SCARECROW
Darren G. Burton
Published by Darren G. Burton at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 Darren G. Burton
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The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
Front & Back Cover Photography: Jovica Antoski
Cover Design by: Darren G. Burton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Sydney, Australia, Darren G. Burton has been writing for more than 20 years. He has had numerous articles and short stories published in major Australian publications and has written several full-length novels. With a keen interest in the arts, his other artistic pursuits include electric guitar and songwriting, creating ambient music CDs, photography and landscape painting.
Prologue One
Fishook Island, The Bahamas - 20 Years Ago:
The night was dark and humid, storm clouds homing in on the island from the south-west. Lightning danced in forks on the horizon, thunder grumbling like an awakening beast. The island lay in wait, no wind; just eerie calm.
A scarecrow stood in the middle of a cornfield, lifelessly gazing out over the ocean. It had wooden arms and legs, with a coat and trousers packed with straw. But its head was once a living thing; a human skull with the vacant eye sockets of a long-since decomposed face. On top of the skull hung the tendrils of an old mop, over which rested the traditional straw hat. Its coat began to flutter as the breath of the storm finally reached the island.
Lightning cracked closer to shore, the thunder louder. The high moon and stars were quickly blotted out as the storm consumed them.
The scarecrow continued to stare inanimately out to sea, as if watching the storm approach, waiting for it.
A gust of wind hit the cornfield, blowing the stalks to forty-five degree angles. The wind brought with it the first drops of rain; big drops that spread to the size of a baseball when they struck the dirt. The scarecrow was quickly drenched, its coat and trousers now hanging limply with the weight of the water. Sheet lightning flashed high above. A random bolt struck the water a hundred yards offshore. Thunder boomed. The water hissed and sizzled. Another bolt struck, this time on the beach; getting closer.
The scarecrow still stared ahead. Still waited.
A third bolt of lightning struck the ground, this time in the cornfield two hundred yards from the scarecrow. Dirt and cornstalks exploded. Thunder cracked like a thousand whips at once.
Two lightning bolts shot down simultaneously, joined together like a Y and hit the scarecrow between the eyes. There was another crack of thunder, but the scarecrow wasn't destroyed. Instead, it glowed with an aura of white light. It seemed to fill out, take on a more human shape, but at the same time remained a scarecrow: Made of wood and straw and that human skull.
The air around it crackled with static. The aura began to undulate as the scarecrow slowly, stiffly, began to move. It uprooted its legs from the ground, took one step, two. Then it was walking freely, most of the stiffness gone.
In the jungle two hundred yards to the east, an old man hid in the darkness, the rain pelting into his face. He looked on in disbelief as the scarecrow walked through the cornfield. His heart hammered and a pulse beat rapidly at his temple. Then he fled into the night.
The scarecrow continued to walk, the storm raging around it. A barn loomed at the southern end of the cornfield, a farmhouse adjacent to it. The scarecrow moved purposefully toward the barn and entered its open doors. It searched inside. The interior was dark, but it could see. Its eyes were alive now and glowed like red-hot coals.
When it found what it was looking for, it left the barn and moved toward the farmhouse, a scythe in its hand.
Prologue Two
The helicopter flew over Fishook Island. Beside the pilot sat a young black man, lines already appearing on his face from the pressures of police work. Sergeant Rhafne had got the call an hour ago. Fishook Island was his jurisdiction, so he flew straight out from Nassau.
They circled the island to prepare for landing. The island was small, maybe three miles long and two wide at its broadest point. It was easy to see how it got its name. It was, in actual fact, the shape of a crude fishhook. The island was home to maybe a hundred people; mostly fisherman and their families, a few small-time farmers. In the curve of the hook, which formed a small bay, lay the little township of ramshackle huts. A few trawlers and some other rather unseaworthy-looking boats were moored in the bay. The helicopter landed on some bare ground in the centre of town, greeted by half the population; who got excited every time life from outside visited. Although they didn't look too excited today.
When the blades had slowed, Rhafne climbed out onto the patchy grass and quickly walked away from the chopper. He hated getting out of those things; always feared the blades were going to drop down and take his head off.
A white man walked up to him. He was a rough looking fisherman named Shaw. He'd been the one who made the call to Rhafne an hour ago. He'd found the bodies.
"Sergeant," Shaw grunted and shook Rhafne's hand.
"Take me there," Rhafne quipped.
A jeep was parked beside a tiny hotel in the sandy street. Shaw got in behind the wheel, Rhafne beside him. The engine fired to life and the jeep lurched off, heading south. They followed a dirt track. On the left was palm-tree jungle, on the right lay a field of sun-baked corn. The road was littered with tree branches and broken palm fronds.
"Bad storm here last night. Lightning struck the ground several places. You can see where it's gouged holes and burnt the corn." Shaw drove on past a barn and pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse. They got out. "I came here to deliver some fish to the Richardson's this morning. That's when I found them..Or what's left of them."
Shaw entered the house, Rhafne close behind.
"I hate this part of my job," Rhafne said, referring to the moment just before he was about to lay eyes on a corpse, not quite knowing what sort of carnage was going to greet him. He steeled himself and followed Shaw into a bedroom.
"In here," Shaw said quietly.
Rhafne held back a gasp. On the bed lay two headless corpses; presumably Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. The bed was soaked in blood, the walls splattered with gore. Rhafne forced himself to take a closer look. He touched the blood-stained sheets. The blood was dry. He prodded one of the corpses with a finger. It was stiff. They'd been dead for some hours.
"Notice something?" Shaw said.
Rhafne nodded. "Of course I notice. Their heads are gone."
"Not just cut off," Shaw went on. "They've been taken away."
"Let's search the house," the sergeant decided. "Maybe the psycho dumped them somewhere." He had another thought. "Are there any other bodies in the house?"
"No. The Richardson's had no children, thank God."
After a thorough search they came up with nothing.
Rhafne sighed and said: "Let's try the barn."
The barn yielded zero as well. Rhafne lit up a cigarette and offered one to Shaw. Then they stood in the doorway to the barn and smoked.
"Want to know somethin' else that's unusual?" Shaw said, dribbling smoke through his nostrils.
"What?"
"The Richardsons had a scarecrow out there in the cornfield. Now it's gone. I thought maybe the storm blew it down or somethin'. I checked. There's no sign of it."
"So what do you think? Someone murdered the Richardsons just to steal their fucking scarecrow?" Rhafne was incredulous.
"I don't think anything," Shaw returned. "It's just damned strange, is all."
Rhafne considered it, couldn't see any possible connection between the missing scarecrow and the murder. He shrugged it aside and finished his smoke in silence.
"Better fly the coroner out here," he decided.
Prologue Three
Wes Marshall rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window beside his bed. It was still dark outside, silver moonlight washing in through the window like a stream.
Something had woken him. Some sound, he guessed, but couldn't recall what. He'd been in a deep sleep, not consciously hearing the sound, just jolted awake by it. Now he heard a creak somewhere in the hut. Clumsy footsteps approached the bedroom door from the other side. Wes lived alone, so he was out of bed like a shot, reaching for a bowie knife he kept on the bedside table. The footsteps stopped outside the door. He held his breath. In the silver light he saw the doorknob slowly turning, the door painstakingly slow to creak open.
Wes watched, open-mouthed, as the figure entered the room. His blood ran cold when he saw the glint of moonlight off the steel blade of a scythe. But what shocked him the most was the figure that held it. It was unmistakable, even in this dim light.
The scarecrow moved towards him, red eyes glowing in its skull of a face.
Stunned by the impossible and frightening sight, Wes' muscles went to jelly. The bowie knife slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He tried to say something but his mouth wouldn't work. He just started to babble as the thing raised the scythe for a strike. Terror gripped Wes' heart like a cold fist. But he didn't have to endure the fear for long as the scythe struck like a lightning bolt, severing his head clean off the shoulders. Wes Marshall's head bounced off the wall onto the bed. The body remained standing for a moment, gushing up blood through the neck like a fountain, then gradually fell forward and hit the floor with a dead thud.
The scarecrow retrieved the head, briefly examined it, then stuffed it in an empty canvas bag. It studied the mess it had made and, pleased with its work, walked stiffly out of the bedroom.
In a hut set back in the jungle, the scarecrow found a heavy black woman and her daughter sleeping in the only bedroom. It struck swiftly and silently, first decapitating the sleeping woman. The point of the scythe gouged a hole through the mattress as the blade separated the head from the body. The little girl stirred as blood spattered her face. Her eyes fluttered open but saw nothing, not yet adjusted to the gloom. She touched the stickiness on her face and was about to let out a scream when the scythe took her head off as cleanly as a knife chops a vegetable.
The scarecrow gathered the two heads and added them to the bag with its first prize.
Satisfied with the evening's efforts, the thing left the outskirts of the little town and headed south, the three skulls in the bag only the very beginning of the harvest it planned to reap.
Prologue Four
For the second time in as many days, Sergeant Rhafne was woken up early by a call on his two-way radio from Fishook Island. Even before he responded to the call, he knew what it was going to be about. The radio message from Shaw confirmed it. Another body had been found, same condition as the last.
He hurriedly dressed, kissed his slumbering wife goodbye and headed off to organise the chopper.
This time he took the coroner and a young deputy with him.
They made Fishook by eight-twenty. As usual, the majority of the townsfolk greeted their landing. Once Rhafne was safely away from the chopper's whirring blades, he took in the expressions on the faces of the townsfolk. Their faces were etched with fear; fear of an unknown, bloodthirsty maniac who was ravaging their peaceful community.
A possibility struck Rhafne as he studied the faces: A seriously real possibility. He could very well be looking into the face, right now, of the psycho who was doing this.
He found Shaw sitting in his jeep smoking a cigarette. Rhafne, the coroner and the deputy climbed into the jeep. Shaw drove them east, inland toward the jungle, and soon they skidded to a stop in front of a hut on the outskirts of town.
"Wes Marshall's his name," Shaw told Rhafne as they entered. Then added, "Or was."
Marshall's corpse was in the bedroom, lying chest down on the floor. Once again, Rhafne noticed, the head was nowhere to be seen. The bedroom reeked of gore and death. The coroner immediately got to work, and Rhafne walked outside for a smoke.
Shaw joined him. "There's a madman loose on the island. Most likely it's someone I know. I know everybody here."
Rhafne searched Shaw's weather-hardened face. "Anyone in particular been acting strange lately? Anyone stressed or depressed? Or violent?" he asked.
Shaw smoked and thought about it. "No," he said finally. "No one I can think of."
"Could be an outsider," Rhafne mused. "Been any visitors here? Anyone new on the island?"
Shaw shook his head.
At that moment a young black boy of about fourteen or fifteen hurried up to the hut. His face was flushed and he was excited, more with fear and shock than anything, Rhafne decided. "Mr. Shaw! I've found two more!"
Shaw tossed his cigarette away. "Who? Where?"
The boy pointed into the jungle. "Mrs. Ogilvie and Catherine."
"Oh, shit!" Shaw spat and leaped off the verandah. Rhafne was with him and together they followed the boy deeper into the jungle. They came to a run-down hut, made of wooden slats and fibro, nestled comfortably amid cooling palms. A hammock was strung between two of the palms: A hammock these two people would never relax in again.
Inside, in the bedroom, was the familiar scene: Two headless, lifeless figures lying amidst a gory, spray-painted like pattern of blood.
"That makes five in two nights," Rhafne calculated. "Better check all the dwellings on this island to make sure there are no others we don't yet know about."
The boy went over to touch one of the corpses.
"Don't do that, son," Rhafne said gently, but firmly.
Shaw said, "Come on, Josh. Outside and get back to your folks."
Josh slinked away out the door, a little stunned by what he'd seen, but not yet visibly affected by it. Wait till he tries to sleep tonight, Rhafne thought somberly. Poor kid.
"Where's the lady's husband?" he asked Shaw.
"Dead. Died a few months back. Taken by a shark while spear-fishing."
Rhafne shook his head sadly and went back to assign the deputy the task of looking after the Ogilvies.
Rhafne and Shaw headed into the village and organised some men to search every dwelling on the island. The main township didn't take long, but the sergeant and Shaw spent the better part of an hour driving to scattered huts throughout the atoll. They came to the final dwelling, a hut that stood alone on the eastern shore, nestled amidst thick jungle and undergrowth.
"Who lives here?" Rhafne asked.
"Old man Jake. Keeps to himself. Lives off the land basically. Eats coconuts, catches his own fish with a rod. Don't see that much of him. He's a bit of a crazy old fool."
Rhafne got out and knocked on the door. Waited. No response. He hammered at it this time. Still no answer. Quiet.
"Hope he's okay," Shaw murmured. "Maybe he went fishing?"
Rhafne shrugged. "I think we better take a look inside anyway. Just to make sure he's not victim number six."
The door was unlocked. It creaked open like tired bones. Rhafne entered first. The interior was gloomy. As the sergeant's eyes adjusted, things began to materialize. The hut was made up of only one room, with a small section closed off with shower curtains to make up the bathroom. There was an open window on the far side, but with the jungle so thick behind it, it didn't offer much in the way of light. There was a bench and wood-burning stove on the right. On the left wall was a rack holding several rifles. Another rack next to it held an assortment of fishing rods. A hammock was strung between two poles near the window, and in the centre of the room was a single armchair. Somebody sat in the chair.
"Jake?" Shaw said quietly. The figure didn't stir. "Jake!" he repeatedly more urgently.
The head of the figure ever so slowly swiveled to face them.
Jake looked to be at least sixty, Rhafne figured. He had absolutely no hair, just a sunburned, wrinkled pate. His gray eyes were deep-set amid a valley of wrinkles. He wore no shirt and looked surprisingly fit for his age.
"You okay, Jake?" Shaw asked uncertainly.
Old man Jake nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah," he croaked.
"Have you heard about what's been happenin', Jake?"
Again he nodded. "It's harvest time."
"Harvest time?" Rhafne repeated, confused. "What do you mean?"
The old man looked at him with his deep-set eyes. "When it's time to harvest, out comes the reaper."
Shaw whispered: "Ignore him. He's crazy."
"Yeah," Rhafne whispered back. "But what's a crazy man capable of?"
Shaw motioned the sergeant outside. "You don't think Jake's responsible, do you. He's old and he's senile, but he ain't no butcher."
"Then who is?"
Shaw shrugged. "I dunno. But I can't see him doing anybody any harm. My bet is it's an outsider. I don't know who, or why, but I just can't imagine anybody on this island doing such a vicious deed."
"Okay, then," Rhafne decided, "we'll just have to organise a watch party for tonight and see if we can't catch this guy. Gather together about a dozen of your most trusted men. Move the rest of the community into the huts in the centre of town. That way we can keep an eye on everybody. You can start by telling Jake to come with us."
Shaw went back inside, re-emerged a few minutes later. "He won't come."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"It's his funeral."
They drove back to town and set to work organising the plan. By the time sunset came, pink and orange over the bay, everyone was in position.
The deputy had since flown back to Nassau with the coroner and the bodies. Rhafne had assigned him the task of filing the necessary paperwork, leaving Rhafne free to deal with things here.
Rhafne himself was situated on the western outskirts of town, on the bay. Shaw was stationed on that side as well, about a hundred yards away further north. As requested, all the townsfolk were gathered together for the evening in about ten huts in the centre of the village. Those dwellings around the outskirts were empty. A dozen or so men were stationed at strategic locations around the outskirts of the village, every man armed with a rifle or hand-gun and within sight of another.
The hours passed. Rhafne smoked cigarette after cigarette. As the moon was rising over the jungle, Rhafne checked his watch: Quarter after nine. He wondered if the guy was going to show. If the maniac was one of the villagers, he most certainly wasn't going to do anything tonight. If it was an outsider, arriving somewhere on the island by boat, he'd be none the wiser as to what was going down.
The minute hand of Rhafne's watch moved slowly on to the twelve: Ten o'clock. Still no action. The island was dead silent.
He lit another smoke, concealing the flame behind the bushes where he hid. By the time he finished his smoke it was ten after ten. Damned time was dragging by like a dying dog. But patience was the name of the game in a stakeout situation. He hated this part of his job as well. It was boring as hell, but a necessary procedure.
By midnight Rhafne's cigarettes had run out, and he wished he had another packet. Even more bored without any smokes, the hour from twelve to one seemed more like four.
Jack "Jumbo" Williamson, as he was affectionately known, was stationed at the southern end of town. Behind him was jungle, beyond which lay the cornfield of the deceased Richardsons. He nervously smoked a pipe. Didn't like being down this end at all. He could see Sergeant Rhafne to his left, a little further north, standing next to some bushes near the beach. Jumbo, as his name suggested, was a big black man. Unfortunately, most of his size was stacked around the waistline. Still, he was as strong as an ox, he knew. And if this scumbag showed his face tonight, he planned to give the guy a real hammering-
Jumbo's head hit the ground with a soft thud. His fat body made a loud thud as it fell.
The scarecrow stood there with its scythe, the blade dripping blood onto the sand. It was getting quicker, it realised. More flexible, more efficient. More silent and deadly. It jammed the point of the blade into the crevice of the neck and scooped Jumbo's lifeless head into the bag. That made six. This was a good harvest.
The scarecrow's clothes were wet with salt water, and they rubbed as it walked into town.
Rhafne saw it first, an indefinable silhouette against the moonlight. He knew it wasn't one of the villagers. Too tall. And it walked with a strange gait.
The shape moved towards the first hut, carrying something in each hand. Moonlight glinted off steel. Rhafne recognised it as the unmistakable blade of a reaping tool; a scythe. He withdrew his police issue hand-gun and stealthily moved in on the shape. Shaw had seen it too, and was coming in from his position further north. The figure had now entered the hut, which was empty. Shaw joined Rhafne and together they walked towards the building.
"Where's Jumbo?" Shaw whispered. "He should have seen him. Came from his direction."
Rhafne shrugged and whispered, "Maybe he fell asleep."
"Better fucking not have."
Shaw was armed with a rifle. He squatted below the open window of the hut, while Rhafne positioned himself beside the open door. Rhafne peered around the corner, couldn't see a thing inside. Too dark. Damn, he thought. Should have brought a flashlight. Not good preparation, he chastised himself silently. He motioned to Shaw to look in through the window. Shaw sneaked a quick look, then shook his head. Couldn't see anything. Rhafne waved him over and Shaw scuttled across to the sergeant on his haunches.
"Too dark to see a damned thing," the fisherman said under his breath.
"I know," Rhafne responded quietly. "There's no one inside other than this guy, whoever he is, so we'll just wait for him to come out. You stay on this side of the door, and I'll cover the other side." When Shaw nodded, Rhafne rolled across the front of the door to the other side, then stood up with his gun ready. He peered inside. Two red eyes stared back at him. There was a whooshing sound above the sergeant's head. Instinctively he dove to the ground and rolled away, just as the blade of the scythe carved a gash in the dirt where he'd been half a second ago.
Shaw went to raise his rifle for a shot, but felt the full brunt of the scythe's handle in his stomach. He grunted and doubled over. Then the figure was off. Rhafne watched the figure running away, too stunned to move for a moment. Shaw got to his feet, the pain in his gut subsiding.
"That looked like the Richardson's fucking scarecrow!" Shaw grunted in surprise. He shook his head to clear it.
"Couldn't have been," Rhafne tried to dismiss the insane idea.
"Well what's it fucking look like to you, Sergeant?" Shaw challenged gruffly.
Rhafne stared after the figure as it disappeared south along the beach. He'd seen it close up: Straw hat, ragged clothes, skull-like face..and those horrid red eyes.
"I've seen that scarecrow a thousand times," Shaw went on. "I'd recognise it anywhere."
"But how?" Rhafne couldn't comprehend it.
"Who knows how? We'll worry about that later. Let's just get the jeep and be after the thing!"
The jeep was parked in the centre of town. Within two minutes, Sergeant Rhafne, Shaw, and two other men armed with rifles were riding the jeep south along the beach in pursuit.
They caught up with the scarecrow at the southern tip of the island. The moon was high and full now, illuminating everything with a silver sheen. The scarecrow entered the water.
"He's heading out to Hollow Island!" Rhafne yelled.
"It," Shaw corrected him.
Hollow Island was a tiny island, maybe only a couple of acres in land mass, with a large underwater cave beneath it. The island was only two hundred yards off shore and was clearly visible in the moonlight.
As the scarecrow disappeared into the water, Shaw and the other men fired off several rounds each. Bullets fizzed and ricocheted off the smooth surface, but never struck anything solid. The scarecrow was gone, vanished into the depths.
Rhafne stopped the firing. "Shaw! Get me a boat, some scuba gear and an underwater flashlight. Bring some other flashlights as well. Tell the others to stay there and guard the townsfolk."
"Right," Shaw responded and got into the jeep.
To the other two men Rhafne said, "You two stay here with me..In case it comes back."
"What is it?" one of the men asked, not sure of what he'd just seen, and not having seen it up close like Rhafne and Shaw.
"I don't know?" Rhafne replied honestly. "I don't really know."
Shaw took twenty minutes to return with the gear. Behind the jeep he towed a trailer, on which was a dinghy with a small outboard. He backed the trailer into the water while the other men unhooked the dinghy. All four got in and Shaw started the motor.
The small craft cruised out toward Hollow Island. As they got closer, Shaw had to maneuver the vessel around rocks and reef that protruded through the surface. He beached the dinghy in a small cove on the western shore of the island.
Rhafne was first to alight. The others got out and they dragged the boat up onto dry sand.
Hollow Island was only sparsely covered in vegetation, mostly just palms lining the beaches with a small rise in the centre that was pretty much bare.
"Let's search the island," Rhafne decided.
Shaw handed each man a flashlight.
"Do you think we should fan out?" one of the men asked.
"No," said Rhafne. "Could be too dangerous. Let's stick together."
They circumnavigated the tiny island, following the beach. When that revealed nothing - no sign of the scarecrow, no footprints in the sand - they ventured inland and checked the centre.
Shaw lit a smoke. "I think it's in the cave." He pointed down at the ground to the cave below the island.
"That's where the scuba gear comes in," Rhafne said. "Can it breathe somewhere in there?"
Shaw shrugged. "Doesn't matter. If it's what I think it is, it don't need to breathe."
"How much diving gear have you got?" Rhafne asked him.
"Enough for two."
"Good. You're coming down with me."
"I am?" Shaw blew smoke into the night.
"Yes. You are."
The four men went back to the cove and the dinghy. Rhafne and Shaw stripped down to their underwear. Shaw's back, arms and chest were smothered in tattoos, which he covered over with a wetsuit vest. They put on tanks, fins and masks. Shaw had included two waterproof flashlights, so they each were armed with one.
"You been in there before?" Rhafne asked.
"I've been down there. I haven't been inside."
"Right. You lead the way then."
"Thanks," Shaw grumbled and waded backwards into the water.
Rhafne followed suit. The water was cool around his legs, but not cold. When they were in waist deep, they flicked on their torches and slipped beneath the surface. Rhafne had trouble purging the water from his tired old regulator, but he eventually got it clear and followed Shaw's light out to a rocky outcrop. The water was pitch dark outside the range of their lights. Here the bottom dropped off markedly. Rhafne trailed Shaw down to the sea bed. They followed a channel in the rocks and arrived at a large, dark hole: The entrance to the cave that led under the island. They shone their lights inside, the beams penetrating down a seemingly-endless tunnel.
Rhafne's heart gave a stutter. He had a sudden sensation that something was behind them in the channel. He shone his light behind him. Two red eyes in a skull-like face stared back. Movement; the glint of light off steel. Rhafne reacted too slowly and the point of the scythe dug into his ribs. He gritted his teeth down on the rubber mouthpiece as the pain hit him. The scarecrow darted past Shaw and swam into the tunnel. Shaw shone his light after it, then aimed it at Rhafne. Rhafne pointed to the surface and they swam back to the cove.
On the beach, Rhafne dumped his gear in the boat and stripped off his vest. The scythe had penetrated through the rubber and sliced the skin between two ribs on his left hand side. The wound bled a bit, but was only superficial.
"Luckily it couldn't get a good swing underwater," Rhafne mused.
"Could have gone into your lungs, otherwise," Shaw noted. He rolled the sergeant a cigarette, lit it and gave it to him.
Rhafne accepted it gratefully and puffed tenaciously. He thought quickly. "Do you have any salvage workers on the island?"
"One," Shaw answered.
Rhafne nodded. "Is that the only entrance to the cave?"
Shaw nodded. "Except for a tiny opening in the centre of the island. But nobody could fit out there."
"Okay. I want you to go back and get me some underwater explosives."
"What are you going to do?"
"I have a plan. Just get me the explosives and get back as quick as you can."
Shaw nosed the dinghy into the cove, started the motor and roared off. Meanwhile, one of the other men pressed a handkerchief hard against the sergeant's wound. By the time Shaw returned, Rhafne's wound had stopped bleeding. He and Shaw suited up again as dawn's first rays of faint light coloured the eastern horizon in hues of pink and red.
"What have you got?"
Shaw showed Rhafne a lump of plastic explosive molded around the curved bottom of a beer bottle. Attached to that was a detonator, some wire, and a timing device.
"The curvature of the beer bottle will direct the explosion in the direction you want it to go," the seaman explained. "We set the timer for, say, five minutes so we've got time to get the hell out of there. But a word of warning: Once you set it you can't stop it. Strictly set and forget."
"Okay. Let's do it."
"You gonna seal off the entrance so it can't get out?" Shaw surmised.
"You got it. Hopefully it's still in there."
Rhafne put on his mask and stuffed the regulator in his mouth. There was still about fifteen minutes of air left in the tank, so that should be plenty. He waded into the water, then dropped beneath the surface.
The water was still dark, just a hint of faint, murky light beginning to penetrate. He followed his flashlight beam to the channel, and swam it to the cave entrance. Shaw joined him there. Both of them shone their lights around to make certain the scarecrow, or whatever it was, wasn't lurking nearby. They saw nothing but rocks and coral and sand. Rhafne probed the cave entrance with the light, saw nothing but stone as far as the light would penetrate. He then surveyed the cave entrance, searching for an ideal spot to locate the plastic explosives. There was an eight foot overhang, like an awning above the cave mouth. If the explosive was aimed to blow that off, that section of stone would be enough to seal it off.
Rhafne checked down the tunnel again. No sign of the scarecrow. He found a ledge about six feet up the tunnel wall just inside the entrance. He indicated for Shaw to place the explosive on the ledge, aimed up at the overhang. Shaw did so, then set the timer for five minutes.
They turned to swim away. It was then that the long, lithe shape loomed out of the twilight. It was only a shadow in the eerie, early-morning gloom, but its shape was unmistakable. As the prehistoric fish swam through the beam of Rhafne's light, he saw the brown stripes along its side and knew it was a tiger shark.
It kept swimming past, seemingly endless; like waiting for a train to go by. The shark reached the end of the channel and turned around. The channel was about twenty feet across, and the shark had room to turn around, but not by much.
Had to be at least a fifteen footer, Rhafne figured. His skin tingled with nervous anticipation. He remembered the gash on his left side and prayed that the shark couldn't smell it; that it wasn't bleeding again.
The shark cruised past and Rhafne hoped it had just lost its way and was swimming out of the channel. But then, with a mighty flick of its tail it turned around and was coming back.
Rhafne feared now that his wound was bleeding and the monster was homing in on the scent. He and Shaw moved under the rock overhang. Rhafne shined the light down the tunnel. No sign of the scarecrow at least. He trained the light on the charge. Three minutes until it blew. The thing was irreversible. Couldn't even pull a damn wire out or the thing would blow. It was like a damned booby-trap. He sensed Shaw had vanished. Rhafne shone the light around. Shaw had indeed gone.
The tiger shark still cruised the entrance, its skin now rippling with agitation. Rhafne shone the light down the channel and what he saw made him sick to the stomach. Another shark, as big as the first, had entered the channel. But what terrified Rhafne the most was what it had in its mouth. Shaw's entire head and one shoulder had disappeared into the cavernous jaws; three rows of teeth and a powerful, thrashing body tearing Shaw to shreds. The man was already dead. Rhafne could tell by the limpness of his figure.
Fuck! he thought desperately. Fuck! What the hell do I do now?
Even as he thought those words, and as blood permeated the water, two more sharks entered the channel to join in the feast. But the shark cruising in front of the cave seemed disinterested in the hapless body of Shaw. It seemed only interested in Rhafne.
Rhafne checked the timer again. Two minutes to go. Shit! There was no way out of here. Not inside the cave, not outside in the channel, and certainly not here in the entrance.
He shone the light out in the channel again. There were sharks everywhere now. Instinctively, he trained the beam back into the depths of the cave. And there it was: The scarecrow, evil red eyes and that deadly scythe, slowly coming towards him.
And then Rhafne knew what had to be done. It was insane, but it was the only way of keeping this hellish creature away from the rest of the world. There was no other choice.
Rhafne reached for the charge, gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, prayed to God to look after his wife, then turned the timer to zero.
One
THE PRESENT DAY:
The ferry ride from Nassau to Fishook Island took three hours. There were about thirty people on board, en route to the Fishook Island Resort.
Three young men sat in seats on the open top deck. Kurt Rogers, his short blond hair blowing in the afternoon sea breeze, drank Jim Beam from a can and watched the resort loom closer. They were still a good mile or two out to sea, so the resort was an indistinct blur surrounded by smudges of green vegetation.
On either side of Kurt sat his two college graduate buddies; Peter Malone and Matthew Gaines, both drinking stubbies of Budweiser.
"What time have you got, Kurt?" Matt asked and drank down the rest of his beer.
Kurt checked his digital diver's. "Four thirty-two."
"Four thirty-two," Matt echoed. "What's the exact time?"
"Could sure use a shower," Pete remarked.
"Yeah," Kurt agreed. His shirt was glued to his back with sweat. The air was thick and steamy, and he looked forward to escaping to the sanctuary of the air-conditioned resort.
"Still say we should have stayed in Nassau," grumbled Matt. "More to do there."
"There's plenty to do here," Kurt said. "Plenty of what we want to do. Heaps of reef to scuba dive on. You can hire boats and windsurfers. There's tennis, squash, beach volleyball, bars, restaurants. A nightclub. A gym. What more do we need?"
Matt smiled. "Babes."
"There'll be plenty of those here, too," Pete assured him.
As the ferry motored closer, the resort grew more defined. It was built around the entire cove, the main building rising five stories high and curved around in a gentle U-shape. In the centre of the curve was a huge swimming pool, and several tennis courts. Palm trees and flower beds were placed strategically, but not too geometrically, around the pool and courts. Four or five jetties grew out from various points along the cove. One jetty was particularly long, with about twenty cabin cruisers and speedboats moored along its sides. At the end of that jetty was a large shed.
"I'd say that's the boat hire and dive shop," Kurt mentioned. "Gathering from what I've read in the pamphlets."
The ferry moved away from that jetty and slowly approached another long pier on the opposite side of the cove to the right. An Island Cruiser vessel was moored alongside this jetty, out for a day trip from Nassau. The ferry throttled down to idling speed and virtually crawled up to the wooden platform. A few practiced gear changes from forward, to reverse, to forward again by the skipper lined the ferry up parallel to the pier. Deckhands tied ropes to the moorings and the vessel was secured.
Kurt, Matt and Pete were first off, each carrying a suitcase and backpack stacked full of clothes and other belongings. Kurt had a camera slung around his neck, and he paused to take a picture of the resort, with Matt and Pete in the foreground. He then turned and snapped off a shot of the ferry, the automatic winder whirring as it advanced the film to the next frame.
"Come on trigger finger," Matt grumbled. "Let's get into the building and find some reprieve from this heat."
They walked past the pool. A couple of girls in deck chairs gazed at them curiously. Matt stiffened as he walked by, making the muscles pop out in his sleeveless shirt. The girls checked him out thoroughly, then giggled between themselves.
"Too young to appreciate beauty," Matt commented to his friends. Then they were past the pool and entering the foyer of the hotel, into the relief of crisp, cool air-conditioning.
The foyer had rich, blood-red carpet that was plush enough to sleep on. Huge paintings of ocean scenes decorated the walls, and numerous couches covered in bright tropical floral print lined the windows overlooking the pool outside.
Kurt moved over to the reception desk, which had a counter made of black polished granite. The desk clerk behind the counter wore a tuxedo and bow tie. He was an ageing black Bahamian with grey flecks in his curly hair. He smiled broadly as Kurt approached. "Yes, Sir?" he said in a friendly tone.
"Hi," Kurt offered. "Room for three under the name of Kurt Rogers."
The clerk punched a few keys on his computer, waited a few seconds for the machine to process the information, then nodded. "Two weeks, paid in full. Very good." He reached for some keys from a rack of many behind him and handed the keys to Kurt. "You have room number two-ten, Sir. That's on the top floor." He tapped a bell on the counter. "I'll have a porter take your luggage."
Within seconds a young white man dressed in red jacket, black pants, white shirt and black bow tie, arrived at the counter.
"Michael," the clerk addressed the young man. "Take the luggage of these three gentlemen and show them to room two-ten, please."
Michael nodded, found a trolley by the wall, and loaded their suitcases and backpacks onto it. Then he said, "Follow me," and wheeled the gear around the corner and over to one of three elevators. He punched a button and the elevator's doors opened immediately. They rode the elevator to the top floor and entered a hallway of the same red carpet as downstairs. Room two-ten was only a few paces down the hallway on the left. Kurt unlocked the door and entered behind the porter pushing the trolley. More red carpet in a spacious room filled with one double bed, two singles, a couch and armchair, television, DVD, stereo, and a coffee table. There was a kitchenette with a small dining setting on the far side, beside which was a sliding glass door leading out onto the balcony overlooking the bay. To the right of the balcony door was a doorway which Kurt presumed led into the bathroom.
Pete tipped the porter and the man left them alone to their room.
"Breathe that air-conditioned air," Matt said luxuriously and inhaled deeply.
Kurt smiled. "What's the point in coming to a tropical island if all you're concerned about is air-conditioning?" he ribbed, even though he secretly shared Matt's relief.
"I don't mind the heat and sultry tropical nights," Matt told him, "just so long as I've got a haven to retreat to."
"I'm grabbing a shower," Pete said. "Feels like somebody wallpapered this shirt to my back." He disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.
Kurt investigated the kitchenette. There was a medium-sized bar fridge. He opened the door. Half a dozen tiny containers of motel milk lined the top shelf inside the door. The only other thing in the fridge was a tray of ice cubes in the freezer compartment. On a bench next to the fridge was a set of hotplates - no oven. But there was a microwave oven in the corner, beside which was an electric kettle and toaster. A cupboard below the sink revealed mugs, plates and glasses on the top shelf. On the shelf below was a jar filled with one serve sachets of coffee, and another jar filled with tea bags. A third container revealed a stack of individually-wrapped pairs of sugar cubes. The second cupboard produced cooking utensils and a bottle of dishwashing liquid. Two drawers beside the sink held cutlery and various other kitchen implements.
His curiosity satisfied, Kurt went and sat on the edge of the double bed, where Matt had sprawled out and made himself comfortable.
"I suggest we all get cleaned up and find one of those bars," Kurt said.
"Sounds like a plan," Matt agreed.
In the bathroom the water stopped running, and a few minutes later Pete emerged with a white resort-issue towel wrapped around his waist, his body thin and lean.
"We're going to grab a shower, too," Matt told him.
"Not together, I hope," Pete replied with a grin.
"Yeah, right," Matt returned facetiously.
"We thought we'd go find a bar and have another drink," Kurt informed him.
Pete nodded his agreement and searched for some clothes in his suitcase, while Matt quickly dashed into the bathroom before Kurt even had a chance to move.
Kurt relaxed on the double bed while waiting for Matt to finish. Matt eventually did finish and Kurt took his turn in the bathroom.
The bathroom was a small and simple affair, with a wash basin and mirror, a cupboard below the sink, one small window, a toilet, and a shower cubicle surrounded on two sides by a glass wall and glass sliding door. A fresh white towel hung on a towel rack beside the wash basin.
Kurt showered, using a complimentary soap the size of a postage stamp. When he'd finished, he dried off in front of the mirror, pleased with the condition his physique was in. He was lean and well muscled, though not big. Just a normal build. His skin was a little pale, though, from the American winter, and all those months of hard indoor study to graduate from college. But he planned to change that and be well tanned by the time he'd spent two weeks on this island.
He combed his short blond hair, darkened by the dampness of the water in it, then checked his face for any sign of wrinkles. There were none, and at twenty-two years of age he didn't expect there to be any. His hair was thick and healthy, and he hoped like hell he didn't go bald when he was older. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went out to get dressed.
In the main room he found Pete and Matt already fully clothed. "You two don't muck about," he noted.
"We're thirsty," Matt told him.
Kurt opened his suitcase, found some underwear and slipped them on under his towel. Then he dropped the towel and shrugged himself into a pair of Levis. He tucked a white T-shirt into his jeans and squeezed his feet into a pair of brown casuals.
"All set?" Pete asked him.
"Yep." Kurt grabbed his wallet, the keys and followed the others out to the elevators.
Downstairs in the lobby they looked around for a bar. They saw a coffee lounge, a door leading into a restaurant that was not yet open, and next to that a sign that said: The Old Wino.
"That's gotta be a bar," Matt decided.
"I'd put money on it," Kurt agreed.
They entered the bar, which was filled with round tables surrounded by bar stools. More bar stools lined a well-stocked bar to the right, behind which was a middle-aged bartender dressed in the same fashion as the clerk at reception. Apart from the bartender and themselves, there were only two other people in the room; a young couple talking intimately at a table in the far left-hand corner. The two continually smiled and looked deeply into each other's eyes as they talked. Kurt felt a pang of regret when he saw the couple so happy together. He still missed Corinne.
"I bet you those two are here on their honeymoon," Matt said with a smile. He then realised his mistake and added, "Sorry, Kurt," and patted him on the back.
"No need to be," Kurt assured him and forced a weak smile that turned out more like a grimace.
"Let's get some drinks," Pete decided quickly. "What'll it be? My shout."
"Now that's what I like to hear," Matt quipped. "A brew for me."
Pete nodded. "Kurt?"
"Jim Beam on ice. No Coke."
Pete raised his eyebrows. "The man wants a bit of fire." He went to the bar to get the drinks. Kurt and Matt found some comfortable booths at the far end of the room, with tinted windows overlooking a sparse palm tree jungle that led through to the northern beach. They took seats opposite each other in a comfortable booth and soon after Pete arrived with the drinks. When Pete was settled next to Matt, he said to Kurt, "So, Mr. Facts and Figures, what else can you tell us about this place?"
"Yeah," Matt put in. "You're the journalism major; the words man. You're supposed to be good at research. Have you done your homework or what?"
Kurt sipped his straight bourbon. It burned his throat as it went down, but it felt good; slightly mellowed by the ice. He felt better now.
Being in the profession he was hoping to make a living in, he was pleased to relay some facts he'd dug up on the place. He drank some more bourbon before beginning.
"Well, this island was bought out about five years ago by the British-owned hotel chain, Berwicks. Fishook Island used to be inhabited by native Bahamians, mostly fishermen and their families. Berwicks kicked everyone off. Relocated them on another island. There is still one guy living here from back then, apparently. Refused to go. Some old fellow who lives in a shack on the other side of the island someplace. Fends for himself, it seems."
He paused to drink more bourbon. "Berwicks tore down the town to build this place. With two hundred and forty odd rooms, the resort can probably hold up to a thousand people. Live-in staff members run the entire show, including the boat hire. The building's five stories high with three underground basement levels. One's for storage, the lowest one houses a generator and water purification system which both supply electricity and fresh water. But the first basement level, according to this pamphlet," Kurt dug a glossy brochure from the pocket of his jeans, "has a gym, which you no doubt will be interested in, Matt, an indoor swimming pool, spa, sauna and games room."
"What's in the games room?" Pete interrupted to ask.
Kurt scanned the brochure. "Pool tables, the latest in video games and pinball machines; plus a gambling room."
"What kind of gambling?" Matt was immediately interested.
Still checking over the pamphlet, Kurt replied, "Blackjack, roulette, and a few slot machines. That's in a separate section that you've got to be over eighteen to enter. But not many kids come here anyway. The place is designed for, and mainly attracts either young single adults, or honeymooners. They advertise in the brochure that it's a honeymooner's haven." He paused and slowly sipped his drink. "Which is why I know a bit about the place. It was one of the islands Corinne and I were thinking about spending our honeymoon on."
"So why did you suggest we come here?" Pete asked carefully. "Isn't it going to drag up bad feelings about what might have been?"
Kurt shrugged. "I don't know. So far I feel okay. I figured that coming here might help me deal with things. Face reality. Oh, I've accepted the fact that Corinne is dead, but I'm still finding it hard to move on. I think this will help."
Matt smiled mischievously. "What you need is to meet some girls while you're here."
"We'll see," Kurt managed a smile. "But anyway, on with the report. The resort, including the grounds and the cove, takes up around a third of Fishook." He scanned the brochure again. "There's an outdoor bar in the pool, and a kiosk. Inside there are more bars, a couple of restaurants and coffee shops, general store, souvenir shop, and on the first level there's a nightclub."
Kurt finished his bourbon. "So, as you can see, just in the resort alone there is plenty to get up to. That's not to mention all the scuba diving we can do. Which is primarily what we came here for anyway." He stood up. "Anyone else like another drink?"
"Beer for me," said Matt.
"I second that order," Pete chimed in.
"When I come back, I'll tell you some interesting facts about the history of this island." Kurt liked the fact that he'd sounded mysterious. It was good practice for his writing career.
When he returned with two beers and another bourbon for himself - this one with Coke - Matt said, "Okay, Columbo. Tell us what else you know."
"Right," Kurt said, getting settled again. "This island used to be inhabited, like many of the other islands around the Bahamas, by pirates about three hundred and seventy years ago."
"Don't tell me," Pete interrupted. "There's a buried treasure on this island somewhere and we're going to find it."
"Now all we need is an ancient treasure map to locate it, with an X marking the spot," Matt added sarcastically and drank his beer.
"No," Kurt said seriously. "There isn't any treasure buried on this island that I know of. And we don't need a map." He paused to add drama. "But there is the possibility of some close by."
Again he paused, took a sip of bourbon.
"Well, go on," Matt urged.
"Back in the early sixteen hundreds a French pirate named Louis Lorenz and his band of buccaneers, sacked a Spanish galleon sailing from Mexico - or New Spain as it was known then - back to Spain. The galleons used to sail to Vera Cruz, load up with gold and silver to be sailed back to the king. Plus there was also personal treasure; things like gold and silver bars belonging to rich merchants."
"Okay," Matt said impatiently, though there was a distinct gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Forget the history lesson. Get down to the nitty-gritty of the story; the part that involves this island."
"I'm getting to that," Kurt promised. "Galleons usually sailed in large fleets for protection. Pirates generally preyed on lone vessels. This particular fleet, however, was a small one; only four ships of which two were galleons."
"So the king's treasure ship in this fleet was sacked by this Lorenz character," Pete guessed.
Kurt nodded. "The ship was called the Antilles. It was so loaded down with treasure and passengers that it lagged behind the other vessels as they traveled north through the Florida Straight. Lorenz and his crew were waiting in ambush and attacked the treasure ship. They slaughtered the crew and passengers, loaded as much of the treasure as they could onto their own ship, then scuttled the galleon.
"The other three ships were too slow in getting back to help them. Lorenz got away with much of the treasure. The rest sank with the Antilles."
Kurt noticed his friends getting more impatient with him. "Anyway, to cut a long story short, the three remaining ships sailed back to Havana. The district officer sent a task force of soldiers out into the Bahamas to search for Lorenz. They eventually found his island, waged a battle and killed all the pirates: Except him."
"So," Pete interjected again. "This was Louis Lorenz' island?"
Kurt smiled. "That's right. Anyway, Lorenz escaped in a longboat with a swag of gold coins; doubloons. The soldiers caught him out on Hollow Island - which is just south of here - dumping all the coins down a fissure in the centre which fell into a cave. Except for maybe Lorenz, no one knew about the vast cave that ran under the island then. The Spanish soldiers thought the gold was lost beyond reach. To punish the guy, they tied him to a stake and burnt him alive. Apparently, while Lorenz was being fried, he vowed vengeance on them. When he was charred, the soldiers cut off his head and stuck it on a pole out there to rot in the sun."
"So you're saying all that treasure is still there in this cave?" Matt asked hopefully.
Kurt slowly shook his head. "No. When it was discovered that there was a cave beneath Hollow Island - thus giving the island its name - and the story came to light about Louis Lorenz, then all manner of treasure hunters converged on the cave and searched it many times. Some treasure was found. Quite a lot, actually. But then it dwindled out and interest waned."
"So there's no treasure left," Pete sounded disappointed.
"Ah, but there could be," Kurt insisted. "The treasure was there for over three hundred years before anyone searched for it. Much of it was probably buried under the sand by that time. There could still be more. The sea's a living thing. Covers and uncovers things all the time."
"Could be worthwhile checking out," Matt mused.
"Oh, for sure," Kurt was adamant. "There is one problem, though."
"What?" Pete asked.
Kurt finished his second bourbon. "Someone twenty years ago blasted the cave entrance shut. Nobody seems to know much about it. All I could find out was that there was a series of murders out here at that time," he paused, a stab of emotional pain hitting him, "culminating for some reason in the cave being sealed. The guy who sealed it died in the explosion. It was all very hush-hush for some reason."
"I say we dive on the cave tomorrow and see if we can get it open," Matt said with enthusiasm. "Do you know where the entrance is, or used to be?"
"I have a fair idea," Kurt told him.
"I have a question," Pete said. "What happened to the head of Louis Lorenz?"
Kurt smiled. "It became the prize possession of an island witchdoctor. But more recently, one of the islanders here, before the resort was built, made a scarecrow out of him."
Two
They chose the a-la-carte restaurant on the first floor for dinner. By the time they'd finished a main course of barracuda and vegetables, it was nine-thirty.
Kurt was finishing off his meal with a cappuccino. He produced another glossy brochure from his pocket and spread it out on the table. "This is a guide to the resort," he told his friends. "I found a pile of them down in the lobby before. It pinpoints where all the indoor and outdoor amenities are."
Matt and Pete leaned over the table for a closer look.
"As you can see," Kurt went on, "it shows all of Fishook Island, plus at the south end here it also outlines Hollow Island. What it shows as well is the best reef and rocky areas around each island to dive on."
He sipped his cappuccino, leaving a frothy moustache on his upper lip, then continued. "From what I discovered in my research of Hollow Island was that the cave entrance was on the western shore at the end of a channel in a rocky outcrop." Kurt pointed a finger to a spot on Hollow Island's western shore. "It's a tiny island and that's the only rocky outcrop, judging by this map, that I can see on that side."
"I'd say you're absolutely right," Pete agreed, scrutinizing the not-too-detailed map.
Matt yawned. "I say we call it a night and get an early start on this thing tomorrow."
"You don't want to check out the nightclub?" Kurt asked.
Matt shook his head. "Tomorrow night."
"I thought you wanted to meet some girls," Pete reminded him.
"Plenty of time for that," said Matt. "I feel a bit tired from the trip out from Miami."