Free Twenty-Seven Bones by Jonathan Nasaw Page A

seemed to excite him further. Soon, he whispered into her mouth. She may have sensed his interest beginning to spike. Please, she mouthed again. Then the gun went off.
    It wasn’t very loud. His lips moved against hers again. Oh shit, were the words he mouthed. It is possible, from her lack of an immediate response, that she thought for an instant the bullet had missed her. Sometimes, in the case of point-blank firearm injuries, P later learned, all the victim feels at first is the skin burn from the muzzle flash.
    Soon the real pain must have begun to blossom, but hopefully not for long. If first-person accounts of similar but obviously nonidentical experiences, though necessarily unreliable, are to be believed, her consciousness would have begun to narrow, concentrating itself from a bright flare into a beam, then to a rod, then to a pinpoint of fierce white light.
    All this while he was, improbably, still inside her, still thrusting. She sighed her last breath into his open mouth. As P sucked it deep into his lungs his hips jerked, his testicles roiled, his penis spasmed, and he spurted his semen into the condom with a cry that was equal parts agony and triumph.
    Well, I’ll be goddamned, P said to himself afterward, lying there stunned beside the cooling body. He couldn’t wait to tell E.

    Emily had to admit, the man had a certain talent for erotic narrative. She finished reading the excerpt with her hand tucked comfortably between her legs.

9
    If St. Luke was to some extent an island out of time, its infrastructure having been badly damaged by Hurricane Eloise in 1975, by Hugo in 1989, and then again by Luis and Marilyn in 1995, and its tourism industry dealt a near-mortal blow by the Blue Valley massacre in 1984, then the former Peace Corps training camp known as the Core was an island within an island.
    It wasn’t technically a sixties commune—everybody paid their own rent—but the ethos and the facilities harkened back to that era. Rustic cabins, Quonset huts, and A-frames, no phones, electricity only in the most expensive dwellings, communal shit ’n’ shower. Good people, hippies, neohippies, neo-Luddites, down-islanders from even more impoverished islands. Holly’s idealistic-to-the-point-of-otherworldly sister Laurel and her two mixed-race love children had fit right in.
    It wasn’t the worst fit in the world for Holly, either, much as she missed her life in Big Sur. But although the reduction in her earnings had been extreme, the reduction in living expenses had not been. Not only did she have to support a family of three now, but almost all the necessities that appeared magically on the shelves of even the dinkiest groceries in California had to be shipped or flown into St. Luke, oil prices were through the roof, and since the majority of the property on the island was owned by a tiny minority of the population, rents were kept at an artificially high level.
    After dropping by Apgard Realty to make her rent payment (of which a larger percentage than usual had come directly from the pocket of the extremely grateful Lewis Apgard himself), Holly took stock of her financial resources and discovered that she had been reduced to a few hundred in the bank and twenty in the pocket. Fortunately, in addition to being rent day, the first of the month was also tempura night at the Core.
    Tempura nights were the brainchild of C. B. Dawson, an eccentric (insofar as the word applied at the Core) woman who grew her own vegetables behind her cabin and was given to disappearing into the rain forest for days on end. There she made a slim living from the fruits of the trees, never the trees themselves. Bracelets and necklaces strung from wild tamarindillo seeds, necklaces from the seeds of the elephant’s ear tree, incense holders and paperweights fashioned from sandbox tree fruits, bowls and gourds from calabash and cannonball trees, that sort of thing.
    Dawson was the first friend Holly had made on St. Luke, and the