water furiously to keep my own head up. With so much motion on my part, I might not be able to detect movements by Thelma. Until it was too late.

Unnerving.

I felt like a murderer and a sitting duck.

It became very difficult to keep on holding her down. I thought she might already be dead. But I also half expected to feel her suddenly slide the razor out of my sock. Scared of both things, I gave her head a shove backward and let go.

A few seconds later, her head popped up. I glimpsed her face in the moonlight—eyes abulge, lips tight. I felt sure she must be alive, after all. But she didn’t start gasping and huffing for air. In silence except for the slurping sounds of the water, her head tilted back and the rest of her body came sliding to the surface.

The next thing I knew, she was floating on her back. Sprawled out loose and open, arms spread, legs wide. She looked as if she’d maybe zonked out while relaxing in her back-yard swimming pool.

She sure didn’t look dead.

It was uncanny.

It gave me the willies.

Treading water, I watched her for signs of life.

She just drifted lazily, being lifted and turned a little, now and then, by the motions of the water under her back. After gazing at her for a while, I noticed she was farther off than before.

I didn’t want her to get away.

Not yet.

I wasn’t about to swim after her, though. So I twisted myself around and swam to the dinghy.

I made a stop at its stern. Reaching up, I spent a minute or two untangling my shorts from the propeller. They’d gotten torn up pretty good. I tossed them into the boat, anyway. Then I managed to throw myself aboard without capsizing the thing.

While I put on the shredded remains of my shorts, I checked on Thelma. She was pretty far off, but still spread out on her back, the same as before.

It didn’t seem right.

If I’d drowned her, she should’ve sunk. If I hadn’t drowned her, she ought to be either swimming somewhere or floundering in the water, gasping and coughing.

Just didn’t make any sense for her to be floating like that, as if asleep.

I lowered the outboard back into the water and got it started. Keeping it throttled down, I turned the dinghy toward Thelma. I puttered toward her very slowly.

The prow was aimed between her legs.

I steered to the side a little earlier than I needed to, just to avoid temptation.

I tried to miss her completely.

But the port side of the dinghy gave her left foot a gentle nudge. She didn’t so much as flinch. She simply remained sprawled on her back, and began to swivel counterclockwise.

She reminded me of the knife thrower’s assistant in a circus act. The beautiful gal in a skimpy outfit who gets strapped to a wheel, gets twirled, gets the fun of being the knife target.

Except Thelma wasn’t beautiful and she didn’t have a skimpy outfit on. She was naked. Her huge breasts, shiny and pale in the moonlight, sort of drooped off the sides of her chest like a couple of seasick voyagers getting ready to woops.

The bump by the dinghy made her spin half a turn.

She appeared to resume spinning when I started to circle around her with the boat.

The waves of my wake made her tilt and bob.

She seemed oblivious of it all.

Reaching down between my knees, I grabbed one of the machetes. I picked it up and waved it overhead. “Hey!” I shouted. “Thelma! Look what I’ve got?”

She just lay there in the middle of my wave-circles.

I threw the machete at her.

It was supposed to be more of a toss, really. A gentle, underhand toss—the way you might throw a ball to a little kid.

Intended to startle her, make her flinch or try to dodge out of the way.

It wasn’t even meant, actually, to hit her.

For some reason, the toss went haywire. For some reason, I swung my arm up with more force than I’d planned on. Instead of making a shallow arc through the air so it would fall fairly harmlessly on or near Thelma, the machete went high.

Maybe all “Freudian slips’ aren’t verbal.

Maybe this was a slip-of-the-arm.

Who knows? Maybe there was no subconscious intent, and it just happened because my coordination was loused up from all the running and swimming and stuff.

Anyway, I was surprised and shocked to see that I hadn’t given the machete such a gentle toss, after all.

It flew almost straight up, tumbling end over end.

I said, “Oh, shit.”

As it flipped higher and higher, I had no idea where it might come down. For all I knew, it might land on me.

We’re talking a very large knife, built for whacking its way through sugar cane or jungle or something. The blade didn’t have much of a point, but it must’ve been two feet long—broad and heavy.

It tumbled blade over handle on the way up.

To a height of at least thirty feet.

At the very top, it made a tight U-turn. Then it started down, still tumbling.

Right away, I saw that I was no longer in danger of being Ground Zero.

Thelma was.

Thelma!” I shouted. “Watch out!”

She didn’t react—just floated spread-eagled on her back like a naked and unlovely knife thrower’s assistant.

She’s dead, I told myself. Don’t worry about it.

But I yelled “Thelma!” again, anyway.

And watched the machete tall, whipping end over end.

Maybe it would miss her, after all. Or maybe she would be struck by its handle, not its blade.

It struck blade first. It caught her just below the navel. It sank in almost to the handle.

Thelma screamed.

She was punched underwater by the blow. Her scream went gurgly, then silent.

She vanished, swallowed by the black.

My own scream ended when I ran out of breath. Gasping and whimpering, I gave the motor full throttle and sped away at top speed—which seemed way too slow.

I glanced back.

No sign of Thelma.

After that, I didn’t look back any more. I was scared of what I might see.

I sort of thought she might be swimming after me.

One to Go

I took the other machete with me, climbed onto the dock, and tied up the dinghy. Still feeling creeped out, I wouldn’t look behind me at the cove as I hurried to the foot of the dock. Nor when I walked through the thick grass at the rear of the mansion.

The whole thing had been too damn weird.

Also, I’d never killed anyone before.

I felt pretty strange about killing Thelma.

It was bad enough that I’d ended the life of a human being. But she was a woman, too. You’re not supposed to hurt women, much less kill them. Also, she was Kimberly’s sister; I didn’t feel good at all about that.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as if Thelma hadn’t deserved what she got. She’d thrown in with Wesley, who’d murdered her own father and her own sister’s husband. Along with Wesley, she’d done some vicious, sick things to Billie, Connie and Kimberly. To those kids, too—Erin and Alice—not to mention helping Wesley murder their parents.

If that weren’t enough, she’d tried to kill me a few times—including the attempt at the lagoon that had nearly wiped out Connie. I was damn lucky to still be alive.

Also, it wasn’t as if I’d murdered her in cold blood. Our struggle in the cove had been self-defense, on my part. I’d only been trying to stay alive.

And the final deal with the machete had been sort of an accident. Which wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been playing dead, or whatever the hell she’d been up to.

She had nobody to blame but herself.

In a way, I felt sort of angry at Thelma for making me kill her.

In another way, though…

Maybe I’d better not write it.

Oh, why the hell not? Who am I trying to impress? The whole idea is to tell what happened—accurately, without any phoney stuff…

It’s not that I didn’t feel sort of rotten in some ways about killing Thelma. Especially because she was Kimberly’s sister, and I hated the idea of causing Kimberly any more grief.

But here’s the deal.

There was part of me that felt absolutely great about killing Thelma.

We’d gone one-on-one, her or me, a fight to the finish, and I’d wasted her ass.

Sure, I felt sort of horrified and disgusted and guilty and spooked and very tired—but holy Jesus I was so excited by it that I felt all trembly inside. As I walked through the grass of the back lawn, I clenched my teeth and pumped my machete at the sky and hissed, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

One down, one to go.

And with any luck, the “one to go” might already be out of the picture. Wesley’d taken a major fall down those stairs. At the very least, he’d been injured so badly that Thelma’d gone after me without him. Maybe he’d broken a leg. Maybe his neck.

In a way, I hoped the fall hadn’t killed him.

Just busted him up enough to make him easy for me.

Even from the back yard, I could see light in a few of the mansion’s windows. Wesley or Thehna had turned on some lights to help them chase me down. From the look of things, nobody’d gotten around, yet, to turning them off.

A good sign.

It might mean that Wesley was at least disabled.

I planned to enter by the front door, so I walked through the yard alongside the house, past the window where I’d watched Wesley and Thehna brutalize Erin, and on past the corner of the veranda. The front area was still brightly illuminated by the spotlights.

On my way to the veranda stairs, I spotted my book bag under the bush where I’d left it. It could stay there until I’d finished with Wesley.

I also happened to catch a look at myself. My shorts had been so demolished by the outboard motor that they no longer had pockets. I’d lost Andrew’s lighter, Billie’s sunblock, and the snacks of smoked fish that I’d never gotten around to eating. A good thing I’d transferred the straight razor to my sock. The razor was still in place.

So little remained of my shorts after their run-in with the prop that they’d hardly been worth putting back on. Andrew’s belt was scarred but intact. Most of the area below the belt, however, was either shredded or completely missing. A few flaps hung here and there. Otherwise, there was nothing much save fringe and gaps and me.

Which I sort of liked.

I wouldn’t want to walk down Broadway wearing them, but hell, this was a tropical island. A wilderness. Nobody here but me and my women.

And Wesley.

Can’t forget Wesley.

Not quite yet.

Machete in one hand, razor still in my sock, I trotted up the veranda stairs. The front door stood wide open. Was that how Thelma had left it? Of course. She sure hadn’t slowed down to shut it after her mad dash onto the veranda.

I stepped through the doorway.

Looked all around, fast, to make sure nobody was coming.

Then turned my attention to the stairway. I could see to the top of it. But not to the place where Wesley had landed after tumbling down from the top story.

I sure hoped he was still there.

Very slowly, I made my way to the foot of the stairs.

There, I stopped and listened. My heart was thumping awfully loud and fast. That was about all I heard other than the outside sounds—the usual jungle noises—squeals and screeches and twitters and stuff.

Nothing inside the house.

Nothing that might come from Wesley.

I switched the machete to my left hand so I could use my right to hold the banister. Then I started to climb. I set each foot down with great care. Silently. Once in a while, a stair creaked under my weight. Each time that happened, I halted, waited and listened.

Nothing from Wesley.

Maybe he is dead, I thought.

Or just sleeping.

No, not sleeping. Not where I’d last seen him. I should’ve been able to hear his snores.

Which left three possibilities:

1. He was dead where he’d fallen.

2. He was too hurt to move, lying very still and silent, aware of my approach.

3. He was gone.

Number one would’ve been okay with me, but I was pulling for number two. Still pumped from my encounter with Thelma, I looked forward to dealing with him.

I did not want possibility number three.

But that’s what I got.

After all that slow sneaking up the stairs, I finally climbed high enough to see the next floor. I wanted—expected—really thought for sure that I would find Wesley’s naked body sprawled out there on the hardwood floor.

Crippled, but alive.

Or dead would’ve been just fine and dandy.

But not this.

I groaned and clutched the banister. Shivers scurried up my back.

He might be anywhere.

I twisted sideways and glanced down the stairs.

Thank God, he wasn’t sneaking up behind me.

Thinking that perhaps he’d managed to crawl a short distance from where he’d originally landed, I climbed the final six or seven stairs.

No sign of him.

He might’ve gone into one of the rooms off the hallway, or back upstairs, or downstairs… or anywhere.

Now what? I wondered.

Easy. I’ll find him, or he’ll find me.

I thought about doing a room-by-room search. But quickly gave up the idea. A search like that would be scary, dangerous and time-consuming. Possibly a waste of time, too.

He might not even be in the house.

He might’ve gone over to the cages.

What if he’s with the gals, right now? Doing things to them?

Whatever he might be doing, he wasn’t attacking me at the moment. He wasn’t available for me to deal with. I needed to figure out my next move.

Go to the cages?

No, no, no! Find the keys, and then go to the cages.

Wesley hadn’t seemed to be carrying the keys when he fell down the stairs. Which meant they were probably still in the upstairs room, unless he’d returned for them.

I dashed up the stairs. Most of them were pretty wet, so I kept a hand on the banister, ready to catch me if I should slip. But I reached the top without any trouble.

Though the hallway was lit, the bedroom was dark. I rushed in and searched the wall near the doorway until my hand hit the switch. An overhead light came on.

No keys on the rumpled white sheets of the bed. I snatched up both the pillows. Still no keys. Nor could I find them on the floor or nightstand or dresser. After scurrying around the room, I even dropped to my knees and looked under the bed.

Not a completely thorough search.

No luck. By then, however, I wasn’t expecting to find them. Wesley had returned to the room, all right. He’d either hidden the key-ring, or taken it with him.

Taken the keys to the cages?

I rushed to one of the windows.

Seeing little more than my own reflection in the upper pane, I crouched and peered out through the screen.

Out beyond the moonpale front lawn, a small area of the jungle shimmered with an orange-yellow glow of firelight.

It gave me a nasty sinking in my stomach.

I muttered, “Oh, jeez.”

And ran from the room.

Return to the Cages

On my way down, I took a fast detour and grabbed up Connie’s fishing spear.

Spear in one hand, machete in the other, razor in my sock, I trotted the rest of the way downstairs and raced out of the mansion. I leaped down the veranda steps. I sprinted across the front lawn, leaving the lights behind.

From ground level, I couldn’t see the fireglow. Too much jungle in the way. I was certain the glow had come from the area of the cages, though.

And wondered if I might be running into a trap.

Wesley seemed good at traps.

Maybe he wanted to play it safe just in case I should win against Thelma. Maybe he’d even watched us, and knew I’d taken her out.

And figured I’d be coming after him next.

Just his style, he might light a fire to draw me into position. But he wouldn’t be at the fire. He’d be nearby, instead, waiting to ambush me.

With that in mind, I changed course. Instead of heading straight for the cages, I veered to the left and ran to a far corner of the lawn before entering the jungle. I went in fairly deep, then turned to the right and started making my way back.

I was quick about it. If Wesley had gone to the cages for some reason other than to ambush me, he needed to be stopped fast. There wasn’t much need for quiet, either. With all the regular jungle noises, he wasn’t likely to hear me crashing through the bushes. Not, at least, until I was very close to him.

When I spied the glow in the distance and off to my right, I slowed down. It seemed to come from a strange height, shining on leaves and limbs about ten or fifteen feet above ground level.

I couldn’t recall any hills near the cages. Had Wesley climbed a tree and planted a fiery torch among its branches?

Reminding myself that he was probably not at the torch, I hunkered down and crept closer to the area. I listened for voices, but heard none.

I figured Wesley would probably jump me at any moment.

The last time I’d seen him, he had been holding one knife and wearing a belt with one empty sheath. There’d probably been a second sheath on his other hip, holding his other knife.

So I could expect him to be armed with two hunting knives.

At least. No telling what else he might’ve grabbed before coming over to the cages.

Not the ax, I hoped.

I hadn’t seen the ax since our “last stand,” when we’d used it as an anchor for the rope. Hadn’t seen the Swiss Army knife since then, either.

Wesley or Thelma must’ve taken both those weapons.

The Swiss Army knife didn’t worry me much. Though wickedly sharp, my razor was sharper. And the little pocket knife was outclassed, big-time, by my machete.

The ax was a different story, though.

If Wesley snuck up on me with the ax… or some major weapon I didn’t even know about, such as a chainsaw… or even a gun…

No gun, I told myself. If he’d found a usable firearm, he would’ve started using it a long time ago.

Probably.

But God only knew what other sorts of weapons he might’ve found. If he’d looked in those storage buildings behind the house… A family that keeps a tractor mower might own a vast assortment of nasty tools: a chainsaw, a scythe, hedge-trimmers, a pickax, a sledge hammer.

Most of those, I figured, wouldn’t be much worse than the ax. The ax had to be somewhere. Not in his hands, I hoped.

I’d seen, close up, the damage it had done to Andrew’s head.

The ax really scared me.

Scared the living hell out of me until the moment I found out what Wesley did have.

Then I wished he’d had the ax instead.

Wait, wait. Time out. That was jumping ahead. The last thing I want to do is jump ahead—bring myself closer to when I need to write about what’s coming, anyway, much too soon for my taste.

I wish I could just skip the whole business.

I’ve come this far, though. I’ve already written about all sorts of nasty shit that hurt to write about because it was so disgusting or horrible or personally embarrassing. What’s coming is worse than anything else, so far. I’d love to stop writing, right now, and avoid the rest.

That’d be chicken, though.

It’s not as if I haven’t known what’s coming. For days, ever since I first started to write “The Rest of the Story,” I’ve known how things turned out at the cages that night. I’ve known how painful it would be to write about. Now that the time is just about here, I can’t just call it off. Even though that’s exactly what I’d like to do.

I mean, it’s the end of the story. I’ve gone through several ballpoint pens, my entire spiral notebook and most of a smaller notebook that I found in Erin’s bedroom (everything is on Erin’s paper since “Last Words’ at the end of my journal) all to keep track of what has happened from the time Wesley stranded us on this island. I’ve probably spent some seventy to eighty hours writing. I didn’t go to all that trouble just to go yellow and quit before telling how things came to an end.

So, here goes.

Sneaking toward the fireglow, I found myself in the bushes behind one of the seven gorilla cages. From where I crouched, the cage was only a dim, black shape. It appeared to be empty, but I couldn’t be sure. The fire was still a good distance off.

Keeping the spear and machete in my hands, I crawled between the bushes and scurried across a strip of open ground toward the back of the cage. Before I got close enough for the bars to interfere with my spear, I turned to the right and hurried to the cage’s far comer. I slipped around that corner. As I crept along the side of the cage, I looked through its bars.

The fire came from that direction. It was high and far away, as if Wesley had flung a blazing torch on top of one of the cages. The back-light let me see that the cage beside me was empty. So was the next cage down. The torch seemed to be directly above the third cage.

Much farther away than it might sound.

Each cage was shaped like a rectangle, about twelve feet high, fifteen feet wide and maybe twenty-five feet long. There was an open space of about five feet between cages. So the torch must’ve been some seventy or eighty feet away from me.

Because of the distance, my angle of vision and all the bars in the way, I couldn’t see if anyone was up on top of the cage with the torch.

But I could see a woman inside the cage. Her face was anybody’s guess. I recognized her figure, though, in spite of the distance, bars, and murky light. She stood near the middle of her cage, almost directly under the torch, her naked body half-concealed by shadows but unmistakably Billie.

She didn’t walk anywhere, but turned around slowly as if looking for someone.

Maybe looking for me.

Facing my way, she seemed to stare at me. She probably couldn’t see me, though, in the heavy darkness at my end of the cages.

So where’s Wesley? I wondered. Up on Billie’s cage with the torch, or waiting to jump out of the jungle and take me from behind?

I needed a clear look at the top of her cage.

If I could climb this cage…

No. I might’ve been strong enough to shinny up the bars, but I sure couldn’t do it without setting down my spear and machete.

Which weren’t going to leave my hands. Not, at least, unless I knew for sure that Wesley wouldn’t be jumping me.

Keeping hold of the weapons, I retraced my way into the jungle. In among the bushes and trees, I watched the glow of the torch and took a route parallel to the row of gorilla cages. I stayed far enough back to keep the cages and the blaze of the torch out of sight.

For a while, I planned to sneak in near Billie’s cage and try to see if Wesley was on top.

But if I could spot him, he could spot me.

I hit upon a better idea.

Don’t look for him—ask.

Sticking to my route, I continued through the jungle. Past the torchlight. And on, and on, leaving the glow farther and farther behind me.

When I judged that I’d covered enough distance, I started sneaking to the right.

I thought I had probably overshot Erin’s cage, and would need to backtrack and search for it. Luck was with me, though. I came out of the jungle behind the middle of her cage.

After a quick look from side to side, I started crawling across the strip of open ground.

Erin didn’t seem to be aware of my approach. She stood at the door of her cage. Though she was merely a dim shape in the darkness, she appeared to have her back toward me. Her hands were raised to about the height of her head, and seemed to be gripping the bars of her door.

Pausing, I looked to my right and saw Alice’s cage. The girl was hunkered down—as if cowering or trying to hide—at the back corner nearest to Erin’s cage.

I couldn’t see anyone inside Connie’s cage. Which was closer to the torchlight, but a fair distance away from me. I figured she must be in it—just out of sight. Maybe lying down.

The next cage was Kimberly’s. The light was better, way over there. Not so much darkness as a shivery glow. What with the distance and my angle, though, I couldn’t exactly tell where Connie’s cage left off, Kimberly’s began or ended, or Billie’s began.

Someone seemed to be roaming around down there, in among the contusion of bars. I supposed it must be Kimberly, but I couldn’t be sure.

I tried to spot the torch.

Couldn’t, though. Not the torch, just its glow.

At the other end of the cages, I’d been a lot closer to it. From my new position, the bright aura of torchlight might’ve been coming from on top of Kimberly’s cage. I figured the torch was probably still above Billie’s, though.

Anyway, I stopped inspecting the place and finished crawling across to Erin’s cage. When I was almost there, I turned myself sideways. I lay down flat, mashing the tall grass on the ground alongside the bars. The grass was maybe six inches high, so it would help to conceal me. It felt cool and wet. I put the spear and machete by my sides, and propped myself up on my elbows.

Erin still stood at the door of her cage.

I called out to her. It was a whisper, really. She didn’t respond, so I whispered her name more loudly. The pale blot of her head jerked. Her hands fell away from the bars. The width of her body narrowed, then widened, as she turned around.

“Erin,” I whispered again.

She started walking toward me. She had a slight hitch to her gait—a limp.

Which gave me a sudden, harsh reminder of what I’d watched them do to her. Wesley and Thelma. In the downstairs room. How they’d brought Erin in wearing a white blouse, a cute tartan kilt, and knee socks. How they’d stripped her, brutalized her, done such horrible, sick things to her… All while I watched, guilty and aroused. It made me feel strange, just thinking about it. I had to squirm a little in the dewy grass.

“Rupert?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

She stopped at the bars and lay down on her side of them, matching my position, her head turned, her face close to mine.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Okay. What’s going on here?”

“Wesley came.”

“Where is he?”

“Up on top of the cages. I think so, anyhow. It’s kinda hard to keep track of him all the time.”

“Is everybody okay?”

“Rupert?” Alice’s voice, her whisper loud.

I turned my head and found her. She was still at the corner of her cage, but no longer in a hunched position. She was poised there on all fours like a dog, her face to the bars. “Don’t leave me out of everything,” she said.

“You were asleep, anyway,” Erin told her.

“Was not.”

“We’d better keep our voices down,” I said. “Come on,” I told Erin. I picked up my two weapons. Then she and I crawled, side by side, the bars between us.

I wished there was more light. I wanted to be able to see her and Alice. But this was better than last time, when the darkness had been almost total. This time, at least I could make out their shapes—sort of. Basically, they weren’t much more than pale blurs without any distinct features.

At the corner of her cage, Erin halted. I crawled around it, turned myself so I faced the rear, put down my spear and machete, and sat in the grass between the two cages.

Alice on my left, Erin on my right.

Like old times, except this time we were gathered at the back of the passageway, not the front.

“I thought you were asleep,” I told Alice. That’s why I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sure glad you’re back.”

“Is everybody okay?” I asked.

“All depends,” Alice said. “What do you… ?”

“We’re fine,” Erin said. “I mean, you know. Not exactly fine and dandy, but we’re the same as before.”

“He hasn’t been at us,” Alice explained.

“Where’d you go?”

“Over to the house, for starters. I went looking for the keys, so I could come back and let everybody out.”

“Did you find them?” Erin asked.

“Wesley doesn’t have them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I know he hasn’t got them,” Alice said.

“Well, he didn’t unlock any cages.”

“He walked by. You could see what he had and didn’t. And he didn’t have any keys. Not if they weren’t, like, stuck up his kazoo.”

“He couldn’t fit them up his kazoo,” Erin pointed out, sounding a trifle annoyed. “That big brass ring? No way.”

“It was a figure of speech, stupid.”

“Anyway, I guess she’s right. We would’ve seen the keys if he’d had them.”

“What did he have?” I asked.

“A boner,” Alice said.

“Very nice,” Erin said.

“Well, he did.”

“I’m sure Rupert wants to hear all about it.”

I was blushing, but the darkness kept it hidden. “What sort of weapons did he have?” I asked.

Erin said, Two knives. Does the torch count?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, then the torch. And a can of gas.”

“A what?”

“A can of gasoline.”

“We keep tons of it around for the generator,” Alice explained.

“For a lot of things,” Erin added.

“Mostly for the generator, though. We’ve got tons.”

“Wesley has about two gallons,” Erin said. “He took the can up with him.”

“He says he’s gonna incinerate us,” Alice said.

Me and the Twins

“He won’t do it,” Erin said. “It’s just a threat. If he burns us up, he won’t be able to mess around with us any more. It’d wreck everything for him.”

“Yeah? Well just suppose he only burns some of us?”

Erin didn’t have a quick answer for that.

“He’s already doused Billie,” Alice added.

I felt my stomach sink and shrivel. “Are you sure?”

“It was the first thing he did,” Erin explained. “He showed up, I don’t know, like maybe an hour or so after you took off? With the torch and gas.”

“And no pants on, as per usual,” Alice added, sounding disgusted.

“So he parades by our cages, and says how we’re all going to help him set up a surprise for you.”

“He called you a chickenshit motherfucking asswipe,” Alice explained.

“Real nice,” Erin said. “You don’t have to tell him everything.”

“I’d want to know it, if somebody called me…”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “What about the surprise?”

“He said you paid him a visit at the house, and that you ran away, but Thelma’d gone after you. He said Thelma would probably kill you…”

“Nail your puny little butt,” Alice elaborated.

“But just in case she didn’t get you, he wanted to have a surprise ready. He said you’d probably come over here to the cages, first thing. So we should be expecting you, and we’d better not yell and try to warn you off.”

“He said he’d toast our twats.”

“Alice! Stop it!”

“I’m just telling what he said. “

“Well, don’t. For Godsake. You don’t have to be so crass.”

“You talk just as bad. Only not around Rupert.”

“Hey, girls. Come on.”

“She’s got the hots for you, Rupert.”

“I do not.”

“Like you’d ever admit it to him. But she does, Rupert. Trust me. She told me so.”

“Liar.”

“You’re the liar.”

“I never said I had the hots for him.”

“Maybe not in those exact words, but…”

“Can’t we talk about it some other time?” I suggested. “I mean, if I don’t take care of Wesley… Does he ever come over to this end of things?”

“Hasn’t yet,” Erin said. “The closest he’s come is Kimberly’s cage. He hasn’t gotten on top of Connie’s or ours.”

“Not that he couldn’t,” Alice said.

“Yeah, he could if he wanted to. If he didn’t want to move the ladder, he could always just go ahead and jump. It isn’t that far between…”

“What ladder?” I asked.

“Our ladder,” Alice said.

“He got it at our house,” Erin explained. “Like everything else, just about. He’s been keeping it handy ever since he put us in the cages. It’s one of his things. He climbs up on top of the cages and sort of… messes around. You know, looks down at us. Teases us. He keeps a box of stuff up there. Things he can drop on us whenever he feels like playing ‘bombardier.’”

“Mostly books,” Alice said.

“He drops books on you?”

“Yeah,” Alice said, “and they can hurt. Even a paperback hurts if it catches you with its spine.”

“Especially a corner of the spine,” Erin added. The deal is, Wesley doesn’t want to bomb us with anything we might use against him. He figures we can’t do much damage with a book.”

“Sometimes, he bombs us with pages,” Alice said. “He’ll rip one out and wad it up, then set it on fire and drop it through the bars.”

“You can usually dodge them,” Erin said. “He just likes to hear us scream.”

“And watch us try to get out of the way. He loves to make us jump around. You know, because we aren’t wearing a stitch of clothes, or anything.”

“He dumps buckets of water on us from up there, too.”

“All kinds of stuff,” Alice added.

“It’d take all night,” Erin said, “to tell you everything he drops on us. I mean, he’s had a lot of time on his hands with nothing to do but mess with us.”

“His favorite thing, he lies down and dangles his dong through the bars. Then he’ll…”

“God, Alice. That’s not…”

“I’m just trying to tell what he does.”

“Rupert doesn’t need to hear it. You know? Jeez!”

I decided to bring us back to the subject. “So Wesley got this ladder, tonight, and used it to climb up to the top of Billie’s cage?”

“Right,” Erin said.

“Then what?”

“Then he pulled it up after him. And he put it across the gap between Billie’s cage and Kimberly’s to make it easy for him to cross back and forth. He can just use the ladder like a bridge, you know? Instead of having to jump.”

“That’s why he hasn’t come over here,” Alice said.

“I don’t think he’s real eager to jump. It’d be pretty tricky. There’s nothing up there but bars.”

“And the ladder,” Alice added.

“He can get around pretty well, walking on the bars. He’s had a lot of practice.”

“He’s part ape,” Alice said.

“Thinks he’s King Kong,” Erin said.

“Thinks he’s King Dong.”

“You’ll have to excuse my sister,” Erin said. “She isn’t usually like this.”

“It’s all right,” I said.

“See?” Alice asked. “I told you it was okay with Rupert.”

“He’s just being polite.”

I stayed quiet at that, not wanting to get involved in their little squabbles. The thing is, I didn’t really mind Alice’s language. It’s hard to be offended by stuff like that when you’ve got a guy like Wesley nearby. It’s hard to be anything except scared. But I did find myself a little bit amused, now and then. And sometimes embarrassed.

And turned on. I mean, there I was, sitting on the ground between Erin and Alice. They were stark-naked. I might as well have been naked, too, considering the condition of my shorts.

Even though I couldn’t see the girls, I sort of knew what they looked like. After all, I’d had time to study every inch of Erin when she’d been in the room with Wesley and Thelma. And Alice was her twin sister. What I couldn’t actually see because of the darkness, I had no trouble imagining.

On top of all that, Alice’s talk about things like twats and dongs and boners only made things worse—or better, depending on how you look at things.

Plus, I couldn’t quite stop thinking about Erin having the “hots’ for me. Apparently, she hadn’t used that exact word. Whatever words she might’ve used, though, she’d made it clear to Alice that she liked me.

Interesting news. Incredible news. Wonderful news.

Too bad it had to come at a time when everyone was in so much danger that I figured we probably wouldn’t all make it through the night.

Anyway, that sums up what was going on with me, and why I said that I didn’t have any problem with Alice’s language. I wasn’t being polite, I was being truthful.

Trying to get things on track again, I said, “So you think Wesley won’t try to jump from cage to cage?”

“I haven’t even seen him try that in broad daylight,” Erin answered.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t,” Alice pointed out.

“If he wants to come this way,” Erin said, “I bet he’ll bring the ladder with him. Put it down across each gap. We’d hear that, if he tried it.”

“The ladder’s aluminum,” Alice explained.

“So we don’t need to worry about him sneaking over,” Erin said.

“Unless he does jump the gaps. We’d hear him when he lands on this cage, but…”

“He’s too smart to try it.”

“Or unless he gets down off the cages,” I suggested. “Then he could sneak over here on the ground…”

“Kimberly’s gonna warn us if he climbs down.”

“She’s supposed to,” Alice corrected.

“Yeah. We sort of set up a few tricks of our own. If Wesley does anything we need to know about, Kimberly’s gonna pass the word to Connie, and Connie’ll tell Alice.”

“Except Connie’s asleep,” Alice said.

“Maybe she is and maybe she isn’t,” Erin said. “Anyway, he won’t climb down. He’s right where he wants to be, up above everything where nobody can get at him.”

“I have a spear.”

The girls were silent for a second or two. Then Erin asked, “Can you hit him with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d better not even try,” Alice said. “Even if you get him, he’ll probably still be able to set Billie on fire. All he has to do is drop the torch.”

“What if I wait till the torch goes out?” I asked.

For a couple of seconds, nobody answered. Then Alice spoke up. “I don’t know.”

“It might be a really long wait,” Erin said. “And when it does burn out, he’ll just dip it in the gas and light it back up.”

“With what?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“How would he relight it?”

“Oh, he’s got a couple of Dad’s cigarette lighters. Keeps them in the box up there for lighting his paper wads.”

“And cigarettes,” Alice said. The creep smokes like a chimney. That’s something else he uses on us. His butts. He gets a big charge out of flicking them at us.”

“He doesn’t have to be on top of the cages for that,” Erin explained. “He mostly does it from the sides. Yells ‘incoming’ and fires the things through the bars. They aren’t as easy to dodge as the paper balls.”

“They can really sting, too,” Alice said.

“That’s horrible,” I muttered.

“It isn’t half as horrible as some of what he does to us.”

“Rupert doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“And Thelma’s even worse than Wesley,” Alice went on. “She comes right into the cages with us, sometimes and…”

“Knock it off,” Erin said. “I mean it.”

“I think she must be part lesbo…”

“They’re both a couple of sicko freaks,” Erin said. “Let’s just let it go at that, okay? You haven’t gotta go and blab about every little perverted thing they’ve done to us.”

“Rupert doesn’t mind. Do you, Rupert?”

“Well…”

“I mind,” Erin said. “Jeez. So just cut it out. It’s embarrassing. Rupert doesn’t need to hear every disgusting detail.”

“Let him speak for himself. Do you want to hear what Thelma likes to do?”

I looked for a way out, and found it.

“She’s dead, by the way.”

“What?” Erin blurted.

“I killed her. Over in the cove.”

“Wow.”

“Fantastic,” Alice said.

“Good going,” Erin told me. Something suddenly touched my thigh, so I flinched. Then I realized it was Erin’s hand. It gave my leg a gentle squeeze. “How’d you get her?” she asked.

“With one of those machetes.”

“Holy cow.”

“Fantastic,” Alice repeated.

Erin’s hand slipped under the tatters of my shorts.

“So Wesley,” I said, “is the only sicko freak we have to worry about.”

Her warm, small hand glided a ways up my thigh. It came close to my groin before reversing direction. I had to squirm.

“What about the bucket?” I asked. “You said Wesley liked to take it up on top of the cages and dump water on you?”

“What about it?” Alice asked.

“If I can get my hands on a bucket of water, maybe I can take care of things if Wesley tries to set Billie on fire.”

Erin squeezed my leg. “Yeah!” she whispered. “That’s a great idea.”

“Where do I find it?”

“I don’t know.”

Alice said, “I hate to embarrass you again, Erin.”

“Then don’t.”

“The thing is, Rupert, we’ve each got a bucket in our cage. For you know what.”

I was surprised. It certainly made sense for them to have buckets in their cages, but I hadn’t given the matter any thought. I hadn’t seen any buckets, either.

Looking over my shoulder, I tried to spot one in Erin’s cage. Too much darkness.

“Real nice,” she was saying to her sister. Even as she complained, her hand crept higher up my thigh.

“You think Rupert doesn’t go to the bathroom?” Alice asked her. “Everyone goes to the bathroom. We just happen to do it in buckets.”

“Which won’t do Rupert any good at all, because we can’t exactly hand them to him.” In a more pleasant tone of voice, she said, “My dumb sister seems to have forgotten that the buckets won’t fit through the bars. Thelma has to… used to come in and take care of them.”

“Maybe we can make one fit through the bars,” Alice suggested.

“They’re metal or steel or…”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t be bent.”

Erin’s hand stopped moving. “We’d have to fold one in half to get it through the bars. We’d have to, like, jump on it or something. And we’re barefoot. Besides which, even if we could smash one small enough, the thing would make so much nose that Wesley’d probably hear us.”

“What about Wesley’s bucket?” I asked. “Where’s the one he uses?”

“Who knows?” Alice said.

Erin’s hand resumed caressing my thigh. “It might be anywhere,” she said. “Maybe back at the house, even. If you wanted to go back to the house, you’d be sure to find something. Cooking pots you could fill with water. Pitchers, waste baskets…”

“What about a fire extinguisher?” I asked.

“We keep one on the boat,” Erin said.

“Not in the house, though?”

“We’ve been in these cages for almost a month,” Alice pointed out. “Who knows where anything is?”

“But I bet you could find something and fill it with water back at the house.”

“You’d better do it, too,” Alice said. “I mean, Billie’s gonna get burnt to a crisp if you don’t have a way to put her out. She’s all fueled up and ready to go.”

“Maybe I’d better do that,” I admitted.

Suddenly, I knew where to find a bucket. Back at the mansion, over near the veranda stairs. Earlier, I’d seen Thelma put out her torch in it.

I was awfully reluctant to leave, though. I felt sort of safe, hidden between the cages, the girls on both sides of me.

And Erin’s hand kept roaming my leg.

Her hand was our secret. She was letting it stray pretty far up my thigh.

It was driving me a little crazy.

Anyway, I couldn’t just stand up and walk away.

“What else should I get?” I asked, just to delay things.

“What do you mean?” Alice asked.

What if I reach between the bars and touch Erin?

“Back at the house,” I said. “Is there anything else? Something I should get while I’m there?”

“Like what?” Erin asked.

If I try anything funny, she might quit. Just leave her alone. Let her do what she wants.

Where was I?

“Are there any guns in the house?” I asked.

“No way,” Erin said.

“That’s one reason we left Los Angeles,” Alice said. “To get away from things like guns.”

“I could sure use one now,” I said. “What about bows and arrows?”

“No.”

“Just get the water,” Alice said. “You’d better hurry, too. I mean, there’s no telling. He might go ahead and light her up, just for the fun of it.”

Erin’s hand eased up higher than ever. I flinched and caught my breath. Her hand flew off like a startled bird. And crashed against a bar of her cage with a low, ringing thud. She yelped.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Are you okay?”

“My hand.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“What happened?” Alice asked.

“Nothing,” Erin told her. “I bumped the bars.”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“We were holding hands,” I explained. Which sounded better, I thought, than the truth.

“You shouldn’t go holding her hand,” Alice said. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Very funny,” Erin said.

“I’d better get going,” I said.

“Not so fast. Rupie? Come here.”

The Fire Storm

“Rupie? Come herrrrre.”

The voice made me cringe. For one thing, it was too loud. For another, it belonged to Connie, and she didn’t sound much less crazy than last time.

“My God,” I muttered.

Alice was already scurrying across her cage, apparently hoping to shush her.

On my knees, I grabbed my spear and machete.

“What’re you gonna do?” Erin whispered.

“I don’t know. Make her be quiet.”

“I know you’re there, Rupie! Now come on, pull your cock outa that bitch and came on over. I been waiting for you!”

I scrambled out from between the cages. On my feet but hunched low, I dashed through the grass behind Alice’s cage.

“What is it with you, boy?”

“Be quiet!” Alice gasped.

“When you aren’t fucking the old ladies, you’re fucking the babies.”

“Shut up!” Alice pleaded. Her voice came from my left, and not far ahead. I slowed down.

“Why not me? You some kinda fucking geek?”

“Be quiet, Connie!” I snapped.

“RUPERT! GREETINGS!”

Wesley’s shout slammed through me, knocking my breath out, stopping me cold.

It had come from far away.

From where he apparently still stood on top of Billie’s cage.

Sounding cheerful, Connie sang out, “Look who’s fucked now.”

“Before you make any rash decisions,” Wesley called, “let me advise you that the lives of the ladies are in your hands. I’m fully prepared to annihilate them all, Rupert, unless you give me your full cooperation.”

I felt sick and weak. I seemed to be trembling all over. My heart pounded hard and terribly fast.

“Do you hear me?” Wesley called.

I didn’t answer.

“In that case, do you have any last words for Billie? I took the trouble of dousing her with gasoline. She’ll make one hell of a torch. You’ll be needing sunglasses, little buddy. Better put ’em on!”

I shouted, “What do you want?”

“Go to the front of the cages,” he commanded.

“Okay.”

I found the bars at the back of Alice’s cage. Keeping track of them with my left arm, I rounded the corner. I rushed between the cages. On one side, Alice said, “Be careful.”

On the other, Connie hurried along with me. This much closer to Wesley’s torch, the light was somewhat better. Connie’s shape was fairly visible. Her eyes, mouth, nipples and what I took to be several injuries looked like holes or rips in the pale canvas of her skin. She seemed to be leaping sideways to stay with me.

As she leaped along, she ranted. “See what you get? Huh? This is what happens, Rupie. This is what you get. You were mine. Mine! You blew it. Blew it big-time, boy. Now you’re gonna pay. You’re fucked. Big-time. Wesley’s gonna ream…”

She ran out of cage. One moment she was springing along beside me, the next she wasn’t. I heard the bars ring from the impact. She let out a grunt, sounding surprised and hurt.

I looked back and saw her prancing away from the bars as if she’d been hurled back by a giant, invisible spring. Then she slammed down on the floor of her cage.

She sounded like a slab of steak tossed onto a counter top.

Which made me realize the floor of her cage must be concrete. Until that moment, I hadn’t given any real thought to the subject. I’d just assumed the gals must have earth and bars under their feet.

Not that it seemed to matter, either way.

Concrete was probably better when the cages needed cleaning. It would hurt you more, however, if you fell on it.

Connie appeared to be sprawled on her back. She wasn’t trying to get up.

Had she knocked herself out?

I really didn’t care, except to be glad that she, at least, might not be causing me any more trouble for a while.

God knows, she’d already caused enough.

After her crash, I slowed down but kept moving. For a couple of moments, I forgot about Wesley.

Then he called, “There you are!”

I turned toward the sound of his voice.

And there he was. Standing on top of Billie’s cage—legs spread, a blazing torch raised in his right hand, his left hand propped on his hip. In the firelight, his body gleamed like gold. A golden statue. Hercules gone to flab.

He’d lost the chest bandage; maybe in his fall down the stairs. The fall must’ve opened his wound, too. The split across the front of his left boob looked like a grim mouth, puffy-lipped and dribbling blood as if it had recently caught a fist. It made thin, dark streamers down his chest and belly, down to his leather belt. A few strands of blood had worked their way down his left thigh.

The wound obviously didn’t bother him much. Neither did I. He was getting a charge out of the whole situation. Two things gave it away: his grin and his hard-on.

“Step right this way, little buddy,” he called to me.

As I walked toward him, I saw that Connie still lay sprawled on the bottom of her cage.

Knocked out or faking? I wondered.

Hope she split her head open, I thought.

The next cage over, Kimberly stood at her bars, watching me. Her raised hands clutched the bars to either side of her head. She didn’t try to cover herself. Maybe she thought I couldn’t really see her. I could, though. She was much closer to the torch than Connie. The air in which she stood seemed to be tinted with its dim, hazy glow. She looked almost distinct, but veiled. As if draped with a shroud of wispy black fabric that revealed her, but cloaked her with darkness.

I could actually recognize her face. I could see the entire front of her body—ribcage and breasts, the dark coins of her nipples, all the long slender way down past the dot of her navel, the hollows slanting down and inward from her hips to the smooth mound between the tops of her legs, and then her legs, parted and slim and sturdy. All visible, but darkly veiled.

All wounded. In spite of the murky light, I saw dark places where her skin should’ve been unblemished. I saw smudges, stains, patterns of narrow marks and stripes.

My throat turned thick and tight because of how she’d been hurt. I felt my eyes sting. At the same time, heat surged through me. It made me feel ashamed, but I couldn’t help it.

“Don’t let him get you,” Kimberly said as I walked by, staring at her. “If he gets you…”

“Shut up, down there!” Wesley called.

“… he gets you, we’re all sunk.”

“Hey!”

“Kill him, Rupert.”

“I’ll try.”

“One more word and momma-bear’s going up in flames!”

Kimberly’s right hand slipped sideways between the bars. She raised two fingers.

I don’t think she meant it to be the peace sign from the bygone days of the hippies.

I think she meant it to be Winston Churchill’s V.

Hell, I know that’s what it was. A Navy brat like her, Andrew’s daughter, descended from a Sioux warrior, tough and proud.

V for Victory.

“Keep coming,” Wesley told me.

I gave Kimberly a nod, and walked on past the end of her cage. Up top, a ladder crossed the open space between her cage and Billie’s. Just as the twins had said.

The ladder was extended to a length of about fifteen feet. Five or six feet at its middle bridged the gap. The rest of it overlapped the tops of the cages, maybe five feet on each side.

Wesley was standing away from the ladder, more toward the middle of Billie’s cage. Near his feet, I saw the gasoline can and a cardboard box.

The box that held his “bombardier” goodies.

“Okay,” he said. “Stop right there.”

I stopped.

Billie stood almost directly beneath him, well-lit by his torch. The light wavered and shimmied on her body as if she was underwater. Her skin, copper in the shifting glow, gleamed with wetness.

The gasoline.

Her short hair was drenched, matted to her skull in tight golden coils.

Again, the gasoline.

And gasoline darkened the concrete under her bare feet. It had spread out around her, forming a shallow and lopsided puddle in the middle of her cage.

When I looked up from the puddle, she gave me a shrug.

Like a little girl who’d peed on the floor, couldn’t help it, and was left embarrassed and resigned.

Why was she standing in the middle of the gas?

Wesley’s orders, I supposed.

He must’ve commanded her to stand still while he poured the gasoline onto her head, while it ran down her body and made the puddle. Then he’d ordered her to remain standing in the same place.

Move a muscle, and I’ll torch you.

And I had no bucket of water for her. Because I’d stayed too long with Erin and Alice, because of Erin’s hand on my leg.

And because of Connie’s roaring jealousy.

I should’ve had the water for Billie.

Her toilet bucket was off in a rear corner of her cage, upside-down. Apparently, she’d been using it as a seat. Obviously, it had nothing in it.

She’s gonna burn!

I could think of only one way to save her: stop Wesley from setting the gas on fire.

“Look at you, look at you,” he said. “You’ve gone quite native.”

“What do you want?”

“My first order of business is to neutralize you, don’t you think?”

“I’ll do anything you say,” I told him.

“Excellent. Drop your weapons.”

“Don’t,” Billie said, her voice firm and clear. “You’re the only chance we’ve got.”

“Shut up, Billie darling.”

“He’ll burn you,” I said.

“Let him.”

“No, I can’t.”

Above her, Wesley bent over. He reached into the cardboard box with his left hand, and came up with a paperback book. He lifted it by a comer of its front cover, so that the book hung open. Then he lowered the torch and held its flame beneath the pages.

“No!” I shouted.

Fire crawled up the book.

“Don’t do it!”

I threw down my spear and machete.

Wesley tossed the book underhand. It tumbled through the night, blazing. And dropped onto the grass near my feet.

“That was sure a close call,” he announced.

“Fucking bastard,” I said, stomping out the flames.

“Oooo, such language! You’ve been listening to Connie. A very bad influence, that girl.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Let me see. What do I want? I want you to step into your new accommodation, over there.” Swinging his torch, he pointed out the empty cage beside Billie’s cage. “Step right in and shut the door.”

With my first step in that direction, Billie gasped, “No! Rupert, you can’t honey. If he locks you up…”

“I’m not gonna let him burn you.”

“Very wise, little buddy.”

“You have to take him down,” she said.

“Shut up with that kind of talk, bitch! I’ll cook your cunt right now!”

Ignoring him, staring me in the eyes, Billie said, “Kill Wesley. At least maybe you’ll be able to save the others. Let him burn me, but kill him.”

“You asked for it!” Wesley yelled. He bent down and reached into the cardboard box.

“Wait!” I blurted. “Wait a minute!”

He looked at me.

“If you burn her up, you won’t have her to mess with anymore.”

He grinned. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“You get turned on by her pain, don’t you? If she’s dead, she won’t even feel what you do to her. She won’t flinch or cry out or bleed or anything. It won’t matter how hard you whip her, or…”

“Who needs her?” Wesley asked. Even as he said it, though, he took his arm out of the box, no book in his hand, and stood up. “I’ve got all the rest of them. And there’ll be plenty more, once they start having babies for me.” Grinning, he shook his head. “Good old Thelma, she always wanted babies. God save us all. Can you picture it? What if they came out looking like her? Who’d want ’em? Wouldn’t be good for shit, girls ugly as that.”

“Billie’ll have beautiful babies,” I said. “Just look at Connie. That’s proof of how her babies will look. And you want to burn her up? Are you nuts?”

“You’ve got a point there, little buddy. I tell you what, go on and step into that cage, and maybe we can give her a stay of execution.”

“Okay.”

“Wait,” Kimberly said. “What happened to Thelma? Where is she?”

Wesley let out a harsh laugh. “Gosh! I forgot to ask! How’s my Thelma? I sure hope you didn’t hurt my dear, sweet little wife.”

I looked over at Kimberly’s cage. She stood at its nearest corner, facing me. “I’m really sorry,” I told her. “She was trying to kill me, and I… I’m pretty sure she’s dead. She went down in the cove.”

Kimberly was silent for a moment. Then she murmured, “It’s all right. I mean…”

“All right?” Wesley blurted. “It’s fucking perfect. Thank you very much for ridding me of the ugly cow! She did have her uses, but… I do believe that we’re all much better off without her. My God, what a pig! Three cheers for Rupert! Hip hip hooray!” On hooray, he thrust his torch high. “Hip hip… hooray!” Up went the torch. “Hip hip… hooray!” He rammed the torch at the sky.

Then, laughing, he performed a weird little dance on top of Billie’s cage: stomping his feet on the bars, waving the torch, twisting and shaking, swinging his hips, thrusting with his pelvis. He probably would’ve jumped and twirled, but was afraid of stepping between the bars.

I hoped for him to slip and fall. I even thought about snatching up the spear and making a try for him while he danced. But Billie would burn if anything happened to make him drop the torch.

His wild gyrations sent sweat pouring down his body, flying off his hair and skin.

“So long, Thelma!” he yelled. “Nice knowing you! Nice, my ass! Ha hah!”

Billie, looking straight up at him, suddenly blinked and ducked her head and rubbed her face.

Then she began to dance.

In silence, she swayed and turned, swung her shoulders, jumped from one foot to another.

Wesley noticed. He quit dancing himself, and bent over. Huffing for breath, he looked down at Billie through the ban. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Dancing.”

“Knock it off.”

She didn’t stop. Though she remained in the center of her cage as if shackled there by Wesley’s threats, she hopped from foot to foot, waved her arms, bowed, twirled, shook and leaped.

“You’ve got nothing to dance about,” Wesley said.

“Do, too,” she called out.

“Knock it off.”

“It’s my rain dance!” she shouted. “I’m calling up a storm!”

And her dance suddenly broke into a savage frenzy. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. The way she leaped and writhed, she must’ve had manic drumbeats in her head.

Instead of ordering her to halt, Wesley stared down at her, captivated by the view.

I was captivated by the view.

It wasn’t something you could look away from. Not if you were a guy.

My God, it was like watching some sort of pagan ritual, the way she cavorted naked in the firelight, bowing and rising, spinning, whimpering and grunting with the effort, her feet splashing in the puddle of gas, her shiny buttocks flexing, her glossy breasts jumping and bouncing and swinging, her face agleam and streaming as if dipped in oil, sweat leaping like melted gold off her hair and nose and chin and nipples and fingertips, sweat spilling down her neck and chest and breasts, down her back and belly, her buttocks, her pubis, her legs, sliding down like golden runoff from a torrent of rain.

A downpour.

A squawl.

It’s my rain dance! I’m calling up a storm!

Spoken to Wesley.

Meant for me.

Dropping to a crouch, I grabbed the spear out of the grass. Wesley still stood atop the cage, bent over and watching Billie.

He didn’t look at me as I straightened up, raised the spear above my shoulder and hurled it at him.

Wesley’s Last Stand

He still had his head down when the spear struck him. It caught him near the top of his left shoulder, punched him there but didn’t stick, bounced off the bone and leaped out of the thin covering of flesh, its other end whipping upward as if a pole-vaulter was taking off from his shoulder.

He roared.

The whole spear leaped off into the dark behind him.

He raised his sweat-slick, dripping face. His eyes bulged. He bared his teeth at me.

Straight below him, Billie had stopped dancing. She stood in the puddle of gas in the middle of her cage, her head tipped back. Her body gleamed and dripped as if she had just climbed out of a swimming pool. She whined with her struggle to breathe.

“You dirty little fuck!” Wesley shouted at me.

And jammed the torch down between the bars at his feet and let it go.

“No!” I yelled.

The torch fell.

A moment later, it touched off the gasoline. The gas erupted with a heavy WHOP! like a mainsail snapped by the wind. The sudden brilliance hurt my eyes. As I squinted, a hot wind rolled against my body.

Wesley had been right about needing sunglasses.

The cage looked as if a bonfire had erupted in the middle of its concrete floor.

I saw Billie in there. All firelit and bright and shiny, her back to me.

Running. Leaping onto her upside-down bucket. Using it like a step for leaping again. High up at the far back corner of her cage, she caught hold and latched herself to the bars, curled tight with her knees up.

Depending for her life on the sweat of her mad dance, sweat meant to sluice the gasoline off her skin and bathe her with saving moisture.

I didn’t know if it would work.

Afraid to see her burn, I turned my gaze to the top of the cage.

Where flames leaped for Wesley.

They wrapped the cardboard of his “bombardier” box, licked the sides of his gasoline tin.

With a squeal of alarm, he kicked the gas container and knocked it flying. The punt sent it well past the far side of Billie’s cage, sprinkling gas from its spout. It clamored against the empty cage that he’d intended as my cell.

I looked back at Wesley to find him prancing across the bars like a ballerina as the flames tried to climb his legs. Just as he got away from them, he lost his footing. He crashed down belly-first on the ladder. It jumped and shuddered under him, raising a terrible racket.

Before the ladder had a chance to settle down, he shoved himself to his hands and knees and started crawling across it.

Away from the fire of his own making.

A fire that had already fallen to half its size.

But he didn’t know that. He wasn’t looking back. If he’d seen how the fire had diminished so abruptly, he probably wouldn’t have been so quick to flee.

Billie still clung to the bars at the distant corner of her cage.

She still had her hair.

From shoulders to buttocks, her skin looked ruddy, shiny wet, uncharred.

She’d made it!

Now the job was to kill Wesley.

I snatched up the machete and raced for him.

Halfway across the gap, he saw me coming. He let out a yelp and crawled faster, the ladder shaking and clattering beneath him.

I ran full-speed between the cages. With the ladder looming over me, Wesley almost to the other side, I leaped and reached high, slashing with my machete.

Missed him, the ladder, everything.

I’m not a tall guy. I must’ve missed the ladder by a foot.

Gave him a good scare, though. He’d squealed when I swung at him. As I put on the brakes, the clamor of the ladder let me know he was scurrying like mad.

The ladder noise suddenly stopped.

I turned around in time to see Wesley look for me over his shoulder and try to stand up.

He should’ve been watching his feet.

The right one stepped down between two of the bars. He cried, “Yaaah!” as his leg shot down. He flapped his arms. His other leg bent at the knee and scooted out from under him. His bare ass struck the bars.

And there he sat, his right leg hanging down into Kimberly’s cage.

He made whimpery, frightened sounds.

Before he could even start to free himself, Kimberly jumped.

My God what a jump!

“Yes!” someone yelled.

Billie.

She stood at the side of her cage, the fire behind her fluttering low, Wesley’s blazing torch in her upraised hand.

Kimberly dangled beneath Wesley.

She hung with both hands from his right ankle.

Golden in the torchlight, arms stretched so high that her breasts were nearly flat—long, low slopes topped by hard and jutting nipples—her entire body taut and thin as if she were being stretched from both ends.

Wesley tried to kick free of her.

His leg hardly moved at all. Just enough to sway Kimberly back and forth with an easy, gentle motion.

“Let go of me!” he shouted.

Kimberly didn’t answer. She just held on.

Wesley pulled a knife out of its sheath on his belt. He wouldn’t be able to reach her with it. He could throw it, though.

“Look out!” I yelled, and ran between the cages.

Billie shouted, “He’s got a knife! Watch out!”

With an underhand toss, I flung my machete toward Billie’s cage. It hit bars, but fell near enough for her to reach it. I faced Kimberly’s cage just as Wesley let out a cry of pain.

Kimberly had started to swing.

Still hanging from his ankle, she flung her legs forward and up.

A kid on a swing, pumping for the sky.

“Stop!” Wesley wailed. “Stop it! Fuck!”

I jumped, reached high, grabbed two bars, squeezed bars between my knees, and began my struggle for the top of Kimberly’s cage. Slow going, awkward. I made progress, though.

As I pulled and scurried my way higher, Wesley’s voice raged in my ears. “My leg! Let go! Shit! You’re gonna rip it off! Fuck! Let go! Ahhhhh!”

Kimberly no longer acted like a kid on a swing. The smooth, graceful pumping action was gone. She’d turned wild, bucking beneath him, twisting, kicking her legs toward the barred ceiling.

She had a knife protruding from her left thigh.

I hadn’t even seen it hit her. Wesley must’ve hurled it down through the bars while I’d been looking somewhere else.

No wonder she’d gone wild.

She swung like a rabid Tarzan, a mad and naked Jane trying to ride her vine to the moon.

Through Wesley’s shouts and shrieks, I heard a gristly, popping noise.

His thigh bone bursting out of its hip joint.

His scream gave me goosebumps.

“Don’t kill him!” someone yelled.

A girl’s voice from far off.

Erin.

“Don’t kill Wesley!” she shouted. “He’s gotta tell where the keys are!”

And then my left hand caught hold of the crossbar at the top of the cage. I reached up with my right, grabbed hold and pulled myself up.

Wesley kept his eyes on me as I clambered over the edge. Suddenly, I found myself perched atop Kimberly’s cage, my hands and knees on the roof bars, Wesley a distance to my right and just beyond the end of the ladder.

Though one leg lay across the top of the bars, he squirmed and swayed like a human torso—or like one of those inflatable punching toys that swings back and forth when you hit it, and keeps coming up.

“Help!” he blurted at me. His face was streaked with sweat and tears, tremulous with torchglow and shadows, twisted ugly with pain. “Please!” he cried out. “Make her stop! Please!”

Though he pleaded, he held his second knife high, its blade pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Put down the knife!” I shouted.

He couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether to throw it at me or Kimberly.

Looking down, I saw her rising toward me on his leg. She seemed to be looking at me. In another moment, she was sprawled out beneath me like a lover. She lingered there, just below the bars, all shadowy and open.

Screaming, Wesley jerked the knife back toward his ear.

He’d made up his mind.

Kimberly.

His tormenter, and such an easy target inches below the bars, motionless, trapped in the moment before starting her downward course.

Yelling, I sprang.

Hurled myself—not so much at Wesley as between him and Kimberly.

I heard a thunk.

A grunt.

I landed flat and hard on the bars. They pounded me. They rang out. I slid on them.

Below my face was Kimberly’s face.

Eyes squeezed nearly shut, mouth open, teeth bared.

Her face huge and beautiful but torn with pain.

Then shrinking.

At first, I didn’t know why.

But as her face became smaller, more and more of Kimberly came into view.

Her neck, shoulders.

Her arms reaching overhead like a surrendering prisoner.

Her chest.

The knife handle jutting up between her breasts.

Her belly, her groin, thighs.

The knife handle jutting up from her left thigh.

Her long, spread legs.

All becoming smaller.

Then the shrinking stopped. She shook as if she’d suddenly been hit by a monstrous gust of wind. It shoved at the front of her whole body—spread her face, mashed her breasts, distorted her everywhere for a moment—then moved on.

I was vaguely aware of yelling.

Billie was yelling.

I was yelling.

Somehow, I missed the noise of Kimberly’s body smacking the concrete. It must’ve been drowned out by our cries of shock and despair.

I don’t know how long I lay sprawled on the bars, gazing down at her.

I couldn’t believe this had happened.

I wanted it to be a dream.

Or a trial run. I wanted another chance, a way to try things differently.

A way to save her.

“The bitch was gonna rip my leg off,” Wesley said. “I couldn’t just let her rip my leg off, could I?”

I raised my head.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, look. Just settle down. It was an accident, okay? Accidents happen.”

In the Land of Pain

When the sun came up, Kimberly still lay sprawled on the bottom of her cage. A pool of blood had spread out around her, much like the gasoline that had puddled the floor of Billie’s cage, but dark.

Billie and Connie stood at the front corners of their cages, facing me.

I faced Wesley.

Alice and Erin watched from their distant cages.

Four spectators, four witnesses.

One executioner.

One motherfucking son of a bitch about to die hard.

During the night, I had lowered him to the ground. Billie and I had belted him around the neck to a bar of her cage. Neither of us spoke to him. He cried and begged and made excuses and carried on about a lot of stuff. We didn’t listen, though.

When we asked him about the cage keys, he said, “I’m not telling. If I tell, you got no reason not to kill me. They’re real bastards, these cages. Nobody’s getting out, ever. Not without the keys.”

Billie stood guard over him with the machete while I went away.

I spoke briefly to Connie, who was conscious but confused. She’d been out cold during the action, and had no idea that Kimberly’d been killed. When I told her, she seemed to shrivel. She sank down in a comer of her cage and covered her face.

I went on to Alice and Erin, and explained what had happened. Then I returned to the mansion.

I searched all over the place, looking for the keys. While trying to find them, I came across a few sections of rope which appeared to be our old ropes, taken from the scene of the big batde at the chasm.

Also, I found Kimberly’s Swiss Army knife.

I quickly hid the knife away for later. I didn’t want to use it on Wesley, foul it with him. I wanted it as a keepsake, a reminder of Kimberly to be savored in times to come.

Downstairs, I gathered some food and water for my women.

I returned to the cages. After handing out the provisions, I took over with Wesley. He hadn’t given Billie any trouble. She gave the belt to me, and I dragged him by the neck. He tried to crawl, but it wasn’t easy because of his dislocated leg. He screamed and choked a lot.

It took plenty of effort, but I finally managed to stand him up and tie him to the front door of Kimberly’s cage. He could only stand on one leg, the other being useless. I kept him upright by tossing two ropes over the crossbar at the top of the door and tying them under his armpits. Then I stretched his arms out to the sides and lashed them to upright bars. I took the belt off him, got rid of its two empty knife sheaths, and used it to strap his good leg to the bars.

By then, Billie’s torch had burned itself out.

I wanted light to work by.

So I took a few steps backward from Wesley, and lay down on the ground. Billie called to me a couple of times. I didn’t answer, though. I didn’t want to go to her. She would hold me. We would weep. It would be comforting and nice. I would probably even end up with a hard-on.

I wanted no part of that.

I wanted no part of gentleness or sex or love.

It would ruin me for what I needed to do.

So I lay there on my back, in a position almost the same as Kimberly’s. I pictured how it might look from the air: Kimberly and I stretched out like wings. Airplane wings. Angel wings. Eagle wings.

Wesley between us like the body between our wings. And what did that make us? What did that make him?

I’m starting to ramble.

No more of that.

I stayed on my back, not sleeping, until dawn arrived. Then I got up and went to Wesley.

Billie, Connie, Alice and Erin were already standing in their cages to watch. As if they’d all risen early, afraid they might oversleep and miss out.

Wesley watched my approach.

He was a wreck before I even got started. Aside from his dislocated, swollen leg, he had three spear wounds—the old ones in the boob and buttock, plus the one in the shoulder that I’d given him last night. He was also battered from falling down the stairs last night.

By the look on his face, he must’ve guessed that even worse was on its way.

Then he saw me pull the razor out of my sock.

When I flicked open its blade, he started to sob.

“Hey,” he said. “Look. Don’t. Don’t hurt me.”

Billie called from her corner, “Just tell us where the keys are, Wesley.”

His eyes were latched on the razor. He licked his cracked lips. “I’ll tell. Okay? Put that away. Put it away and I’ll tell.”

I stepped up very close to him. Reaching down with my left hand, I grabbed him. His eyes bulged. I said, “Where’s your fucking boner now, tough guy?”

“Please,” he blubbered.

“Cut his cock off!” Connie shouted. “Make him eat it.”

“Good thing she’s locked up,” I said.

He nodded vigorously. His face dripped sweat and tears. “Don’t… do it,” he said. “Please. I’m begging you. I’ll tell where the keys are. Please.”

“Okay.” I let go.

Thank you.” He sniffled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, and sliced off the underside of his left forearm from wrist to elbow.

While he screamed, I stuffed it into his mouth.

“Eat that,” I said. “You’ll need snacks. This is gonna take awhile.”

He wouldn’t eat it, though. He gasped and choked and managed to spit it out.

“The keys!” he squealed.

Off to my right, Connie vomited. She was hunched over, face between bars, trying to get most of her mess to land outside the cage.

I looked at Billie. She stood with her arms up, hands gripping the bars. I saw where Wesley or Thelma or both of them had left marks on her, and I saw a fierce look in her eyes.

“It’s not just for Kimberly,” I told her.

“I know that, honey.”

I faced Wesley.

“Tell me where the keys are,” I said.

“Bedroom,” he gasped. “Upstairs.”

“Where in the bedroom?”

“Under mattress.”

“Liar,” I said, and sliced him across the left eye. My razor cut in through me closed lid, slit his eyeball and nicked the bridge of his nose.

It took him a long time to stop screaming.

I stood back and waited. Most of my audience had had enough. Making no complaints, they’d simply turned away and gone to far comers of their cages. Only Billie still watched.

When our eyes met, she nodded.

“I told you where me keys are!” Wesley blurted when he was finally capable of speech again.

“Not enough,” I said.

“What do you want? I’ll do anything!”

“Apologize to Billie.”

“I’m sorry!” he cried out. “Billie, I’m sorry! Forgive me!”

I took off one of his ears.

When he could speak again, he gasped, “I did what you wanted!”

“Not enough,” I said.

“What?”

“You didn’t apologize to Connie.”

“But… but… !”

I shoved my razor into the rip across his left boob, made so long ago by Kimberly’s spear but reopened last night. I ran the blade through it, slow and deep.

When Wesley could talk again, he cried out, “I’m sorry, Connie! I’m sorry, Alice! I’m sorry, Erin. Okay? Okay?”

“You forgot a few people,” I explained, and cut off his right nipple.

Had to wait.

Then, “Who? Who?”

“Try to remember.”

I made him scream again.

Had to wait.

Then he shouted, “I’m sorry, Andrew! I’m sorry, Keith! I’m sorry, Dorothy! I’m sorry, James!”

“Finished?”

“No?” he wondered.

“Who, then?” I asked.

“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 couldn’t keep us apart. We filled the spaces between them with our warm, bare flesh.

It was as if Billie had been waiting for me, needing me.

We didn’t talk. We hugged and kissed fiercely. It started with the solemn urgency of two survivors finding each other after long and lonely wanderings. There was joy and relief, and a terrible sadness for all that had been lost.

Then that changed, shifted into an urgency of lovers. Hearts pounding, we explored each other with hands and mouths. Caressing, squeezing, delving deep, stroking. We licked each other, sucked and tasted. Gasping for breath. Moaning and sighing. Whispering no words except, “Yes,” and “Oh, there,” and “God.”

I won’t even try to describe all we did.

We were together for hours. Sometimes, we simply embraced and quietly talked. Then we would get started again.

Eventually, Billie managed a contortion that allowed us to make love between the bars. It was a hell of a trick, and took a lot of strength on her part. She couldn’t hold the position for very long.

It drove me crazy to be inside her that way. I’d never felt anything like it. So soft and warm and tight and slidy. And how it made me feel as if we were almost the same person for a while.

We’ve done it plenty of times since. I’ve learned to help by reaching through the bars and clutching her. That way, she doesn’t need to work so hard at holding herself up.

It has been wonderful.

Kimberly’s concrete tomb gives us sorrow, but also reminds us that life is a gift and we need to savor every moment that we’re given.

Though they’ve been imprisoned in the cages for three weeks now since the deaths of Wesley, Thelma and Kimberly, all four of my women are doing well. I have provided them with clothing, blankets and pillows, plenty to eat and drink. I clean them regularly by pouring water onto them from the tops of their cages. They have soap, washcloths, drinking cups, toothbrushes. They have hung blankets to make cubicles for privacy.

Their toilet buckets cannot be removed from the cages, so we came up with a system of lining the buckets with plastic bags. The used bags are passed between the bars for disposal.

I give my women whatever they ask for: combs, brushes, mirrors, sanitary napkins, books, magazines—even a Gameboy and a portable radio, both of which run off rechargeable batteries. I have become a fairly good cook. The mansion has provisions enough to last us for a few months, so there is no need to worry about starving. I don’t even ration the food.

My women want for very little, except their freedom.

It became obvious, after many tries during the first few days, that their cages were impregnable. I couldn’t pick the locks. I couldn’t force the doors or hinges. I had no saw or file capable of cutting through the bars. With a pickax, Billie tried to break out through her floor—only to find iron bars imbedded in the concrete.

Nobody treats me like a leper, anymore. Connie and the twins quickly got over their shock at what I’d done to Wesley. I couldn’t be all that terrible, they must’ve supposed, since I was being so good to them. Besides, they knew that Wesley deserved everything he got.

The twins are great. They quarrel a lot between themselves, but they have become my great friends. Erin seems to be madly in love with me, which Alice thinks is ridiculous. They have been healing nicely (as have Connie and Billie). They are both incredibly beautiful, and continue to go around in their cages most of the time wearing few or no clothes.

Which certainly catches my attention. We don’t fool around in any sexual ways, though. They are too young for such things. Also, I love Billie so much that I never seem to work up very much excitement over Alice or Erin.

As for Connie, she remained sullen and surly for about a week. She knew that she was to blame, at least partly, for Kimberly’s death. She also found out, soon enough, that her mother and I were lovers. She gave us quite a hard time with that mouth of hers.

She seems to be over it, though. I think she has accepted the fact that it’s stupid to be jealous over someone you never really liked that much in the first place. I was her boyfriend of convenience who’d stumbled into her life by an accident of the alphabet. I was not, and never had been, any great catch. So let her mother have me.

That’s how I think she looks at it. We haven’t actually discussed the matter.

It’s hard to know what she feels. Lately, though, she has been a lot less snotty than usual. Eventually, we might even become friends. Who knows?

I could go on and on about Connie, Alice and Erin. And especially about Billie and me. I could write in lavish detail about all we’ve done, what we’ve said and how they’ve looked. The real story, though, pretty much ended with the death of Wesley.

Also, I’ve been spending too much time away from my women, writing in the privacy of Erin’s room for hours each day.

Now that I’m caught up to the present, I’ll be able to spend more time with them.

Eventually, I’ll set them free.

The keys to their cages are bound to turn up, somewhere.

Maybe under the mattress where Wesley said they’d be.

So long for now.