Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

MY HEAD HURT. My whole body throbbed. Dozens of people were screaming at me in a language I didn't understand. Men and women. The last thing I remembered was being clubbed on the head and loaded into a canoe. No idea how far I traveled, or how long I was out. I knew two things. The island I was on was a lot bigger than the one I left. And I was in serious trouble.

They had me in a wooden chair in the middle of a room with chains wrapped around my torso. A year ago, when I was at my peak strength, I might have been able to snap one of the links. Not today. I wouldn't have gotten far, anyway. Some of the men in the crowd had spears. Some had guns.

We were in a big tin hut with three walls. The onlookers formed a horseshoe around the sides. The fourth wall of the hut was mostly open, looking out toward the water. Sweat was pouring out of my body. It must've been over a hundred degrees under that tin roof. I could smell myself and everybody else in the room. A dank, wet, human stench. The screaming got louder. I heard feet stamping and spear shafts pounding on the floor. These people wanted to kill me. And I couldn't blame them.

They thought I'd murdered their boys.

My cutlass was lying on a wooden table in the middle of the room. The blood had dried to a rusty brown. I kept shaking my head, but I knew everything pointed to me. I'd been the only living person left on the island. And compared to the boys, I was a giant. They would have had no chance against me. None.

I recognized the men from the outriggers. Big, bare-chested guys, with elaborate tattoos across their biceps and pecs. The women in the room wore long patterned skirts with T-shirts or tube tops. Some of them were sobbing. Maybe mothers of the boys, or sisters. A few of them had tried to claw at me, but the men held them back.

The whole room went silent.

Five men entered in a line from the open side. They sat down at a long table at the front. Senior citizens. Wrinkled brown faces. Hunched shoulders. White hair, or none at all. They wore baggy trousers and short-sleeved white shirts, with thick beaded necklaces. I had no hope that any of them would speak English. Then the guy in the middle pointed at me and called out a single word.

"Killer!"

It might have been the only English word he knew.

My muscles tensed so hard that my chair jerked back a few inches. " No! Not a killer!" I yelled. The crowd started shouting again—louder, angrier. One of the elders raised a hand to quiet the room. I squirmed against the chains. I wanted to use my hands, as if gestures would help. I lowered my voice. I tried to sound calm, reasonable, innocent.

"The boys," I said. "We swam together. Fished together. Ate together." How could I explain that I'd saved them all from a goddamn shark? "I didn't kill them! I don't know who did!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman twist free from the men around her. She bolted toward me. Her eyes were wild. When she was two feet away, she curled her lips and spit in my face. I could feel the warm wetness dripping down my cheek. Then she slapped me, so hard it stung. Two men grabbed her and pulled her back to the wall.

I heard the sound of a motor in the distance, coming from the ocean side. I looked out. A small speedboat was heading toward a wooden dock, kicking up a V-shaped wake. One man aboard behind the wheel. Tall. Tanned. White.

When he got close to shore, he shut off the engine and tossed a line to a girl on the dock. Then he grabbed on to a wooden ladder and climbed out of the boat.

Everybody in the hut quieted down as he walked up the beach toward us.

He was in his thirties, wearing a white tropical suit. I felt a small flutter of hope. A detective? A lawyer?

Whoever he was, he suddenly looked like my best chance of staying alive.

When he reached the open side of the shed, the elders stood up. Everybody else in the room gave a nod of respect. Good sign, I thought. The man stepped in and took a long look at the bloody cutlass on the table. Then he walked over and stopped right in front of me. He folded his hands over his belt.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Aaron Vail."

"You speak English! Thank God! Who are you? Who sent you?"

"Never mind who sent me. I'm a local island magistrate. I deal with the indigenous populations, distributing aid, resolving disputes, making sure justice is done."

"You know these people? Tell them I'm innocent! Get me out of these chains!"

He looked around the hut, then back at me. "You mean so you can look for the real killer? Like O.J.?"

He spoke slowly and precisely, like he had all the time in the world. I was getting a strange feeling in my gut. Then he smiled. A sick, unsettling smile. The same smile I'd seen from the assassins in Chicago. That's the moment I knew that everybody on the island wanted me dead.

Including him.

Vail turned to the elders and spoke a few quick phrases in their language. The elders nodded slowly and muttered to one another.

I twisted against the chains. "What did you say? What did you tell them?"

Vail turned back toward me and leaned in close. "I warned them to keep you properly restrained." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spittle off my face. "I informed them that you have a history of escapes, Doctor Savage."