The book, a hardcover, had fallen tent-like, spine up. The pages were rather badly crushed. I was going to walk right by, but I love books, and the sight of this one being squashed like that was too much for me. I carefully leaned over to pick it up, intending to simply straighten the pages and put it on the table at Dave's side, all without waking him.
The book was interesting for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that while its dust cover proclaimed it to be the latest John Grisham thriller, the book inside was actually written by Eric Hebborn. Hebborn may not exactly be a household name, but in some circles he is extremely well-known. Hebborn, you see, was a master forger. He claimed to have fallen into that particular line of work when he was ripped off by an art dealer and decided to take his revenge. He was good at it, if one can use that adjective under the circumstances. He fooled a lot of people for a considerable period of time. His final gesture, adding insult to injury, was to write a book called The Art Forger's Handbook, in which he documented all the techniques that he had used to deceive everyone. It was this book I now held in my hand, and it was a very rarefied edition, worth at least two or three hundred dollars.
As I stood contemplating this, Maddox gave a snort and woke up. He was obviously startled to see me, so close to his chair. "Sorry if I woke you," I said. "I didn't realize you were here. You dropped your book." I smiled and handed it back to him.
"I guess I must be tired if I can't stay awake reading Grisham," he said. I had the feeling he was watching my reaction closely.
"It's been a busy day," I replied. "I don't think I'm going to attempt to read tonight, not even something as exciting as Grisham. See you tomorrow." I headed for the door.
"Good night, Lynda," he said. "Don't forget to come to my presentation."
"I'll be there," I said.
My brief but eventful trip to the room had left me with a number of questions, not the least of which was what was Cassandra de Santiago doing terrifying a hotel waitress, one who just happened to be one of two contenders for Queen of Tapati Rapa Nui. And what was a builder whose hobby was figuring out how the moai of Rapa Nui were transported to the ahu doing with a copy of The Art Forger's Handbook disguised as a Grisham thriller? Rapa Nui seemed to attract a rather strange group of people, indeed.
3
ORONGO—This is none of my business, I told myself. / am on vacation. It has nothing to do with me. Dave Maddox could read whatever he liked. After all, had I not read The Art Forger's Handbook? Yes, indeed, I had. It was actually very useful for someone in my line of work to understand how forgeries are made. I had trouble coming up with reasons it would be useful for a builder or even someone interested in how the moai of Rapa Nui were transported and raised, but there was no reason why he couldn't read it if he wanted to. Mind you, when I read it, I sat there bold as brass with the cover hanging out for anyone to see. I didn't try to disguise it as the latest Grisham, nor the work of a Pulitzer prize winner, either. The cover business was a bit peculiar, it had to be said, although I suppose now that I thought about it, a customer or two might have had second thoughts about buying something from an antique dealer who was reading a book about forgery. Perhaps Dave thought reading such a thing at an academic conference would be frowned upon. There would be nothing here he could forge, would there? Carve a twenty-five-foot moai and make it look to be six hundred years old? What would be the benefit of that, even if he could do it? Fake a petroglyph or two? Not much point in that either. Even if that were what he intended, though, it had nothing to do with me. / am on vacation. This is none of my business. That would be my mantra.
I was having more trouble with Cassandra. She was a flake, obviously, all that talk about alien beings populating a lost continent in the Pacific. I'm not saying there isn't a lost continent. But aliens? Still, she could think whatever she wanted. What she couldn't do was terrorize the wait staff at the hotel, in particular a pleasant young woman who just wanted to get a university education.
This has nothing to do with you, Lara, I told myself over and over again. Here I was at one of the most interesting places on Rapa Nui, the center of the bird man cult at Orongo, and I was watching my fellow delegates rather than enjoying the site. This was unfortunate, because the place is spectacular, perched high on a cliff above the sea, with a wonderful view of three tiny islets, one of which, Motu Nui, featured prominently in the rituals centered on the bird man, tangata manu, rituals that replaced the worship of ancestors as represented by the moai. The site, near the crater at Rano Kao, is embellished with hundreds of petroglyphs, many of them depicting birds or the bird man. Along with the petroglyphs are the remains of a sacred village, made up of distinctive boat-shaped houses called hare paenga, used during the ceremony.
Rory had chosen to accompany us that morning. What he said was that he wanted to make sure we were getting the right information about what we were seeing. I thought it had more to do with Moira. I tried to listen while he explained about the arrival of the birds and the competition between four powerful individuals and their representatives, called hopi manu, to find the first egg. The stakes were high, rather like the competition for Tapati queen: in the latter case, a university education, and in the former, the right to rule the island for the next year. But always, out of the corner of my eye, I was watching the others.
Cassandra, in an even more outrageous getup than the previous day, kept putting her hands on the petroglyphs, closing her eyes, and moaning slightly as if being visited by the spirit of the stone, or something. It was, in my opinion, unconvincing, if not just plain nauseating, but Yvonne seemed to be quite taken with it all.
"What are you sensing?" she kept saying.
"The forces are gathering," Cassandra said.
"Spooky," Yvonne said. I thought what was really spooky was that Yvonne hadn't broken her ankle yet, given she was wearing even more inappropriate shoes than the day before. The other person who seemed in imminent danger of breaking something was Enrique, who kept his nose in his guidebook rather than eyes on the rocky ground as we went along.
Edwina Rasmussen, the Rosa Klebb look-alike, was there, umbrella up for protection from the sun. She was unusually quiet, given that Rory's credentials were impeccable, and she therefore had no one to criticize.
Dave Maddox, too, was very subdued. He tended to wander off by himself rather than harangue the group, and he kept taking pieces of paper out of his pocket and reading them as he walked. Considering how high up we were and how rough the terrain, I thought this a very bad idea. I went over to talk to him.
"Did you finish the Grisham?" I asked and then wished I hadn't. I couldn't seem to hold to a resolution for more than two minutes.
"What?" he said, looking startled."Oh, no I didn't. Went straight to bed and slept like a baby. Probably get back to it tomorrow night, after my presentation is done. I can relax a bit then."
"Are you rehearsing?" I asked. "I notice you keep looking at some notes."
"I am. I seem to have a bad case of stage fright," Maddox said. "I'm kind of wondering why I got invited here."