Tuck concentrated on the gauges and the runway. He said, “What church do you and your husband work for?”

“Methodist.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“What’s there to tell? Methodists rock!” she said, then she giggled like a little girl as Tuck pulled the plane into the sky.

Malink joined the drinking circle late, hoping that everyone would be drunk enough to forget what had gone on that day. He’d spent most of the after-noon at Favo’s house, afraid even to face his wife and daughters, but when the sun was well boiled in the sea, he knew he had to join the other men or face the consequences of tuba-poisoned theories and rumors aspiring to truth. He sneaked into an open spot in the circle and sat on the sand, even though several younger men moved so he could sit on a log with his back to the tree. He threw an open pack of Benson & Hedges into the center of the circle and Favo divided up the smokes among the men. Some lit up, others broke them into sections to chew with betel nut, and a few tucked them behind their ears for later. The distraction was

short-lived and one of the Johns, an elder, said, “So why did Vincent send the Japanese into our houses?”

Malink waved him off as he drank from the coconut shell cup and made a great show of enjoying his first drink before handing the cup to Abo, who was pouring. Then he stalled another few seconds by lighting a Benson & Hedges with the Zippo, making sure everyone saw it and remembered, then after a long drag he said, “I’m fucked if I know.” He said this in English—English being the best language for swearing.

“It is not good,” said John.

“They came to the bachelors’ house,” said Abo, who, as usual, was angry. “They looked at our mispel’s thighs.”

“We should kill them,” said one of the younger men who had been named for Vincent.

“And eat them!” someone added—and it was as if the air had been pulled on the circle before it could inflate to well-rounded violent mob.

Everyone turned to see Sarapul walking out of the shadows. For once, Malink was glad to see him. The old cannibal seemed to have a spring in his step, seemed younger, stronger.

“I need an ax,” Sarapul said. The men who owned axes all stared into the sand or examined their fingernails.

“What for?” Malink asked.

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“You’re not going to start headhunting, are you?” Malink said. “We’ve put up with your talk of eating people, but I draw the line at headhunting. No headhunting while I’m chief.”

Everybody grunted in agreement and Malink was glad to have been able to assert his authority in a way that no one could dispute. An anthropologist had once come to the island and given him a book about headhunters. Malink felt very cosmopolitan discussing the topic.

Sarapul looked confused. He’d never read the headhunting book, had never read any book, but he did have a Classic Comics version of The Count of Monte Cristo, which a sailor had given him in the days before the Shark People were forbidden to meet visiting ships. He’d made Kimi read it to him every night. Sarapul liked the thread of revenge and murder that ran through the story.

Sarapul said, “What is this headhunting? I just want to cut a tree.”

“Cutting trees is taboo,” said one of the younger men.

“I will get special dispensation,” Sarapul said, using a term he had learned from Father Rodriquez.

Malink shook his head. “We don’t have that anymore. We only had that when we were Catholics.”

“I need an ax,” Sarapul said, as if he might do better if he started over. “And I need permission from the great Chief Malink to cut a tree.”

Malink scratched a mosquito bite and looked at his feet. It was true that he could give permission to break a taboo, and Sarapul had distracted the circle before they ganged up on him. “You may cut one tree, on your side of the island, and you must show it to me before you cut it. Now, who has an ax?”

Everyone knew who owned axes, but nobody volunteered. Malink chose one of the young Vincents. “You, go get your ax.” Then to Sarapul he said: “Why do you need to cut a tree?”

Sarapul considered holding out, but decided that a credible lie would be better. “My house is falling down from the girl-man climbing in the rafters.”

It was the wrong answer to give in front of a group of men whose houses had been rifled only hours ago. Malink cradled his head in his hands.

The toughest part of the landing for Tuck was restraining himself from leaping out of the seat and demanding high-fives from the woman. It was perfect. He was back. Never mind the ghosts, the talking bats, the three-hour flight with a woman who could have been the model for the new Multiple Personality Barbie. She’s elegant, she’s fashionable, and she’s the reason that Ken has no genitals! Have fun, but remember to hide the sharp stuff!

Never mind all that. He was a pilot.

They were somewhere in southern Japan, a small jetport, probably private, with no tower and only a few hangars. Tuck had gotten them there by following the nav computer, which, he found in midflight, had only two coordinates programmed into it: Alualu and this airfield.

“What happens if we have a problem and have to divert?” he asked Beth.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. She had spent most of the flight grilling him about the navigational instruments, as if she wanted to

know enough to be able to check the course herself. He complied, feeling insulted by the whole conversation.

Another Lear was spooling up on the tarmac and Beth Curtis instructed him to taxi to it. As the jet bumped to a stop and he prepared to shut down, she pulled her briefcase and cooler out of the overhead and turned to him. “Stay here. We’ll take off in a few minutes.”

“What about loading supplies?”

“Mr. Case, please just prepare the plane for departure. I won’t be long.”

Two men in blue coveralls crossed the tarmac from the other jet and lowered the hatch for her. Tuck watched out the window as she met a third Japanese man in a white lab coat. She handed him the cooler and a folder from the briefcase, then traded bows with him and quickstepped back to the Lear. One of the men in blue coveralls followed her into the plane with a cardboard box, which he strapped into one of the passenger seats.

“Domo,” Beth Curtis said.

He bowed quickly, left the plane, and sealed the hatch. She stashed the briefcase in the overhead again climbed into the copilot’s seat.

“Let’s go.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Let’s go.”

“We should top off the fuel tanks while we’re here.”

“I understand why you might be a little nervous about that, Mr. Case, but we have plenty of fuel to make it back.”

“One box. That’s all we’re picking up?”

“One box.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s a case of ’78 Bordeaux. Sebastian loves it. Let’s go.”

“But I have to use the bathroom. I thought…”

“Hold it,” Beth Curtis said.

“Bitch.”

“Exactly. Now don’t you need to do your checklist thingy?”