“Don’t move.”
That sandy face stared at her. He spit again. “Why?”
“Because I want to remember you just as you are.” She tried not to laugh. Really. And failed.
* * *
The sun waslazyin the tropics. It rose and set slowly as if the thick and humid air affected the passage of time in the same listless way it did man. This morning was no different. The sun crawled up the eastern horizon and painted the Pacific sky pink and blue and silver—the colors of an abalone shell.
Hank stood on the edge of the headland, scouting the lay of the island. The northeast coast was a sheer drop of limestone cliffs with jagged coastal rocks and strong current—too strong for the lifeboat. It had been the same to the southwest. Nothing but walls of untraversable rock protected the small lagoon and beach.
From the coned peak of a distant volcano spread corrugated slopes of solid lava, which weather and air had turned black as loam. Those rivers of black flowed into a dense green jungle, thick, lush, seemingly untouched by humankind, and inaccessible. Uncivilized.
He turned and crawled down the rocks to the isolated white sand beach below. He took a deep breath, then stretched and bent to work out the stiffness of a long night spent on the damp ground.
Above him gulls flew from their cubby nests in the sheer face of the headland and cawed like roosters at the rising sun. One wheeled sharply, then swooped toward a wave, gliding over the sea and the air with soaring freedom—something most of the world took for granted.
He stripped and walked into foamy waters of the surf. He dove under a clear blue-green wave, swimming along the idle trench of the next swell with the seabirds flying above him.
The water was cool and clearer than a Pacific sky, the waves and swells gentle and low in the morning tide. He swam, stroke after long powerful stroke through the same distant ocean he’d heard from his cell.
Within a few minutes he was past the surf and swimming along a sand bar. He stood, his feet sinking in the soft sand. The water hit him at his waist.
He walked along the sand bar looking down at the water as small swells drifted by. Yellow and orange fish darted past him between the rocks that littered the ocean floor.
At the western edge of the lagoon, he dove down and caught the flash of something that glittered up at him from underwater. He surfaced, took a breath, and stuck his head under, trying to focus on the spot where he’d seen that flash of metal.
He’d lost it. He came up for air, then went under again and swam down until he was almost lying on the ocean floor. A mass of kelp wavered in the current, and as it moved, he caught the flash again. He pushed aside the seaweed. There was something metal there behind the seaweed. A large lump of something hard that wasn’t a rock.
With a fistful of sand, he rubbed it until he recognized the small brass lock. A trunk lock. He shoved the sand and kelp away. The trunk sat half against the sand bar and the rock.
His chest burning for air, he surfaced, took in deep breaths, and dove again. He kicked at the trunk a few times until it loosened from the sand bed. He gripped the iron trunk handle and pulled.
Over and over he pulled the trunk. Into the trench, then closer and closer to shore. Five more times he had to take in air, but he finally got the trunk to the shallow water and dragged it onto the beach.
Winded, he dropped the trunk handle and bent over, his hands on his knees as he gulped in big chestfuls of air. After a minute he straightened and looked at the trunk.
It was made of japanned iron, with nailheads that had oxidized in the brine of the sea. The lock was brass.
He eyed it closely. A Yale lock? He wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing: trying to break a brass lock was like expecting to have fun with a virgin—a complete waste of time.
Hank scoured the beach until he found a broken board with a rusted nail. He hit the board hard against the trunk of a palm tree and drove the nail up. He stood on the board and yanked out the nail. He squatted and worked in front of the trunk. About a half a minute later, the lock popped open.
He grinned and snapped his fingers. Like good liquor, some skills just get better with age. He rubbed his hands together and opened the trunk.
The strong scent of cedar and flowers filled the air. There were clothes inside, formal clothes.
Helluva lot of good some monkey suit and a ball gown would be to him out here. He dug through, looking for jewelry, something of value, but there was nothing.
No jewels. No gold. No treasure.
Figured.
Disgusted, he sat back in the sand and rested his arms on his sandy knees. He turned and shot a scowl at the trunk. Completely worthless. He slammed it shut.
The muffled sound of glass clinked together. He frowned and reached over and opened the trunk again. Something rolled inside the lid.
Kneeling, he scanned the cedar and found a small catch and opened it. Stored in the dark recesses of the lid were five bottles wrapped in felt bags. He took them out one by one and whistled in appreciation.
