The Island by Peter Benchley Page A

himself as slender, then Makepeace was emaciated. His face was a skull wrapped in black skin, his hands a gathering of bones. He wore his hair in an enormous Afro; Maynard thought that if the Afro were ever caught in a crosswind, it would surely capsize the man.
    “How do you do, sir? My name is Blair Maynard.”
    Makepeace extended his hand gingerly, as if fearful that a too-hearty greeting would snap his fingers. “Burrud Makepeace,” he said. “Birds is easier.” He looked at Justin. “Your researcher?”
    “Justin.”
    Makepeace shook hands with the boy.
    “Evvy didn’t tell me your business down here.”
    “I didn’t have a chance to tell her. The line went dead.”
    “Press isn’t always welcome.”
    “Oh?”
    “They can come. Don’t misunderstand. But we don’t go out of our way any more. A few times we did, and all we got was a slap in the face.”
    “I can’t believe . . .”
    “Believe it. They come down here, all friendly and polite, like you, and tell us they’re going to write a story about this unspoiled paradise—like each one is discovering us for the first time. They take free food and free boat rides and free you-name-it, and they go back and write a story about poverty and bugs and pickaninnies. To hell with them. They can go to Nassau.” Makepeace checked his anger. “So, reporter man, what’s your story?”
    “First,” Maynard said, “I’m not doing a tourist story. Second, I don’t want anything for free.”
    “The only way you can make me believe that,” Makepeace said, and he smiled, “is if you buy me lunch.”
    They rode in Makepeace’s open Jeep. The road had once been paved, but by now it was arguable whether there were potholes in the pavement or splotches of pavement surrounding dirt-filled potholes. Whenever a car passed in the opposite direction, the Jeep was covered by a swirling cloud of dust.
    Makepeace turned off the main road and followed a pair of parallel ruts up a hill to a complex of bungalows identified by a sign as the Crow’s Nest Motel. The largest of the bungalows advertised a bar and dining room.
    Makepeace led them through the dining room to an outdoor terrace that overlooked a half-moon cove. “I thought your . . . researcher . . . might like a swim.”
    Maynard said to Justin, “What do you say?”
    “Sure. Can I have a cheeseburger?”
    Maynard handed him the satchel.
    “Changing room around the corner,” Makepeace said. “Rafts on the beach.”
    When Justin had scurried away and they had ordered drinks, Maynard told Makepeace why he he had come to the islands. He recited the figures about the missing boats and the explanations offered by the Coast Guard. Finally, he said that of the more than a hundred vessels still unaccounted for, most seemed to have vanished in the general area of Turks and Caicos. “And nobody has any idea how or why.” Wary of giving offense, Maynard decided not to repeat Florio’s supposition that someone was taking the boats.
    Makepeace was neither surprised nor concerned. His interest was polite. “That’s a riddle, all right,” he said. “I can see that.”
    “What do you think the answer is?”
    “Me?” Makepeace was amused that the question was put to him. “Why ask me? I have no idea.”
    “It doesn’t bother you?”
    “Should it?”
    “You’re getting a reputation . . .” Maynard paused, then added carefully, “. . . not you, but this area . . . as a dangerous part of the world. That can’t do any good.”
    Makepeace laughed. “We have been dangerous for three hundred and fifty years. We have had rumrunners and gunrunners and pirates and poachers and now the drug people. We have not changed; the yachtsmen, they have changed. They think this is a playground. Well, they are damned fools. I can give you a simple answer to your question: The boats are gone and the people are dead.”
    “Don’t you care how?”
    “No. It makes no difference how you die. You are dead. It’s like asking me