4

Meeting the brothers:

Scott Tracy expertly guided Virgil's green humvee along the rutted, bumpy path from the high side of the island, to the airstrip. He was behind schedule, having had to stop three times to clear storm wrack from the switch-backed trail, and, frankly... not exactly hurrying, either.

He made the final hairpin turn, bringing the green-draped volcano from his left side, back over to the right. The noise and smell of the sea grew stronger. Just beyond the airstrip it lay, cresting and smashing in long, rolling breakers against the cave-pocked cliff. The thrumming noise it made sucking back out again had always struck him as weird. 'Dissonant', Virgil called it.

The closer he got to the airstrip, the surlier Scott became.

'I'll be arriving around 11:15 AM, local time' his father had radioed, '...with your brother.'

Inwardly, Scott had groaned, while doing his best to keep a professional, "Sir! Yes, Sir!" look on his face. Surely, summer school hadn't let out already? And what had become of the 'Year-round Schools' initiative? Bottom line: Alan was back. Early.

Sighing gustily, he pulled the humvee into a parking space outlined in chunks of lava rock, put it in neutral, and cut off the engine. He sat there a moment with the windows open, drumming on the steering wheel, as a breeze from the ocean fanned his dark hair and threatened to carry away the folded shirt that rested beside him on the passenger seat.

(Scott never liked to appear wrinkled, or sloppy. On the way down, he'd worn a pair of pressed shorts, a sleeveless tee, and leather dock-siders, saving the shirt for the last minute.)

The plane appeared, at last; a faintly droning speck in a sky so deep and pure a blue, it was nearly hypnotic. Scott got out of the vehicle, donning his shirt, and his game face. Showtime.

The corporate jet skimmed in lightly enough, but Scott noticed that it bounced three times on touch down. He shook his head a bit, thinking that, A: his father was tired, and B: he could have done it better. Though, with Alan on board, all bets were off.

He strode forward as the jet taxied to a halt, engine noise dropping from scream to grumble. A few minutes later, a face appeared in one of the windows. Scott caught a swift flash of coppery-auburn, and scowled. If that little bastard had dyed his hair red, again...! Last time, he and Virgil had contented themselves with merely shaving it all off, eyebrows included. This time...

In the jet:

The hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

"Up, Gordon. We're nearly there."

His eyes opened, and there followed a few moments of confusion, until the pieces fell back into place; the funeral, Jeff, the flight... and the sickening knowledge that he was a long, long way from home. The engines' pitch deepened as Gordon fumbled out of his seat straps. Beneath his feet, the vibration and slant were altered, as well. The sun was up and blazing, sharp as a dagger through deep-set windows of hardened plexiglass.

He made his way back toward the plane's small head, and washed up a bit. Nothing he could do about the slept-in clothes, but at least he could make himself a bit more presentable.

Jeff called him forward again before final approach. No walking around during landing, even on private jets. The island hove into view; small, at first, then growing to fill the tilting windscreen with its jagged peak and dense greenery. They curved around, shot back out over the ocean, banked again, and lined up with the runway. Gordon's hands tightened on the arm rests (not that he was scared, or anything) as they dove, flared up, and bounced on in. He bit back the urge to congratulate "Captain Kangaroo" on the smoothness of his landing, thinking that there might just be duct tape aboard, somewhere. Finally, they came to a halt. He'd have asked about meeting the rest of the family, but Jeff was busy shutting down the plane and filling out his flight log, which took awhile.

For something to do, Gordon peered out a side window while the pilot completed his business up front, then visited the head. Another man was stalking across the tarmac toward the plane. He had dark, neatly cut hair, and wore a casual outfit of Khaki shorts, white shirt and pilot-style, mirrored sunglasses. Gordon thought he looked irritated, and immediately felt his stomach tighten. He withdrew from the window, glancing aft toward the still-occupied head.

Well... he supposed he could wait for Jeff... or, he could go out and face things himself, in the time and manner of his choosing.

Gordon Tracy did a lot of brave things, afterward, and an even greater number of foolish ones, but up to that point, he'd never shown more courage than it took to reach up, unlatch that door, and lower the boarding stairs.

It wasn't quite as hot as Madrid, but far more humid. After the canned air of the plane, the island's flowery, salt-pronged perfume smothered him like wet laundry. Still... no time like the present, and all that...,

He stepped out onto the broad top stair, stood blinking a little in the tropical sun. The dark-haired man stopped in his tracks, then lowered his sunglasses, jaw dropping slightly.

If Gordon had been pressed to describe his expression, he'd have said the fellow looked as though he were trying to recover from a painful belly-flop. A few rubber-legged steps, and then the dark-haired young man surged forward, taking the boarding stairs at a single, wild lunge.

What followed next was reminiscent of the way he'd been "welcomed" by the neighborhood toughs back in Drogheda, only marginally less painful. He was pounded and thumped, at one point lifted clean off his feet and shaken. Confused, Gordon started to fight back, only to be hauled into a fierce embrace, held so tight, he thought he'd be pinched in half. Somehow, he twisted free, putting a few meters of safety between himself and the other guy. He stiff-armed another lunge, then converted the aggressive gesture to a tentatively offered handshake, saying,

"Um... Hello..., I'm Gordon Tracy."

The man gripped his hand, expression somewhere between uncomprehending joy, and heartbreak.

"I know, Gordon...! God..., I'd know you anywhere!" He said, speaking in a voice thick and hoarse. He seized the boy's shoulders, adding, "I'm Scott, your big brother. Oh, my God... Gordon. Last time I saw you, you had blue eyes... you sat on my lap, while Mom got the camera out of her bag... You wanted to chew my shirt..."

The door to the head yawned open, and Jeff stepped forth, just in time. He came forward, face and manner closed and controlled. Whatever he'd done, thirteen years ago, whatever his reasons for doing it, Jeff would never again apologize.

"You two have met, I take it?" He asked, frowning slightly, then trying on a brief smile.

Scott gathered himself.

"Yes, Father... we've met. But, how...?"

A single, quelling look was all it took to kill the question. In that one exchange, Gordon learned a great deal; that 'Father' was not to be crossed, and that 'Scott', big and strong as he looked, followed orders with military snap and precision. Even unspoken ones.

"But... shit," Scott murmured suddenly, forgetting himself enough to curse in front of Jeff, "Wait 'll Virgil finds out. And John...! He'll go nuts."

Placing a rough, fond hand on top of Gordon's head, Scott mussed his coppery hair, saying,

"You've got a few more brothers to meet, Kiddo."