Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks which divided one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would be out of sight of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just one glance over her shoulder and confirm that he was still there. She resisted successfully, but the effort of doing so must have been visible to Niolopua because once they were down on the sand again, with the house almost in view, he said:

"Don't worry. He'll come."

She glanced sideways at him. "Is it that obvious?"

Niolopua shrugged. "He's who he is. You're who you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That he won't break his promise."

It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a few moments, that she realized how she'd lost some of her equilibrium from being on board The Samarkand. The floor felt unreliable beneath her bare soles, and she felt oddly queasy: a strange reversal of seasickness. She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face, then asked Niolopua if he'd mind making her some hot, sweet tea while she called New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the relative privacy of the dining room and dialed the mansion, wondering as she did so how to best express her condolences. Would Loretta expect her to be tearful at the news? Surely not.

The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she recognized: a man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a heavy cold. She asked for Loretta.

"Mrs. Geary can't come to the phone right now. Who is this?" Rachel told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic-the way she felt when an elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop. The prospect of entrapment loomed.

"I had a message from Loretta," Rachel said.

"Yes. I know."

"Who was that I was talking to?"

"A detective."

"What's going on?"

"It's Margie…"

"What about her?"

There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: "She's dead, Rachel. Somebody shot her dead."

The elevator lurched a second time. "Oh God, Mitch…"

"They're saying Garrison did it," Mitchell went on. "But that's just bullshit. He was set up. It's just bullshit."

"When did it happen?"

"Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off."

"Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie."

"You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you."

"I don't know anything."

"You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something-"

"I don't want to come back, Mitchell."

"What are you talking about?" For the first time in the exchange there was some emotion in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief. "You've got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway?"

"It's none of your business."

"You're out on that fucking island, aren't you?" he said, his tone all anger now. "You think we don't know about that place? You think it's some big secret? I know what goes on out there."

"You don't have the first clue," she said, hoping he heard the certainty in her voice.

"If you don't come back, the police are going to come looking for you. Is that what you want?"

"Don't try bullying me. It won't work any more."

"Rachel."

"I'll call you back."

"Don't hang up."

She hung up. "You bastard," she said quietly. Then, more quietly still: "Poor Margie."

"Something bad?" Niolopua said. He was at the door with her cup of hot tea.

"Very bad," she said. He brought the tea to her table and set it down. "My sister-in-law was murdered last night."

"How?"

"She was shot. By… her own husband." She was laying all this out more for her own benefit than for Niolopua's; putting what was nearly beyond belief into words.

"Do you want me to go tell my father?"

"Yes," Rachel said, "if you don't mind. Would you ask him to hurry up? Tell him I need him here."

"Is there anything else before I go?"

"No, thank you."

"I'm sorry," he said. "She was a nice woman." So saying, he left her alone.

She took a few sips of tea, which Niolopua had sweetened with honey, then got up and went to the cabinet. If her memory served she'd seen a half-emptied carton of cigarettes in one of the drawers. That's what she needed right now: a bitter lungful of carcinogenic smoke inhaled in memory of her Margie. Several lungfuls, in fact, and fuck the consequences.

The carton was where she'd hoped it was, but there were no matches. Taking her tea and the cigarettes, she went through to the kitchen. The vestiges of her land-sickness remained; not the queasiness, but the unsettling sense that the ground beneath her was rocking. She found some matches and went out to sit in the veranda, where she could watch for Galilee.

The cigarette tasted stale, but she smoked it anyway, thinking of the countless times she'd sat happily immersed in the cloud of smoke that hung about Margie, talking with happy purposelessness. If the victim had been somebody else, Margie would have been thoroughly entranced, she knew; eager to talk over every possible scenario of how the murder had come about. She'd had no sense of tragedy, she'd told Rachel once. Tragedy only happened to people who gave a damn, and she'd never met anybody who did. Rachel had said this was nonsense. Amongst all the important people Margie had rubbed shoulders with there'd been some who genuinely wanted to make a difference. Not a one, Margie had replied; cheats, liars and thieves, every last one. Rachel remembered the conversation not for Margie's cynicism, but because there had been such disappointment in her voice as she spoke. Somewhere behind the veil there'd been a woman who'd wanted nothing more than to be proved wrong about what wretched bastards the movers and shakers of the world were.

Which thought led on, inevitably, to Garrison, about whom Margie had never said one good word. According to her he'd been-among other things-selfish, pompous and inept in bed. But these were minor felonies beside the crime of which he was now accused; and it was difficult for Rachel to imagine any circumstances in which he would pick up a gun and shoot his own wife. Yes, it seemed they'd despised one another; but they'd lived in a state of mutual contempt for years. It didn't make him a murderer. If he'd wanted an end to the marriage, there were easier resolutions.

She turned over what Mitchell had said, about coming home of her own volition, or having the police come and fetch her. It was nonsense, surely. She plainly wasn't a suspect, so any information she could supply would be purely anecdotal. If they needed to talk to her, they could do it by phone. She didn't have to go back if she didn't want to; and she didn't want to. Especially now, with so much to work out between Galilee and herself.

She'd finished her cigarette by now, and had almost finished her tea. Rather than sit on the veranda she decided to go back inside and change into fresh clothes. She picked up some cookies on her way through the kitchen, and went into the bathroom to shower.

It was only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror-her skin flushed from wind and sun-that she realized how strangely calm she felt. Was she simply too stunned by all that had happened in the last few hours to respond to it? Why wasn't she weeping? Her best friend was dead, for God's sake, and here she was staring at herself out of the mirror without a tear shed. She looked hard at her reflection, as though it might speak back to her and solve this mystery; but her face showed her nothing.

She went to the shower, and turned it on, shedding her clothes where she stood. The flow of water was weak, but she luxuriated in it nevertheless, remembering Galilee's touches as she sluiced off her salted skin. His hands on her face, her breasts, her belly, his tongue at play between her legs. She wanted him again, now. Wanted him to be whispering to her the way he'd whispered that first night: a story of water and love. She'd even take a tale of sharks if that was what he felt like telling. She was in the mood to be devoured.