Mr. and Mrs. Clement Derr, whom Shreave had signed up for supplementary health insurance that cost a whopping $137.20 per week. Unfortunately for the Derrs, the policy reimbursed only for treatment of cholera, Ebola virus, chikungunya fever, trypanosomiasis, and six other tropical diseases not likely to afflict a couple in their mid-eighties living in Skowhegan, Maine.
Mrs. Rosa Antoinette Shannon, who was so upset to hear that Hillary Clinton was secretly plotting to confiscate all privately owned firearms that she’d patriotically recited for Boyd Shreave her husband’s Platinum American Express number, pledging $25,000 to a Republican PAC called Americans for Unlimited Self-Defense, which had hired Relentless to do its fund-raising. Rosa’s donation was hastily returned after it was learned that her spouse was none other than Marco “Twinkie” Shannon, the most prolific supplier of Mexican heroin on the eastern seaboard. His unappetizing past came to light in personal correspondence from the East Jersey State Prison, where he was serving twenty to life for kneecapping two associates on the driving range at Pine Valley. In a handwritten letter leaked to the Washington Post, Mr. Shannon-citing a previous commitment-regretfully declined an invitation to visit the White House with other GOP donors for a photograph with the First Lady and her Scottish terrier.
All three deals had been buttoned up by Boyd Shreave’s supervisor but, being the one who’d chummed up the suckers, Shreave awarded himself full credit and glory. If Relentless wouldn’t take him back, surely a competitor phone bank would.
His immediate challenge, however, was to escape the island. As the morning ticked away, Shreave felt less like a “Survivor” and more like Gilligan. He was reluctant to attempt descending from the royal poinciana, partly because he didn’t trust his balance and partly because he felt safer in the branches than he did on the ground. In addition to a nerve-racking assortment of wildlife, at least two dangerous outlaws were running loose-the vile-smelling derelict who’d kidnapped Honey Santana, and the elusive Indian with whom Eugenie Fonda supposedly had skipped off. Boyd Shreave had no desire to interact with either of them.
Nearly as daunting was the cactus dilemma: Directly below Shreave’s roost was a thriving spray of prickly pear. An ill-chosen step, a gust of wind-and he’d be impaled like a cricket on barbed wire. He blanched at the sight of the long, pale needles on the beckoning green pads, and thought: Not again. Shreave flashed back to that doomed orthotics sales call in Arlington, the old crow practically tripping him with her oxygen tank and then cackling when he fell crotch-first into her potted dwarf saguaro. The pincushion tracks on his pubic triangle might have paled, but the excruciating memory had not.
Shreave hugged the poinciana and resolved not to look down until he was better prepared. Fastening his eyes on the sun-kissed treetops proved calming, and gradually he began inching his butt backward along the bough. Eventually he’d have to stand and traverse branch to branch, but why hurry? The slower he moved, the less noise he made-and until the next helicopter appeared, his plan was to remain silent and unseen.
It hadn’t occurred to Boyd Shreave that absolutely nobody would be searching for him; that his absence would leave no void in the lives of those who knew him. He would have been stupefied to learn that the Coast Guard crew that he’d fruitlessly signaled had been sent by his own wife to rescue the private investigator who was gathering ammunition for their divorce.
After barely fifteen minutes of worm-like exertions, Shreave needed a rest. Clinging with one hand to a sturdy sprig, he fished a granola bar out of his shorts and tore off the wrapper with his teeth. Cramming the dry shingle into his mouth, he began to crunch so loudly that he failed to hear the two men enter the campsite below.
“Yo!” one of them yelled.
Shreave jerked and let out a terrified gasp, spraying crumbs. Anxiously he lowered his eyes and appraised the strangers, one of whom was carrying a weapon flatter and sleeker than Honey’s Taser. Shreave assumed that it was a real handgun and felt compelled to make a case for his own harmlessness, yet he was unable to speak. With his gullet spackled by damp oats and mushed peanuts, he was left to pant like a pleuritic mandrill.
“Get your ass down here,” said the man with the gun. He was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and a real outdoor tan.
His companion was taller and much younger, with brown skin, high cheekbones and light eyes. Shreave suspected that he might be Eugenie’s Indian. The man held up the foil wrapping from the snack bar and said, “You drop this?”
Shreave was so dry that he couldn’t make himself swallow. Theatrically he pointed at his bulged cheeks and began huffing, to demonstrate that his speech was temporarily impeded.
The man with the handgun asked, “Are you one of the kayakers? Did you take the tour with Honey Santana?”
Shreave saw nothing but risk in admitting the connection, so he shook his head and shrugged in fake puzzlement. He was confident that he could mime a lie as convincingly as he could vocalize one, and as usual he was mistaken.
The Indian said, “The guy’s bullshitting, Mr. Skinner.”
The other man nodded impatiently. “I don’t have time for this bumblefuck.” He trained the handgun on the imaginary center point of Shreave’s shiny forehead. “Last chance, junior. The truth shall set your sorry ass free.”
Shreave’s response was a rude quiniela of fear-based reflexes. First he soiled himself and then he volcanically expelled the remains of the honey-nut granola bar. The intruders alertly stepped back from the poinciana, avoiding the volley.
“Nasty,” the Indian said.
The gunman re-aimed. “Get outta that tree,” he commanded again.
Shreave wiped his face with the back of his hand. It was time for a desperate change of strategy: the truth.
“A man took her!” he shouted down hoarsely. “Took Honey!”
“What’d he look like?” the gunman demanded.
“Sick,” Shreave replied. “All fucked-up-his hand, his face…”
“Where’d they go?” the Indian asked.
Shreave pointed feverishly. “That way! He had her on a leash.”
“A leash?” The older man slowly lowered the gun.
“Yeah! Can you guys help me down?”
“What for?” The Indian crumpled the foil from Shreave’s snack bar and shoved it into his pocket. He spat in the cactus patch and said, “Damn litterbug. I hope you rot up there.”
Then he followed the gunman out of the camp.
For diversion, Honey composed in her head another letter to the newspapers. Inspired by her predicament, the topic was sexual harassment.
To the Editor:
Recently I had an altercation with an employer, Mr. Louis Piejack, who groped me in the workplace. I fought back to defend myself, and then immediately quit my job.
In retrospect I should have reported what happened to the authorities and contacted a lawyer, to deter Mr. Piejack from future misbehavior. Unfortunately, he has persisted with his unwanted advances and is presently holding me captive at gunpoint on a deserted island in the western Everglades.
The lesson to be learned from my experience is that women must aggressively discourage mental and physical intimidation at the job site-not just with a crab mallet, but with the force of law.
Most sincerely,
Honey Santana
She thought it was a darn good letter; succinct and low-key, the way the newspapers preferred them. If she’d had a pencil and paper, she would have written it down.
“You ready, angel?” Piejack asked woozily. The pain pills were working their magic.
“Ready for what, Louis?”