The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  Rachel glared at Zachary. ‘When this is over, Mr Smith, will you will take me to Vegas?’

  Zachary sensed the tension between the two women. Calling him Mr Smith was Rachel’s subtle code of affection for him and it flew undetected beneath Paris’ feminine radar. While Paris was beautiful, Rachel was equally radiant and although he hadn’t told her in as many words, he was entirely devoted to her. She had nothing to fear. But for now, a little healthy rivalry might be fun to watch.

  Not divulging any of his thoughts he answered without making a fuss of the terms. ‘I promise, Rachel.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see the tortoises,’ Father Stephen said.

  The triumvirate became a quartet. Smiles of belonging crept across their faces, Zachary unable to hide his amusement at the mental picture forming in his head.

  ‘Careful they don’t hold you down and lick you to death, Steve.’

  ‘Rachel, I have something for you.’ Father Stephen took the canister out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Bring it with you in the morning. You might tell us more about what’s in there than we already know. I’m off to pack.’

  Father Stephen left the laboratory.

  ‘Do you have a place to stay tonight, Paris? Zachary said.

  ‘I’ve booked a hotel room.’

  Rachel’s eyes narrowed. She maintained a guarded attitude toward the heiress. Paris should best repay her debt by keeping her distance from Zachary.

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ Zachary said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Paris said.

  Rachel bristled at his insensitivity. Irrational thoughts filled her head. She pictured Paris and Zachary having dinner together then bypassing the hotel for Zachary’s villa. The more she thought about the imaginary procession of events the worse she felt.

  ‘I’ll see you for breakfast, Rachel.’

  Far away, she barely heard him.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Breakfast, 9 a.m. I’ll pick you up.’

  She prayed Paris wasn’t in the passenger seat with her long blonde hair blowing seductively in the breeze. The heiress would not have it all her own way.

  Zachary winked at Rachel who responded with a sarcastic show of teeth.

  At the end of the conclave’s third day, no majority had been reached in the Sistine Chapel. The civil unrest in the United States had moderated with the realisation the country could come under attack from external forces.

  Toby Bell sat on a deckchair near the edge of a cliff, with a ferocious wind in his face. Surf exploded against the rocks far below, shooting spray into the frigid air. Through headphones he listened to the news.

  He raised his binoculars and watched a British battleship plunge through the swells until it fell off the horizon. Another dozen naval ships passed by before the sinking of the sun.

  81

  Aero Gal flight 206 from Guayaquil landed on Isla San Cristobal in the late afternoon. The quartet alighted into the equatorial heat and travelled to the township in a rusty Dodge taxi.

  Hotel Bella Vista was a neat four-star establishment with a panoramic view of the harbour. Zachary and Father Stephen shared a room, as did Rachel and Paris. The tension between the women was slowly thawing. Rachel was almost enjoying Paris’ company while still keeping an eagle-eye on Zachary.

  Zachary inquired at the hotel reception about the Charles Darwin Research Centre, the woman behind the desk kindly pointing to a wall of pamphlets.

  ‘Are you wishing to volunteer?’ she said.

  ‘I’m just an amateur naturalist on his first visit to the Galapagos, hoping to do some exploring and try his luck fishing.’

  ‘You have come to the right place. The Galapagos has the best marlin grounds on the planet.’

  ‘I’m mainly interested in the extinct fauna and the effect of introduced species on the native populations.’

  ‘That is the focus of the research centre. Santa Cruz and Isabela also have facilities that study and help preserve marine and land species. You could spend years studying the archipelago. How long is your stay, sir?’

  ‘About a week. Can I ask you some questions?’

  The man was attractive. She noticed the blonde eyebrow and lashes around his left eye. ‘Certainly,’ she said.

  ‘What do you know about the giant purple tarantulas that used to live on the islands?’

  ‘Anyone who lived here up until the seventies has probably seen one. I kept one in an old aquarium for three years until a feral cat managed to kill it.’

  ‘When did you last see a tarantula?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s been a sighting in over twenty years. Eventually they just disappeared. I remember one turned up in a crate of dried fish somewhere on the mainland.’

  ‘They must have been an incredible sight.’

  ‘They are the largest of the modern-day spiders and brilliant in colour.’

  Zachary noted the bright purple blouse and matching lipstick the woman wore.

  ‘Is it possible any still survive in the archipelago?’ he said.

  ‘The research centre on Santa Cruz hasn’t given up hope. There are rewards for the discovery of any lost or new species. Since Darwin’s arrival, over five hundred different plants and animals have been driven to extinction, including many of the tortoise species. The Pinta Island tortoise, Lonesome George, is a classic example. He survived for decades as the last of its kind, and his death meant none would ever walk the earth again. The Galapagos was the original garden of Eden until man arrived.’

  ‘Why did the tarantulas disappear?’ Zachary said, testing her knowledge.

  ‘A mite jumped off the introduced goats, found a nice home on a big fat furry spider and thought it an equally good place to raise a family. It spread the word to its relatives and soon the mites abandoned the goats, island skipping on the spiders until they populated the entire chain - bad news for the tarantulas. The mites attacked the spiders’ eyes causing blindness. For a creature dependent on vision to locate its prey it equated to a death sentence. As the mites increased their range, slowly the tarantula’s numbers dwindled. The mite still survives. It had no problem returning to the goats, and until we eradicate the feral population it will always be a potential threat if the tarantulas re-emerge.’

  ‘You know a great deal about the islands.’

  ‘I was born here. I’ll let you in on a secret. If your main interest is the tarantula, don’t bother with the research station. I’ve told you everything you’ll find out if you paid a visit there. There is a scientist living on the smallest island of the archipelago. He has survived alone there like a castaway for over twenty-five years, only visiting Isabela for supplies.’

  ‘What’s the attraction?’

  ‘No one is sure. He first arrived here in the early fifties to establish a foundation to protect wildlife, a forerunner to building the research centres and gaining world heritage status for the archipelago. Since then he has distanced himself from his scientific colleagues and academia in general. He had a widely reported stoush with the board members of the British Museum of which he was once a director. It may have been the precursor to his self-imposed exile.’

  ‘What’s his connection to the tarantulas?’

  ‘Incensed by their inevitable decline toward extinction, he took it upon himself to preserve a sanctuary for them. He travelled to Darwin Island, a remote speck of land north of Isabela where he hoped to discover tarantulas unharmed by the mites. No one knows if he succeeded. The island has become his domain and he is very protective of it. He allows scientific expeditions to land and observe the bird populations but does not permit overnight stays. He’s known to screen boarding parties like a custom’s official. Interestingly, the governments of Ecuador and Britain have struck an agreement regarding his residency in the archipelago and specifically on Darwin Island. Ecuadorean goodwill allows him to stay there in exchange for substantial financial and intellectual contributions from the British government to manage the archipelago’s ec
ology.’

  ‘Has anyone asked him about the tarantulas?’

  ‘He’s not the most approachable character, by all accounts.’

  ‘It must be a harsh existence.’

  ‘Brutal. The barren rock of Darwin Island is home to thousands of sooty terns. It’s the only place in the archipelago where they breed, and their noise is perpetual. However, the waters around the island have overwhelming tourist appeal. They are some of the finest dive sites on Earth, featuring schooling hammerhead, Galapagos and whale sharks. There is no dock, so landing on the island is somewhat difficult. It enables Doctor Jekyll to easily monitor the ocean for unwanted visitors.’

  ‘I’m guessing Doctor Jekyll is not his real name.’

  ‘His name is Professor Robert Hyde and he’s as grumpy as they come.’

  ‘Something is keeping him there. You don’t sit on a lump of volcanic rock for a quarter century just to enjoy the view. He’s protecting a secret or his solitude. How do you get there?’

  ‘Short of parachuting in, you must fly to Isabela and hook up with a dive or fishing charter. Can I ask why you are so interested in the tarantulas?’

  ‘I guess the intrigue of rediscovering the largest spider in the world has fired my imagination.’

  Rachel and Paris entered the foyer, dressed in colourful shorts and T-shirts.

  ‘We thought you’d got lost, Zachary,’ Rachel said as they arrived at the desk.

  ‘This kind lady has given me some valuable information. Fancy a trip to Darwin Island?’ Zachary said.

  ‘Great,’ Paris said. ‘We’re going to take a stroll along the foreshore for an hour or so. Father Stephen will be down soon.’

  Zachary watched them go, returning his attention to the woman.

  ‘Can you organise a charter?’

  ‘Easily done.’

  ‘The first available boat, if possible.’

  ‘Four adults?’

  ‘Thank you, and preferably something comfortable for our exclusive use.’

  Zachary slipped a black Centurion Amex Card across the counter.

  ‘Give me an hour, Mr Smith, and I’ll have the arrangements finalised.’

  He noted her shiny brass name tag. ‘Thank you, Angelina.’

  She smiled up from her computer terminal and handed back his credit card. As Zachary took it he slipped five one-hundred-dollar bills into her hand.

  ‘I can’t accept this, Mr Smith.’

  ‘It’s not negotiable, Angelina. See you in an hour.’

  82

  The Pacific Ocean was at it bright blue best. Angelina had secured a luxurious launch with a crew of five. In dazzling sunshine, the boat carved through an oily sea. From the shaded deck the quartet watched birds circle above them and schools of fish run under the hull. The Galapagos was truly the ark of life, its beauty staggering to behold.

  Darwin Island materialised on the horizon, a great lump of bare rock thrusting out of the boiling sea, its sheer walls etched by surf. On approach, an incredible number of sea birds whirled and screamed overhead. Darwin’s Arch, a striking stone doorway, stood alone off the end of the island, like the last remnant of a giant ruin.

  ‘Where does the Professor live?’ Rachel said.

  Captain Coburg swung down from the wheelhouse onto the lower deck. He wore a patch over one eye.

  ‘His shack is on the other side of the rock. We’ll park a safe distance out and run the dinghy in.’

  ‘Are there any beaches?’ Paris said.

  ‘This ain’t Laguna, lady. We’re in volcano country, nothing but lava-rock and guano. This baby starts way below us. What you see is the tip of an eroded cone that last spewed its guts up around a million years ago.’

  ‘So how do we get onto the island?’

  ‘Weather permitting, you climb.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous,’ Father Stephen said.

  ‘Fortunately, the conditions are perfect. There’s a ladder running up the cliff face - only fifty rungs to the top.’

  ‘Are you sure the Professor is home, Captain?’ Zachary said.

  ‘I can guarantee it, unless he’s fallen off and drowned. Mine is the only boat he charters for his trips to Isabela and back.’

  ‘Will he talk to us?’ Zachary said.

  ‘He’s reclusive and says little. I don’t pretend to know too much about him except he pays his way. But here on Darwin he is king. Sometimes you can see him from the boat, standing at cliff’s edge like Robinson Crusoe, with his beard and wild hair blowing in the wind. He’ll demand to see your Darwinian passports once you’re on the island and he’ll be waiting at the top of the ladder to greet you.’

  ‘What’s a Darwinian passport?’

  ‘No need to worry, Father Stephen, I have them ready for you. A bottle of rum in each of your day packs will get you through customs. What happens after that is entirely in the lap of the gods.’

  If Captain Coburg was trying to frighten them, Rachel conceded he was doing a fair job. No one seemed to have a good word about the Professor and she felt his influence reaching across the waves.

  The Coldfire Queen powered down, negotiating the channel between the island and the spectacular arch. A small herd of seals streaked under the boat, pirouetting through ribbons of golden kelp, shooting into the air and spearing back into the water with barely a splash.

  The island was a moonscape, totally inhospitable. Paris yelled out, pointing excitedly to a spot halfway up the cliff face.

  ‘That must be where he lives.’

  ‘Got it in one, lady, and the ladder is just a little further on.’

  Perched high above the surf, the shack was shielded from the afternoon sun by a backdrop of steep rock. Unseen, Hyde watched the launch move slowly around the island’s coast.

  ‘How does he get in there?’ Zachary said.

  ‘It’s a spot only Spiderman could reach,’ Rachel said.

  ‘It’s easier than it appears. There is a natural corridor linking it to the top of the island. Right now, the weather’s perfect for snorkelling. I guarantee the underwater scenery will blow you away.’

  ‘Maybe later, Captain. I’m keen to get onto the island and meet the Professor.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Captain Coburg’s tone bred apprehension. ‘You’ll need sturdy footwear, sunglasses, hats and sunscreen to combat the glare on the rock.’

  The Coldfire Queen anchored in crystal-clear water. The quartet stepped off the transom into a small tender. Captain Coburg wrenched the throttle so the dinghy lurched forward without warning. He delighted in their momentary imbalance, bouncing them across the gentle swell toward the island. The dinghy slumped as it slowed in front of a wall of black rock and a corroded iron ladder.

  ‘How do we find the entrance to the corridor, Captain?’ Zachary said.

  ‘I’d stay away. Hyde won’t want you snooping around. He’ll make his presence known soon enough but don’t expect a guided tour. I suggest you enjoy the scenery, take a stroll across the top of the island, observe the birds and take some photographs. The ladder may look a bit worse for wear but it’s solid. I’ll manoeuvre you in. Take your time climbing up and don’t be afraid to rest. If you decide to fall off mind the people climbing behind you and try to wait until the dinghy is out of the way.’

  Captain Coburg revelled in their nervousness. Unsure if he was baiting them, Paris let out a tentative giggle. She wanted to go first, terrified at the thought of being collected by someone falling off the ladder or being crunched in the bottom of the dinghy, far from emergency medical help. As they glided into the cliff, Paris slung her day pack across her shoulders and reached out for the ladder. Her fingers wrapped around a cold rusted rung, gripping it for dear life. Stepping onto the ladder, she turned to see the others floating away, and a wave of abandonment washed over her.

  ‘Keep going, Paris,’ Rachel yelled.

  Paris climbed. She stared straight ahead through the rungs of the ladder at the cliff wall, trying to take her mind off all the hor
rible possibilities. When the ladder shook, she squealed and snuck a glance past her feet. Rachel had made it on, following her up.

  Paris climbed with aching arms and burning thighs. She heard the whine of the outboard as Captain Coburg headed back to the launch. A vision of prowling sharks crashed her thoughts but she quickly drove it out as she topped the ladder.

  Her cheeks glowed pink beneath the brim of her cap and she was puffing. Planting the palms of her hands firmly on top of the guano stained rock, she clambered onto flat ground, quickly moving away from the edge. Bent over with hands on knees to regain her breath, Paris was suddenly aware of a man standing just a few feet away staring at her. He moved to the cliff edge, checking the progress of the other climbers.

  Wearing only khaki shorts, the sinewy, sun-leathered man held a tall, three-pronged spear in his right hand. The long grey beard running off his chin, tangled with the curls on his chest, and his hair hung down his back in a dreadlocked mess. Cerulean eyes lit up his wizened face.

  Rachel popped her head above the lip of the cliff and Paris offered her a hand off the ladder, the butterflies scattering in her stomach as she took in the perilous view of the ocean far below. The Professor observed them wordlessly, waiting for the others to arrive. Zachary and Father Stephen climbed off the ladder in quick succession, untroubled by their effort.

  The quartet gathered in a tight group and Zachary glanced at Rachel, searching for a hint of what had transpired. The Professor interrupted the squawking gulls in a pompous voice, his eccentricity immediately evident. ‘Passports!’

  Father Stephen slipped off his day pack and pulled a tall bottle of rum out into the sunlight. The others quickly followed his lead.

  ‘Line them up on that rock.’ Hyde pointed to the spot.

  ‘What else is in your packs?’

  ‘Just fruit,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Don’t feed the wildlife and take all scraps with you. I don’t want diseases on my island. Make sure you’re off by nightfall.’