Part Seven

Travis drummed his fingers impatiently against the desk, waiting for the vid-phone to connect. The hour-glass icon on his computer's desktop turned over and over, the motion hypnotic. Of course, at gone three in the morning, almost anything was hypnotic. Travis could feel weariness adding weight to his bones and sapping the strength from his muscles. The chief had sent Kearney home an hour ago and been on his own way out as Travis walked in. The detective fully intended to obey his order to get some sleep, just as soon as this call was out of the way. He pushed the chair back a little from his desk, letting him rest his feet on the crossbar that ran at ankle height beneath it. His eyes drifted across the desk as his head nodded.

Then his eyes fell upon Virgil's sketch and the painful tightening of his chest gave him new strength. He reached for the thick paper sheet, studying the two faces. When Virgil had first started to draw, Travis hadn't held out much hope. He'd thought the boy might give them a vague idea of where the boat had been, a cartoon of some kind, indicative but useless for any kind of thorough search. He'd never expected a detailed chart, let alone sketched portraits of the missing children that were photo-realistic in their detail. He'd never seen the two boys in the person, but even so, he had confidence that Virgil had captured their likenesses. He studied them now: an older boy much like their father in bone structure and with the same charismatic air that Travis remembered from Jeff Tracy's NASA press conferences, and the younger child, paler in colouring, almost delicate in build and features but clearly a little troublemaker for all that, with laughter very much at home on his face. The line drawings were simple, but they did far more to evoke an image of Virgil's brothers than the interference-speckled and out-of-date photographs.

A crackle of noise from his speakers broke into his thoughtful contemplation of the pictures. He turned back to the screen to find the vid-phone window open, but the image it contained little more than a snowstorm of light and colour. Somewhere in there, the wavering outline of a seated man was barely visible. Travis wouldn't have liked to guess who he was talking to, and he certainly couldn't make out a word from the modulated roar of white noise. There was another surge in the volume, his contact trying to say something, before the vid-phone connection cut out completely.

Frowning, Travis leaned forward over his keyboard, checking the status of Dominga's network access and satisfying himself that while its bit rate was still ludicrously low, it hadn't dropped out completely. He was still investigating that when his computer chimed, this time accepting an incoming call rather than trying to force through an outgoing one.

At first, when the image appeared on the screen, it was as distorted and useless as the first connection had been. Then it steadied, the volume of the random noise dropping dramatically. Vaughan swam into view through the static, the picture still far from perfect but marginally functional. The tall black man was leaning forward in his chair, tension obvious in his posture.

"You called, Inspector?"

Travis allowed himself the luxury of a moment's resentment. No one should sound that alert at this god-awful hour. Of course, Vaughan was a good five hours ahead, in the office early perhaps, but not unreasonably so, and probably tanked up on coffee to boot.

"Actually, I tried but couldn't," he pointed out, not quite willing to forgive the man for something as simple as having got some sleep. "You're the one who called."

"It's easier to filter and boost the signal if it's initiated from our end." Vaughan waved a hand vaguely in the air. "So they tell me. I'm just security." He shook his head, leaning forward intently. "But it's the early hours of the morning in Dominga, and I don't think you called to ask about vid-phone technology."

Travis allowed himself a small smile. "I have some news for Mrs Tracy. I thought she'd want to know that Virgil was awake and alert not long ago. The doctor was pleased that he was able to process where he was and what was happening so easily. Apart from some lingering tiredness and a bit of bruising, he's physically fine."

Vaughan's sigh was relieved. "That's good to hear. I'll pass it on." He drummed a quick tattoo on his own desk with his fingers and shook his head. "You have Lucille's number though; it was in Virgil's file. You managed to have a conversation with the C.I.A. yesterday, so I know your 'phone is working. Why use me as the middle man?"

The smile faded from Travis' face. He rested his arms on his desk, his fingers flat on the surface to keep them still. "Because she called you in the first place, and because there's more news. News I don't want to have to yell and get confused about and have misheard and repeat again over the kind of telephone lines we're getting out of Dominga at the moment. No mother deserves that."

Vaughan's movement stilled. He seemed to hold his breath for a long moment before sighing, shaking his head and running a hand through his short, silver-dusted hair. "Tell me," he said simply.

The explanation went on for quite some time, Travis explaining the progress of the investigation as he would to Tracy's wife, but going into the kind of detail he'd usually reserve for his colleagues. He wasn't entirely sure what Vaughan's role in NASA was, but his clearance levels had been impressive. Travis had looked over the NASA security ident that had come through, and had the chief run a check to confirm it. The encrypted file that served as an electronic signature and authorisation was pretty much impossible to fake, uniquely coded with its intended recipient and the time-stamp so it couldn't be forwarded onward. The file Travis had received was the best confirmation he was going to get that the older man was both who he said and easily a match for Travis when it came to authority and data access. He was pretty sure that Vaughan could demand any information he wanted, or simply take it, and was asking through courtesy alone. Given that, it made sense to be cooperative.

Vaughan listened in silence, scowling slightly to himself, and nodding when Travis reached a natural conclusion.

"So the boys weren't actually in the water when they were last seen, but it still looks bad," he agreed quietly. "I'll explain that to Lucy. She won't give up hope, but she ought to try to prepare herself if she can. It's killing her that it's not safe to fly down there yet. Seeing Jeff and Virgil… it won't be enough, but it would help everyone a little, perhaps." He took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on the table again. "These Levan men: can they be trusted?" he asked, the clipped military tones coming through in his voice as they had before.

"Well, I won't say they're squeaky clean, but the dirt's all on the surface. They're good men. When they say they've told us everything, I believe them. We interviewed them separately, and their stories matched perfectly."

"Villacana. Why do I recognise that name?" Vaughan repeated it, rolling the sound on his tongue. "What can you tell me about him?"

Travis shrugged tiredly. "Half the islands in the Confederation are privately owned. A lot of people retire out here. Dominga gives them passports, a flag of convenience and a certain degree of insurance in the form of disaster relief and emergency services, in return for a nominal tax. Most of them never come close to the capital." He frowned, scratching at the dark shadow of stubble on his face. "Villacana is younger than most. Some kind of electronics whiz kid who burned out but made his fortune first, according to gossip. Turned his back on the world and bought the freehold to San Fernando eight years ago. Rumour has it he has the place booby-trapped. About as mad on privacy as you can be on an island like that – two full-time servants on the island, another half dozen who come in on a boat for four days a week to do chores and double up as crew for his motorboat when he's in the mood."

"Electronics," Vaughan shook his head. "The name still rings a bell. I'll look into it." His tone turned angry. "What the hell did the man think he was doing?"

"Probably just what he told the Levans: keeping 'Fernando quiet, with no regard to who might suffer the consequences. I plan to ask him."

Vaughan frowned. "You've not asked already?"

Now Travis gave a bitter laugh. "Your boys up on the Weather Station have been giving us some trouble down here, remember? Even if anyone on San Fernando would pick up the 'phone, and they don't always during the day let alone at midnight, that pulse thing hit the water along a straight line between here and there. There's no way we're getting a signal through it."

"It was a malfunction." There was a curious hitch to Vaughan's voice, a note of something that might be anger. He shook his head. "I'm looking into it, but the station personnel weren't to blame."

"Right," Travis drawled disbelievingly. "Well, we're not to blame for this mess either. We're sending as many boats as we can muster out on the morning tide to look for those boys. It's not the best we can do, but it's all we can do until this damn interference clears."

Vaughan gave him a level look. "You need to hit the sack, Travis," he said frankly. "If there's nothing you can do until the morning, then get some sleep while you can."

"Vaughan, when I need your permission - " Travis's angry protest was cut off by a beeping sound on Vaughan's end on the line and a disembodied voice.

"Mr Vaughan, it's the weather control station again. Commander Dale for you."

Vaughan's grimace was visible even through the snow of interference. "I need to take this, Travis."

"The Weather Station commander? Yeah, well give the guy a punch from me, okay? A hard one."

The glare Vaughan threw at him seemed to burn the screen, and the slow drift of noise across it steadied for a moment to show his cold eyes. "Jim Dale is one of Jeff Tracy's oldest friends. Flew two missions with Tracy as his commander. He's Virgil's godfather, for Christ's sake. You want me to beat him up? Believe me, he's doing that plenty well enough himself."

Travis felt the anger in Vaughan's tone like a punch to his own jaw. He shook his head, lost for words. Vaughan watched him for a few seconds.

"Keep me informed," he said simply. "Vaughan out."

The vid-phone window closed, and Travis deactivated his screen with an angry prod of the finger. Massaging tired eyes with the heel of his hands, he swore out loud. Mina was right. Lack of sleep made him more than tetchy, it made him into a jackass. He grabbed for his jacket and car keys, picking up Virgil's chart and picture for safe-keeping on his way out of the door. Time to get some rest before he dug a deeper hole and stepped right into it. There was nothing to be done until morning, and no matter how much Travis wished there was something he could do for Virgil's stricken family, he couldn't change that.

The light was too bright. Scott screwed his eyes up tight, raising one hand to shield them. He rolled over, hoping to turn away from his window and steal another few minutes of sleep. Even before he opened them, his eyes were stinging and he felt incredibly lethargic, as if he were starting a cold. Perhaps Mom would let him stay home from school, he thought hopefully. Perhaps she might even come and close his curtains for him.

Something tickled his cheek, and he raised his hand to brush it away, eyes still closed. His hands touched something dry and brittle, he wasn't sure what, and then it was gone. A moment later it was back, a stifled giggle telling him that the irritation wasn't purely his bad luck… unless you counted having four little brothers in that category. He blinked his eyes open, squinting to focus them on the small figure standing over him. Gordon had his hands behind his back, his face wearing an expression of angelic innocence that had stopped working on his brothers as soon as the little boy was old enough to get them, as well as himself, into trouble. The warm haziness of sleep's echo faded away. Scott's eyes narrowed, taking in the narrow leaves of a palm frond poking out over his brother's shoulder, clearly held in his concealed hands. Gordon had evidently decided that it was time for his companion to wake up, and that tickling him was the way to make sure it happened.

Tensing himself, Scott reached out in a sudden pounce, grabbing the younger boy by the waist and pulling him back into the pile of leaves before he could react. Gordon let out a startled yelp, tumbling on top of his brother, and squirming as Scott retaliated with tickles of his own. Honour satisfied and pride avenged, Scott sat up beside his laughing little brother and took stock.

The sun was low on the horizon, no more than an hour past dawn, and shining straight down on the hollow Scott and his brother had climbed into the night before. Its heat was rapidly passing from pleasantly warm to uncomfortably hot, and Scott stripped out of the salt-crusted sweater he'd slept in. Gordon had already done the same, stripping down to nothing more than his underwear and a T-shirt. Sighing, Scott crawled out of the pile of leaves and scooped up Gordon's discarded clothes, carrying them to the stream and dumping his own beside them as he too undressed and kicked off his shoes and socks.

Gordon watched him curiously, sitting up in the leaves and then leaving them behind to trail after his older brother. Scott glanced up at him.

"Been awake long, Gordy?"

Gordon shrugged. "Ages," he said in the slow drawl that told his brother at once that he was exaggerating even if the little boy himself didn't realise it. He frowned uncertainly, casting a nervous glance at the flowing water. "What're you doing?"

Scott had moved along the stream to the point where it left the tree-root consolidated soil and spilled down onto the beach. From the looks of it, the water flow was usually little more than a trickle. Fed by run-off from the storm, it had become wider and deeper, the streambed showing raw earth, newly eroded. As he'd vaguely remembered from the night before, it broadened a little as it left the trees, forming a shallow pond bounded by pebbles washed out of the dirt. Satisfied, Scott dumped their clothes in the water, stepping barefoot onto the stones in the pool bed so he could swirl the fabric through the fresh water with one foot.

"The sun'll dry these out in a few minutes, an hour at most. The salt from the sea was making our clothes all itchy, and then we got them sandy coming up the beach too. Wouldn't you rather have clean things to wear? This'll help, Gordy. Trust me."

"Shouldn't we be using soap? Mom always wants to put soap in water."

Scott paused and gave his brother a level look. "Do you see any soap around here, Gordon?" Gordon's inquisitive expression faltered, and he looked around him at the unfamiliar environment, shuddering. Scott deliberately injected a little humour into his voice, trying to counteract his brother's obvious anxiety. "I won't tell Mom if you don't, Gordy, okay?"

Gordon nodded glumly, finding a long stick from somewhere and poking idly at the clothing. Scott could sympathise. They'd both rather have clean clothes; ideally still warm from the drier and with that fresh laundry smell they associated uniquely with their mother. Rinsed through or not, their one set of jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts wasn't going to come close to that. Shaking his head, Scott stepped up onto the bank and ran a comforting hand through Gordon's hair, before kneeling down by the pool and reaching into it. He scooped up the items of clothing one by one, wringing them out and dumping them on to a flat stone by the edge of the pool.

"Mom uses a washing line," Gordon pointed out quietly, not so much an accusation or criticism as a wistful memory.

"Uh huh," Scott agreed, still trying to lift his brother's spirits. "Well, Mom doesn't have lots of trees growing in the yard, so she can't use them. We can do better here."

Looking about him, he frowned. The trees lining the beach were almost all palms, tall and straight without side branches. In the shadows beyond he could see more low lying bushes, but he wasn't about to walk into an unknown jungle shoeless and dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt. More importantly, he wasn't going to encourage Gordon to do so by example. Stepping out of the pool, he carried the clothes to the tree line and started to hook them on the rough, triangular pieces of bark that stood out from the palm trunks, a little relieved when it actually worked.

"Keep out of the jungle, Gordy," he warned softly as Gordon came over to help, handing the younger boy his short socks to hang over a lower bark ridge.

Finally sure that all their few precious clothes were stretched out in the sun, rippling gently in the light sea breeze, Scott looked down at himself and his brother. His T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest, and somehow Gordon too had managed to get himself soaked, despite not coming within three feet of the pool. Well, might as well make a thorough job of it.

"Your turn," he told the younger boy. "Bath time."

Gordon's eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently.

"Ah, no, Scotty. I'm okay. I'll have a bath tonight."

"Your skin's all salty too." Scott looked pointedly at the hand Gordon was using to scratch idly at his leg. "And so's mine. Come on, Gordy. This won't be too bad."

"I don't want to! Scotty! Please!"

Scott frowned in confusion as Gordon's voice edged from awkward towards real anxiety. Usually the little boy was all too eager to get wet, hauling his resigned to the family to endless pools and beaches, and even splashing through puddles in the rain. Mom always said that Gordy felt safe in the water, that he liked the feeling of being supported and the freedom it gave him. Realisation dawning, Scott looked down at his reluctant little brother and saw the fear underlying his refusal. Memories of their night in the boat, ice-cold water all around them, far from nurturing and relentlessly powerful, flashed through his head, and he wondered how Gordon was coping with sudden awareness of just how dangerous his preferred element was. Small wonder that the experiences of the last day and a half had stifled any inclination he had to go near large amounts of water. The little boy must be very nearly in shock for even the six-inch-deep pool in front of them to look like a threat. For a few moments Scott hesitated, looking down at his brother's quivering lips and tempted to let it go, but the salt residue on their skin really was uncomfortable, and their night in a pile of palm fronds had left a layer of dirt and powdered leaves over it. Gordon would suffer through the day if something wasn't done.

"I'll come in with you," he promised. He caught his little brother up before the child could object further, holding on tight despite Gordon's struggle to get free. "Deep breath, Gordon. It's going to be cold."

After the ice-cold torrents of rain and waves crashing over the lifeboat's sides, the chill of the stream was insignificant. That didn't stop Gordon screaming as Scott dumped him in the shallow pool, and scrambling backwards to cling to Scott's legs. Scott gritted his teeth, stepping into the pond beside his tearful little brother and kneeling in it to scoop water over himself and over Gordon. The coolness felt good, easing a sunburn that he hadn't even realised he'd acquired. Keeping a firm grip on Gordon with one hand, he shrugged out of his T-shirt, switching holds so he could slip it off each arm in turn. Dumping it in the water beside him, he eased Gordon's shirt off too, ruffling the boy's mop of copper-coloured hair as it became visible again. Gordon's cries were subsiding into heaving sobs, some of the terror fading from his frantic expression. Scott kept him close, alternately cuddling him and trying to wash them both down.

He certainly felt invigorated by the time he let his brother escape, scrambling out of the pool after the smaller boy, and watching worriedly as Gordon stood wide-eyed and shivering on the beach, dressed only in his underwear and looking lost and confused. Wringing out the two T-shirts, Scott spread them over a couple of sun-baked boulders near the pool before jogging to catch up with his brother.

Gordon turned away from him as he approached, crossing his arms and glowering at the sea. "Leave me alone!" he said angrily. "I hate you."

Scott flinched. Gordon was angry, scared and tired. Even so, the words hurt. He reached out to touch his brother's shoulder. "Gordy…"

Gordon jerked away from the touch, running a few steps towards the ocean before freezing. He backed up, his expression frightened, and took off along the beach instead, running away from his brother. Scott sighed, letting him go for now, recognising from long experience that Gordon needed time to calm down before he'd be ready to talk. Turning in the other direction, he walked back towards where they'd left the lifeboat, glancing frequently over his shoulder. He was relieved to see Gordon settle down on an outcrop of rocks a short way up the beach. Knees drawn up to his chest, the little boy stared out to sea with an expression torn between wistful and loathing.