Chandler was dreaming about something red and oozing, like oil sealed in a plexiglass cask, swirling and turning around and around itself. In his dream he was too close, couldn’t make it out, then seemed to be dollied slowly backward so that he recognized the slippery red things as hands with shredded stumps where fingers should have been. It was Brennan, mouth closed tightly, a silent scream trapped in his wide eyes, bulging … no, it was Prosser, an old man, hands chewed to the bone, blood smeared like warpaint across his old, sunken face. Or could it be Sir Redvers Redvers himself, not Prosser at all, but the old cad in the baggy tweeds, his man watching from a respectful distance as his master’s life dripped from hoses where his fingertips had been … Then Chandler felt the touch of cold steel on his own hands, heard the scream strangling inside his own mouth …
He jerked awake, his hand asleep in a cramped position draped around Polly’s shoulders, little needles stinging him. They were huddled in their few feet of space, jostling against naked, sharp-edged bits of the plane’s skeleton, muscles rigid from bracing themselves in the nasty passenger seats. Chandler blinked, eased his hand out from around Polly and shook the bad dream out of his mind. Christ. He took the measure of his situation: cold, draughty, hideously stiff, duffel bag clamped between his knees, a boggish taste in his mouth, generally dispirited, rather surprised he was still alive, harboring a headache being hammered into his skull by the twin engines roaring in the night.
Kendrick was bellowing something over his shoulder, his voice cracking against the unsettling racket of the engines. The plane bounced occasionally, without any warning, and when it did Chandler closed his eyes, forced a deep breath, and prayed he wouldn’t die, not this time. God, just save me this once and I’ll always be good …
“Fog,” Kendrick’s voice reached him. “I’m going to drop down … Hold on.”
Chandler heard the rain pelting the airplane, rattling what seemed like tin, and focused his eyes on the windshield in the odd glow of the instrument panel, saw the water beading up, streaking the glass as the plane slid on through the night. It was like batting your way through gray, wispy cotton: he could barely see the lights at the wingtips. With an involuntary gasp, he felt the plane sinking like a man on a funhouse slide, vapor filtering upwards, windswept past the little oval windows: each movement, whatever the direction, seemed to shake the frame of the aircraft, communicating an endless series of quivers and tremors which any sane man would assume would sooner or later result in the disintegration of the plane. Polly sagged against him, brushed at her face with a tight-gloved little fist. Chandler wondered what you’d do if you had to take a leak on this airplane …
He looked at his watch: they’d been flying for about two hours and he couldn’t imagine where they were: “Where the hell are we?” he bellowed hoarsely.
“Well, I sincerely hope we’re about a hundred and fifty feet above the water, but you never can be sure, you’ve got to let instinct take over on a night like this—”
“Oh,” Chandler moaned. “We could get killed—”
“Definitely. But, then, I’ve never been killed yet, either. Look at it that way.”
“Ah, where else are we?”
“We oughta be just about ten miles from the Nova Scotia coast, on the Atlantic side … Halifax off there to the left.” He waved an arm in the general direction.
“What if we run into another plane?”
“We’d crash, probably die … burn up or drown, something in that line. Why?”
“Natural curiosity.” Engines throbbing, head aching: why pursue the conversation? What difference did it make anyway? They’d live or die.
“Morbid, I’d call it.” Kendrick shifted his weight, the leather of his chair squeaking. He drummed on the instrument panel.
“Halifax, Nova Scotia,” he pondered. “Is that where we’re going?”
“Can’t hear you when the engines are running,” he said, laughing abruptly like bursts from an automatic weapon.
“Are we going to goddamn Halifax or not?”
“Oh no, no,” with much hilarity, or what passed for it in Kendrick’s circle, as if no thought so amusing had cropped up in years. “No, not Halifax.”
“Come on, Kendrick, you’ve got us at your stupid mercy. Be a sport, where the hell are we going?”
“Another hour or so, up around the top of the island, Cape Breton, up thataway. Can’t fly overland, though. No flight plan … We got to just mind our own business, stay low, just get where we’re going, make the drop and get out …”
“The drop? What the fuck are you talking about, the drop? You’re not dropping anything you’ve got on board this crate, you can be damned sure about that, my good man.”
“Don’t break out in a sweat, Professor! It’s a figurative expression meaning that we’ll land, I’ll see to your departure, and I’ll then leave.”
“You’re going to leave us?”
“Calm down, man. Mr. Prosser’s taken care of everything.”
The plane dropped another seventy-five feet before Chandler could see at all and then only odd pinpoints of light flickered against the mound of the land mass. Cape Breton. He’d never been there, knew nothing about the place other than the warning of a lady traveler he knew: “It’s not worth anything until mid-June when it becomes quite wonderful if you like rusticity.” Well, it was a hell of a long way from mid-June, and he shivered at the temperature in the plane. Wind shrieked outside in the darkness like the hounds of hell scraping at them, trying to rip their fragile craft from the sky.
Polly woke finally, spoke thickly: “Are we dead yet?”
“A little longer. We’re going to crash-dive in the raging surf where Smilin’ Jack here plans to abandon us—everything’s fine.”
She yawned, pulled herself upright: “I want a glass of water.”
“No.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Sorry.”
“Are we there yet?”
“Shut up, little girl.”
“Jesus! Is that the water down there?”
“Mmm.”
“It’s right there.”
Kendrick let out another banshee cry: “Get those belts fastened! Won’t be long now.” He had turned on hooded yellow lamps which illuminated the fog still blowing across their path, and below them the frieze of waves strained to meet the pontoons and undercarriage, the curling water looked solid, like tortured cement ready to rip the plane to pieces at first touch. The water was a solid wall, close enough for scraping …
Down, they kept dropping down, his stomach lifting, the gap between plane and water tightening, thinning, fog whisking past the windows, ahead of them only water and absolute blackness where he supposed Cape Breton waited. How the hell did Kendrick know where he was? The question terrified him … Polly was gripping his arm, her eyes peeled wide and fixed on the oval window beside her: he saw her face in profile as he leaned forward, and put his mouth next to her ear, whispered something he couldn’t hear himself, and kissed her soft, peach-fuzz cheek …
The seaplane smacked into the water with a shudder and a screech of metal fatigue, was hurled upwards and sideways, seemed to float dangerously away then smashed back against the flat, rockhard water, skidded, skipped again like a child’s skimming stone, then it keeled forward precariously—or so it damn well seemed to Chandler—before settling back against the waves, in a kind of trough of its own making, slowing down, the metal continuing to groan and howl but quieting down as it rushed onward.
When the plane was at last dead in the water, Kendrick turned around and grinned weakly, face white in the ghastly instrument glow. “Little roughness tonight,” he said apologetically. “But the important thing is, we’re here, eh? Safe and sound, eh?”
“Do put a sock in it, will you?” Polly croaked, her mouth dry.
“Well, I don’t blame you, miss,” he said, his voice kindly, as he extricated himself from the confines of the pilot’s bucket, levering himse
lf up and out, crouching where they were. “Spot of rain out there, I’m afraid.”
Kendrick dragged a package out from the rear recesses of the plane’s passenger area, hugged it to him and backed wobbling past them, unlocked the hatch and opened it and pushed it all the way back against the fuselage where it clicked into a bracket. Rain blew in fine, sniping, gusting sprays through the opening, spattering their faces. Kendrick, holding tight to the packet, squeezed through the narrow doorway and climbed down the ladder, swearing at the rain and his burden until he was out of sight. Chandler hunched down and went on hands and knees to the opening. Rain lashed at him: he covered his eyes, peering down. Suddenly, with a swoosh of air, the contents of the package began to inflate, becoming a rubberized raft: when it was filled, a great awkward balloon larger than he was, Kendrick struggled with a flap which he hooked around the strut. Still swearing, he fitted the telescoping handles of the oars together, then made them fast with straps which held them secure inside the shell of the craft.
Moving slowly he began the climb back up. Chandler gave him a hand, hoisted him into the cabin.
“Miserable bloody raft,” he sighed, smiling happily at his exertions: a man in his element, Chandler reflected, contrasting the pilot with himself. He sat down on a toolbox and wiped his face with an oily rag close at hand. “Now to be specific, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you just exactly where we are and what’s going to happen. We’ve just come in across the Cabot Straits toward the northern shore of Cape Breton; off to our right, up around the corner of the Cabot Trail is Pleasant Bay, to the left is Aspy Bay—we’re head on toward Cape North … but I’ve put you down at an island, not Cape Breton itself. Got it?
“All right, then. Sorry about this rain but once you’re in the raft you’ll see we’re only about forty yards from the beach. It’s sandy all along this little inlet, rocks curving out to the sides but you won’t get involved with them, not if you do as you’re told. Just head straight on in, use your light …” He stopped and pulled a large, square, red, rubber-cased, highpowered flashlight from beneath him, patted it affectionately, like a pet. “This little baby will see you through, you’ll be fine … there’s a little weather, a little movement in the backwater, so it’ll take you a few minutes to get there, but you’ll be all right, just try to keep from falling out of the raft because getting back in could be a problem. Cold and dark in the sea on a night like this,” he concluded, sounding as if he were quoting.
Kendrick pulled a plastic flask from his coat pocket and Polly took the first nip of brandy. Chandler followed, Kendrick gurgling happily as if it were water. “Now, then, once you reach the beach, you’ll have to get to the house as soon as you can, if you want to avoid pneumonia—it’s up on top of the cliffs, but there’s a good path, about a hundred yards down the beach, to the left, cut out through the bracken and rock, you’ll find it, just follow it up the hill—once you’re on top, you’ll see it, big monstrous place called Stronghold, faces out to sea with cliffs in the same direction, just like this side … the place is empty.” He took something out of his pocket, pressed it into Chandler’s hand: “Here’s the key. Put it in your pocket and enjoy your stay …”
“Stronghold,” Polly said.
“Foggy, wet place, very private, quite a nice spot, actually, if you like seabirds and storms and being alone …”
Chandler backed into the hatchway on his hands and knees, felt with his foot for the first rung of the ladder, then descended with considerable trepidation, making sure each foot was anchored securely before lowering the next. Everything was rapidly getting very wet: his face, glasses, hair; it was like standing in a flood. He clutched the large flashlight, clung to the handguard, slowly groping downward, refusing to look into the swirling black water. The flashlight was on and the light created a halo of spray, beyond which there was nothing but darkness, the sound of the water lapping against the pontoons. “Don’t stop, man,” Kendrick shouted from above. “Fuck yourself,” Chandler called back, afraid to look up, afraid he might lose his concentration and slip on the oily wet metal.
At the bottom he hung from a strut and clambered into the treacherously bobbing, raking lifeboat. Kendrick lowered Polly, holding her hand as she went over the side; Chandler stretched, reached back up for her as she came closer, felt her hand grab his firmly. Then she was in the boat beside him, wiping rain from her face. Lithely, Kendrick came down carrying the duffel bag: “Stow this damn thing,” he said, heaving it to Chandler. “Now get the light pointed in the right direction … inland, don’t you see, there we go.”
“I still can’t see a damned thing,” Chandler cried over the wind. The waves seemed heavier, higher with each sweeping crash.
“You keep it pointed that way, lad, and you soon will see something. Just keep paddling that way,” he pointed like the ancient mariner gone to sea again, soaked, windblown. “I’ll wait until you’re well under way, closing on the beach, then I’m gone. Just keep paddling.”
“Can you take off in this weather?”
“Don’t worry about me, sport, I’ll be in my own bed yet this night.”
“What do we do when we get to the house?”
Kendrick laughed, his head shaking, rain flying: “Wait. You’re stuck, the chief’ll be in touch with you … Now get going.” He turned away and fought against the rain and wind to climb back up into the plane. Before he pulled the hatch after him, he turned, gave them the thumb’s-up signal. Then the door slammed shut and he was gone.
Tuesday
CHANDLER UNTIED THE RAFT WHICH continued bobbing aggravatingly against the pontoon, keeping him off balance. He poked at the plane with the oar, pushing off, and the raft slowly broke away as if leaving a magnetic field. Polly grabbed the other oar and set to flailing away at the black water. Chandler began sweating under the raincoat and sweater, his body alternately hot and clammy. Quite suddenly, the raft was well clear of the aircraft. It seemed, as he struggled, spending his breath and beginning to ache, that he wasn’t getting anywhere, but the plane kept getting smaller, the yellow glow of the foglights further off. Polly heaved quietly away on her own oar, steadily holding her own, while Chandler felt the kind of physical stress he associated with playing football years ago in hot weather: somehow, he wanted to avoid any explosion in his chest cavity or his brain.
“You’re working too hard,” Polly called, stopping, waving at him to put up the oar. “You’re panicking. We’re going to get there all right … rest a minute, Colin. Don’t kill yourself.” Water was collecting around their feet.
Chandler looked up again. Behind him the yellow glow hung like a ghost over the water. Polly was directing the light toward the beach, breathing hard: “Hey, I see it, I see the damned beach!” She turned smiling, her face wet, hair plastered down, looking about eighteen.
After the breather, they bent to the task of rowing, watching the beach take grayish shape in the beam of light. Chandler was cold, wet, soaked through, water to his ankles, sneezing, but he forgot it all at the glorious sensation of the raft’s bottom scraping and bouncing on the rough, sandy, rocky slope of beach … He sagged inside his wet clothing, feeling old and shrunken, heart pounding: it struck him that his poor heart had been overtaxed ever since the whole insane ordeal had begun … Well, maybe it was good for you. Maybe.
“Colin, we did it, we’re here!”
He nodded, grinning.
“Darling,” she said, staggering toward him, bumping into the duffel bag, “you look just a little green about the gills—are you all right?”
Chandler nodded: “Fit as a fiddle, of course.” He stepped out of the raft, immediately sank to his knees in a foot of water, icy water that pierced him like broken glass. Sand swirled up, settled inside his shoes. He managed to right himself, grinned against his better judgment: “Just like MacArthur …” Standing in the water he reached into the raft, tugged at the duffel bag which lay on its lumpy side in the water at the bottom of the raft. Thank God Prosser had
wrapped the documents and the portrait in layers of oilskin. With a final heave he yanked it out of the raft, swinging it ahead of him up onto the sand. Polly, poised on the edge of the raft, fell gratefully into his arms. Together they staggered, waded up out of the surf, dragging the raft behind them, like a pair of creatures frantically speeding up the process of evolution. He dropped the raft, pushed it away from him: “I’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
They stood, holding each other on the beach, shivering against one another, teeth chattering, their faces ice cold, the rain spitting and blowing against them, and out on the water the yellow glow was gone, without their having noticed the departure itself.
“Thank God, we’re here,” she whispered, half crying tears of relief, “and you’re holding me …”
“Well, we’re safe, anyway. Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m a tough little bastard.” She laughed, wiped her nose. “Let’s find the path.” She picked up the flashlight and he took the duffel bag after fetching it a smart kick in the side. Damned bloody thing: it had become a grotesque extension of his right hand.
They pulled their raincoats up over their heads and leaned into the wind, trudging along the wet sand, the beam of light swinging ahead of them, pointing the way. The cliffs were laid back from the beach, a dark green blur through the rain: there was no real smell but the distinct odor of damp coldness and the wet wool of his sweater. There were slippery disks of ice in the sand and the walk toward the path was agonizingly slow, punctuated by Chandler’s loud curses which replaced the quiet, awful, windblown fear of the plane and the raft.
The Glendower Legacy Page 25
