He carefully stretched out the flaps of skin, peeling back layer upon layer of mystery, pinning them out and making meaning there.
Subcutaneous fat protects the body from physical trauma and is the site of fat metabolism.
Then he’d seen the imperfection embedded into the dark boy’s skin. The tattoo was an affront to all his beliefs, a mockery of his labors.
Protects the body from physical trauma.
He lost his patience. He tore the rest of the boy apart.
Chapter Thirty-One
Marla cut around the perimeter of the cove, heading for the steep bank of rocks that afforded the quickest route to the jetty, and the boats. The clouds had left the sky, sharp moonlight bringing with it a drop in temperature. Wishing she had more layers to wear, Marla hugged herself and rubbed her arms. Then she saw two figures up ahead on the rocks, walking toward her. She stopped in her tracks, gripped by fear of the murderous giant, but these were no giants. One figure was much shorter than the other and she began to make out its juvenile form more clearly, realizing it must be the little boy who’d run away. Bent over the boy, using his shoulder as support, was a man in his twenties. He looked to be shivering and with good reason—he was dressed only in swimming shorts. His limping gait, and his reliance on the boy for support, told Marla he was injured. He wore a shock of tousled blond hair and an athletic physique. He looked like a surfer. The kid’s eyes widened in surprise as she called out to them, her voice echoing off the rocks. For a moment she thought the little one would abandon his burden and make a run for it again, like he did at the house, but he held firm and waited as she ran across the rocks to meet them.
A frenzy of words spilled from her lips, about danger, about the man at the house. The blond man looked delirious and was shivering like he was in a state of shock. He was covered in cuts and bruises, a slick of blood congealing around his ear. Marla could get nothing from the child about where he’d found him. He looked down at the ground, subdued and not speaking. She tried to get through to him, asking how he’d escaped from the house like that—trying to appeal to him with admonishments that he was a clever boy, a brave boy and everything would be all right. Taking the weight of the delirious swimmer onto her own shoulder, she asked the lad where he was headed. To this he did respond, holding out a lithe little arm and pointing inland where the rocks formed a v-shaped inlet. Marla saw a large circular opening there—what looked like an outlet pipe.
“There? You’re taking him in there?”
Now the boy spoke, in that strange little voice of his.
“My daddy can fix him.”
“Vincent? Is he your daddy?”
He didn’t answer. Marla rounded on the boy, using her free hand to lift his chin a little so she could look him in the eye.
“Are you Vincent’s son?” It didn’t seem possible, he’d be much older by now, unless the old man was even more confused than she’d credited.
The boy resisted her touch, and her questions, breaking free from both her and the injured swimmer. As she watched him back away, Marla looked again to the black circle leading into the pipe. Perhaps Vincent had managed to get away and hide inside. She pictured him lighting a little stove, making coffee for her, and recalled how tenderly he’d attended to Pietro’s injuries. This shocked guy was in bad shape, but not half as bad as Pietro had been. Vincent would know what to do. But what about the boats, they’d be ashore by now? Maybe help was on its way, but then again Marla had no idea who was on those boats. She would follow the boy, find Vincent and they could all leave the island together. It wasn’t much, but it was the only plan she had.
“Okay, lead the way.”
She helped the swimmer along with her. Together, they climbed into the pipe. The curve of the pipe meant if she walked dead center, they could almost stand fully erect, as if in a tunnel. The floor of the tunnel was treacherously uneven, littered with gritty sediment and moss underfoot. Trickling water that smelled of blocked drains flowed constantly in little rivulets through the pipe and dripped from above. The air was damp, colder and mustier the further inside they traveled. As Marla made her way carefully behind the boy, the moonlight began to fade into the distance.
“Christ, it’s pitch black in here,” Marla complained, realizing now just how bright the moon had been outside. She glanced over her shoulder. The opening through which they’d entered now looked a marathon sprint away.
The boy didn’t answer. He just made strange little grunts of effort as he walked on into the pipe. The sounds were almost comical to Marla’s ears—like the noises of elderly people getting up out of their seats.
“Where… Where we going?”
It was the muscular swimmer’s voice in her ear. As he spoke, she felt his upper body stiffen in fear. He was having a moment of lucidity and was clearly perturbed to be stumbling into a pitch-black outlet pipe with a complete stranger propping him up.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re going to get help.”
“Where the hell am I?”
His speech was slurred like a drunkard’s, his accent strongly Australian. Or maybe Kiwi. Marla could never tell, and had often offended Antipodeans back in London by making a wild guess.
“You’re… on an island. I’m Marla, I kind of work here. But now I’ve resigned. And I’m going to… Oh, never mind—we’re going to get you some help.”
Her voice echoed off the curved walls. The pipe had widened into a tunnel. The young man lapsed into semi-consciousness again, his heels dragging. Marla shouldered his weight as best she could, feeling a sharp twinge in her lower vertebrae. She wondered how long she could keep going like this.
Several minutes of walking and Marla was in near-total darkness, her steps slowing to a crawl. Struggling on, she could vaguely discern a bend in the tunnel and followed the quick shape of the boy around a corner. There was a flicker of sepia light on the wall of the tunnel in the distance and the faint odor of sulfur. The light was immediately comforting to her, now she had something to aim at. The muscles in her lower back screamed in protest as she shifted the weight of the swimmer upwards in an attempt to get a better purchase on him. But as she did so, she lost her footing and they both crashed to the floor. The injured man landed on Marla awkwardly, a dead weight knocking the wind from her stomach. Painfully, she lifted her head and tried to focus on the light up ahead. Still a way to go. She called out after the boy, but he was dozens of feet away now, his little shadow disappearing around a curve in the tunnel.
Then the light was extinguished, plunging the tunnel into total darkness.
“Hey! Hey!” Marla’s voice was cracked with fear, and with hurt from her fall. She could feel the clammy skin of the swimmer against her cheek, still pinioned beneath the weight of his slumbering body. Her breaths were quick and shallow, ringing out a heartbeat tattoo in the icy darkness. Another sound joined the frantic rhythm—a dragging, loping sound. Footfalls in the tunnel up ahead, drawing near. Her eyes widened, begging to admit light that simply wasn’t there. Then the weight of the swimmer’s body was gone from her. It felt as though he had simply levitated into the air like some theatrical illusionist. Blind instinct made her reach out for him, but he was gone. She heard a dull thud and a dragging sound. Marla scrambled backwards in terror, still on the floor, and her hand squished into something moist and spiky. Crying out, she pushed the thing away, smelling rotting fish. The curved wall of the tunnel met her other hand and she struggled upwards into a standing position. Her heart seemed to stop suddenly as she felt something clutching tight around her waist. She shrieked, and pushed at it, feeling the mop of the little boy’s hair between her rot-streaked fingers.