Kathleen retired to bed with a hot-water bottle, two aspirin, and a growing suspicion that her so-called abscess was shaping up as one humdinger of a premonition. She couldn’t hurry it. The best thing to do was lie quietly and see what else came to her.
Connor Maguire made it across the island in record time, arriving at the convent just before two o’clock. Permission to see Kathleen was denied on the grounds that she was unwell. With no time to waste pleading his case, Connor went walkabout within the convent grounds. It was not difficult to find the nuns’ dormitory wing. The heavy wooden door stood open and he slipped inside praying no-one would notice. He assumed, rightly as it turned out, that the nuns’ residential quarters would be deserted at this hour by all but the ailing. He found Kathleen’s name halfway down the passage.
By now, Sister Maguire had developed several other symptoms. The feeling of nausea persisted and she was freezing. Every time Kathleen closed her eyes, the room turned into a roller-coaster. It hurt to breathe, her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. She took one look at Connor’s face in the doorway and knew, with sudden clarity, that he, or something connected with him, was linked to her mysterious malaise.
‘It’s Holly,’ he told her tersely. ‘She’s missing. Guy Dulac’s taken her.’
Kathleen’s heart skipped a beat as Connor’s fear communicated itself to her. ‘Sit down.’
He did, and jumped straight up again. ‘Can you help?’
‘Yes, I think so. But you must calm down. You’ve brought a lot of nervous energy into the room.’
Connor returned to the single chair.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ Kathleen said gently. ‘I’ll need a minute or two to put it together.’
He nodded, bit at a fingernail, then stared at her with hopeful eyes.
Kathleen closed her own. The pain in her jaw? A blow of some kind? ‘Your friend has been hurt,’ she said slowly. ‘Here.’ Kathleen tapped her jaw. ‘It was sudden, unexpected. Perhaps a punch.’
Connor let out a low groan of despair.
Sick. Cold. Room spinning. The sea? It must be the sea. ‘She’s in a boat. It’s out beyond the reef I think.’ Why did it hurt to breathe? ‘She might be tied up or injured. It hurts her to breathe.’ Kathleen’s eyes opened.’ I’m sorry. That’s all I’m getting.’
Hurts to breathe. Holly’s ribs. She’d have put up a fight. Connor knew Kathleen was on the right track. ‘Is she alive?’ he asked, fearing the answer.
‘Oh yes. Most definitely. If she weren’t I wouldn’t be getting these signals. But she fears a great evil. She is in terrible danger.’
‘I must get to a telephone.’ Connor was on his feet. ‘Speak to the police.’
The amphetamines wore off slowly. By the time they did, Guy had taken his father’s boat further out to sea than he’d ever been before. Mauritius was well over the horizon. With the adrenaline-pumping drugs abating, Guy Dulac began to feel fear. He had never seen such big seas. They had to come around, get back to land. But how? Turning broadside to the weather would be suicide. Cutting back on the throttle was no good. He had to keep the boat’s momentum, stay bow on to the waves. What if he increased the revs and turned under full power? It was worth a try.
Guy watched for a pattern in the chaos. Three big waves, one not so big, three big, one not so big, three big. Now. He spun the wheel and pushed forward on both throttles. The boat almost capsized as it shot forward along a climbing wall of water, slid over the crest and rolled in the opposite direction. She’s turning. Come on, you bitch! Bite. Three big ones coming. Come on, come on!
The first wave caught the stern three-quarters on. They were still turning. It carried them forward, bow down, and threatened to tumble the boat in a terrifying pitch pole. Guy managed to bring the wheel amidships before both propellers cleared water. He eased off on power as the boat literally tipped backwards into the trough. He had only a few seconds. He nudged the throttles forward and they were fully about before the next wave hit.
Guy headed for home. He had no idea how far they’d travelled. Fuel was not a problem. The tanks had been filled in Grand Baie, 2500 litres of diesel, giving a cruising range of almost fifteen hundred kilometres. Under normal conditions Guy would expect to burn around 50 litres of fuel an hour.
It was of some surprise therefore when he noticed that the main tank was registering less than a quarter of its capacity. He switched briefly to the reserve and nodded as the gauge swung to full. At least now, going with the swell, they wouldn’t be using as much.
What was he going to do with the girl? Originally, he’d planned to drop anchor somewhere on the leeward side of the half dozen or so uninhabited islands that lay just to the north of Mauritius itself. In this weather, that was out of the question. It might be best to dump the bitch overboard here and now. If he took her back she’d probably lay a charge of assault and abduction against him. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
‘You awake yet?’ he yelled down into the cabin.
Holly was more terrified than at any other time in her life. She didn’t know which was worse, the dull ache in her head or the throbbing pain in both hands as she clung to the sides of the bunk in a cabin that smashed from side to side, rising and falling with each wave.
She knew the boat had turned. The crashing, thumping, jarring journey had changed, but only in so much as, at the crest of each wave there was a brief sensation of flying. In some ways, it was more frightening, less under control. There was a strong engine smell in the cabin. Holly had to get up on deck, breathe some fresh air, see what was happening. Ignoring Guy’s shouted question, she rose unsteadily from the bunk. Water sloshed around her feet. About five centimetres of oily liquid covered the cabin floor. Through two small portholes her view was of a surging, plunging, wild world of dark grey sea. Holly was so busy trying to stay on her feet that she gave it only a passing glance.
She noticed something lying in a fold of the blanket and picked it up. It was a thin gold link bracelet with an engraved, heart-shaped locket attached to the fastening clip. The clasp was broken, its link pulled open. She didn’t know what made her do it – some kind of instinct. Holly forced the gold ring closed and put the bracelet on her arm. She had no idea of its significance, but somehow sensed that it was important. Then she made her way unsteadily up to the main cabin.
‘Nice of you to join me.’ Guy did not look at her. His concentration was on the heaving ocean.
Holly paid him no attention. Hanging on to the table just to stay upright, she stared around them with horror. Walls of water in every direction. Her legs threatened to give way. As the boat slid sickeningly down another wave, she suddenly felt nausea rise and scrambled to reach the aft well deck. Outside, Holly grabbed the port rail and hung on as they plunged into the next trough.
At that precise moment, the bow slammed into something very solid.
The two tonne, six metre long container had been damaged when it tore free of its stacking on board the container ship Lady Elise, and it was taking water ever so slowly. For three days it had floated, sinking lower and lower into the water until only one corner protruded about a metre above the surface. Borne by the ocean, a slave to the forces of Yvette, it was headed for Mauritius. Guy Dulac had no warning. The container’s solid steel twist-lock mounting sliced through the bow with ease. The sudden impact lifted Guy from his feet and flung him forward onto the wheel, his forehead smashing into the brass compass binnacle.
Holly was catapulted over the side and into the water.
Neither of them, therefore, had the slightest idea of the sequence of events that followed the collision.
If his senses had not been dulled in the wake of a drug-induced high, Guy would have investigated the low fuel reading for the main tank and found a ruptured line had flooded the bilges and caused a dangerous accumulation of diesel fumes in the engine compartment.
That was also where the boat’s rack of heavy duty batteries was to be foun
d.
When Guy last checked them, it had been necessary for him to remove a build-up of accumulated corrosion on the terminals. Typically, he had not replaced the wooden lid. An adjustable spanner, which was always used to work on the batteries, hung from a hook on the bulkhead beside them. On impact with the container it fell free, bounced once, and slid forward to form a bridge across two very clean connections of opposing polarity.
The resultant spark found favour with the airborne diesel fumes and a sheet of flame ripped through the bilges from one end of the boat to the other. Not surprisingly, this ignited the split fuel which floated there on a liquid bed of sea water.
Unconscious, Guy Dulac felt nothing when the spontaneous combustion lifted his father’s boat out of the water. The Chris Craft, and its only occupant, were reduced to smithereens within five seconds of hitting the container.
Holly, who had just fought her way back to the surface, was struck by flying debris. She had enough presence of mind to duck dive and stay down for as long as she could before the need for air forced her up again. The sea close by seemed to be on fire. Of the boat, there was no sign. A couple of flaming planks of wood and some random flotsam was all that remained. The collision and explosion had not damaged the container. She could see it now, wallowing in the water. With a cut forehead adding to her already woeful condition, Holly knew her only chance was to reach it. The swell bore her to a dizzying height. Shutting her mind to everything but that one desperate hope, Holly swam as she had never done before. The container was only twenty metres away but, in the deep swell, it took almost half an hour to get there. By the time she did, Holly had reached the limit of her endurance.
Detective Rafe Jolliffe was dedicated, persistent, methodical and cautious. Taking spur-of-the-moment decisions was not his style. The girl’s life was in danger, of that he had no doubt, but no-one, not even Guy Dulac, would be mad enough to put out to sea in these conditions. That the boat had disappeared was, in his opinion, an indication that the Dulac boy would be seeking shelter further along the coast. There were any number of places he could be. So when Connor Maguire made contact and said he believed the Jones girl was somewhere in the open sea, the detective did not take him seriously, especially since, when pushed, Maguire admitted that his information came from a psychic nun.
Frustrated, Connor telephoned the Royal Palm Hotel to try and book one of their helicopters. They were grounded because of the weather. In desperation, he drove to the airport. After a considerable delay, an argument over safety and some outright bribery, one pilot agreed to take Connor up for an hour’s sightseeing. By the time they were finally airborne only eighty minutes of daylight remained. I’m coming, baby. Hold on.
By straddling the corner and holding onto the lifting lug apertures, Holly had found a measure of safety. It wasn’t much. The steel box rode the swell like a wallowing whale, sometimes plunging the exposed tip almost under water. At other times waves broke over it, blinding her with salty spray. Holly had no idea which way they were drifting – it would make no difference even if she did.
How long she floated, clinging to the container, was impossible to tell. Her arms and legs were numb, shoulders and thighs ached with cramp and twice she’d fought off the deepest desire to shut her eyes and simply let go. Whenever possible, as she rode high on a crest, Holly searched the horizon for any sight of land. She saw nothing but the grey surge of water in every direction. The stiff plastic envelope was still down the front of her swimsuit. Holly had forgotten about it until now. So much had happened because of its probable contents, but one sharp corner had pierced her skin and with each roll of the container, the stabbing pain became worse. Holly, somehow, had to get rid of the envelope. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed. ‘Let someone find me.’
As soon as they were airborne, Connor dropped his bombshell.
‘You want to go where?’ The pilot was stunned by his apparent change of plans. ‘No way. There’s nothing out there but water.’
‘I’ll double the rate we agreed,’ Connor snapped. ‘Let’s go.’
The pilot shrugged. It’d be a bit rough but not dangerous. Give the punters what they want. It was no skin off his nose. The man was obviously mad. ‘It’s a big ocean. Which way?’
Connor was operating on adrenaline, hope and an educated guess. ‘North-west from Flic-en-Flac.’
They flew across the island and out over the ocean. As they went, Connor, who needed the pilot’s full cooperation and experience, told him the relevant facts. It quickly became clear that his passenger was genuine, and at the mention of Guy Dulac’s name, what started out as a bizarre joy-ride turned into an all-out race against time. But, from the sky, the sheer size of their search was daunting.
‘We must work a pattern,’ Connor told the pilot.
‘What time did the boat leave Flic-en-Flac?’
‘I’m not sure. Some time between nine and midday.’
The pilot did some calculations. ‘Righto! We’ll try a bit further west.’
Ten minutes later they had still seen nothing. ‘We’ve only got another half-hour. After that, it’ll be too dark to see.’
‘Just keep looking.’ Connor’s voice was terse. He was staring down at the ocean, his eyes searching for anything at all.
They banked for a sweep further west and, at that moment, Connor caught sight of something white. ‘There.’ He pointed. ‘See that? Let’s take a closer look.’
The pilot hadn’t seen it but obligingly changed course and took the helicopter lower.
‘Good God, it’s her,’ Connor shouted. If Holly hadn’t been holding the white plastic envelope he’d have missed her completely. Even knowing where she was it was almost impossible to make her out against the slate-grey sea. ‘Take it down.’
‘Are you crazy? Look at the size of those waves. We’re too low as it is.’
‘Radio for help.’
Before he could stop him, the pilot watched in amazement as Connor unstrapped his safety harness and rolled backwards through the open door.
Holly was exhausted, in pain and terrified. Twice she had nearly been washed off the slowly sinking container. She had neither seen nor heard the helicopter, but suddenly became aware that the sea, in addition to its heaving swell, was being churned up by some unseen force. Hanging on with one hand, Holly had removed the envelope only to find that, without it, her ribs had no buffer against the container. Though not much protection, it was better than none. The flash of white that caught Connor’s attention was Holly’s attempt to position the envelope where it would do most good. In doing so, she nearly lost her balance and flung out the hand gripping the envelope.
She was in dreadful shape. She had swallowed a lot of water. Numb with cold, the feeling in her fingers had largely gone. It was only a matter of time before the container slipped away from her. Nearly blinded by salt water, sick to her stomach, fear and pain had been replaced by a dream-like sense of the inevitable. Holly wasn’t far from unconsciousness, knew it, and had lost the ability to care.
When Connor swam up and grabbed her ankle, her first thought was that a shark had attacked. He had to shout twice before she realised what was happening. His face, blurred though recognisable, seemed unreal. She wanted to believe but didn’t dare.
He pointed upwards and she saw the hovering helicopter. Two yellow objects fell from the open door and landed in the sea. ‘Life jackets,’ Connor shouted. ‘Hang on, baby. I’ll get them.’
Buoyed by the inflated support, Holly relinquished her tenuous hold on the container, allowing Connor to take over while she clung to him. The helicopter above turned so that they could see the pilot. He held up ten fingers, closed his hands, then another ten. ‘Twenty minutes,’ Connor waved his understanding. ‘Twenty minutes, baby. Hold on.’ He indicated the plastic envelope which she still clutched. ‘What’s this?’
‘Scylla.’ It was all she could manage.
If his face hadn’t been wet from the sea she’d have seen tears of the d
eepest possible emotion.
Although the helicopter pilot also dropped a floating transmitter and light, he hadn’t been strictly truthful with his indication of timing. Realising how exhausted the girl in the water must be, it was a ploy to give her hope. The coastguard took twice that long to reach them. By the time they did, it was pitch dark and Holly was unconscious. But Connor, holding her tightly, knew that nothing in this world could take her away from him.
Holly, if she had but known it, ended up in a hospital room just two doors from Sham. But like the policeman, she was warm and snug in the arms of pain-killing medication.
Surprisingly, after all she’d been through, her most serious condition was exhaustion. She was suffering from exposure but nothing too severe. Her jaw, though sore, had not been dislocated. Her ribs were merely cranky, and both hands, though tender, would recover fully. The cut in her forehead made by flying debris from the boat required no stitches, likewise the injury on her tummy. Both arms and legs were chafed and bruised but it was all superficial.
‘A good night’s sleep and some fluid replacement,’ the doctor told Connor. ‘Unless complications arise, she can go home tomorrow.’
Refusing to leave her side, Connor slept in a chair next to the bed. As dawn’s first fingers of light crept into the room on Friday morning, Holly stirred, opened her eyes and saw him. He had a fierce five-o’clock shadow, his hair towel dried and not brushed, he was wearing a white hospital gown, and fatigue smudges coloured the skin around his eyes. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
‘Connor,’ she croaked.
He was instantly awake. ‘Baby?’
‘Love you,’ she mumbled.
He went to pick up one of her bandaged hands, thought better of it, tried to kiss her but stopped when he remembered her jaw and finally settled on a chaste brushing of lips in her hair. ‘I love you too,’ he whispered. ‘More than I ever thought possible.’
The Forgotten Sea Page 41
