Fountain Society Part 3

"Was who?"

"The girl in your dream. Anyone we know? I a.s.sume you didn't have an o.r.g.a.s.m dreaming of Madame Curie." The h.e.l.l of it was, he felt like he did know her. As if he had a dream about her before many times, but had forgotten everything when he woke up. And now suddenly she had surfaced again. But this time he was remembering her during his waking hours. In fact, he felt he couldn't have forgotten her if he tried. Some fragmented image of her emerged either in the front or the back of his mind for most of the day. "You ought to be careful," Beatrice said wryly. "You don't want to have another stroke." "No, I think this is good for the circulation," replied Peter with a smile. Afterward, with Peter in the shower, Beatrice placed a call to Wolfe. "How's our patient doing?" Wolfe asked.

"h.o.r.n.y as a toad," Beatrice said. "What are you putting in his orange juice?" Wolfe's answering laugh had, as always, a touch of the grotesque. "Not a d.a.m.n thing. His glands are pumping away, his vascular system's unclogged. He's a stellar example of the male body in its prime! It means he's healthy, which is terrific news for us. And for you specifically," he went on hastily. "It's time to count your blessings. You would have been devastated by his loss. Instead you have a new husband, a stunning breakthrough in genetics and a man functioning to his full capacity, happy once more in his work." "Off and on."

"He's bound to have his doubts. He's got an enormous adjustment to make. He'll be just fine." "From your lips to G.o.d's ears," she said, but secretly she didn't think G.o.d was listening anymore. If He was, she was beginning to feel, there might well be h.e.l.l to pay some time soon.

An hour later Peter was on the treadmill in the medical lab, wired to heart and lung monitors by Emilio Barrola. Gradually Barrola increased the machine's incline, adding more and more stress to Peter's system. The problem was that Peter wouldn't limit himself to rapid walking. Despite Barrola's protests, he soon broke into a trot. His heart seemed to handle the added stress without any trouble-no arrhythmia, no extra systoles, and nothing that could be traced to clogged cerebral vessels. Barrola was tempted to throw caution to the winds and simply marvel; the prior day's test, an ultrasound Doppler of the carotid arteries, had indicated that the flow of blood to Peter's brain had vastly improved. But there was no reason to tempt fate-Peter had been saved from certain death to perform mental, not physical, miracles. And so over his patient's objections, Barrola switched off the treadmill. Nevertheless, Peter's excitement remained high. Buoyed by the days results, he dressed hurriedly and reported to the lab, where his team awaited him eagerly-especially Rosemarie Wiener. Braless, brushing his arm with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they all crowded around him at the blackboard, she clearly was offering herself. Peter wondered whether Rosemarie was the Angel of Eros, transformed by his dream into a vision of perfect happiness. Not a chance, he decided. As a matter of fact, the notion had clung to him all day that his dream woman and her attributes were real. He knew she was a fantasy, but it gave him a thrill just to think of her as real, a thrill that seemed only to accelerate his genius. "My father was employing the Purcey Protocol for this procedure," he told them, as the chalk flew and Rosemane's eyes sparkled. "That was the foundation of his work until his death, so we'll continue that way. However," he said, luxuriating in the flood of ideas coursing through his brain, "let's experiment with gamma rays doing the switching of the core generator. And let's reverse the circuitry polarity of the epsilon switches. According to my calculations that should greatly enhance transmission rates at the same time it cools core temperature. If this proves to be true, the overheating problem will be solved and we'll have nearly twice the power in the strike beam." Day after day. he continued with a string of plans, theories and instructions for the realization of the new version of the hammer. By week's end, it was clear to the team that Peter Jr.'s proposals were not only as stunningly original as his father's, but practical as well. The brainwork for the new weapon, now code-named Grand Slam, moved toward completion at a pace that elated Oscar Henderson. Peter Jance had become his own brilliant successor. It was time to begin the first stages of actual construction. Even Wolfe was dazzled. Later that night, as Peter and Beatrice moved toward their separate beds, Peter, for the first time, felt how heavy a burden this newness must be for her. He noticed she took pains to change into nightclothes out of his sight, and had slipped into bed while he was brushing his teeth. "I've been an idiot, haven't I?" he said. "Oh, I don't know."

"That's a yes. I'm sorry. I've been so wrapped up in myself. And in getting back to work." "Can't blame you for that."

She had been sleeping on a small folding cot. Peter went over and sat on its edge. Beatrice looked up at him with a wan smile. "It's still me, Beatrice."

She nodded. "It's just going to take some getting used to." "I still love you.

She didn't answer, but her eyes welled up with tears-not at his words, but at his obvious need to say them. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times they had actually rea.s.sured each other of their devotion, and the word "still" had never come into it. Love went without saying. To speak was to lie. "I know you do," she said. He caressed her hair. He could smell her breath. It was a bit stale, but even so he eased in beside her. "I don't know if this is right," she said. "How could it not be?" he asked.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Beatrice felt the warmth of his lips, the remarkable fullness, the warm hardness of his belly and the ever-warmer prod from further down. She giggled nervously, "How about it?" he whispered. "You game?" "I'm not that old," she said quietly.

"You'll never be old to me."

"Won't I?"

"No, " he said firmly. "You're wonderful, B. The loveliest woman in the world. An angel." "In that case . . ." she said, looking up at him from a well of sadness and love and understanding. Gently he lowered himself toward her, and she turned out the light.

8.

PUERTO RICO.

Within three hours of getting the fax confirming IslandMan's e-mail Message, Elizabeth left Zurich. She was able to hook a seat on the 10:20 A.M. Swissair flight to Boston and arrived at almost the same hour, local time, as when she had left. Despite her American pa.s.sport, she was detained and searched by customs, evidently because she had no luggage except for her shoulder bag. The search revealed a change of underwear, a T-shirt from the Brussels Film Festival and a pair of jeans. "Traveling kind of light," remarked the customs officer. "Just a spur-of-the-moment trip, I guess." They took her to a curtained-off booth where she was subjected to a full-body search by a bright-eyed female agent with big hair. "Back in the U.S.A.," Elizabeth said sourly. The woman's head came up.

"We could X-ray you. Make you take laxatives." "Why would you want to do that?" Elizabeth demanded. She was ready to throttle this woman. "We've found as many as thirty condoms full of heroin in people's intestines. How long have you been in Switzerland?" "I've lived there five years.

"Nature of your business?"

"I'm a model. Helvetica International Agency." If customs checked, she knew, they'd be told she had been fired for trying to have a corpse exhumed. They'd probably lock her in a room and throw away the key. Instead the agent took a step back. Apparently being a model carried some peculiar weight with her. "My daughter's tried to get into modeling," she said. "Maybe you could help her." "I could try," said Elizabeth, sensing an easy out. "She's got the three Bs. Beauty, brains and business sense. I've read that's what it takes now." "How old is she?"

"She'll be fifteen next July."

Elizabeth scribbled her name down on a pad, along with Helvetica's U.S. number. The agent waved Elizabeth through with her rubber-gloved hand. "It was just procedure. No offense."

"None taken. Cook luck with your daughter's career," said Elizabeth, b.u.t.toning her jeans. She had to run to make her connection- American Airlines was as far from International Arrivals as you could possibly get and still be in the same airport. She barely made the plane. American Flight 97 took her into Puerto Rico's San Juan International, the airline's Caribbean hub, east of the city, touching down at 8:30 P.M. With no luggage to retrieve, she was in a cab by a quarter to nine and in the lobby of the local Hyatt by 9:15. The flight to Vieques didn't leave until the following afternoon, so there was time to kill. She immediately placed a call to the Puerto Rico tourist bureau on the off chance that they hadn't closed for the day. By dumb luck it was not only open for another fifteen minutes, it was also located on the second floor of her hotel. Elizabeth told the clerk, who had a round, smiling face marked by acne, that she had come to collect her complimentary voucher. To which the woman responded by saying she didn't know what Elizabeth was talking about. Elizabeth showed her the faxed confirmation. "Vieques Island? I don't think so. What hotel again?" She squinted at the paper. "Inn on the Azure Horizon."

"I'm sorry, miss. I don't think they offer things like that." Elizabeth could feel her heart accelerate. "First off, this isn't one of our faxes, see? Ours would have our own letterhead." She produced one of their fax forms with a letterhead displaying palm trees and gulls against a beach. "This one, see, is blank." She reread the letter. "...won a complimentary stay at the Inn on the Azure Horizon... in celebration of our 20th anniversary.. . No see," she said, "even that. Azure Horizon's been out there, oh, maybe ten years tops. So that part's wrong. I'm not even sure they're still in business-" Elizabeth was already out the door.

At the Hyatt front desk she found there was a 10:30 P.M. ferry to Vieques from a town called Fajardo. Fajardo was nearly forty miles by the coastal road-a fifty-dollar cab ride with no guarantee she would even make the ferry. Upstairs was a room with a shower, room service and a soft bed. Couldn't it wait till morning? Of course it couldn't. What were the odds of getting a fax from anybody from Vieques Island? The place was a microdot on the map, known, among the people she knew, only to the mother of Hans Brinkman, orCould it possibly have been... From the moment she had laid eyes on the email, she hadn't dared to complete the thought for fear of jinxing it. No, the thing to do was to get to the island as soon as possible, then investigate carefully, methodically, keeping her wits about her. She would refuse to think that she was rushing headlong toward a fate she had been avoiding all her life. Or that someone or something who knew her more completely than she even did herself was giving her an opportunity to use all those talents Hans had once accused her of squandering, just to reach this fate. This destiny. This man. Sure, she would Beauty, brains and business sense...

She went outside, booked the most roadworthy cab and the youngest driver she could find and told him there was a hundred dollars in it for him if he could get her to Fajardo in time to make the 10:30 ferry. The cabdriver got rid of his cigarette and opened the back door of his 85 Cougar. For the next hour she hung on for dear life as the cab careened down the coastline of Puerto Rico. To distract herself from what she felt would be her sure demise, she turned on the flickering dome light and read what little she had been able to pull off the Internet about Vieques.

Vieques is a small volcanic island lying just off the east coast of Puerto Rico. About three thousand years ago, the first humans reached the place by moving up the island chain. Dating from about 200 B.C. there are records that remarkable Indian cultures lived there. Finally a Frenchman, Le Guillou, clamped a Western colonial hand over it, converting the place to the cultivation of sugar in the name of Spain. Within a short time the trees were gone and the island was planted with cane from coast to coast. It then was traded and raided from hand to hand between imperial powers. In 1898, control of the island pa.s.sed from Spain to the United States. Conditions remained unchanged on the island until the Second World War.

In 1941, the U.S. Navy took over three quarters of Vieques Island for training and the testing of ordnance. Much of the native population was summarily displaced, and instead the island rocked to the sound of shouted orders and the thunder of bombs, rockets and artillery sh.e.l.ls from both aircraft and ships. It was listed as an adjunct to the ma.s.sive Roosevelt Roads Naval Station on the main island, and hosted Camp Garcia for the Marine Corps, as well as seventeen NAVSTAR departments and twenty-four tenant commands for the Navy, Army and Marines.

A military base, thought Elizabeth. Of course, Rose-Anne Brink-man had told her that. So why was she suddenly feeling so uneasy? In the years following the Cold War things had calmed down according to the article, and a certain amount of tourism had spilled over from Puerto Rico to help replace the vanished sugar industry. But mostly the island was quiet, best known for its mangrove swamps, deserted beaches and wildlife. So what had happened to the military? What had they been up to for the last ten years? When the bulb in the dome light blinked out and refused to come back on, Elizabeth resigned herself to watching the foliage flash by and counting the number of gigantic bugs that smashed against the windshield. She just made the ferry bought a two-dollar ticket and went aboard. Built to accommodate four hundred, the craft was carrying only a few dozen party animals returning to their inns from San Juan's casinos. Elizabeth left them to their revelry around the Formica bar and went out on deck. The sky was ablaze with stars, the sea smooth as gla.s.s. She stayed on deck until the ferry pulled into its terminal in Isabel Segunda. Ahead were the seven-story ruins of a lighthouse and, high on the bill across from the dock, the dark silhouette of a Spanish fortress. The air was warm, nearly 80 degrees, and alive with a high, sweet chirping sound. In her heightened awareness, the sound a.s.saulted her senses. She could still hear it from the terminal rest room, where she had hastened upon docking-the facilities on the ferry had been completely out of the question. "Tree frogs," said a voice from the next sink. "Coquis," nodded Elizabeth, a little startled by her own knowledge. "You've been down here before," the woman said. She had metallic red hair, an open, friendly face and severely plucked eyebrows. "No, I haven't."

"Let me guess. You work for a zoo? Or you just watch a lot of Animal Planet." "I don't know how I knew," said Elizabeth uneasily, drying her hands. The word coquis had come out of her mouth as though she had heard it a hundred times. "I must have read it on the Internet or something," she said without conviction; suddenly she realized she had left the Web printouts in the cab. "You work for American?" she asked, noting the airline insignia on the woman's lapel. "Uh-huh. Puerto Rico's our hub, and Vieques is my favorite place to escape to. Why?" "Ever heard of the Inn on the Azure Horizon?" The woman frowned. "Doesn't ring a bell. Is that where you're staying?" "I thought I was," said Elizabeth, holding open the door as they left the rest room together. "There seems to be some doubt whether it even exists. You think I'll be able to get a room tonight somewhere else?" "Here in Isabel? You didn't make a reservation?" "I kind of took a flyer."

The woman grinned. "He must be gorgeous." Elizabeth managed a tight smile. "He is," she said. He is, he was, he is. "I'm sorry;" said the flight attendant, noting the unease in Elizabeth's expression. "Really none of my beeswax. It's just that, you know, it's usually why women come to the island." She stuck out her hand. "Mary Blanchard." Elizabeth hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook it. "Elizabeth Parker." Five minutes later, she was sharing a cab with Mary Blanchard and two of her colleagues, one of whom was dead certain she had seen Elizabeth in an in-flight movie just the other week. She wouldn't take no for an answer. "I know I know your face," she kept insisting. The three flight attendants amiably rattled on about men and c.r.a.ps tables and a.s.shole pa.s.sengers, and Mary Blanchard offered to let Elizabeth sleep on the couch in her room at their hotel, a revamped turn-of-the-century French sugar plantation called Casa del Frances. It proved to he a pleasant enough place overlooking the ocean and the town of Esperanza. The owner, Ivor Greeley. a crusty New Englander with a fond-ness for antediluvian slang, realized there was now an extra member in their party and took twenty dollars for his trouble. "I'll have a unit free tomorrow," he told Elizabeth. His eyes were lively and brown and he had graying blond hair brushed over a shining bald patch. "You can pay in advance or you can take it on the arches." Then, in welcoming his new guest, he sent them a complimentary bottle of rum. For the first time in weeks she slept straight through the night. To- ward morning, she dreamed she was floating in a sea of stars. It was heaven, she realized, liquid, oceanic and salty, and then Hans was there with her. The gently rolling water glowed with a million pinp.r.i.c.ks of light as he entered. Then he was gone and she was chasing him up a flight of ancient stone stairs, to the heights of El Fortin, where he managed to disappear into a sudden crowd of angry farm animals. Goats were bleating outside her window, a rooster was crowing and she realized she was awake. El Fortfn?

She picked up a guidebook that was on the television, leafing through it until she found the ill.u.s.tration she was looking for. El Fortin was the fortress she had seen from the ferry, the last Spanish stronghold, according to the picture's caption, in the New World. I must have glanced thought this last night, she thought, tossing the guidebook aside. Unless-Unless what? Unless Hans had talked about Vieques. No, but he never did. Never spoke of his childhood, never mentioned it once. And Rose-Anne had given her no such details. Then how did I know?

She knew Annie would say she was channeling Hans. The thought was ridiculous, but then why think it? Did it mean that in her heart she believed he was dead? No, she said to herself-he's alive. That wasn't his body in the coffin, that's why you're down here, that's why you're putting yourself through this craziness. Fine, okay, just keep telling yourself that. But then how did you know? Her father, the Navy man, had done more than his share of traveling, uprooting his family from one base to another. Could he possibly have been stationed here? I would have remembered, she thought, or I would have been told. She had no answer. Absolutely none.

Outside the window, the light was clear, the air fresh and filtered through an abundance of greenery. She left a note for Mary Blanchard and slipped outside. Sh.o.r.e birds flashed against an azure sky, their cries exotic. The air was warm against her skin, too warm for the clothes she was wearing. Ivor Greeley was on the terrace drinking coffee and working a crossword puzzle as she walked past. "Java?" he asked, and when she nodded, fetched it himself. "I need to buy some clothes," she told him. "Absolutely. You're going to roast in those. Don't you got any shorts?" She shook her head. "I left kind of suddenly." His eyes narrowed. "You on the lam? Got the heat on your tail, in trouble with John Law, price on your head?" Not yet, she thought wildly. "No," she said. "Too bad. Nothing exciting ever happens around here. How's the coffee?" "It's wonderful," she said politely. She had only had a sip of it. "Cuban," he said with pride. "It isn't legit, that's why it tastes so good. I hate someone telling me I can't buy somebody else's coffee just because they don't have the same politics as Uncle Sam. Back where I'm from we tossed a whole lot of British tea into the harbor for the same reason. "You're from Boston."

"Very good. I have a niece goes to Emerson, she thinks World War II and Vietnam were the same war. So how come a bright girl like you travels with no luggage?" She was saved from having to answer the same question again by a deep rumble rolling over the trees beyond the terrace. "Sounds like it might rain," she said.

He nodded. "We get rain sometimes, in the mornings. But that's not rain." "Just thunder?"

"Not thunder neither. The Navy's bombing this morning. Five-hundredpounders, I'd say from the sound of it. Got to keep those land crabs in their place, you know." There it was again-the Navy. What had all this to do with the Navy? The bombing lasted for another hour, through breakfast, which she ate at a nearby restaurant, fried snapper over rice and arepas, a delicious fried dough that brought back more vague, untraceable memories. Clearly she was overamping, perhaps compensating for her anxieties about who had invited her to this unnerving paradise by pretending everything was oddly familiar. The food soothed her nerves, and when the shops opened she bought shorts, T-shirts and a well-worn work shirt at a secondhand shop patronized by locals. In another store, she found sungla.s.ses and a small nylon backpack that would hold it all. Her old tennis shoes would do just fine. Next stop was the tourist bureau. The woman at the desk, a sunny octogenarian with snow-white hair, was also skeptical about the fax. But she confirmed that the Inn on the Azure Horizon was real enough, and suggested that Elizabeth head over there. When she finally located the place, she was surprised by its elegance and charm. It was an old country inn right on the beach, its lobby filled with wicker and bamboo. She checked with the desk clerk, a handsome woman with a paper rose in her hair who was entering bar receipts into an adding machine. Indeed, there was a reservation in the name of Elizabeth Parker, but she was there a day early. "I caught the ferry," said Elizabeth. "So did I win a free stay here?" The woman c.o.c.ked her head. "Free?"

"I mean, well, look at this." And once again Elizabeth pulled out the fax. The woman read it and grinned. "You must have a boyfriend on one of the bases, huh?" Elizabeth tightened. "Why do you say that?" Delving into a frayed ledger book, the clerk ran her finger down some handwritten notations until she came to one that included Elizabeth's name. "See here? The room was booked from Roosevelt Roads. That includes both bases and goodness knows what-all branches of service. But it came from the base, no question about it. Paid by credit card and open-ended. Must want to see you pretty bad, huh?" Elizabeth felt a sharp twist of fear.

"What's the name on the credit card?" she asked. The woman peered into the ledger and shook her head. "Just an account. Some kind of letter and a code number. We get a lot of that. Military tricks for security. you know. Lots of secret stuff going on over there on those bases. Local kooks think they're breaking down an alien s.p.a.cecraft, what's that called again?" "Reverse engineering," said Elizabeth, trying to maintain a semblance of calm while she shoved the fax in her backpack. "n.o.body from there will ever talk about what goes on. It's two worlds, really. Us who live here, and they who do whatever the h.e.l.l they want to, do it whenever the h.e.l.l they want to. Want to see the room?" Elizabeth shook her head. "No."

"You're checking in, though, right?"

She turned on her heels. "No. I'm afraid I'm not." "It's a beautiful room!" the woman called after her. Elizabeth was out the door, halfway down the walk, when she heard the door fly open behind her and the woman cry out again. Elizabeth wheeled, as if bracing for an attack. "Ma'am, I found a telephone message. I'm sorry I didn't see it, it was in the back of your box." Elizabeth stopped, frozen in her tracks. "What kind of message?" "You won't be able to read it, the night girl took the message." The woman squinted at the pink square of paper in the sunlight. "It says he'll meet you at the airport." "Who?"

"I don't think there's a name." The woman studied the note again. "I'd a.s.sume the guy who sent for you, no? So do you want the room now?" "No, I don't, not right now." Elizabeth grabbed the message. It was, in fact, illegible. "But you can tell me something." "Anything. You came all this way, I'd hate to lose your business. Elizabeth unfolded her tourist map. "Where will the plane be coming in?"

The Vieques civilian airport was a sun-drenched asphalt strip not far from Isabel Segunda, where the ferry docked. Elizabeth had rented a Honda Civic and was hunkered down in the front seat drinking a c.o.ke and listening to the radio. There was informal chat about the weather, which came from Roosevelt Roads Naval Station on the main island. Temperature 78 degrees, humidity 68 percent, dew point 68, wind from the east at eight miles per hour, conditions slightly overcast, visibility ten miles. She glanced at her watch: 6:45.

The news about the weather was suddenly drowned out by an aircraft roaring overhead. She turned the radio off. The plane was already banking out of its downwind leg and making its final approach. It was a Cessna Navajo twin, flown by Caribair. Elizabeth watched as it stopped at the end of the runway, then picked up the binoculars she had borrowed from Ivor back at the hotel. "For bird-watching," she had told him. She was a safe hundred yards from the parking area, where a half-dozen cabs and rental cars waited. She watched the plane taxi to the small terminal with its pilot's door open for ventilation against the heat. In the parking lot, people started getting out of their airconditioned cars. Everyone except for one. Like her, he was sitting low in his seat in a Range Rover with a license plate unlike any of the others. U.S. government, she bet.

Wisps of cigarette smoke were wafting from a crack in the window. As the pa.s.sengers disembarked from the Cessna, she watched the person behind the wheel crush out his cigarette and sit up tall. Not Hans.

He was at least ten years younger, maybe no more than twenty, with messy hair and a sharp face. Kind of scary, and really intense. And not Hans. Come on, Lizzy, she thought, did you really expect it to be him? And if you didn't, why is your heart sinking? The Range Rover didn't move. Elizabeth swung the binoculars back to the Cessna. The pilot and co-pilot were coming out of the plane; there were no more pa.s.sengers. She watched as the young man punched the dashboard in frustration, then pulled out of the parking lot. He drove slowly at first, then veered past her so quickly that she had to duck down in her seat. IslandMan, she thought.

She waited until it was a dozen car lengths away, then followed. He drove straight to Esperanza, following the line of cars and cabs that had picked up the tourists at the airport. Elizabeth put a truck carrying diving gear between her and the Range Rover and hoped to G.o.d the kid at the wheel was looking forward. Halfway down the main drag of Esperanza, he pulled to the curb. Elizabeth did the same a block back and waited. The kid got out and crossed the street. She followed him with the binoculars. He was heading for the beach and the Inn on the Azure Horizon. Her heart in her mouth, Elizabeth eased the Honda out of park and rolled by, stealing a glance. She could see the guy in the lobby; talking to the same woman she had spoken to earlier, the one with the paper rose in her hair. She was shaking her head at him and shrugging, and then Elizabeth couldn't see either one of them. After circling the block, she stopped where she had paused before. The kid came out of the hotel, plucking irritably at his s...o...b..-Doo T-shirt, got back into the Range Rover and roared away. Again she followed, taking care to keep at least two cars between them, although he was driving much faster this time and threatened to disappear. He drove back to the airport on a different road, then headed north. Fifteen minutes later, as they pa.s.sed El Fortfn, he hung a sharp right. Elizabeth had a sudden notion that the kid knew he was being followed. She glanced in the rearview, as if to gauge how far back she had to stay to remain un.o.btrusive, and caught sight of a second SUV, hanging back, slowing as she slowed. Its windshield was catching the sun, so she couldn't make out the driver's face, but she was now convinced she was being followed, so she hung back even further. No, now the second SUV was turning off onto another road and she could glimpse a family through the side windows. She looked back for the Range Rover: it had disappeared from sight. Cursing herself for getting spooked and losing her quarry, she floored the Honda. Coming over a rise, she could see the road ahead for a quarter mile, but the Range Rover was gone. There were dirt tracks running off into the scrub everywhere. Which one the weird kid had gone down was impossible to tell. Well, Lizzy, she thought, you blew that, didn't you? She took a deep breath and realized she had been holding the steering wheel so hard that her hands ached. She was scared, wet with perspiration and definitely shaky. Pulling over to the side of the road, she lit a cigarette. Probably you're d.a.m.n well better off, she told herself inhaling deeply and forcing herself to calm down. The fact was that having lost the scent, she was now feeling something like sweet relief. She could go back to the hotel and shower, have a margarita, maybe look up the flight attendants. She started her engine and drove into a pullout to turn around. But as soon as she did, she found herself staring at a fortified gate and an armed U.S. Marine who was watching her, very carefully indeed. Her blood ran cold. Above his head was a simple sign in a concrete gate: CAMP GARCIA-U.S. MARINE CORPS. The Marine was walking toward her. When she tried to pull away, she stalled the car. s.h.i.t. He was at her window.

"Help you, ma'am?"

"No, thank you, just turning around."

He nodded and offered her a little salute. He looked all of fifteen but she guessed he was probably eighteen. When he had leaned over to talk to her she couldn't help noticing that the muzzle of his rifle swung right past her face. She felt her hands shaking again as she restarted the car and drove away, checking the rearview mirror. No, he hadn't jumped on the phone, and no, when she returned to Esperanza and her room at the Casa del Frances, there were no messages, no jittery kid waiting in the lobby, no soldier hiding in her closet, no monsters under her bed. Yes, Lizzy, she thought, you are the most paranoid idiot on this island. Either that or this time by sheer dumb luck you have picked the door without the tiger behind it.

For two days, Peter Jr. had been working his staff fiendishly Now they were as elated as they were exhausted. This genius son of someone they had worshipped and then had mourned had in forty-eight blazing, astonishing hours completely reconceived the weapon. "Where have you been all our lives?" Rosemarie Wiener wanted to know. "You Jances are all such bundles of secrets." She stared at Peter so shamelessly he had to laugh. His refusal of her advances hadn't dimmed her fires, but it had fueled her curiosity. When he left the room for a moment, she turned to Alex. "He looks so much like his father."

"Yeah, so what's the problem?" Alex said. "Sons have a habit of doing that." "Almost too much. His dad's picture in the Britannica? It's practically identical." "Maybe he's a clone?"

"All I know is," Rosemarie said, not even dignifying the comment, "he's definitely hung-up on his mother. Every time I see Beatrice, they're always together. I mean, I know they just lost the old man, but they're inseparable." "Yeah," Alex agreed, rubbing his head as he punched numbers into a handheld computer. "Wouldn't be surprised if he was sleeping with her." "Yuck! You are so not-funny, Alex."

"What I want to know," said Flannagan, who had been on the Internet that morning, "is why when the old man won the n.o.bel, the articles mention him thanking a wife, but he never mentioned a thing about the kid." "Because, duh," said Alex, "the kid was minus two years old. Do the math. I'm tired of doing all the heavy lifting around here." Alex walked away, and the others looked at each other. "What's eating him?"

"Not me," said Rosemarie, and went back to work closer to Peter Jr. No one else paid too much attention to the issues of Sr. and Jr. Jances. There were other things far more exciting to talk about. The fact was, the math was coming together. The new weapon was turning out to be twice as small and three times as lethal on paper and on Alex's computer models. The next move was from theory to hardware. It was evident that this next stage was coming soon because Heartless Henderson had been in and out of the lab a half-dozen times in the past three days. "We'll be moving back to White Sands next week," the colonel told Peter in private. "You feeling up to it?" "Fit as a fiddle," said Peter, scribbling the words HOT DO NOT ERASE on the day's blackboard. "And ready for love." He stowed his notebooks and grabbed a pair of running shoes out of the same desk drawer. Henderson was not amused. Peter's workout obsession had become a subject of daily concern to Barrola and the rest of the medical staff, except for Wolfe, who to Henderson's mind had become way too laissez-faire. "You going back on the treadmill again?" said the colonel. "Are we sure we're not overstressing our brain arteries?" "I can't speak for yours, but mine are fine. Besides, Freddy gave his okay," Peter lied. Ever since the operation he had been chafed at having to answer to Henderson, instead of enjoying the more collegiate handling he received from Wolfe. "You sure?"

"Mens sana in corpore sano. Or didn't they teach Latin at West Point?" "f.u.c.k you, too," said Henderson sharply. Really, Jance was getting too b.a.l.l.sy for his taste. All this GHIP-Genius Has Its Privileges-was starting to put his teeth on edge. "Barrola says it's a needless risk." "Barrola wouldn't run if his a.s.s was on fire," Peter said with a cool smile. "I need the release. You wouldn't want me to go psycho on you, would you?" He jogged past Henderson, and was gone. That afternoon he ran for half an hour and barely broke a sweat. He was monitored by one of Barrola's worker bees who had been instructed to notify her boss at the first sign of a blip. She found a benign irregularity' in the AV bundles, but a quick comparison of Peter's and Peter Jr.'s EKGs proved it was congenital. As punishment for her vigilance, the techie had to sit there another forty-five minutes while Peter jogged up the equivalent of Machu Picchu. Back in his own quarters, he showered and changed into fresh clothes. The bare, tawny walls and low ceiling made him feel claustrophobic. Their suite had all the charm of a Motel 6, and while Beatrice had tried to perk up the place with a spray of dried chrysanthemums in a giant Erlenmeyer flask, the three rooms now felt alien and confining, old and smalltoo small to contain his newfound energy. He went out onto the balcony, the only real perk they had been granted. Beatrice found him there when she came in from dinner, staring off into s.p.a.ce. "Peter? You all right?"

He nodded without turning to her.

"Not feeling light-headed again, are you?" He stiffened. "I'm fine, I'm just listening." "To?" "The ocean.

"You can't hear the ocean from here."

"Yes I can," he said matter-of-factly. "I can smell it, too." She came over and sniffed the air. "I can't smell a thing." "It's really amazing. You see that bird beyond that tree?" He pointed. "Where?" she asked. He pointed again. She saw a slight blur. "You sure that's not a leaf?" "It's a sand hill crane," he said. He took her hand and squeezed it. "Remember you taught me how to spot those? A month ago I wouldn't have seen it at all, let alone the red on its forehead. Or am I confusing two different species? You were always better than I was at this." She squeezed back. "You're trying to be nice. I appreciate it." "B., I'm not trying to be nice."

"But I do wish you'd put your own laundry in the hamper from now on. "Okay. I will."

"I'm sorry to be so squeamish. The sheets as well?" "Okay. Mom."

The moment it was out of his mouth he regretted it. Maybe they were right, Henderson and the others. Maybe he was turning into a wise-a.s.s. "You know I didn't mean that," he instantly said. "I'm sorry, B." Beatrice was pursing her mouth, a sure sign that she was shutting down. Her hand in his was a deadweight and he let it go. "If you want to yell, yell at my autonomic nervous system." "Am I yelling? You're the one who's yelling." He hadn't raised his voice at all. Or had he? A fight was coming on, a bad one, and he knew he should leave until the storm blew over. But for some reason he couldn't move. "I am not your mother," she said through her teeth. "We could try sleeping in separate beds again," he said lightly, "if it really bothers you." "All right," she said.

"You don't mean that. I was joking. Come on, B." "In fact," she said, turning away sharply, "it might be a good idea if we slept in separate suites." "Beatrice, stop."

"Your team is starting to talk."

"Let them talk. They don't know we're sleeping in the same room-this whole wing is off-limits." "Maids talk."

"Come on, you're really being impossible. Come here." He tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. Tears sprang to her eyes. "It's an ugliness," she said.

"Shh. Take it easy...

"I'm old. You're young. That's the end of it." "The end of what? Please. B.? Stop doing this to yourself. I'm no different. I'm me." She sat down on the terrace and lit a cigarette. Peter recognized the blue pack-Gauloises, Wolfe's brand. "You're turning into a jerk. Everybody says so." "Turning?" he said, trying to smile. "Well, I suppose I should be grateful for that. Since when did you take up smoking, by the way?" "Since I felt like it." She angrily blew out a stream of smoke. "Was it her again?" "Was it who again?"

"The one you've been dreaming about all week. Miss Autonomic Nervous System. The blonde with the big b.r.e.a.s.t.s." "I never said she had big b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

"Okay. You were dreaming about her."

"Beatrice," he lied, "I was joking." He started to touch her hair where it curled over her ears, but then he drew his hand back. "You're the only blonde I dream about," he said, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "Look, if you want to talk about my s.e.xuality-" "Oh, right. That's really what I'm dying to discuss. You know what? You're insufferable," she said as she crushed out her cigarette, stood up and went back into the bedroom. Fine, turn your back on me, he thought, letting a wave of self justifying anger wash over him. What have I done that I couldn't help doing? Nothing. It's not as if I never had wet dreams before. Yes, you did when you were fifteen. And it was never the same woman night after night. Okay, B., so you guessed it, he thought, gazing out past the palm trees toward the sound of surf. So what are we going to do about it? It's a mad affair locked in dreams. It's nonsense. It's meaningless. The woman's face swam up inside his eyes. d.a.m.n, he thought.

The dream was coming back. He could feel her hair moving through his fingers, a silken cascade that kept changing color, from blond to black to orange and back again. He traced her firm, receptive flesh, felt the easy weight of her, the supple lines, the perfection of how it all fit together, all of it utterly familiar. Though he fought it, he remembered with breathtaking clarity the ecstatic meltdown that had crowned last night's appearance. For the first time since she had found him in his dream world, she showed her face clearly. It was at once maddeningly familiar and utterly unknown, with a high forehead, full lips, huge gray eyes with the faintest hint of scar tissue at the supraorbital ridge. Amazing how the mind could do that-invent features, geographies, buildings, landscapes, in minute details, continuously. moment to moment, ab nihilo. Sure, why don't you turn this into a science project? he thought. Keep forensic notes on her! That's sure to keep your hormones at bay. But it really had to stop. She was starting to get in the way of his work, appearing even in his creative moments like a spirit who could not bear separation. B., if I had a choice, I'd pluck her out of my consciousness like a weed, he told himself. He walked away from the terrace's railing. "And since when, by the way, does Wolfe give you his cigarettes?" he called into the apartment. A door slammed somewhere inside.

"Beatrice?" he called.

Almost in denial he walked through the few rooms, thinking he might find her doing something normal, something like brushing her hair or making herself tea. She was gone.

He made no effort to follow. Instead, he sat down and poured himself a vodka from the bottle Beatrice kept in the freezer. He hadn't had a drink since the operation, but after a Beatrice fight, he deserved one. He tossed it back.

The liquor burned like acid and made him double over as he rushed to the sink to spit it out. My G.o.d, he thought, catching his breath, this body has never tasted hard liquor before! Jesus, there was a ton of things he had to teach himself. The only problem was he was no longer sure which part of him would be doing the teaching and which the learning. Then the girl's face swam up before him once more. This time it filled the sky. 9 It was impossible for Peter to sleep.

It wasn't simply the absence of Beatrice. Dozens of times in their marriage she had spent whole nights at her lab, on occasion because her work demanded it. Sometimes it was out of pique, but she always returned the next morning. He was used to her storming out on him-he had often stormed out on her himself and spent the night in his lab. In their courting days, whenever they got into one of their wilder arguments, he would drive her home, declare they were through, then drive around the block until she reemerged. Then they would sit silently in the car, sometimes for hours, until one of them surrendered and apologized. She had her father's stubbornness and pride, and she wasn't about to yield to any boyish pretender to the throne of modern physics. Her father had been one of those linchpins of the revolution, a colleague of de Broglie and Bohr, a cranky, imperious man who despite his immense charm and influence on funding committees and politicians had little time or patience for his only child. Beatrice had, without quite realizing it, struggled to escape his gravitational field and establish herself as a scientist in her own right. Peter liked to think he had given her the confidence to break away, even though Beatrice, who continued to worship her father, would have denied there was ever a need to rebel. In her eyes her father was a demiG.o.d, and Peter was obliged to agree. Her father was Beatrice's sole blind spot; about Peter she had no such illusions. She simply loved him. His desires were hers, her dreams his, and there wasn't anything one of them needed the other couldn't supply, happily and completely. Unless, of course, they were fighting. The arguments happened often enough to keep them on their toes and to keep the marriage from turning stale. From roughly their twenty-fifth anniversary on, the brouhahas never lasted for more than a few hours. But this felt different.

This time, Beatrice had gone and stayed away for two days. She was still on base, of course, sleeping in one of the rooms reserved for visiting bra.s.s. But she hadn't blinked. And neither had he. His mind was telling him to go to her, say whatever was necessary to get them back on track again. But his body was saying something else.

What exactly it was trying to tell him he hadn't worked out yet. His legs, for one thing, had been twitching for two nights, like a frog in a biology lab or a dog dreaming of a rabbit. Lack of pota.s.sium or zinc was the usual diagnosis, but never in a body this young. And the muscle relaxant Wolfe had prescribed had done nothing but make him drowsy and indifferent to the fact that his team had now fallen two days behind schedule. And when the Valium wore off, he was still indifferent. In fact, he'd been playing hooky for the past forty-eight hours. What in h.e.l.l was that about?

He couldn't sort it out. A good part of the time he had spent browsing various databases, searching for information on cellular memory. Most of it was pseudoscience, strange speculation about the storage of memories in RNA phase angles, tricked out with late-1980s experiments on bacteria which, in some mysterious fashion and without actually mutating, remembered how to metabolize what their ancestral cells had been fed. Some of the material was outright Lamarekian nonsense, some of it a.s.sumed more molecular biology than he had ever mastered, none of it dealt with higher animals. With the exception of one particularly gruesome experiment in which decorticate cats had supposedly learned how to navigate a maze after having digested their mommy's and daddy's RNA. Ridiculous stuff, grisly; unbelievable. But still he found himself thinking who was he to talk about gruesome experiments? Or things unbelievable? As though to punish himself, he read through the cat protocol three times. No, the methodology was all wrong. The experiments proved nothing. All this browsing was getting him nowhere. Besides, he had a better laboratory close at hand. His own body.

He started with the obvious differences. Not only were the muscles more highly developed, but the reflexes were quicker, too. He had noticed this one morning when he had accidentally dropped one of his anticholesterol tablets. At the same split second he realized the pill was rolling off the counter, his hand was there to catch it. Lightning fast. Instantaneous. Much faster than his old body had ever been at any time. The man must have been some athlete, thought Peter. He might even have done some boxing. That first morning when Beatrice failed to return, Peter had been standing in front of the mirror in a coiled, choleric mood. Suddenly he found himself throwing left and right jabs at his reflection. Hard to imagine, though, that a man with his endowments would risk getting his brains scrambled in the boxing ring. Unless, of course, he hadn't valued his intellect, or was so good that he didn't have to worry about being pulverized. What the h.e.l.l are you doing? he thought, feeling another spasm of guilt. You don't really want to know all about that, do you? You've been through it with Beatrice, ad nauseam. But you're a scientist, he thought. You're only doing what you were born to do: trying to get to the bottom of things. For example, trying to account for the fact that he could juggle. He had discovered this hidden talent that very morning. Nothing fancy, just three oranges, but it was something he had never done before, although he had tried to get the hang of it when he was younger. He had seen the oranges in the kitchen and casually picked them up. and while his mind was distracted trying to work out the formula for a new pulse beam, suddenly the oranges were in the air. And as soon as he noticed what he was doing, the oranges went flying. It was too interesting to let go; he couldn't wait to tell Beatrice. And for Wolfe, of course, the molecular biology would be right up his alley. Late that afternoon he gathered up his printouts and walked through the long hot breezeway to Freddy's office. Wolfe was with Alex, he could hear them behind the closed door. The older man was speaking sharply to his grandson; no doubt Alex's absences from the lab had come to his attention. After a moment, Alex emerged, gave Peter a quick h.e.l.lo, and sauntered off down the corridor. Wolfe was at his desk, a hand over his spotted, furrowed brow. "I was going to come see you, Wolfe said. "Glad you saved me the trouble. I hear we're falling behind. Is that true?" "Nothing we can't make up," Peter said casually. He eased over to the terrace doors. Wolfe's office had a verandah twice the size of anyone else's on the base, with the possible exception of Henderson's "You hear those?" he said, staring out into the gathering darkness. "Hear what?" said Wolfe.

"The coquis. The tree frogs."

Wolfe c.o.c.ked an ear, then shook his head. "Obviously, my hearing isn't as good as yours. "Some species, you can estimate the temperature. Count the chirps in fifteen seconds, add forty." "Fascinating," said Wolfe dryly. "Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?" "I'd forgotten what a nature buff I was." "Beatrice was the bird-watcher, I believe." "Yes," said Peter with sudden emphasis, "but I was, too. And now-" He left the sentence unfinished. "Now what?"

"Now," said Peter, gazing out the window again, "I use nature to test instruments of ma.s.s destruction by incinerating innocent animals." Mistaking Peter's dreamy tone for misguided sarcasm, Wolfe let out one of his bark like laughs. "Not to put too fine a point on it." In the next moment he saw that Peter was deadly serious and the smile left his face. "Is that why you've come, to be talked out of your doubts? Hasn't that always been Beatrice's job?" Something disingenuous in Wolfe's tone made Peter take notice. "You know we've been fighting?" "No, I didn't know that," Wolfe said, much too quickly. "Couple of nights ago. Just one of our rows. We're both black belts in marital argument, so it's nothing to worry about." Now he was dissembling. "Actually," he said, "I've come to talk about this body." And he slapped the side of his thigh. Wolfe frowned. "Is that how you think of it, as this body'?" Peter nodded. "At first I was terrified of it. Now I'm just deeply curious. For instance, I know it had knee surgery-I discovered four quarter-inch scars two days ago. I'm not bulked up enough for football, and the circ.u.mferences of the forearms are identical, so he probably wasn't a tennis player. I thought perhaps a skier-perhaps a pro skier? The knee feels flawless, which probably means a world-cla.s.s surgeon. Was the guy well-heeled?" Wolfe stared at Peter as if he'd cursed in church. "Why are you asking me these questions?" Outside the window, the coquis sang. "Because I can juggle." "I'm sorry?"

"I shadow-box. I have dreams about people I must have known. There's something really strange at work here-I've been doing some research into cellular memory- "Oh, Peter, spare me- "I know, it's mostly crackpot stuff but listen, okay, and don't laugh. I read about this case-a woman who had a heart transplant. As soon as she got out of the hospital she stopped in for a beer and pizza. Now the peculiar thing was, she hated pizza and had never taken a drink in her life. And this kept happening to her and now she had to find out who her donor had been. She lived in a small city, so it wasn't hard- there had only been one death within twenty-four hours of her transplant that would have left an intact heart. A twenty-five-year-old guy killed in a motorcycle accident." Wolfe nodded wanly. "He was on his way to get pizza and beer. It was his favorite meal and he did it once a week, like clockwork." "You've heard the story before."

"It's complete and utter bulls.h.i.t," said Wolfe, lighting up a Gauloise. How do you know? Did you ask the woman? Freddy, I swear, these dreams I've been having-and the juggling, how do you account for that? There's something here, but the biology is beyond my competence. We could work on it together," he offered, adding, as he saw Wolfe's black eyes begin to flash, "in my off hours." "What off hours?" asked Wolfe. "You're two days behind as it is. I'm sorry, Peter, it doesn't even interest my little finger." "But it interests me Did he like to box? Was he married? What did he do for a living?" "And was he an animal rights activist? And does that account for your crisis of conscience?" "Well, no, I wasn't thinking that exactly-" Reddening, Wolfe shot out of his chair. "Peter, have you completely lost your mind? I'm just glad Henderson isn't here to hear this. My G.o.d, you know the rules." "I don't know the rules. I know precious little at all about this project." "I meant the rules of secrecy. I'm sure you're perfectly familiar with that kind of protocol. It's not as if you've just fallen off the back of a turnip truck in the world of cla.s.sified projects." "I want to know the rules of this project-they were made in my absence. I'm the first subject, I have a right to know things." Then he took a breath, and said lower, "I have the right to know who my donor is, as well." Wolfe looked truly distraught. "What do you think, this is an adoption story on Oprah or something? That is absolutely cla.s.sified information." "I could ask Alex."

"Alex? Why on earth would you do that?"

"He's in the loop, isn't he? Beatrice caught him browsing in the Fountain files." Wolfe's face went pale.

"I know what she thinks she saw. She didn't and he wasn't. She didn't know what she was seeing." "Or maybe I should talk to Henderson?"

"And do what?" said Wolfe, flaring up again. "Threaten to abandon the project? You feeling suicidal these days? I know Henderson, Peter, better than you do and this is one dragon whose tail you don't want to jerk. He has a violent temper, and once he's mad, he stays mad. You have your life back, don't jeopardize it." "Gee, that sounds an awful lot like a threat, Freddy. Is that what we've got here?" "That's your overheated imagination talking, Peter. I've never found it necessary to threaten anyone. I'm telling you, just get back to work and don't rock the boat. People are jumpy enough already. As for this business of telling Beatrice your s.e.x dreams about beautiful young women, I'd advise you to stop. In fact, I'd go further: I'd advise you to put all that c.r.a.p out of your mind. I'm counting on you to be professional and honor the commitment we've made to each other." He sighed. "I don't want to see all this fall apart, and, Peter, I don't want to see you get hurt like some teenager going off the road because he's getting head for the first time." "I see," said Peter, getting up. Wolfe was smiling again, faintly, and sucking on his Gauloise. "I love you like a son, Peter. Now get out of here." Peter blinked. Like a son? It was altogether too much. He got the h.e.l.l out of there. Instead of heading for his lab, Peter went back across the breezeway to the restricted wing and into his room. Beatrice wasn't there. The walls were closing in on him again and his legs had begun to twitch with a vengeance. He wondered if he should go over to the gym and hit the treadmill. Then, gazing up at the darkening sky from his terrace, it struck him that he was sick to death of the G.o.dd.a.m.n treadmill. You rain and got nowhere. He took a Valium and lay on his bed. But he was unable to quiet his mind. Before long something else struck him: this woman he had been dreaming about? How did Wolfe know it was a woman? The only way was if the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had talked to Beatrice. What the h.e.l.l was going on here? Another question occurred to him. What the devil had Wolfe meant when he said people were jumpy enough as it is? Who besides him was jumpy?

Elizabeth lay in her bed at the Casa del Frances and wondered about the tree frogs. She had read somewhere they were no bigger than silver dollars, but that they sounded much larger. Why she should dwell on these creatures disturbed her. She had never seen a coqui, and yet the image of one, with its dark bulbous eyes and prehensile toes, kept drifting through her head, staring out at her from inside a mason jar. According to Ivor, the owner of her hotel and her new best friend, kids in the South used to go hunting for tree frogs after dark. Her dad had been stationed in Mississippi-Hattiesburg, some place like that-so maybe that would explain it. They needn't have come to Vieques at all. If I have been to Vieques, she found herself thinking, something traumatic or unmentionable must have happened here. Or was it simply that her insomnia was turning her mind into a sieve? Since the day she had followed the guy with the messy hair to the Inn on the Azure Horizon, she had only managed to sleep for a couple of hours at a time, waking with a start at the slightest noise. By day, she had driven several times past the inn, but never did she see any sign of the kid or of his Range Rover. Yes, the woman at the desk had told her, a young fellow had stopped in and asked after her once since they had last spoken. She asked if Elizabeth wanted her to let him know where she was staying in case he came back. She did not, thank you very much.

She thought of calling Hans's mother and telling her where she Was, just in case. But just in case of what?

She had twice gone back to the civilian airport, too, once to check out the Caribair arrivals and once to check out departing flights. But no one she knew arrived or left, and she herself wasn't going anywhere until she understood something about what had brought her here. That mysterious voice from the Internet haunted her: IN OTHER WORDS, ELIZABETH, WISH YOU WERE HERE- Whether or not she had been on Vieques before, she felt deeply that she belonged here now and that to leave would be cowardice. But what she could actually do to feel in any way proactive rather than just hanging out pa.s.sively at the hotel she did not know, and that drove her crazy. She wasn't used to living her life like this, and the only way she was able to live with it at all was to convince herself that, in some mysterious way, she was being asked to wait. Wait as a monk might wait for enlightenment by surrendering to something completely beyond his reckoning, something personal, something all-consuming. So she waited. And thought.

Who knew she was staying at the Casa del Frances besides her three flight attendant friends and Ivor Greeley? No one she was aware of. She knew she had to do something, even if it meant wandering the streets. Anything to shatter this paralysis, she thought, grabbing her car keys. She padded through the darkened hotel and into the parking lot, where an old man was asleep on a chair. He had flowing white hair, enormous blue-veined eyelids and a three-inch scar along his jawbone. He was supposed to be the guard, so one night Elizabeth had asked him, in halting Spanish, if he had seen anybody resembling the young man with wild hair hanging around during his watch. He said he absolutely had not, but now, as she watched him snoring away in his chair, she knew why. Still, she didn't have the heart to wake him. There was no need to worry: he didn't move even when her headlights swept him on her way out to the street. She drove into Esperanza and walked aimlessly for an hour along bright avenues and quiet alleys until she found a bar called Bananas. Mary Blanchard had mentioned that it was one of her hangouts. The place was noisy and full of Americans, including Mary and her two buddies. "Hey, Lizzer, pull up a stool!"

She did, and they shared a plastic bucket of fried onions and a round of Coronas. After regaling Elizabeth with stories of drunken celebrities and live births at thirty-five thousand feet, Mary slid her chair closer. "So what happened to this hunk you were supposed to meet down here?" she asked. "Don't tell me he stood you up?" Elizabeth sipped her beer. "Afraid so."

"Unbelievable. Fine. So what we have to do now, I think, so it's not a total loss, is get you laid, all right?" Elizabeth begged off. "I think maybe it's time to go home." "You mean, home home?"

"I think maybe it is," said Elizabeth, with sudden conviction. "Thank you all for everything. Really. You've been great. I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't run into you." She gave Mary an impulsive hug, almost like a sister she had met and now was leaving again, and left the bar. Something about the loud music, the smell of beer, the notion of people looking for one-night stands saddened her terribly. He felt so near, somehow, she felt she should leave immediately. But by the time she was back in her car, the conviction had vanished and instead of returning to the Casa del Frances to pack, she drove up the coast. If he feels near, she thought, it's stupid to leave. Leave when he feels very; very far away. He didn't feel that way right now, not by a long shot. There was a frill moon painting the sea. She pa.s.sed Sun Bay and Half Moon Bay, and then stopped the car about five miles beyond when something odd caught her eye just past the trees. A soft pale glow rising from the beach below, too weirdly green and too diffuse to be from house lights. Maybe someone was shooting a movie. Mary had said several had been shot here-Heartbreak Ridge and Lord of the Flies. But she couldn't see any of the usual trucks or signs of crews and all she could hear were the coquis. She got out of the car. Have I been to this beach, was I here as a child? Or did I drive past it the day I tailed the strange kid? She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound of the tree frogs. The air and the surf reminded her of Cannes. She locked the car, then stood there, undecided. Maybe I should just drive back to the hotel and take a hot bath, she thought, an altogether pleasant and sensible notion. Instead, she started walking toward the sound of the ocean.