The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island Read online

  Brian pshawed. “You really need to practice your jump shot.”

  I rolled my eyes, then picked up the errant can, putting it safely in the trash bag. Outside, the sound of a motor boat grew louder, and I assumed it was Tony coming back for us. I raised myself on my toes and glanced out a window, seeing a motor boat approaching the pier.

  “Tony’s coming,” I said to my friends. “We better finish up, so we can go home.”

  “What about the backpack? I thought we were going to bury it,” Brian said.

  “We can bury it quickly before we get in the boat.”

  “All right.”

  We picked up the last of the trash as the sound of the motor boat grew louder and louder, then abruptly stopped. I remember thinking that Tony had returned faster than I expected, and I wondered how we were going to bury the backpack out amongst the trees without a shovel or any tools. As I daydreamed about the four of us attempting to dig a hole with sticks and branches, Tony banged loudly on the back door.

  “Come in!” I shouted.

  But he didn’t open the door. I looked at my three friends.

  “Should I open it?” I said to them.

  They shrugged. Then Tony banged on the door again, louder this time.

  “It’s not locked!” I called out. “Just come in!”

  The banging continued, louder and louder. I thought maybe the door was locked and decided to just let him in. The door rattled as he banged on it. I trotted to the door. When I turned the door knob, I realized it wasn’t locked.

  “See!” I said, as I swung the door wide open. “It’s not locked.”

  Tony was there all right, but he wasn’t the one banging on the door. Tony was kneeling on the ground with a stream of blood draining from his battered nose. A guy that looked strikingly like Miguel’s older brother Rogelio was standing over him, holding the nape of his shirt in a clinched fist. And another guy who looked remarkably like Bloody Billy was closest to the door, both his hands clinched into angry fists. He raised them, then slowly cracked his knuckles, which elicited a smirk.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Bloody Billy said to me, but I was in shock and didn’t reply.

  All I could think was, Am I still dreaming? What is going on?

  “You look surprised,” he said, then lunged at the door, shoving it open. The force of the door knocked me back and I toppled to the floor on top of Bloody Billy’s backpack. “I’ll just let myself in.”

  I snatched the backpack and scurried to the opposite side of the lake house, standing in front of an array of windows overlooking the placid bay. My three friends were there, too, and we huddled tightly. Bloody Billy stomped a few steps then stopped, looking around the lake house, taking it all in.

  “Nice hideout you got here,” he said, then sneered at us. “Too bad I’m gonna have to burn it down.”

  15.

  Now, it may seem coincidental to you, dear reader, that Bloody Billy and Miguel’s brother—that jerk Rogelio—just happened to appear at the back door of the lake house, but there really was a very simple and practical explanation that was working itself out long before they showed up unannounced, although it wasn’t clear to me while that bastard was goading us at the time. You see, I found out much later that while we did our best to conceal our little adventure from our parents, our juvenile parlor tricks didn’t fool everyone. Rogelio was the one that caught on to our mischief when he noticed four BMX bikes lying in the grass outside his house. It didn’t register with him at first, but when his parents mentioned at the dinner table that Miguel was spending the night at Brian’s house, the presence of our bikes gave him pause. He snuck into Miguel’s room soon after dinner and snooped for additional incriminating clues. He swept everything off Miguel’s desk onto the floor with an angry arm. He yanked open all the drawers of his dresser, then tossed the clothes on the floor along with the drawers. But when he noticed Miguel’s phone on his bed, that’s what gave us up.

  That stupid, baby blue, slimline telephone.

  According to Miguel—who later found out the whole story from his parents—Rogelio picked up the phone and pressed the one button that would give our shenanigans all away: the redial button. I was the one to make the last phone call to Canyon Lake Marina—wanting to tell Tony to park down the street instead of in front of the house, so he wouldn’t give us away—and that fateful mistake was what brought Rogelio and his cruel leader out to within close range of our Cabin of Seclusion that morning. They pulled up to the marina in that wicked Camaro and stormed the marina store where Tony unfortunately was sitting behind the counter, collecting the supplies he needed for the boaters waiting patiently in the bay for their morning delivery. They roughed him up real good and in a matter of minutes, he was explaining in exquisite detail where we were and what we were doing. I don’t blame Tony, really. I’m sure it was hard keeping a secret when a jerk like Bloody Billy was pulverizing his face. So, once Tony told them he had planned to pick us up in the motor boat after his morning deliveries to bring us back to the marina, so he could drive us home, Bloody Billy had new plans. And this was when the real danger for us finally materialized. It was all fun and games until Bloody Billy and Rogelio showed up.

  That stupid, stupid telephone. Why didn’t I put it back where I found it?

  Back inside the lake house—our Cabin of Seclusion no more—I clutched Bloody Billy’s backpack tightly to my chest as my three friends clutched onto me, huddled against the bay of windows like scared fawns cowering from a hungry mountain lion. I think they knew—just as I knew—that I was the source of Billy’s ire. He tapped the floor with his scuffed, steel-toed boot, as if knocking on the hatch to hell, then pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket. He flipped the lighter open and lit it in one fluid flick of his wrist and snap of his fingers, like a magician revealing a trick from his shirt sleeve. He raised the lighter in front of his face.

  “I bet this shack will burn like a... like a...” He turned to Rogelio who was still standing outside the door with Tony’s shirt in his clinched fist. He called out, “What does that Doors guy say in the song?”

  “Huh?” Rogelio replied, oblivious. “What song?”

  “You know?” Billy continued, then attempted to sing. “And our love will be a funeral... What does he say?”

  “Fire?”

  “No, you idiot!” Billy said, then stammered, humming the melody of the tune that perplexed him. He turned back to face us, humming some more. “Hmm hmm hmm, come on baby light my fire.”

  As Bloody Billy struggled to think of the words to The Doors infamous song, Light My Fire, I slowly unzipped the backpack and carefully slid my hand inside. I reached down to the bottom and squeezed the grip of the 25-caliber American Derringer pistol, waiting for the opportune time to pull it out.

  “I don’t know the words to that song,” Rogelio said, Tony’s shirt still in his grasp. Tony slowly shook his head at his predicament, or maybe it was the asinine conversation he was being subjected to listen to when he’d rather be back at the marina, flirting with Victoria.

  Thinking about it now, I don’t blame Miguel’s brother. That song was an earworm with a weird rhyming scheme. Most people couldn’t recall the correct lyrics.

  “Nevermind. I’ll think of it in a bit,” Billy said, pulling an unfiltered cigarette that was dutifully perched above his ear and slid it in his pursed lips. He lit the cigarette with his Zippo, then swept the lighter against his thigh, snapping the lid shut. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “I believe you have something of mine.”

  At this point, the backpack felt as if I was clutching a boulder, its bulky presence weighty and unruly from the guilt of all the events that led me and my friends here. I thought of throwing it or dropping it, maybe possibly launching it at Billy’s face to distract him enough so we could run, but none of these scenarios seemed reliable as an escape plan. How would we then get out of the house? Break a window? Tackle Billy? I clutched the backpack tighter and attempted
to retreat further away, but my friends and I were already pressed against the windows. We were trapped. I gripped the pistol tighter, waiting for the opportune time to pull it out. But the tighter I gripped it, the more I kept thinking, What are you waiting for, dummy? You’re just gonna get pounded again!

  So, I unsheathed the pistol from the backpack. With a stiff yet shaky arm, I pointed it directly at Bloody Billy. He chuckled when he saw it, like I was an inexperienced magician pulling a floppy, fake rose from a limp top hat.

  “Now, what are you going to do with that ‘cept make me mad?” he said. He took one stepper closer to us, sucking on his cigarette. He exhaled toxic smoke from his tar-stained nostrils.

  I slid my finger across the trigger, debating if I really had the guts to pull it. The cold sweat pooling under my arms and dripping from my forehead told me otherwise. I was really nervous. I steadied my gangly arm the best I could. Bloody Billy’s face blurred in my line of sight.

  He took another step and another drag from his smoke. “Just give me the goddamn backpack and maybe I’ll let you go. Maybe.”

  “Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot!” I cried out. My arm shook.

  Even though the pistol was small, it was getting heavier by the minute. That’s what happens when you hold your arm straight out for more than ten seconds. My arm transformed into a block of wood, then a row of bricks, then into a hunk of iron. The pain was excruciating. I figured the longer I waited, the more of an advantage Bloody Billy would gain. He took another step closer, his body engulfed in cigarette smoke. Time slowed down. His body motion sludgy and deliberate, like he was walking through the waist-high water of an angry river. Every thought that flashed through my mind, every plea for a defensible motive, led me to this: shoot the bastard. I could claim self-defense. I had three reliable witnesses and Bloody Billy was a notorious bully.

  “This is my last warning!” I screamed, but he didn’t heed it.

  He continued to call my bluff.

  But I wasn’t bluffing.

  I closed my eyes. I braced myself. I grit my teeth.

  I pulled the trigger.

  Then, nothing happened.

  For a brief moment, I opened my eyes and I could see on Billy’s face a sign of regret, a slight tinge of Oh shit! But once he saw my surprise, he lunged at me.

  “I’m gonna kill you, ass wipe!” he bellowed.

  But Randy had other ideas. He lunged, too, blocking Billy like a football tackler, their heads and shoulders hitting with a dense thud. They grappled in front of Miguel, Brian, and I—their arms flailing, their feet shuffling for better footing, fists pounding flesh. It was a terrifying sight, the two of them fighting, drops of sweat and spittle flying everywhere, the stench of testosterone. Remarkably, Randy shifted his weight and slid an arm through Billy’s legs, then lifted his body off the ground under his crotch with the crook of his arm. Billy was shocked to find out just how strong Randy was; I could see it on his smug face while dangling above us. Randy rotated his torso, then body-slammed Billy with all his strength. The lake house shook after the boom of Billy hitting the floor, but that didn’t stop him. Billy continued to swing his arms and kick his legs while on his back, like an angry crab.

  Outside, Rogelio unclenched his fist and let go of Tony, so he could come inside to assist his gang leader. Tony seized his opportunity to jump off the back porch and run for the woods, not offering to assist us or anything. He quickly vanished amongst the stately trees. I don’t blame him. It was an unfortunate turn of events for all of us. Back in the lake house, Rogelio grabbed Randy by his neck and arm, trying to push him away from Bloody Billy, but Randy was a belligerent mass of resistance. He held down Billy with one arm and swung at Rogelio with the other. The three of us were petrified, which I’m sure irritated Randy.

  “Run, you idiots!” he yelled at us, and we didn’t wait for a second command.

  We ran around the mound of bodies and out the back door. As I ran, I dropped the useless pistol on the ground while clutching the backpack under my arm. Miguel, Brian, and I jumped off the back porch and retreated toward the line of trees. But, for some reason still unknown to me, Brian stopped and held out his arms to keep Miguel and I from running in the woods.

  “Something tells me it’s a bad idea to run in the woods!” he said, panting.

  “Then what do we do?!” I said, also panting.

  The three of us quickly scanned the area, looking for an escape route. Miguel pointed toward the pier. “The boat!”

  “Yeah!” Brian agreed, strangely. “The boat!”

  “But what about Randy?” I said, looking back at the lake house. The sound of fighting could be heard through the cracks of the weathered, wood siding.

  “We’ll wait for him in the boat. When he comes out, we’ll call for him.”

  “Good idea!” I said, then we ran to the pier, the backpack under my arm and me limping behind my two friends.

  We got to the pier in a matter of seconds and I knelt to hold the gently rocking boat close while my two friends got in. There was no sign of Tony to ask how to start the boat, but I remembered watching him pull the starter cord a couple of times, so figured I could do it myself. Once my friends were in the boat, we all turned to the lake house and waited. The boat rocked side to side. The yelling coming from inside was indecipherable, but it sounded angry and terse. Then, there was silence. I looked at Brian and Miguel, who both shrugged. Brian gripped the side of the boat, remembering he couldn’t swim, as the water craft bobbed. Then Miguel pointed to the lake house.

  “There he is!”

  Randy burst from the back door and was booking it to the pier, his arms swinging wildly, his feet kicking up grass and dirt.

  “Start the boat!” he yelled as he ran toward us.

  A few moments later, Bloody Billy and Rogelio ran out the back door, too, chasing after Randy, their faces maroon with anger. I pulled the starter cord on the motor as hard as I could, but nothing happened. The motor wheezed, then died.

  “Pull harder!” Brian commanded. “Really yank it!”

  “I did!” I replied, then pulled again as hard as I could.

  Still nothing.

  “Start it!” Randy yelled again, running as fast as he could with the two bullies on his heels.

  I pulled on the starter cord again, but no luck.

  “Dang it!”

  “Let me try!” Miguel said, then pushed me aside.

  He grabbed the starter cord handle and yanked it so hard, I thought he was going to rip it off the motor. He fell back on his butt and the engine roared to life, grey smoke and orange sparks erupting from the back.

  “You help Randy in the boat! I’ll drive!” Miguel said, sitting on the rear bench and gripping the motor tiller, ready to steer it.

  “OK,” I said, getting in front of the boat.

  By this time, Randy reached the pier and was stomping across it.

  “I’m gonna jump!” he said, then leapt on top of me, almost sending the two of us off the side of the boat, the vessel wobbling wildly.

  But we didn’t fall out. Miguel accelerated the motor boat and we pulled away from the pier. I looked back and could see Bloody Billy and Rogelio stomping across it, their faces so red they looked like they’d burst. About halfway down, Rogelio stopped in his tracks, but Bloody Billy kept running. As we pulled farther away, I expected Billy to stop running too, but he didn’t. He ran to the edge of the pier, then without hesitating, jumped into the water.

  “Billy jumped in!” I yelled, pointing back.

  Randy and I watched as Bloody Billy appeared to be swimming with large breaststrokes—his head and arms bobbing high above the water, then back under and up again—and I thought it strange that he thought he could catch us by swimming in the lake. The boat was flying across the water at full speed by this point, the engine screeching loudly and our hair flapping in the wind. I felt a sigh of relief slip out my mouth, but the motor was so loud that I couldn’t hear it. I turned to s
ee where Miguel was steering the boat, Sometimes Island looming ahead in some light fog out in the middle of the bay not too far away. I remember thinking to myself that as long as Miguel could get us around and past Sometimes Island, then we’d be safe. I turned back to see if I could see Bloody Billy swimming in the water, but I didn’t see him anymore. Maybe we were too far away to see him. Maybe he was resting in the water, deciding if he should keep swimming, or if he should swim back to the pier because his pursuit was futile. Either way, I didn’t care. We escaped from the two bastards and we were on our way to freedom. Or so I thought.

  Randy cheered, jutting both arms in the air.

  “Fuck yooooou!” he screamed, then bellowed. “You assholes!”

  The rest of us began to cheer, too. It was hard not to, this stupendous moment feeling something like a victory, watching our main tormentor ill-advisedly jump into the lake. We attempted to give each other high fives and the like, but as Miguel steered the motor boat toward Sometimes Island, I had an icky feeling in my gut. Call it intuition or fear or whatever, but whatever the feeling was, it snapped me out of my celebratory mood. All I could think about was what Tony told us before on our first boat tour: That’s Sometimes Island. Can’t go on it, though. Your boat would get ripped apart from the jagged rocks that surround it under the water, if you tried to land near it.

  “Miguel!” I cried, but it was too late.

  There was a loud bang, then the feeling of catching air that you get in the pit of your stomach like the moment before a roller coaster barrels down the first, tall incline, as my head lunged forward then down into my knees. It felt like I punched myself in the face. Then the next thing I knew, I was underwater. I immediately flapped my arms to swim and I felt the backpack under one of my arms, impeding my strokes. I pushed on it, soon feeling it beneath my feet as I kicked my legs, then it disappeared as I tried to swim back to the surface. That was the last time I saw or felt the presence of Bloody Billy’s backpack. The power I felt from possessing it was released with every stroke of my arms, with every frantic kick of my legs, as I struggled to get to the air. It probably sank immediately to the bottom of Canyon Lake, where it belonged.