Tuck backed away from the window and sat down on the wicker couch. A few minutes on his feet and he felt exhausted. He was twenty pounds lighter than when he had left Houston and there wasn’t a six-inch patch of skin on his body that didn’t have some

kind of bandage on it. The doc had said that between the cuts on his arms, knees, and scalp, he had taken a hundred sutures. The first time he looked in the little mirror in his bathroom, he thought he was looking at a human version of the mangy feral dog he’d seen on Truk. His blue eyes lay like dull ice in sunken brown craters and his cheeks were drawn into his face like a mummified bog man’s. His hair had been bleached white by the sun and stuck out in straw-dry tufts between pink patches where the doctor had shaved his scalp to stitch him up. He took small comfort in the fact that there were no women around to see him. No real women, anyway. The doctor’s wife, who came several times a day to bring him food or to change his bandages, seemed robotic, like some Stepford/Barbie hybrid with the smooth sexless carriage of a mannequin and a personality pulled out of an Eisenhower-era soap commercial. She made the straight-laced cosmetic reps from his past seem like a tribe of pillbox nympho hose hunters.

There was a tap on the door and Beth Curtis breezed in carrying a wooden serving tray with plates of pancakes and fresh fruit. “Mr. Case, you’re up. Feeling better today?”

She set the tray down on the coffee table in front of him and stepped back. Today she was in pleated khaki pants and a white blouse with puffed shoulders. Her hair was tied back with a big white bow at the back of her neck. She might have just walked out of a Stewart Granger safari movie.

“Yes, better,” Tuck said, “But I wore myself out just walking to the window.”

“Your body is still fighting off the infection. The doctor will be by soon to give you some antibiotics. For now you need to eat.” She sat on the chair across from him.

Tuck cut a divot out of the stack of pancakes with a fork and speared it through a piece of papaya. After the first bite, he realized how hungry he really was and began wolfing down the pancakes.

Beth Curtis smiled. “Have you had a chance to look over the manuals for the airplane?”

Tuck nodded, his mouth still full. She’d left the operations manuals on his bed two days ago. He’d leafed through them enough to know that he could fly the thing. He swallowed and said, “I used to fly a Lear 25 for Mary Jean. This one is a little faster and has longer range, but basically it’s the same. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh, good,” she said, sporting one of her plastic smiles. “When will you be able to fly?”

Tucker put down his fork. “Mrs. Curtis, I don’t mean to be rude, but what in the hell is going on around here?”

“Regarding what, Mr. Case?”

“Well, first, regarding the man I came to this island with. I was sick, but I wasn’t hallucinating. We were strung up in a tree by an old native guy and cut down by a bunch of others. What happened to my friend?”

She shifted in her chair, and the wicker crackled like snapping rat bones. “My husband told you what the islanders told us, Mr. Case. The natives live on the other side of the island. They have their own society, their own chief, their own laws. We try to take care of their medical needs and bring a few souls into the fold, but they are a private people. I’ll ask them about your friend. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.” She stood and straightened the front of her slacks.

“I’d appreciate that,” Tuck said. “I promised him I’d get him back to Yap and I owe him some money. The natives didn’t find my backpack, did they? My money was in it.”

She shook her head. “Just the clothes you had on. We burned them. Fortunately, you and Sebastian are about the same size. Now, if you’ll ex-cuse me, Mr. Case, I have some work to do. Sebastian will be along in a bit with your medicine. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She turned and walked out the door into the blinding sunlight.

Tucker stood and watched her walk across the compound. The Japanese guards stopped their work and leered at her. She spun on them and waited, her hands on her hips, until one by one they lost their courage and returned to their work, not embarrassed but afraid, as if meeting her direct gaze might turn them to frost. Tuck sat down to his half-eaten pancakes and shivered, thinking it must be the fever.

A half hour later the doctor entered the bungalow. Tucker was spread out on the couch descending into a nap. They’d been doing this since they’d moved him to the bungalow, tag-teaming him, one showing up at least every hour to check on him, bring him food or medicine, change the sheets, take his temperature, help him to the bathroom, wipe his forehead. It looked like concerned care, but it felt like surveillance.

Sebastian Curtis took a capped syringe from his coat pocket as he crossed the room.

Tuck sighed. “Another one?”

“You must be feeling like a pin cushion by now, Mr. Case. I need you to roll over.”

Tuck rolled over and the doctor gave him the injection. “It’s either this or the IV. We’ve got this infection on the run, but we don’t want it to get a foothold again.”

Tuck rubbed his bottom and sat up. Before he could say anything, the doctor stuck a digital thermometer in his mouth.

“Beth tells me that you’re worried about your friend, the one you say came to the island with you?”

Tuck nodded.

“I’ll check into it, I promise you. In the meantime, if you’re feeling up to it, Beth and I would like you to join us for dinner. Get to know each other a little. Let you know what’s expected of you.” He pulled the thermometer out of Tuck’s mouth and checked it but made no comment. “You up for dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” Tuck said. “But…”

“Good. We’ll eat at seven. I’ll have Beth bring you down some clothes. I’m sorry about the hand-me-downs, but it’s the best we can do for now.” He started to leave.

“Doc?”

Sebastian turned. “Yes.”

“You’ve been out here, what, thirty years?”

The doctor stiffened. “Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Well, Mrs. Curtis doesn’t look…”

“Yes, Beth is quite a bit younger than I am. But we can talk about all that at dinner. You should probably rest now and let those antibiotics do their work. I need you healthy, Mr. Case. We have a round of golf to play.”

“Golf?”

“You do play, don’t you?”

Tuck took a second to catch up with the abrupt change of subject, then said, “You play golf here?”

“I am a physician, Mr. Case. Even in the Pacific we have Wednesdays.” Then he smiled and left the bungalow.

Sarapul twisted the last of the fibers into his rope and drew his knife to trim the ragged end. It was a good knife, made in Germany, with a thin flexible blade that was perfect for filleting fish or cutting microthin slices from coconut stems to keep the tuba running. He’d had the knife for ten years and he kept it honed and polished on a piece of tanned pig hide. The blade flashed blue as he picked it up and he saw the face of vengeance re-flected in the metal.

Without turning, he said, “The young ones are going to kill you.”

Kimi stopped, his knife held ready to strike the old man in the neck. “You ate my friend.”

Sarapul gripped his knife blade down so he might turn and slash at the same time. There was no quickness in his bones, though. The Filipino would kill him before he got halfway around. “Your friend is with the white Sorcerer and Vincent’s bitch. Malink took him away.”

“Not that one. Roberto. The bat.”

“Bats are taboo. We don’t eat bats on Alualu.”

Kimi lowered his knife an inch. “You are not supposed to eat people either, but you do.”