Part Two
Scott wasn't sure whether the rocking motion of the boat had finally sent him to sleep, or whether he'd simply passed out.
Sleep hadn't been an option while the storm raged on, the noise and darkness and constant motion pounding against his numb form. Thought and emotion hadn't been options either. He'd concentrated solely on holding onto the lifeboat and onto his little brother. Gordon's sobs had gradually faded into an exhausted shuddering, and then even that had subsided. Scott had held the younger boy against his chest, willing the little heat he had left to pass through their sodden clothes. In the brief lightning flashes, he'd watched Gordon's eyes grow heavy, and he'd felt the child's grip on his shirt-front slacken. Terrified, Scott had squeezed more tightly still against the wall of the boat, wrapping his arms and legs around Gordon's, and doing all he could to shelter him from the chill of the wind.
It wasn't until the first faint hints of morning shot the sky through with salmon-pink streaks that, with startling abruptness, the rain eased, and the towering waves no longer threatened to capsize them with each passing moment. Scott yielded to his own weakness. His hands stayed twined around the ropes, the muscles in his wrist and fingers cramped into place. The rest of him slumped down into the bottom of the boat, half on top of his little brother.
"Scotty?"
It was broad sunlight when Gordon shook him awake. Even before Scott opened his eyes, he was lifting his face towards the warmth. He ached all over. His hands were at once numb and incredibly painful. He couldn't feel his fingertips, only that they had been plunged into a fire somewhere. His eyes opened and he stared blearily at his own hands. They seemed to belong to someone else, still holding the safety ropes on the dinghy walls in a cramped death-grip. Gordon was calling his name, squirming out from under him. The younger boy followed Scott's eyes and frowned. His small hands moved to Scott's, prising his fingers away from the rope one by one. The first two fingers were the worst, even Gordon's gentlest tug sending shooting pains through Scott's wrists. After that, his muscles seemed to get the idea. He managed to force his fist to unclench and fell backwards into the boat, groaning quietly.
"Scott!"
Gordon's eyes were wide and worried as he scrambled to his brother's side. He shook Scott's shoulder with one hand, calling his name again, and Scott mustered the energy to sit upright. He held open his arms and Gordon scrambled into them, holding him tightly. Both boys were shivering, their clothes no longer sodden after a morning under the bright sun, but still cold and damp. Scott buried his face in Gordon's hair and hugged him tight, relieved beyond measure to find his brother awake and apparently reasonably alert. He thanked God that the late-afternoon sun in this part of the world was as warm as the storm had been cold. After their brush with hypothermia in the early hours of the morning, he hadn't been sure that either of them would wake at all.
A long moment passed before Gordon squirmed free, splashing through the three inches of water in the bottom of the boat. Scott watched him and then looked beyond him. The stern of the eight by five foot dinghy was dominated by a large box, a built-in waterproof trunk that also served as an anchor point for a gasoline-powered motor that could be lowered over the side behind it. The previous night, in the darkness and torrential rain, it had been a struggle enough to stay in the boat. Their supplies would have been ripped away by the wind the second the locker was opened, and trying the motor would have been like using a hand-held fan to steer oneself through a tornado. Now though, even through his shock, Scott could recognise that the emergency supply cabinet had definite potential.
"Scotty, are you all right?"
He staggered to his feet, using Gordon for balance as the younger boy came to his side. Scott's fingers were still aching fiercely, but he managed to fumble with the catches on the emergency locker, pushing it open with a shove of his shoulder. The thick-walled plastic box was divided into two compartments, the starboard third holding the compact outboard motor and its accessories while the larger compartment to the left was full almost to the brim with neat, vacuum-packed supplies. The first thing his eyes fell on was a two litre bottle of water, and instantly his parched throat made itself known, begging him for relief. Gordon had fallen silent, standing on tip-toes to see over the cabinet's side as he stared down at their newly discovered hoard. Scott grabbed the water and wrenched the top loose with his teeth when his fingers wouldn't obey him. He held the heavy bottle to Gordon's lips, knowing that the tired six-year-old wouldn't manage it alone.
"Sip it, Gordon," he whispered. His voice emerged as a croak, and it was only then that he realised he hadn't responded aloud to his brother's calls or entreaties. He seemed to be moving through a daze. He forced himself to concentrate, letting the water trickle into Gordon's mouth, careful not to let him gulp or choke.
Gordon had swallowed several cupfuls and was sighing with relief before Scott allowed himself to take a swig from the bottle. The first trickle of water against his raw throat felt like a river of fire. The second quenched it, soothing and relieving the salt-abraded tissues. He was desperate for more, but he stopped himself nonetheless, and recapped the bottle, saving the water for later. He had no idea how long they had been adrift - more than twelve hours certainly, probably not quite twenty-four - and it was no wonder they were dehydrated. Scott's body craved more to drink but, his head ringing and his mind still numb, he ignored it.
His only rational thought was for the younger boy in his care. There was no telling how long they might spend afloat, or how long it would be before they were rescued. The lifeboat's beacon would have started transmitting the moment the lifeboat was launched. In theory they should have been pulled from the water within a few hours at most. It troubled Scott that they hadn't been. It suggested that something had gone wrong. In fact the mere existence of the storm meant something was very wrong with the world. Given that, who knew when the authorities would even begin to look for one yacht lost in the turbulent ocean? His eyes swept the vast, unbroken vista of water and a small, desperate voice inside him told him he should have thought 'whether' rather than 'when'. He refused to listen. He had to keep believing it would happen, and make sure his little brother was still alive when it did. Better to endure a headache now, if it spared the water to give Gordon a few extra hours when he needed them.
"Scotty, what's happening? Why…?"
"It's okay, Gordy. I'll look after you."
He had to keep Gordon alive because the little boy had his whole life ahead of him and didn't deserve to lose it to the ocean he'd always loved.
Because, back home, Mom and John and Allie would be waiting for news. They'd need Gordon if they were going to get through this.
He had to keep Gordon alive, above all, because it was the last thing Dad had asked of him, and the first thing Virgil would expect him to do. He was not going to let them down.
"Come on, let's see if we can get you dry." His voice sounded distant and alien to his own ears.
Saving his little brother was the only way Scott could cling to sanity himself.
Dropping the sealed bottle back into the emergency locker, Scott reached instead for the thin blankets tucked in there. They were small, barely long enough to cover Scott if he stretched out, but they were dry. He coaxed his little brother out of his damp clothes, overriding the child's protest to insist that everything, underwear included, come off. Wrapping Gordon in the first of the dry blankets, he tucked it into a makeshift toga, trying to keep the ends from trailing into the ankle-deep water in the bottom of the dinghy. Gordon, tired and querulous, submitted with ill-grace, complaining that the blanket was uncomfortable and scratchy. Scott just pointed to his little brother's soggy clothing, hanging over the lip of the emergency box to dry in the sun, and asked whether he'd rather put that back on.
He stripped off himself without hesitation, stretching his shirt and pants over the thick side-walls of the dinghy, knotting one sleeve and one leg into the safety ropes for fear of losing them over the side. Gordon was right, the fabric of the blanket was harsh, and it added to the salt drying on his skin to make him itch all over. Despite that, he felt warmer almost at once, and still more so when his body heat began to fill the air gap between his skin and the coarse fabric. Relieved, he closed the emergency locker, making sure that Gordon's drying clothes were caught securely between sides and lid.
Gordon had moved to the prow of the boat, holding tight to the safety line and looking warily down into the blue depths that had fascinated and intrigued him just twenty-four hours before. The younger boy had regained a little of his colour, and actually looked flushed as he raised his face to the sun and the cooling breeze. He was almost lost in the grey fabric swathing him, his eyes very wide, tear-reddened and outlined by shadows. Tufts of copper hair strayed in every direction, twisted into knots and crusted with salt residue.
"Gordon," Scott called quietly, beckoning his brother towards him. Gordon didn't turn, and Scott moved to join him instead, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as they stared down at the dark water. "Gordy, are you okay?"
It was a stupid question. He knew that the moment he asked it, and the look his little brother gave him confirmed it. Gordon shook his head, biting his lip. He looked down, refusing to meet Scott's eyes.
"Where's Daddy and Virgil?" he asked quietly.
Scott's arm tightened around his brother's shoulders. Gordon wouldn't remember much of last night. Scott had not been letting himself remember.
"They stayed with the ship, Gordy. They couldn't come with us. They wanted to, but they just couldn't."
Scott felt his throat tighten around the words. The fact that Dad was gone was a tearing, devastating blow, leaving a hole in his heart that he didn't think could ever heal. Painful as it was though, that wasn't what had left his world in tatters. Dad had been an astronaut for most of Scott's life. The eldest Tracy son had been Gordon's age when he found Mom crying one night and first realised that when Daddy went away, there was a chance that he might not come back. At thirteen, having watched his father fall back into the dark water, amidst the storm-battered wreckage of their sailing yacht, Scott had no illusions that his father could have survived.
What was tearing Scott apart, twisting his thoughts into a Gordian knot, shaking the foundations of his world and leaving him dazed and empty, was a more shocking loss. As far back as he could remember, Virgil had been part of his life. He could remember the wonder on his little brother's face as Mom put baby John into his arms. It was Virgil he'd run home to, his first day at school, eager to share the stories and the thrill of it. It was Virgil he'd taught to read, the two of them too intent over the book to notice their enthralled parents watching. It was Virgil who gave him someone to talk to when Mom was busy with the babies, who walked with him to school, who raced him on their bikes, who listened to Scott's hopes and dreams, and shyly shared his own ambitions. It was Virgil who, eyes wide with terror, had reached out toward Scott as the boom swept him out of the boat and into the storm.
Scott shuddered, and his mind shut down with the strain of it. Quite simply, Scott Tracy couldn't conceive of a world without his brother in it.
Gordon's lip was trembling. He twisted under Scott's arm, looking up at his big brother now, and one hand lifted to wipe away the tear rolling down Scott's cheek. He looked confused, and very frightened.
"I want to go back to the ship, Scott. I liked the Santa Anna. I don't like this boat, it's too little." He raised a foot, watching the water drip from the end of his toes. "And too wet."
Scott gathered his blanket around him before squatting a little to put his eyes level with his brother's. "We can't go back, Gordy. I wish we could." He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. "God, I wish we could. But Daddy told me to take you somewhere warm and dry, and he told you to be good and listen to me, didn't he? We'll be okay, Gordy. I'll get you home, and then Mom can get you all warm and comfy."
Gordon stared at him uncertainly. He looked down at his fingers, their tips still damp with Scott's tears. When he looked up again, it was with a far older expression than Scott could recall ever seeing on Gordon's mischievous face.
"Are Virge and Daddy going to come home too, Scotty?" he asked in a whisper.
Scott took his brother in his arms, hugging him tightly. "I don't know, Gordy," he lied. He shook his head. They couldn't linger on this. They needed to concentrate on the here and now, not what had gone. He gave the boy another squeeze and released him, looking around him briskly and taking stock. "Let's get some of this water out of the boat, okay? And then we can see if there's any food in the box."
Detective Inspector Charleston Travis took a deep breath as he stepped out of the dimly-lit wooden building and into the gathering twilight. He'd intended to clear the odour of unwashed bodies and sour beer from his lungs. Instead he merely replaced it with the unique mix of stagnant water and rotting fish that lingered over working harbours the world over. Grimacing with distaste, he crossed the road to the dockside and stopped there, leaning against a thick wooden bollard while he struck a light and puffed fire into his cigarette.
The thick, aromatic smoke drove the bad taste from his nose and throat. He blew it out slowly through pursed lips. Squinting against the setting sun, he watched as a familiar fishing rig rounded the headland, tacking against the wind and tide. He couldn't resist a glance at his watch, and then a wistful look towards the car waiting for him a hundred metres down the road. Sighing, he took another pull on his cigarette and resigned himself. Strolling along the wharf to the vessel's usual berth, he settled in to wait. Perfect. Someone screws up a thousand miles away, some satellite blinking away in the vacuum overhead blows a fuse, and on the island of Dominga, Chuck Travis's dinner was going to grow cold without him.
He'd come down to the water and toured the bars to canvas eyewitness accounts of the storm, searching out the locals among swarming tourists who thought 'sleazy and grubby' translated to 'native charm'. The tech-boys in the States were baffled apparently. A malfunction of the World Weather Control System was meant to be impossible. A decade or more of publicity material and school lessons had promised that. Travis smacked his lips, tasting the lingering charge in the air. So much for the white-coats' promises. Now they were reduced to asking him for help, or at least for evidence of the scale and after-effects of the event.
Travis had thought that getting out and about would at least be better than pacifying a few hundred angry tourists, stranded at the airport by the announcement of a no-fly zone until the induction charge dissipated. Mike Kearney had even offered to swap when the Chief announced their assignments. If he'd known information gathering would be such a frustrating task, and one that took the entire day, Travis might have taken his fellow detective up on the offer. No one he'd found had been out to the south, or at least no one had been prepared to admit it.
Perhaps the Levan brothers would have something to say that was worth writing down. They had to have some reason for coming back into port against the tide, well before the evening catch they'd set out for could be complete, and there was always a chance it was a legitimate one. Leaning idly against the nearest bollard, Travis snorted with cynical amusement as he saw the men on the fishing boat notice and react to his presence. The 'fishermen' in this town and its police tended to be on familiar terms. Perhaps it was still possible to make an honest living from the sea on some of the smaller islands, although far too many of those had become no-go areas for decent men or one man empires, carrying the Domingan flag in name only. Here on the capital island, where visitors brought in ideas, technology and prices far beyond islander dreams, it was a rare boat that didn't take the occasional 'charter fare' or run a few cargos they'd rather keep away from police attention.
Judging by the agitation aboard on seeing him, the Levans' 'fishing trip' had landed them more than a few albacore. Well, this was their lucky day. The Levan boys were more law abiding than most of their peers, and smart enough to realise that tacking away from their berth would just bring Travis down on them hard and fast. They'd try and bluff this out, and just for once, Travis fully intended to let them. He had better things to do than search the boat and wasn't interested in spending the night writing up a few smuggled video cameras. He was pretty confident it was nothing worse.
At least he was until the two locals swung into the dock far more rapidly than was usual, even for their agile craft. Tony Levan shouted his name, beckoning him forward urgently. Travis swore. He was stepping up onto the gunwale before the boat had come to rest, hurrying to the two pale figures lying in on a pile of netting amidships.
"They were drifting. Out east." Cal Levan spoke in quick, urgent bursts, clearly keen to explain. "There was wreckage. A yacht maybe."
Travis gave him a quick nod, too busy checking the pulse on both man and boy to take in the words. Still in a crouch, he rocked back on his heels, reaching down to his belt and pulling out his radio.
"Inspector Travis. Ambulance to the docks immediately. Adult male and child, pulled from the water. Suffering exposure, concussion, probable other injuries. ETA on ambulance please?"
Interference crackled across the channel, residual electromagnetic charge from the storm induction making the response from headquarters unintelligible. Travis shook his radio angrily. God knew how much of his message had got through. He tried again, louder, hoping that the key words would penetrate. His radio gave a burst of noise, and in the midst of it he managed to make out "Travis", "ambulance" and "six minutes". It was enough. Switching off the device, he tucked it back into his belt.
The two Levan brothers were busy tying up the boat, hauling a length of wood out from against its sides to act as a gangplank. Travis let them. He checked the man's pulse again, worried by how sluggish it felt, and gently adjusted the bruised head to keep his airway clear. The little boy by his side, ten, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, stirred weakly, and Travis moved to stroke thick chestnut-brown hair back from his eyes.
"Hey there," he said softly. "Can you open your eyes for me?" To his disappointment, the boy gave a groan and the movement subsided. Travis reached for his wrist, reassuring himself with the strong pulse there. He looked up at the dock and the gathering crowd, willing the ambulance to hurry.
Tony Levan came back down onto the deck, his expression sombre as he looked at his unexpected passengers. The fisherman was in his thirties, his skin browned by ocean spray and long days in the southern sun. By comparison the pallor of the shipwreck victims was obvious.
"Tourists," the local sniffed. "Probably brushed against the shoals on the way out of port, didn't notice they'd sprung a leak until the ship came apart around them."
Travis gave him a hard look, still holding the child's limp hand. "They told you that?"
"Out cold since we found them," Tony said, shaking his head.
"Then they could have been caught in the storm down south?"
Tony shifted, his shadow moving across the unconscious man at his feet. "Not where we found them, Inspector" he insisted quickly. "Out east."
"That's what Cal told me," Travis noted, frowning. It was a hell of a coincidence that even inexperienced tourists could shipwreck themselves on today of all days. "Care to be a little more specific?"
Tony shrugged, apparently unconcerned as he gazed out across the water. "Show you on a chart," he offered.
Travis hesitated, reluctant to leave the two victims alone in full view of voyeuristic tourists and locals alike. He tilted his head, hearing the siren of an ambulance approaching. "Later," he muttered to Tony Levan before raising his voice. "Clear a way there! Let the medics through!"
The approaching paramedics looked grim, their expressions lightening and becoming more focused as they realised that they were dealing with living patients. Clearly enough of Travis's message had got through to summon them, but the content had been either garbled or simply not passed on, leaving them with no more information than that someone had been pulled from the water.
Travis helped them stabilise the victims, following them to the ambulance and keeping the growing crowd back with angry shouts. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then glanced between the Levan boat and his own car uncertainly. For a brief moment, a wistful thought of his long-delayed dinner sprang to mind, but he dismissed it quickly, and dismissed the Levan brothers a moment later. They could wait. He headed for his car, squinting and flipping down the shade as he swung into the setting sun. He followed the ambulance, heading for the hospital, determined to see this through.