Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease (3 page)

“Well, here. Open. I can’t help you sit up or prop you up, but I can hold the glass.”

Tommy obliged, groaning as he tried to tip his head up just enough to where he could receive some water. He opened his mouth. The old man dropped the tablets in one at a time, each one followed by a tipping of the glass of water to Tommy’s lips. He managed to choke them all down. The gagging wasn’t caused so much by the tablets as by the old man’s sour stench.  Still, he tried to chug as much of the water as he could. The cold freshness was like heaven on his tongue.

“Not too much, just yet,” Troy cautioned, pulling the glass away. “You’ll get sick. But I’ll bring you some soup and crackers in a little while.” He pushed a button on the arm of his wheelchair, which reversed through the doorway. “You need to rest. Don’t be afraid of Shelley, she’s just a MedBot.” He turned the chair to away from the room, then looked back over his shoulder. “The name’s Steve.” With that, he rolled away, the motorized chair making a high-pitched whining noise.

Tommy then realized that the relentless ache in his stomach was the sharp ache of hunger, made a little sharper by the few gulps of water he’d just taken. He couldn’t remember how long ago his last meal had been. Days? A week? Two?

He knew that four ibuprofen on a completely empty stomach would likely make the hunger worse, if not make him sick. He hoped the old man would bring food soon.

* * *

As he rolled around the kitchen, Troy caught the weather report. He had designed an open floor plan to accommodate his chair, so he could easily see his widescreen in the living room. He watched the dark gray representation of the approaching storm: a huge cloudy cartoon-like whirlpool coil in the South Pacific Ocean. It seemed so huge and so close to the island that it was incomprehensible to him that it hadn’t made landfall yet. Looking past the television through his open French doors, all was still sunny and peaceful.

His thoughts turned to finding a way to get Tommy Quinn off of his island, but the reality of it was that they were going to sit tight while the storm blew through. If he tried to get Tommy to the mainland, he would run the risk of getting caught in the storm and killing them both. Besides, he had already done his storm preparations. Both of his boats,
Melody
and
Harmony
, were already battened down inside the reinforced boathouse. The house would be sealed and ready for the storm with just a touch of a few buttons on his universal remote control.

Troy was just going to keep his fingers crossed that Tommy wouldn’t guess his true identity. Troy disliked confrontation, and there was no telling how Tommy might react if he learned the truth. He didn’t know how much Tommy knew or remembered about the past, but he was willing to guess that, if Tommy knew anything at all, the knowledge would not be to Troy’s benefit.

At least here on the island, Troy had the security of knowing his own home and its nooks and crannies, as well as the island’s geography. He had his Colt .47 if things got nasty. He’d bought the beautifully maintained antique gun mostly for show, but it would fire like new if he needed it to. And he could always retreat to his panic room.

The thought of his Colt prompted Troy to unlock the glass cabinet where he kept the firearm on display. It wouldn’t hurt to load it and keep it with him – just in case his uninvited guest should prove to be hostile.

After loading it, he tucked the gun into the side pocket of his chair and took the castaway his lunch. Typical fare for someone who was ill: chicken soup made from last night’s spit-roasted chicken, crackers, and green gelatin. Nothing heavy for a half-starved man.

Troy propped Tommy’s pillows behind him, and Tommy pulled himself up into a sitting position. He was grateful for the food and thanked Troy profusely.

“Just take it easy,” Troy responded. “Don’t eat too fast.”

He left Tommy to his meal. Having seen the younger man wrinkle his nose when Troy came near, Troy decided to go and bathe. There was never any real reason to practice good hygiene. Who was Troy going to offend? Millie, his cat?

Fresh from his bath, he checked on the castaway. The food was eaten, the flotsam, napping. Troy quietly took the dishes away.

Back on the deck, Troy lifted his binoculars. Was he seeing things, or did the horizon line look a little darker? Was the haze a little closer?

The sun had traversed its arc and now hung behind Troy’s house, which cast a brief shadow down the front boardwalk. The sky’s pastel blue had deepened, and the water’s shade had become inscrutably dark.

The tide was beginning to turn. Waves lapped gently at the shore. Nothing seemed amiss, but Troy felt a distinct sense of unease. He scanned the water to the right and left along the beach as far as the view allowed. He decided to go for an outing.

He left his uninvited guest sleeping and took the elevator down. He drove the buggy off the boardwalk and south along the beach’s edge. He used his binoculars often. He did the same on the way back, passing in front of the house and the edge of the boardwalk.

The quality of the light had changed, now that the sun had dropped behind the house. Though the difference was subtle, the colors of the ocean and sky had grown darker. The ocean was calm, and Troy saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He returned to the house and sent his drone out from the deck. He sent it around the island as far as it could travel. The entire island seemed peaceful. The drone detected no intruders, and nothing unusual seemed to be happening that merited attention.

He took video of the ocean from the opposite side of the island. There, though the sky was still clear, the yellow ball was well into its slow descent toward the water. It was the perfect image of an idyllic sunset on a hidden tropical retreat.

The video taken from this side of the island was a little different.

Troy knew tropical storm Rae was coming in from the west. From where he sat, all he could see with his binoculars was that the dividing line between sea and sky was growing ever more hazy and dark. The drone recorded video of several large shapes approaching beneath the waters. They were too far away to determine what manner of fish they were. Troy surmised that they were a school of bottlenose dolphins.

“Hey, Steve. What’s that?” Troy started at the sudden raspy Southern lilt behind him.

He moved his chair a little to the side so that he could see Tommy propped up against the door frame.

“Hi Thomas,” Troy said. “Where’s the IV? Shelley should scan your vitals before you move around.”

Tommy flapped a hand. “Tommy, and she already did. She told me to take it easy and to drink lots of water, but she took out the IV.” He rubbed his arm where a piece of gauze was taped to it. “Still getting used to not bobbing around like a cork in the middle of the ocean.”

“You can sit down.” Troy nodded toward a grouping of outdoor furniture arranged at the corner of the deck.

“Thanks.” Tommy walked uncertainly to the grouping and slowly dragged a lounge chair close to where Troy sat. “This is a pretty sweet spot. Where are we, exactly?”

“I can’t tell you,
exactly
. But I can give you a guess. Somewhere in the South Pacific between South America and Australia.”

“Thank you for your hospitality. Y’all probably saved my life.”

Troy shrugged and said nothing.

The silence stretched on.

“So . . . what were y’all looking at?”

Troy looked up from his tablet. “There’s supposed to be a tropical storm coming in, but all I can see is a big wall of haze.”

“And there’s something in the water?”

“Probably just dolphins.”

“Ah we safe to be in a storm? Is there anyone else here?”

“Oh yeah, we’re safe. I’ve already been through a few storms out here. Learned the hard way how to keep my house from blowing away. And myself.” He chuckled. “Yes, there are a few of other people around,” he lied vaguely, “But I like to spend time alone.”

A marmalade cat strolled casually out onto the deck. Troy moved his tablet just in time, clearing his lap for the cat’s landing there. “In case you haven’t met her yet, this is Millicent Oberon McGillicutty. Millie, for short.” He petted the cat, mouthing baby talk.

Tommy watched the old man pet the marmalade cat. “So . . . what are the chances of getting home from here?”

“I can get you close enough to the States to get you home, but not until after the storm blows over. Don’t worry, though. I’ve got satellite TV and internet. If you like to read, I have a nice little library. You’ll be comfortable enough for another day or two. You should be resting, anyway. Hey, by the way, where did you come from? How did you get here from . . . Georgia, was it? How did you make it halfway around the world from there?”

It was Tommy’s turn to shrug. “I actually didn’t come from Georgia to here. I was visiting friends in Cali . . . went for a boat ride and got caught in a freak storm. Got knocked out, landed on a big piece of boat. Floated around awhile. And here I am.”

Troy scrutinized Tommy’s face for a moment. “Hm. You’re looking a little pale under your tan. I think you got out of bed too soon. Feel free to use the sofa if you don’t feel like going back to bed.”

“Y’all may be right.” Tommy rose carefully from his chair and slowly made his way inside.

“I’ll get dinner together in a little while,” Troy called after him.

* * *

Tommy closed the bedroom door behind him and sat heavily on the bed. Shelley buzzed over to him.

“You need to rest,” she said. “Drink more water.”

Obeying, Tommy picked up the glass that the old man had left on the bedside table earlier and took a few sips of the water. He noticed a drawer in the bedside table and, curious, slid it open. It contained only a framed photograph. He pulled it from the drawer.

The photo was of a man in his forties; short dark hair, a smile that reached the corners of his eyes. Tommy knew this man immediately. He hadn’t recognized his elderly host, with his matted beard and crazy Einsteinian tufts of gray hair; but he knew him, now. And his name wasn’t Steve. It was Troy Fairchild.

The very man Tommy had been searching for.

* * *

Millie yowled, complaining loudly.

Troy stroked her back. “Just a few minutes, Miss McGillicutty,” he said. She yowled in response, her paw striking out, her claws extended for slashing.

“Hey!” Troy exclaimed. Millie jumped down and paced the deck, her tail swaying slowly from side to side. She stopped every few minutes to groom herself and yowl.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” He asked her. She ignored him.

The same three geckos had been sunning themselves on the deck since early that morning. It was about the time of day when they retreated to hot, sunbaked rocks for the night; except they were retreating in the wrong direction. Troy watched the three of them climb up the side of the house to the roof. 

All of the remaining geckos on the island (or so it seemed to Troy, because of their sheer number) suddenly poured over the edge of the deck in droves. Troy sat in stunned surprise for a split second, then quickly reversed his chair through the French doors and hit the “Close Door” button on his universal house remote. The doors swung shut even as the swarm of geckos reached the threshold. It seemed they were seeking higher ground: they followed the first three up the front wall of the house. Troy watched their little toes and tails flatten against the glass as they scurried up the outer surface of the French doors.

At first, when the flood of geckos tapered off and his windows cleared, Troy thought the storm had finally arrived and that the high winds were sending pieces of vegetation and tree branches swirling about in the air. After a moment, however, he discovered that what he actually saw and heard through the three-inch thick shatterproof glass was the flight of birds. Hundreds upon hundreds of birds, mostly parrots, though there were several flaming orange doves among their number, as well as a surprising few “golden-maned” hornbills, huge against the more petite members of their company.

It was normal for the island wildlife to act out of character before a bout of extreme weather conditions, and this wasn’t the first time he had seen this behavior from his fellow island dwellers. Still, what appeared to be an exodus to “higher ground” nonplussed him enough that he spent some time in his communications room, listening to NWR for any updated information on the approaching storm. There was nothing new; only the repeated admonition that the storm would make landfall within the next twenty-four hours and the usual warnings about evacuation or storm preparation.

He returned to his living room to find the castaway reclining in the corner of his sofa, long legs stretched out before him.

“Feeling better?” Troy asked.

“A little.” Tommy drawled vaguely, looking preoccupied.

“You hungry?”

Tommy’s sharp blue eyes focused on Troy a little more clearly. “Shore am. That soup y’all brought me before was awesome, but something solid would help, now.”

The old man nodded and stowed his binoculars on a shelf, then removed the tray from his chair. After setting it aside, he rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out two of the swordfish steaks he had stored that morning, as well as the prawns. He was going to use the indoor grill.