There were six Iodine Islands in all, two of them privately owned, a third set aside as a state park open to the public, the remaining three rather larger than their sisters and developed more or less garishly with high-rise condominiums and hotels, their fearless occupants apparently willing to brave the hurricanes that infrequently — but often enough — ravaged Sands Spit, the clustering Iodines, and sometimes the city itself. The Iodines had been peculiarly named, but then again almost everything in and around this city had been peculiarly named. It was a well-known fact, for example, that there were no rivers with their heads (or even their tails) in that section of the city called Riverhead. There was a brook there, but it was called Five Mile Pond, and it was neither five miles long nor five miles wide, nor was it five miles from any distinctive landmark or geographical feature, but it was nonetheless a brook called Five Mile Pond in a section called Riverhead where there were no rivers. In fact — and this was rarely appreciated by those citizens of Riverhead who were constantly asking, “Hey, how come there ain’t no rivers in Riverhead?” — the place had originally been called Ryerhurt’s Farms after the Dutch patroon who’d owned vast acreage away back then, and eventually came to be known simply as Ryerhurt, which in 1919 was changed to Riverhead because race memory seemed vaguely to recall that Ryerhurt was a Dutchman, and during and immediately following World War I a Dutchman meant a German and not somebody who’d come to America from his native Rotterdam. It was a peculiar city.
The Iodine Islands had not a trace of iodine on them — no saltpeter beds or seaweed ash or oil-well salt brine — and happily so since the discovery there of that halogen might have led to pillage and rape from all sorts of companies engaged in manufacturing pharmaceuticals, dyes, or photographic supplies. As it was, the Iodines were virtually virginal. No one was quite positive how they had been named; they had certainly never been privately owned by a Dutchman named Iodine, or even an Englishman named Iodine, which was probably a more likely possibility since there was historical evidence, written and physical, of a British fort having once occupied a key position on the largest of the islands, facing the ocean approach to the then quite wealthy Elsinore County farmlands crouching behind Sands Spit. The smallest of the islands was once owned by a robber baron who’d taken his new bride there in the year 1904. It had since changed hands a dozen times. The other privately owned island had but a single house on it. The house was gray and weathered. Sitting starkly on the horizon, it resembled nothing so much as a prison.
He heard the motor launch coming back, that was one of the few sounds that penetrated the double doors, the high whining roar of the double engines, the changing sounds as she maneuvered it into the dock. She drove that thing the way normal people drove a car or rode a bike, she was really terrific at it. That first day she took him out here, this was after they’d spent the night at the hotel, she drove him way the hell out on Sands Spit someplace, he’d only been there to go to the beach before then, terrific beach at Smithy’s Cove, used to go there with his brother and with Irene, he wondered how his brother was, wondered whether he and Irene had any kids now, wondered if—
Drove him out there, she had a Jaguar, terrific little white car, he wondered what she drove now. Left the car at the dock, had herself this Chris-Craft tied up there at the dock, looked too damn big for a woman to handle, even a woman like her who drove that car like she was in a race on some French track, terrific, she was exciting as hell then, back then. Same boat, it must’ve been. He caught a glimpse of it when he almost escaped that time, almost made it, almost escaped. He never thought of escaping anymore. All he thought of was dying.
She’d left him enough food this time, he wasn’t worried about starving to death, not this time. She’d come in before she left for the city, told him she had something to take care of, little errand to run, that strange smile on her face. Had a little box in her hands, asked him if he remembered the box. Expected him to remember every damn thing, every little gift she ever gave him. Told him the cologne had come in that box, didn’t he remember the cologne? Her first Christmas gift to him, seven years ago? He told her yeah, he remembered the cologne, but he didn’t remember the fuckin cologne at all. Brought him enough food to last a whole damn week though. He wondered how long she planned on being gone this time, but he didn’t ask her. She had a habit, when you asked her for something, she made you pay for it later. Simplest thing. Like the clock. Just asking her for the clock. Things she made him do before she gave him the fuckin clock. Things she made him do even after he got the clock. He’d learned not to ask her for anything anymore. Just kept quiet most of the time. Did whatever she wanted. Anything she wanted. Knew she could drug his food whenever she felt like it, had to eat whatever she brought him or else starve to death. Knew she could knock him unconscious for days, if she felt like it, and then do whatever she wanted with him when he was unconscious. The time she did that with the... with the needles. He trembled even now, just thinking of the needles. Woke up with all those needles in him. Fiercest pain he’d ever known in his life, a dozen needles, he’d... he’d seen the needles and almost fainted just seeing them. She told him the needles were punishment. That night, she drugged him again. There was a period there when he was drugged more often than he was conscious. When he came to the next day, she’d taken all the needles out. Told him he’d heal in a while, and when he was better she expected him to perform again. That was a word she used a lot. “Perform.” As if he was still a musician, playing for her amusement, performing the way he’d performed that night long ago, dancing with her when the other band was playing, close up against her, smooth white gown, naked flesh above, held her close, held her very close, the pain of the needles in his cock.
He heard the lock turning on the inner door. He could never hear the lock on the outside door, the wood was too thick, he only heard the inside lock, and then the door opened, as it was opening now, and she stood there with the dog’s leash in one hand, smiling.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Hello,” he said.
The dog looked at him. He began to shake every time he saw the dog. She told him once that if he misbehaved again, if he did anything to displease her, she would drug him and then let the dog do something to him while he was unconscious. She did not say what she would let the dog do. He... he kept remembering the needles. He kept thinking she might have the dog bite him while he was unconscious. Have the dog hurt him, wake up later to find himself chewed... chewed to pieces or something. The dog frightened him. But she frightened him more than the dog did.
“Miss me?” she asked.
He did not answer.
“I see you haven’t finished your food,” she said.
“There was a lot of it.”
“Yes, but I knew I’d be gone overnight. That’s why I left you enough food. Would you have preferred less?”
“No, no, it’s just...”
“Then why didn’t you eat what I left you?”
“I’ll eat it all now, if you like.”
“Yes, I think I’d like that. I’d like you to eat all your food. I go to all the trouble of making sure you’re properly fed...”
“If you let me go, you wouldn’t have to feed me anymore.”
“No,” she said, “I’m not letting you go.”
“Why do you want me here?”
“I enjoy you here. Eat your food. You said you were going to eat all your food.”
He went to the couch, sat, and began picking at the food on his tray. He was not hungry, he had really eaten enough. But she was watching him.