“Come on, man,” LeFleur laughed. “You’re on an island!” Rom looked straight ahead. The inspector gave up. He reached for another cigarette. Through his rolled-down window, he glanced back at the mountains.
Twenty-four years before, Montserrat’s volcano, Soufrière Hills, erupted after centuries of silence, covering the entire southern part of the island in mud and ash. The capital was destroyed. Lava smothered the airport. Just like that, the nation’s economy evaporated in dark smoke. Two-thirds of the population fled Montserrat within a year, mostly to England, where they were given emergency citizen status. Even now, the island’s southern half remains uninhabited, an ash-covered “exclusion zone” of abandoned towns and villas.
LeFleur glanced at his passenger, who was tapping annoyingly on the door handle. He thought about calling Patrice, apologizing for this morning, leaving so abruptly. Instead he reached across Rom’s chest, mumbled “Excuse me,” and popped open the glove compartment, removing the whisky flask.
“You want some?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Inspector.”
“Don’t drink?”
“Not anymore.”
“How come?”
“I drank to forget things.”
“And?”
“I kept remembering them.”
LeFleur paused, then took a swig. They drove in silence the rest of the way.
Sea
Dear Annabelle— The “Lord” has not saved us. He has worked no magic. He’s done little and said even less. He will apparently be just another mouth to feed and another body to make room for.
The wind and waves kicked back up today, so we all squeezed for shelter under the canopy. This puts us knee to knee, elbow to elbow. I sat with Mrs. Laghari on one side and the new man on another. At times I brushed against his bare skin. It felt no different than my own.
“Come on, ‘Lord,’ tell us the truth,” Lambert said, pointing at the new man. “How did you get on my boat?”
“I was never on your boat,” he replied.
“Then how did you fall into the ocean?” Geri asked.
“I did not fall.”
“What were you doing in the water?”
“Coming to you.”
We looked at one another.
“Let me get this straight,” Yannis said. “God decided to drop from the sky, swim to this raft, and start talking to us?”
“I talk to you all the time,” he said. “I came here to listen.”
“Listen to what?” I said.
“Enough!” Lambert broke in. “If you know so much, tell me what happened to my damn yacht!”
The man smiled. “Why are you angry about that?”
“I lost my boat!”
“You are in another.”
“It’s not the same!”
“True,” the man said. “This one is still afloat.”
Yannis chuckled. Lambert glared at him.
“What?” Yannis said. “It’s funny.”
Mrs. Laghari exhaled impatiently. “May we stop with this nonsense? Where are the planes? The ones that rescue us? Tell us that, and I will pray to you right now.”
We waited for a reply. But the man just sat there, shirtless and grinning. The mood shifted. Mrs. Laghari had reminded us that, despite this newcomer’s odd distraction, we remain hopelessly lost.
“Nobody’s praying to him,” Lambert grumbled.
News
REPORTER: This is Valerie Cortez, aboard the Galaxy yacht, owned by billionaire investor Jason Lambert. As you can see, it’s raining, so I’m tucked in here. But the exorbitant fun continues on this fifth and final night of the Grand Idea.
ANCHOR: What took place today, Valerie?
REPORTER: Today the attendees were treated to discussion groups led by a former US president, the designer of the world’s first electric car, and the founders of the three biggest computer search engines in the world, the first time they were ever on the same stage together.
ANCHOR: What’s that music in the background?
REPORTER: Well, Jim, I think I mentioned that this yacht has a helicopter landing pad. They’ve been bringing people back and forth all week. Earlier today, the popular rock band Fashion X was flown in to perform. You can hear them in the ballroom behind me. I think that’s their big hit, “Coming Down.”
ANCHOR: Wow. That’s impressive.
REPORTER: It is. And once they are finished, there’s—
(Loud noise. The image shakes.)
ANCHOR: Valerie, what was that?
REPORTER: I don’t know! Hold on—
(Another loud noise. She falls.)
REPORTER: Oh my god! … Does anybody know what that—
ANCHOR: Valerie?
REPORTER: Something just hit … (static) … sounded … (static) … see where …
(Another loud noise, then the picture is lost.)
ANCHOR: Valerie? Valerie, can you still hear us? … Valerie? … We seem to have lost the connection. There was a loud noise, several, as you heard. We don’t want to speculate. But for the moment, we are unable to … Hello? … Valerie? … Are you there? …
Land
When his jeep reached the lookout point, LeFleur killed the engine. He had requested the area be marked off by the local authorities, and was relieved to see yellow tape by the walking path.
“All right,” LeFleur said to Rom. “Let’s see what you found.”
They stepped over the tape and started down the path. Marguerita Bay was a stretch of rocky green hills that dropped off in craggy white walls, framing the shore and the narrow, sandy beach. There were several ways to get down, but not in a car. You went by foot.
As they reached the flat ground and approached the discovery site, Rom slowed his pace, leaving LeFleur to draw near on his own. He felt the sand give way to his work shoes. A few more steps around a low rock formation and …
There it was: a large, half-inflated, dirty orange raft, drying in the midday sun.
LeFleur felt a shiver. Wreckage of any vessel—ships, boats, rafts, yachts—meant another losing battle between man and sea. There were stories in their remains. Ghost stories. LeFleur had enough of those in his life already.
He leaned in to examine the raft’s edges. Gashes had deflated the lower tubing. Sharks could have done that. The canopy had been ripped away, leaving only frayed pieces where it once attached to the frame. The faded words CAPACITY 15 PERSONS were etched on the orange skin. The inner floor was wide, maybe fourteen feet by sixteen feet. Sand and seaweed filled it now. Tiny crabs moved about the tangle.
LeFleur followed one crab as it moved past the etched words PROPERTY OF THE GALAXY and up to what appeared to be a sealed pouch along the front edge. A small lump was pushing the pouch outward. He touched the raft skin then pulled his hand back.
There was something inside.
LeFleur felt his pulse quicken. He knew the protocol: owners of a vessel are to be notified before any lifeboat contents are disturbed. But that could take a long time. And hadn’t the owner died in the explosion? Hadn’t everyone died?
He looked back at Rom, who stood a good forty feet away, staring at the clouds. What the hell, LeFleur thought, his Sunday was already ruined.
He opened the flap and pulled the contents out a few inches. He blinked twice to make sure he was seeing correctly. There, sealed inside a plastic bag, were the remains of a notebook.
Sea
It is just after noon now. Our fourth day in this lifeboat. We have witnessed something highly unusual, Annabelle. It concerns the new arrival who claims to be the Lord. Perhaps I was wrong. There may be more to him than meets the eye.
Earlier this morning, Yannis was leaning on the raft’s edge, singing a Greek song. (He’s from Greece, an ambassador, I believe, even though he’s quite young.) Geri was doing her navigation charts. Mrs. Laghari was rubbing her temples, trying to relieve her constant headaches. Alice, the little girl, was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was staring at the new man, as she has done much of the time since his arrival.
Suddenly he rose and moved across the raft to Jean Philippe, who was praying over his wife, Bernadette. Both are Haitian. Good people. Upbeat. I met them that first morning in Cape Verde, when the crew boarded the Galaxy to await the guests. They told me they’d been cooking on big boats for years.
“We make the food too good, Benji!” Bernadette said, patting her belly. “We get fat!”
“Why did you leave Haiti?” I asked.