"Liar," she said again. "Liar, liar, liar."
He got up and went into the wheelhouse, not looking at her once. He switched on the engine, and then flipped the switch to haul up the anchor. Between engine and anchor-raising there was quite a noise; any further conversation was out of the question. Frustrated, Rachel went below to dress.
The cabin was in total disarray, the pillows and sheets cast in every direction about the bed, her clothes scattered. She focused her emotions on a missing shoe for a minute or two, which kept the tears from coming again. By the time she'd found the shoe and got herself dressed, the weepy feeling had passed, and she was almost ready to have a rational conversation.
Shoes on, she went back up on deck. The boat was ploughing through the placid waters at quite a clip, the wind cold and bracing.
"Look!" Galilee yelled to her, pointing toward the bow. She could see nothing. "Go see!" he urged her.
She climbed up past the wheelhouse and onto the forward deck to see what he was so anxious she see. There was a pod of dolphins keeping pace with The Samarkand, three or four of them racing to stay so close to the bow they were practically touching it, their bodies like velvet torpedoes as they sped along. Now and then a smaller individual-a juvenile, she supposed-leaped out of the water to one side of the boat or the other, the leaps decorated with a fillip of the tail or a half-twist of the body.
She glanced back at Galilee to show her appreciation, but he had his eyes on the island. There were rain clouds obscuring the heights of Mount Waialeale, as there had been the first day she'd arrived. It was just a short time since she'd been driving with Jimmy Hornbeck and they'd had their conversation about Mammon, the demon of acquisitiveness; but it seemed like weeks. No; more than weeks: another life. She'd been a different Rachel then; she'd been a Rachel who hadn't known Galilee was in the world. For better or worse, that changed everything.
The jetty had an occupant when they came in sight of it: a solitary figure sitting staring out at the sea. Rachel assumed the man was fishing, and paid him little attention. It wasn't until The Samarkand was within a few boatlengths of its destination that she studied the figure more closely and realized that it was Niolopua, He'd risen now and was waiting at the end of the jetty, plainly agitated. Before the boat had even come alongside the jetty he leapt aboard. He took no notice of his father; it was Rachel he needed to talk to; and urgently.
"There have been messages for you," he said, "from New York."
"About what?"
"The woman wouldn't say-. She just told me to find you. Very important, she said. I've been looking for you since dawn."
"Who was it you were talking to?"
"Mrs. Geary."
"Yes, but which Mrs. Geary? Was it Margaret?" The man shook his head. "Loretta? It was Loretta?"
"The old one?" Niolopua said.
Before Rachel could confirm that yes, Loretta was the old one, Galilee had done it for her. "And she didn't tell you what it was about?"
"No. Just that… this Mrs. Geary had to call as soon as possible, because there was something she had to know."
"Cadmus," Rachel said. The old man was dead, more than likely. "Come with me," she said to Galilee.
"Niolopua can go with you. I'll follow."
"You promise me?" she said. "Of course."
"We need to talk."
"I know. I understand. I'll come in a while. Let me just take care of the boat."
It was hard not to look back as she and Niolopua returned to the house; hard not to fear that Galilee was lying to her, and that the moment she was out of sight he'd cast off and sail away. But she had to have some faith, she told herself. If she didn't believe the promise he'd made her, then there was no hope for them. And if he broke that promise, then there'd been no hope anyway.
Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks which divided one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would be out of sight of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just one glance over her shoulder and confirm that he was still there. She resisted successfully, but the effort of doing so must have been visible to Niolopua because once they were down on the sand again, with the house almost in view, he said:
"Don't worry. He'll come."
She glanced sideways at him. "Is it that obvious?"
Niolopua shrugged. "He's who he is. You're who you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That he won't break his promise."
It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a few moments, that she realized how she'd lost some of her equilibrium from being on board The Samarkand. The floor felt unreliable beneath her bare soles, and she felt oddly queasy: a strange reversal of seasickness. She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face, then asked Niolopua if he'd mind making her some hot, sweet tea while she called New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the relative privacy of the dining room and dialed the mansion, wondering as she did so how to best express her condolences. Would Loretta expect her to be tearful at the news? Surely not.
The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she recognized: a man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a heavy cold. She asked for Loretta.
"Mrs. Geary can't come to the phone right now. Who is this?" Rachel told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic-the way she felt when an elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop. The prospect of entrapment loomed.
"I had a message from Loretta," Rachel said.
"Yes. I know."
"Who was that I was talking to?"
"A detective."
"What's going on?"
"It's Margie…"
"What about her?"
There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: "She's dead, Rachel. Somebody shot her dead."
The elevator lurched a second time. "Oh God, Mitch…"
"They're saying Garrison did it," Mitchell went on. "But that's just bullshit. He was set up. It's just bullshit."
"When did it happen?"
"Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off."
"Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie."
"You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you."
"I don't know anything."
"You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something-"
"I don't want to come back, Mitchell."
"What are you talking about?" For the first time in the exchange there was some emotion in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief. "You've got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway?"
"It's none of your business."
"You're out on that fucking island, aren't you?" he said, his tone all anger now. "You think we don't know about that place? You think it's some big secret? I know what goes on out there."
"You don't have the first clue," she said, hoping he heard the certainty in her voice.
"If you don't come back, the police are going to come looking for you. Is that what you want?"
"Don't try bullying me. It won't work any more."
"Rachel."
"I'll call you back."
"Don't hang up."
She hung up. "You bastard," she said quietly. Then, more quietly stilclass="underline" "Poor Margie."
"Something bad?" Niolopua said. He was at the door with her cup of hot tea.