Galilee (79 page)

She felt only the tiniest twinge of guilt at this. Though she'd warmed to Rachel somewhat of late (there was certainly no denying her courage), the woman was no sophisticate, nor ever would be. She'd done well, for someone from such unpromising roots, but she'd never be the kind of presence Margie might have been under other circumstances: it simply wasn't in her blood. And when all the fine sentiments about democracy had been voiced, that's what it always came down to: the blood in the veins.

So she would sacrifice Rachel in a bid to gain Mitchell: it was a chance worth taking. And she knew exactly where to begin with her investigations. She called Jocelyn in, and told her to go and fetch her address book. Jocelyn returned five minutes later, apologizing that it had taken her so long. Though she was putting on a brave, loyal face, she was in a deeply distressed state; her hands had a constant tremor, and she looked as though she might burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

“Will there be anything more?” she asked Loretta as she handed over the book.

“Only Mitchell . . .” Loretta said.

“I've already found him a shirt,” Jocelyn said, “and I was just going to look for some trousers. Then I thought I might go for a little walk, if you don't need me.”

“No, no. Of course. Take your time.”

Once she'd gone Loretta flipped through the book and found the number she needed. Then she called it.

Niolopua was there to answer.

R
achel woke with the dawn, the birds making fine music all around the house. It was surprisingly chilly once she was out from under the covers. She wrapped herself up in the faded quilt and walked, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. Then she went out onto the veranda to watch the unveiling of the day. Prospects looked good. The rain clouds had moved off to the northeast, and the sky was clear, at least for the present. There were signs of a storm on the horizon, however, clouds that looked still darker than those that had brought yesterday's rain, and quite a mass of them too. She went back in, brewed her tea, sweetened it decadently, and returned to the veranda, where she sat for twenty minutes or so while the scene before her came to life. Several birds flew down onto the lawn, and pecked around for worms coaxed up by the dew; a piebald dog wandered up from the beach, and had advanced as far as the veranda steps before she realized he was blind, or nearly so. She called to him softly,
and he came to her hand, staying to be muzzled for a little time then taking himself about his dog's business, sniffing his way.

When she had finished her tea she went back inside again, showered and got dressed. She would drive into Hanalei this morning, she'd decided, and buy herself some fresh food from the little market there; along with some cigarettes.

It was an easy and picturesque journey, which took her at one point across a narrow bridge which spanned a valley of Edenic perfection: a river meandering through lush green shrubbery, from the bouquets of which elegant palms rose and erupted.

Hanalei was quiet. She took her time making her purchases, and by the time she arrived back at Anahola, laden with bags of supplies, she found she had a visitor. Niolopua was sitting on the step, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. He got up and relieved her of her cargo, then followed her inside.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked him once the bags had been set down in the kitchen.

“I saw the lights on last night.”

“Why didn't you come and say hello?”

“I wanted to get back and tell Mrs. Geary.”

“I don't understand.”

“Your mother-in-law.”

“Loretta?”

“Yes. The old one, right? Loretta. She called me to find out whether you were here or not.”

“When was this?”

“Last night.”

“So, you came round to look for me?”

“Yes. And I saw the lights. So I called her back and I told her you'd got here safely.” It was clear from the expression on Niolopua' s face that he was aware there was something odd in all of this.

“What did she say to you?” Rachel asked him.

“Not much. She told me not to bother you. In fact, she said not even to tell you I'd seen you here.”

“So why
are
you telling me?”

He looked profoundly uncomfortable. “I don't know. I guess I wanted you to hear what the other Mrs. Geary had said.”

“I'm not Mrs. Geary anymore, Niolopua. Please, just call me Rachel.”

He made a nervous smile. “Right,” he said. “Rachel.”

“Thank you for being so honest.”

“She didn't know you'd come, did she?”

“No, she didn't.”

“Shit. I'm sorry. I should have talked to you first. I didn't think.”

“You weren't to know,” Rachel said. “You did what you thought was best.” He looked thoroughly irritated with himself, despite her words. “Do you want to stay and have something to eat?”

“I'd like to, but should go do some work on my house before the storm.” He glanced out of the window toward the beach. “I've only got a few hours before
that
comes in.” He pointed to the dark blisters of cloud along the horizon. “It blew up out of nowhere.” He kept staring out at the clouds as he talked. “And it's coming this way.”

“Well it's nice to know you're on my side, Niolopua. I don't have a lot of friends right now.”

He tore his gaze from the clouds and looked at her. “I'm sorry I screwed up. If I'd known you wanted to be here on your own—”

“I'm not here to get a tan,” Rachel said. “I'm here because . . .” now it was she who glanced seaward “ . . . because I have reason to think he may be coming back.”

“Who told you that?”

“It's a long story, and I'm not sure I know how to tell it right now. I need to get some things sorted out in my head first.”

“What about Loretta?”

“What about her?”

“Does she know why you're here?”

“It wouldn't be hard for her to guess.”

“You know if you want to you could move up into the hills with me for a few days. Then if she sends someone looking for you—”

“I don't want to leave this house,” Rachel said. “This is where Galilee expects to find me. And this is where I'm going to be waiting.”

A
ccording to the literature on the subject—which is sparse—the raising of storms is at best an uncertain craft. These things have a life of their own; they swell unpredictably, feeding off their own power, like dictators. They veer, they devour, they transform. Though they're subject to behavioral rules based on sound science, there are so many variables in the mix that any computation is at best tentative. The storm is a law unto itself; nobody, not even a power of Cesaria' s prescience, may control or predict it once it's in motion.

All of which is to explain how it came about that the disturbance she'd created, stirring the air into life as she had, grew into the tempest that it did.

An hour after the departure from the deck of
The Samarkand
the boat was in dire trouble. The hull, which had resolutely endured some of the worst seas in the world—the Cape of Good Hope, the icy waters of the Arctic—finally cracked, and the vessel began to take on water. Galilee hand-bailed as fast as he was able, having incapacitated the pumps when he'd decided on suicide, but quickly realized he was fighting a losing battle. The question was not whether
The Samarkand
was doomed or not, but rather which of the death-sentences would fall first? Would it be smashed to pieces by the fury of the seas, or spring so many leaks that it sank?

And yet, even as the storm undid the vessel—board by board, nail by nail—it carried him closer to the islands. Sometimes the boat ascended a steep wave from the summit of which he thought he glimpsed land. But in the tumult it was impossible to be sure.

Then, quite suddenly, the winds dropped, and the rain they'd brought mellowed to a drizzle. There was a brief respite—perhaps ten minutes—when
The Samarkand
ceased to roll quite so violently, and Galilee was able to survey the extent of the damage to the vessel. The news was not good. There were three large cracks on the starboard side, and another two on the port; the ruins of the mast, along with the shreds of sails, had been washed overboard but were still attached to the boat by a gnarled umbilical of rope and tackle, which gave the vessel a permanent list.

Nor, of course, had the storm blown itself out. Galilee had experienced this kind of hiatus before: a little window of calm, as though the tempest was gathering its strength for one final cataclysmic assault.

So it proved. After a short time the wind began to rise again, and the ocean to chum and spasm, pushing the boat up ever steeper inches of furious water then dropping it into ever deeper chasms. Resolute as
The Samarkand
had been, it couldn't survive such treatment for long. It began to shudder as though wracked by death tremors, then all at once came asunder. Galilee heard a terrible splintering sound below, as the boards capitulated to the pressure, and the cabin housing cracked and split as great pillows of foamy white water erupted and summarily swept it away.

The water didn't come to take Galilee until the very last. He didn't let it. He clung to the side of the boat while it came undone around him, watching with a kind of wonder the power of the element he'd sailed so carelessly for so long. How it labored, coming back wave upon wave to break what it had already broken, and break it again, the boards becoming tinder, the tinder becoming splinters, and all finally sucked away into the deep.

Only when there were no more such wonders to witness did he finally abandon his vestigial portion of the vessel, and commend himself to the water. He was instantly swept away from the spot where
The Samarkand
had disappeared, his body no more significant to the waves than any other piece of flotsam. He didn't attempt to resist the current: it was a useless endeavor. The sea had him, and it would not give him up again unless it chose to.

But as he went, his body remembered the first time he'd been carried this way: an infant in the grip of the tides of the Caspian Sea, borne away from the shore as he now hoped that he was being borne back to it.

On the island, preparations for the storm were being made everywhere, from the fanciest hotels to the shabbiest shack. The local meteorologists weren't warning of any great danger to life or property. This wasn't a hurricane, just some heavy weather their charts and satellite photographs had failed to predict—but nor was its proximity to be treated lightly. The islanders had been blindsided before; it was never wise to underestimate the potential vehemence of such conditions. Roofs could be taken off, houses demolished, trees stripped, roads flooded. Along the northeastern coast, where the storm was predicted to come ashore, preparations were made: livestock was herded under cover, children brought home from school early; loose windows were nailed closed, pieces of heavy timber hoisted up onto shack roofs to keep them from being unseated.

As the storm approached the island estimations of its scale grew more pessimistic. It was acting in a wholly uncharacteristic manner, the pundits observed: instead of steadily dissipating, as they had anticipated, the wind velocity continued to climb. Its first effects could be felt on shore by the early afternoon. Trees began to sway; there were speckles of rain in the gusts. Out at sea, pleasure boats that dallied overlong before heading for safe harbor were given a battering, their captains racing to outrun the roiling seas. Three failed. One was lost, overturned with its crew of two and seven passengers all presumed drowned; the other two returned within a breath of disaster, the smaller of them so badly pounded it sank in the harbor.

There was no question: this was turning into a very uncommon piece of weather.

M
itchell had not waited for a regular flight out of New York: as soon as Loretta informed him of Rachel's whereabouts he hired a private jet. He didn't call Garrison to tell him what he was doing until he was on his way to the airport, accurately sensing that his brother would not be happy with his decision.

“We said we'd deal with this little problem of yours,” Garrison reminded him.

“I'm only going out there to get her to come back with me,” Mitchell said.

“Wait until she comes back of her own volition. Wait until she crawls.”

“And what if she doesn't?”

“She will. She's got divorce proceedings to finish up, for one thing. She knows she's not going to get a cent out of us unless she plays by the book.”

“She doesn't care about the money.”

“Don't be so dumb, Mitch!” Garrison suddenly yelled down the phone.
“Everybody
cares about the fucking money!” He took a moment to let his irritation subside, then he said: “Mitch, listen to me. There are other ways to deal with this. Nice, calm, calculated ways.”

“I'm perfectly calm,” Mitchell said. “And I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just don't want her there. Not with him.”

“You don't even know—”

“Give it up, Garrison. I'm on my way and that's all there is to it. I'll call you when I arrive.”

Getting to his destination proved more irksome than Mitchell had anticipated. His hired transport had no sooner taxied onto the runway in preparation for takeoff than the radar system servicing the airport ceased operation, grounding every flight and preventing all landings for the next hour and a half. There was nothing to be done but endure the delay. When the glitch in the system was finally fixed, there was of course a large number of circling aircraft which needed to be landed before anybody could take off, and even then progress was slow, with the bigger commercial aircraft being given precedence. By the time the jet was finally airborne, Mitchell had been sitting in his leather seat sipping whiskey and breathing stale air for almost three and a half hours, with a ten-hour flight ahead.