Island of Thieves (15 page)

“What do you mean? What kind of course?”

“On rescuing people from drowning. I know what to do.”

What could I remember of the course? Not much. It was just one afternoon in the Norwich town pool a couple of years ago. They taught us the basics. Mom made me do it. She wouldn't let me go sailing otherwise. That was the deal: if I did the course, I could drive to Mystic with Finn and Mr. Spencer and go out on their boat.

I yanked my jacket, my sweater, and my shirt over my head, all in a bundle. Then pulled them apart and thrust the shirt into my uncle's hands. There wasn't time to tell him how to use it. I'd just have to hope he could work it out for himself.

I pulled off my sneakers, dumped them on the ledge, and threw myself into the water. With a couple of quick strokes, I was beside Otto. I cupped my hand under his chin and pulled him back. Luckily, he understood what I was doing. People panic. I remember the instructor warning us about that. Drowners thrash about in the water. By struggling, they drown themselves
and
the person who is trying to rescue them.

My uncle had twisted one end of the shirt around his right wrist. Now he threw it out to me.

The shirt was lying on the water, waiting for me, tempting me, offering itself, promising safety.

Just out of reach.

Closer, closer.

And I grabbed it.

Uncle Harvey hauled us in. He was poised precariously on the edge of the cliff, the waves battering against him, water running down his face, and I thought,
Please don't let the water drag you in, because that would be the end of us all.

When I was near enough to the ledge, I pushed Otto through the water toward my uncle, who dropped my shirt and reached out with both hands. The swell pulled Otto closer to the jagged cliff. Too close. Banging his head. Another surge and he was pulled away again. His hands clawed helplessly at the water.

I could see blood on his face. I grabbed him. Shoved him through the waves to my uncle again, who got him this time. Grabbing a handful of shirt. A handful of hair. Yanking him up.

Together we heaved him out of the sea and rolled him up onto the ledge, me pushing and my uncle pulling. And I rolled out too, and we lay there, all three of us, coughing seawater onto the wet rock.

So there we were.
Stuck on a ledge. Staring at the Pacific. Nothing between us and New Zealand except a gazillion gallons of water.

Otto was breathing, but unconscious. His eyes were closed and his head turned away, but his tattoo stared up at me. The snake's eyes were fierce, its sharp teeth poised, its body coiled and ready to spring. As if it were guarding its master while he slept.

There was no sign of Miguel, but he must have been dead. He'd sacrificed himself to save his boss. Now he was five fathoms deep. Did I feel guilty about him? No. He'd tried to kill me and my uncle, and almost succeeded. If he'd been here, sitting on this rock, Uncle Harvey and I would have been dead. Simple as that. So, no, I didn't feel guilty. I just felt pleased to be alive.

And I wanted to stay this way.

Otto was coming around fast. Give him a minute or two and he'd be back to his old murderous self.

So—what next?

I pulled my coat and shoes back on. I tipped back my head and stared at the sky. I couldn't see the top of the cliff, but it was a long way up, I knew that much. I'd already seen its full height from the boat and remembered thinking:
I'm glad I don't have to climb up there.

I looked at my uncle. He was wet through and shivering. So was I, of course, but I hadn't been shot, so my situation was that much easier. One of his pant legs was red with his own blood. He had torn a square of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around his thigh, applying a primitive tourniquet to the wound. When I asked him how he was feeling, he said he was fine and the wound was only superficial. I hoped he was telling the truth and not just trying to be brave.

I said, “Let's start climbing.”

“What?”

“Let's start climbing. Up the cliff.”

He leaned back and looked upward. Then he grinned at me. “You think you could do it?”

“Of course I can. We both can.”

“What will you do when you get to the top?”

“Walk across the island, find a boat, and get back to the mainland.”

“It's a nice plan,” said my uncle. “There's only one problem. With my leg like this, I'll never make it up there. You'll have to go on your own. Can you do that?”

“No way,” I said. “We're going to escape together. Come on, this is our only option. Let's start climbing.”

Uncle Harvey shook his head. “Forget about me. I'm old enough to look after myself. You'd better get moving before Otto wakes up.”

Looking at my uncle, I realized I would never be able to persuade him to change his mind. He was behaving like a guy in a movie, the one who stays behind with a gun and a box of ammo, sheltering behind a rock, and blows away a bunch of baddies on his own, giving the others a chance to get away. That's fine in a movie, but no one does that in real life. Not for me, anyway. If I couldn't persuade him, I'd just have to force him. I gripped his arm with both of mine and tried to pull him up. “Come on, Uncle Harvey. Time to go.”

“Didn't I tell you not to call me that?”

“You did. I'm very sorry. But can we argue about it later?”

“I'd rather argue about it now.”

“Oh, just stand up!”

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Leaning on me for support, he tested his weight on his leg.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Fine, fine.”

“Not too painful?”

“No, I can't even feel it.”

I wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but I didn't argue with him, just led him toward the cliff and put his hands on the rock.

“You go first,” I said.

“Why me? Why not you?”

“Because if I go first, you'll probably do something stupid like stay here. I want to see you climbing. Go on, Uncle Harvey. Get going. See you at the top.”

“I hope so.”

He was just about to pull himself up when there was a groan behind us. We both turned around to see Otto rolling over. He said something in Spanish and waited for us to reply. When we didn't, he mumbled, “Miguel?”

“He's dead,” I said.

That woke him up. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing.

You might have thought he would say something nice to us. Like:
“I'm sorry, I didn't really mean to kill you.”
Or even:
“Thanks for saving my life.”
But he didn't say any of that—just, “Where are you going?”

“Up there.” I pointed at the cliff.

“You're crazy,” said Otto. “You'll never make it.”

“We'll be fine.”

He looked up at the towering cliff as if he was measuring the distance from here to the top, then back at us. “I'm gonna come too.”

“No you're not,” I said.

Otto just smiled. He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. “We do it together,” he said. “You help me, I help you. No problem.”

He put his hands on the cliffs and searched for a good foothold.

“Tom's right,” said my uncle. “You're not coming with us.”

“Stop me,” said Otto.

“I will.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Like this.”

Uncle Harvey took two unsteady steps across the ledge, swung his right arm, and punched Otto in the face.

Our clothes were wet.
Our hands were freezing. My sneakers were sodden and slippery. We didn't have any special equipment—none of the stuff that climbers use: no ropes, no axes, no clips, no harnesses. Not even the right kind of boots. You have to be desperate to climb a cliff like that. And we were. Desperation drove us onward, away from the sea, away from Otto. Ledge by ledge, crevice by crevice, we hauled ourselves up the cliff, our feet jammed into the jagged shards of rock, our fingers clinging to clumps of moss.

I could have gone faster, but I didn't want to get too far ahead of my uncle. He took it very slowly, never putting too much weight on his wounded leg, and I stayed with him, ready to stretch out a hand if he needed my help.

There was a sudden screech, and a white shape flashed past me. It was a seabird, which must have been dozing on the rock and had woken up to get a nasty shock: a human face peering into her bedroom. She circled a couple of times, checking me out, then swooped down and found a safer perch farther along the cliff.

As we went higher, we disturbed more birds. At one moment a great storm of them flapped around us, shrieking and cawing, and it took all my concentration to hold on.

My arms ached. My fingers felt as if they were going to drop off. Worst of all, I couldn't stop thinking about falling. I imagined myself tipping backwards, slithering down the cliff, and landing in the ocean with a splash.

I knew I shouldn't do it, but I couldn't resist looking down.

I could see the bottom of the cliffs plunging into the fierce, bubbling cauldron of the sea. And there was a brown smudge that must have been the top of Otto's head. He was just as we'd left him, slumped against the cliff, staring at the waves.

I kept going. One step at a time. Reaching upward, searching for handholds, testing each one before using it to hold my weight and pull myself a little higher.

Farther up the cliff, I stopped once more and waited for my uncle. When he reached me, I said, “Do you need any help?”

“No,” he huffed.

“Are you sure?”

“If I'm going to fall off, I want to do it alone. No point taking you with me. Keep going, Tom. Don't wait for me. I'll see you at the top.”

Before starting my climb again, I granted myself another quick glimpse down at the dizzying drop, seeing how far we had come. I looked for Otto, but he seemed to have disappeared. Where was he? Had he crawled along the ledge, searching for a drier spot out of the wind? Or had he fallen back into the water?

I shifted my weight and looked down again. Then I saw him.

“I don't believe it,” I whispered to myself.

Uncle Harvey heard me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“He's coming after us.”

Uncle Harvey nodded, as if he'd been expecting this, but didn't look down. I wished I'd been so sensible.

“Is he close?” said my uncle.

“No. But he looks as if he's moving fast.”

“We'll just have to move faster.”

After that, Uncle Harvey didn't waste any more breath talking. He needed all his strength to pull himself up.

I took another look at Otto and had a sudden, surprising thought. It would be very easy to drop a stone on him. Several fist-size rocks were within reach. I could grab one of them and drop it straight down onto the top of his head. He had nowhere to hide. Even if I missed the first time, I could keep going, dropping stone after stone, till I got him. And why not? He was a criminal. A drug dealer. A murderer. And he was coming after us. Why shouldn't I smash his skull open with a stone?

I wished I could have done it, but I just couldn't. Dropping a rock on Miguel had been self-defense. Dropping one on Otto would be murder.

I turned my face upward and kept climbing, trying to put everything out of my mind except hand holds and foot holds.

At last, after a long, hard climb, I pulled myself over the precipice and rolled onto the flat grass. A rest would have been nice, but I didn't have time. I crawled straight back and peered over the edge, wanting to give my uncle a hand up the last bit.

Far below me, I could see the frothing water and the waves crashing against the base of the cliff. And there was the top of Otto's head. He wasn't far behind us. Five or ten minutes from now, he'd be pulling himself up over the top too.

Here came my uncle, his fingers scrabbling for a good grip. I could see the exhaustion in his face. I offered him a hand. He shook his head. “I'm fine,” he hissed. He scrambled over the ledge and collapsed beside me.

We lay there for a few moments. I listened to my uncle's breathing. He didn't sound well. I left him as long as I dared. Then helped him to his feet. We started walking. The drizzle pecked at our faces. The ground was rough, but sloping downward, and we went at a good pace.

Uncle Harvey was limping. I asked if his wound hurt. He said no. I asked if he wanted to stop and rest, and he said no to that too. I was glad. We didn't have any time to waste. We just had to find a boat. I felt sure that if we could just get off the island before Otto caught up with us, everything would be fine.

Soon we saw the dark bulk of the prison looming out of the landscape. I couldn't see any guards. I wondered if they'd spotted us. Even if they had, we must have looked so bizarre and so brazen that I was sure they would think we were nothing to be worried about. No escaped prisoners would behave like us. Neither would crooks coming to rescue their friends in the prison. I remembered what Otto had said about the guards shooting first and asking questions later, and I hoped he was just being melodramatic.

My uncle was slowing down. I urged him onward. “We can't stop now. We can rest when we're on the boat.”

He didn't answer, but he managed to walk a little faster, wincing with every step. I felt bad, forcing him along, but I knew we didn't have any choice. There was still no sign of Otto, but any minute now, he'd haul himself over the edge of the precipice and sprint across the springy grass after us.

Up ahead I could see the small harbor. A boat was tied to the dock. I could just make out three little figures unloading boxes from the back of the boat and putting them on a truck. Those must be supplies. Fruit and vegetables for the prison kitchen, perhaps.

That's perfect,
I thought.
The boat will be turning back again soon. Heading home. They can take us too.