Convict Island by Mark Mosley

Author:Mark Mosley [Mark Mosley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mark Mosley
Published: 2020-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

I woke up in my hammock on January 2nd. Sun rays snuck through the slats of my hut wall and pummeled my eye, begging me to wake up.

Xavier sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hands in front of him holding flowers. His shoulders sagged as if weighted down by regret and memories. I worried that I—in my attempt to avoid looking like a coward—had broken him. Obviously not a breakage of his body, but of his psyche.

I swung my feet out of the hammock slowly and put them on the floor. I didn’t see stars, but colorful lights danced in front of me. While I’d never had a hangover, I imagined this to be what it felt like—like my head was a catcher’s mitt and there was a flamethrower on the mound.

I did the usual movie cliché thing and asked how long I’ve been out.

“It’s the day after our battle,” Xavier answered.

“Battle,” I huffed. “It’s nice of you to call it a battle. More like me giving you a massage and you knocking me the hell out.” He said nothing. “I’m sorry I put you in a tight spot there. I felt like—”

Xavier put his hand up. “I know why you did it. I’m sorry I knocked you out. If Mason thought I was going easy on you, it would’ve been much worse. For both of us.”

“Believe me, I expected to get knocked out.”

We sat in silence for a bit. Then he confessed, “I killed a man. But that’s not why I’m on the island,” he corrected. “I wasn’t a killer ‘til I got here—the island made me into a killer. Mason made me into a killer.”

I wondered if I should say something or let him get whatever he wanted off his chest. I didn’t think he was telling me with the hope I’d have sage advice or make him feel better. He didn’t want answers or consolation. He wanted to talk and be heard. So I became an ear.

Xavier took a deep breath. “I’m on the island because of a drug ring. Most of my family’s poor. But my cousin always had money. I wanted to help my family. My cousin offered me a gig as his muscle. I never really had to do much—threats were usually enough.”

A pleasant breeze slipped through the bamboo walls of my hut. Xavier sat on the cat rug, right above the treasure. Should I tell him about Robbie’s notes?

He went on. “One of my cousin’s workers got busted dealin’. To save his own ass, he ratted. But instead of pinning my cuz, he pointed the cops to me. Said I was the kingpin. My backstabbin’ cousin stashed a bunch of crap in my house—cops found money and drugs under floor boards, in walls, in vents. All over.”

“Damn. Sorry, man.”

Xavier shook his head. “Then I got sent here, and Mason saw me the same way: a hammer. I fought his battles against guys for random reasons—to show strength, to shut ‘em up—whatever.

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