Authors: Tom Wright
By the time I had searched nearly everywhere, a multitude of things lay strewn across the floor. Suddenly it struck me how useless most of our possessions really were. My house contained so much expensive stuff that it likely came to many multiples of the average lifetime wage for most people on earth. But when it came right down to it, almost none of it mattered. It was all junk.
I moved to the last closet and pulled out a box. I opened the lid and stopped cold. I sat back in amongst the garbage and opened the cover of a picture album. The first page held a photo of Kate, beaming from ear to ear, cuddling our newborn Elaine. After twenty-four hours of grueling labor, she still lit up the room. She only seemed more beautiful to me as time went on. On the next page was a picture of Charlie, on the brand new bike he got for his fourth birthday—the bike that freed him from the “baby trailer” that Kate pulled behind her bike—the bike that years later he refused to give up for a “big-boy-bike” despite its size and condition, because it was his first bike and he “loved it.”
A lump formed in my throat
as I closed the album and set it carefully back in the box. I got up and began to walk away, then stopped, then started, then stopped again. I finally raced back to the box and ripped it open. I tore the photos of Kate and the girls and Charlie and his bike from the album and stuffed them in my pocket.
I checked my watch again. It was time. I moved toward the door, turned and took another look at all our stuff. The house was a disaster, but everything I really needed was in a single duffel bag in the middle of the floor—and in my pocket—and five thousand miles away. I stepped through the back door, and there sat Charlie’s little bike, rusting against a pole, lonely and waiting for him to return. If we never returned, I knew the fate of that little bike that Charlie loved. The humid, salty air would slowly melt it into the ground. I craned my neck to choke back
some approaching tears and set off toward the chow hall.
. . .
Deputy police chief Bill Callaway looked nothing like what one might expect from someone in his position. His shoulder-length hair and beard were totally out of character for a cop and even more so on a military base. His imposing figure along with a badge and gun frightened most people. But after four years as his friend and teammate in league basketball, I knew him to be a nice, gentle person—off the court that was. On the court he was a beast, a whirlwind of flying elbows and knees, and I was convinced that he could have boxed out a Sherman tank for a rebound.
I knew I would find him heading to the chow hall for lunch at eleven a.m. sharp. He liked to get there right at opening so he could beat the lines. It seemed lost on him that he probably could have walked right to the front of any line unchallenged. I just hoped his partner Tim wouldn’t be with him as he was about half the time. Tim was a nice guy, but a very straight-laced, military type.
He sported a crew cut, spit-shined his boots, and always walked as if marching in formation. He was the opposite of Bill in many ways. I didn’t expect Tim to be sympathetic to my plight, and I definitely didn’t want him to know anything about our plan.
When I rolled up to the police station at 10:58, Bill was just coming out, Tim right
on his heels. I cursed under my breath. I could have just waited until later to get him alone, but I decided time was of the essence. I had to think fast.
I caught Bill’s eye and nodded and he returned the gesture. He and Tim waited for me to park my bike and join them for the hundred yard walk to the chow hall.
“Hey buddy!” Bill said, slapping me on the back as he always did—his form of a handshake. Tim nodded.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Thought I might buy you lunch.”
Bill and Tim both laughed at my joke since chow on the island was free to all residents—just part of the perks.
I scanned my brain for some way to get rid of Tim and quickly settled on the only thread that surfaced. Tim was not only a deputy in the police department, but the island locksmith.
“Tim, we’ve been having some problems with the cipher lock on the east end of the weather station after Ele. I was wondering if you would take a look at it.”
“Sure, right after lunch.”
“Could you do it right now? We’re not supposed to have those doors unlocked, and it’s been that way for days. I know it’s not that big of a deal, but it is SOP.” I cursed myself for having just given him a way to put off my request.
“It will be fine until after lunch,” he said. “We’re the ones who’d write you up anyway,” he said looking at me curiously. “And we won’t.”
I stood there searching for another idea and quickly became uncomfortable. I sensed that they were already becoming suspicious. Cops are not easily fooled. I could have just asked to speak to Bill alone, but surely Tim would ask what it was about, and I didn’t know if Bill would rat me out. It’s harder to keep a secret when someone else knows you are trying to. So I gave in and decided to have lunch with both of them.
After showing our resident ID to the cashier (nonresidents visiting Kwaj had to pay), the three of us filed through the buffet line like so many cattle on the way into the slaughter house. The only consistently good thing about the chow hall food was the variety. Even if any particular item wasn’t very good, at least one could usually find a couple of tolerable foods.
As fire and police personnel always did, Bill and Tim gravitated to a table close to the exit. We made mostly idle chitchat through the meal. I was eager to get to my point with Bill, but I thought better than to push my luck any further with Tim present.
As I chattered about a trivial matter, Tim’s eyes suddenly slewed to my left and focused on something behind me.
“Oh God. Look who’s coming,” Tim said.
Tim and Bill both averted their eyes downward to their plates.
“Holy Cow! What are you guys doing?”
It was Randy.
“Same thing everyone else is in here: having lunch,” said Bill.
“Is someone sitting here?” Randy asked, pointing to the fourth unoccupied chair at the table.
Tim verified the emptiness of the chair by waving his hand over it. “Nope. Nobody there.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Bill laughed out loud.
“Actually, we’re waiting for someone.” I lied.
“Not a problem,” Randy said in his whiny, nasally voice. He walked over to the next table and said something. A guy waved his hand over an empty chair, and everyone at the table laughed. Randy dragged the chair over to our table, its legs screeching obnoxiously across the floor.
After making himself comfortable and the rest of us less so, Randy asked: “This is some disease going around huh?”
“Sounds like it.” I said, noticing that, like me, both Tim and Bill were eating faster.
Randy’s wife, Joyce, was the Commander’s secretary, which by osmosis afforded Randy a level of respect he did not deserve. This fact alone generally kept people from telling Randy what they really thought of him. It was still quite easy to make him the butt of jokes, since he rarely understood any of it.
“Anyway, I should be good. I’ve got plenty of antibiotics,” he continued.
“How do you have plenty of antibiotics?” asked Bill.
“I always keep the leftovers from my prescriptions. I’ve got a couple of bottles.”
“Sounds like you are part of the problem,” Tim said as he shoveled in another fork full of food. “You’re supposed to take the whole prescription every time.”
“Well, once I get better, what’s the point?”
Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Besides, this is a virus going around,” I said. “Antibiotics only work against bacterial infections.”
“Whatever.” Randy said. He then smoothed his obviously restored and unnaturally dark hair and rubbed his absurdly white, capped teeth with his finger. Randy’s vanity was unmatched.
He turned to Bill: “Anyway, so, what’s new in the cop shop?”
Bill quickly took one last fork full of food, dropped his fork and napkin on his plate and said through a mouthful of food: “Nothing. Time for me to go.”
Tim and I followed suit and began to get up.
“Hey, I thought you guys were waiting for someone.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s going to show,” I said.
Randy shrugged, got up, and dragged his chair noisily back to the table from which he got it. He sat down. They all began to eat quickly.
We emerged from the hall into the sticky, hot air. Bill removed a toothpick from his pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and stuck it in his mouth, letting it settle into the corner. Satisfied, he exhaled.
As we stood in front of the building, I struggled for a plan to separate Bill from Tim without further arousing their already heightened suspicion. Before I could completely embarrass myself, Bill turned to Tim.
“Tim, why don’t you go check out those locks? I’ll see you back in the office later.”
Tim agreed and turned to walk back to the police station. He then broke into a trot as he attempted to catch up with someone else walking his way.
“Now, are you going to tell me what this was all about?” Bill asked, toothpick bobbing up and down like a Maestro’s baton.
I was caught off guard.
“Can you do it right now?” Bill mocked. “We’re not supposed to have those doors unlocked.” Bill chuckled. “Give me a break.”
“You know me too well.”
Bill turned square to me, locked out his knees, and placed his left hand on his belt and his gun hand on top of his sidearm—purely habit, but unnerving nonetheless. Then he gave me the thousand yard stare. I realized at that moment that I could have never withstood an interrogation by Bill.
“It’s not a crime to ask to speak to somebody in private,” he said. “So, what is it?”
Partly to break my nerves and partly to ensure that no one could hear our conversation, I asked him to walk with me across the ball fields toward the air terminal.
“Do you promise not to repeat what I’m about to tell you?” I asked as we reached a quiet, shady spot and stopped walking.
“No,” he responded, to my surprise.
“What do you mean
, no?”
“Well, I’m not your lawyer or doctor, so there is no privilege with me. If you tell me that you’ve committed a crime, I cannot keep it to myself.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“I’ll keep your secret if I can.”
I started with the least objectionable part first.
“I’m leaving.”
Bill didn’t even flinch. He just stared at me, his face expressionless.
“Can the Commander really stop me?” I asked.
“You’re a civilian, so technically no.”
Bill reminded me that the base was essentially shut down, and the Commander had closed all forms of transport to and from the island.
“He’s closed all the ones he controls.” I corrected as we began walking again.
Bill thought for a moment
, and then just as I could tell that our plan was unfolding in his mind, I continued.
“Private boat owners can come and go. Maybe we forget to file a float plan and just keep on going?”
“Then we’d be out looking for you, eventually, when you turned up missing. We would be obligated to do S&R (he meant Search and Rescue) until we confirmed your safety, or”—he paused—“let’s say whereabouts.” He meant our bodies.
“So you don’t find us and we’re presumed dead? Big deal.”
“I guess you could get away with that, but I’m sure you’d become persona-non-grata here.”
“Oh well. I couldn’t care less at this point.”
Bill conceded that point with a nod.
As we neared the air terminal, we stopped under a particularly dense grove of palm trees. The shade and breeze off the ocean less than twenty yards away felt refreshing. Nevertheless, I began to perspire. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I feared opening
Pandora’s Box. Was Bill my friend more than a cop? I doubted it. I considered what it would be like never to see my family again. I glanced at Bill’s gun and wondered if after he put me in jail he’d let me borrow it to put myself out of my misery. Bill noticed as I glanced at his gun.
Suddenly confronted with a feeling of fight or flight, I chose flight.
“This was a bad idea,” I said as I turned to leave. “I’ll see you later.”
“Hey, hold on. I know we’re all freaked out about all this shit, but you’ve got me worried about you. Just tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Sensing my vulnerability, Bill softened his stare and put his hand on my shoulder.
“We need weapons,” I stated bluntly.
I scanned Bill’s face for any hint of a reaction and found none.
“I see. And obviously you think I can get them for you.”
“I was hoping so, yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid not. There aren’t any personal firearms on this base—at least that they know about. And a person could get in a heap of trouble if anyone found out that there were.”