Aaron Elkins: Where there's a will

The next time, about an hour later, staring fixedly out the window at nothing-there was nothing to see-he said: “About where are we now, would you say?”

“About halfway there, probably.”

“Yes, but where, exactly? Can’t you check it on the chart?”

She laughed, a nasty, grating laugh that hurt her throat. How could he have flown so many hours beside her, and beside Gus, and beside his nephew, and know so pathetically little? “What would looking at the chart tell me? What good is it over an empty ocean? There’s nothing to see. And if there was, we couldn’t see it anyway. It’s dark out there, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I was merely asking a question, Claudia,” he said stiffly. “I just wanted to know where I was.”

And something inside her, whatever it was that had been holding her together, snapped. She began ranting, screaming at him in the small cabin. If he hadn’t been too cheap to buy a goddamned GPS, they’d know where they were, and more important, they’d know where Tarabao Island was and how to get there. How many times had she asked them for one? What did they cost, a lousy couple of hundred bucks? But no, the used Grumman Cheetah had come without a GPS in 1986-and without an ADF as well-and Gus had flown it just fine for eighteen years without seeing the need for them, and they’d never had a problem, and what was the point of wasting money The stricken look on his face made her stop. It was the first time she’d ever spoken to him like that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m a little tense.”

“I understand, Claudia,” he said mildly. “I’m a little tense myself.”

She groped for something to say. “How’s the hand?”

He smiled at her-a sweet, achingly wistful smile. What does it matter how my hand is? “It throbs a little, that’s all. It’ll be fine once I get it taken care of.”

“Sure, it will.”

Again they fell silent. Ten minutes passed. “Claudia,” he said pensively, “do you like wood?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you like wood, working with it?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“I love wood. Love the smell of it, love the feel of the curls that come off when you plane it down. In Sweden I was apprenticed to a furniture maker, did you know that?”

His voice was dreamy, his mind a million miles away. “You know what I’m going to do when I get settled? I think I’m going to make furniture for people-chairs, cabinets, that kind of thing. Everybody needs furniture. In Australia, I was thinking.”

“I thought you were coming home when everything quieted down.”

“No… that was the plan, but I don’t really think that would be the best idea,” he said, almost as if they were talking about something that might actually happen. “I’ve got some money socked away in a mainland account; more than enough to set up shop, and I wouldn’t have to make very much-wouldn’t want to make very much-just enough to live a nice, quiet life. Wouldn’t that be something? No more hoof-and-mouth, no more blackleg, no more pinkeye, no more cattle stink-just that clean, fresh smell of pine, of oak, of fir… they all smell different once you know them, did you know that?”

“That sounds nice,” she said.

“Well, I was wondering… do you think you might like to work for me-with me? It’d be good to have somebody I trust. You’re a strong, smart girl, you’d pick up the craft in no time, and then, after I’m gone, you’d have a real profession. You’d be surprised, there’s a lot of pleasure that comes from turning out a quality piece of handmade furniture. We could maybe share a house, or I could live in back of the shop and you could rent somewhere if you’d like that better. We could take jobs or turn them down, whatever we feel like. What do you think?”

She smiled at him. “Sure, Mr. T. I’d like that.”

“We’ll plan on it, then.”

Her throat was aching. “You bet.”

After that, they flew on without speaking, deep in their own thoughts, their own regrets, until the last of the fuel ran out and the Cheetah had started its final descent.

Yup, that’s that. We’re going down.

She had known for the last twenty minutes that they had missed the island. Since then they had flown in expanding circles, hoping somehow to find the beacon. But she had little hope of finding Tarabao or anyplace else. It was a minuscule island, and the Pacific down this way was very empty. In going on four hours since they’d left Hawaii they’d never seen a single light, not even from some lonely freighter.

She trimmed the tabs slightly back for as long and slow a descent as possible- funny how, even now, you did whatever you could to give yourself maybe two more minutes aloft, as if it made any difference -sat back, and slid open the window to let in the cool night air. She took two deep breaths, shivered, and closed it again.

“What do we do now?” Torkelsson asked.

“First get your life jacket on. And you know there’s a raft stowed right behind us, right? If something happens to me and I can’t-”

“Claudia-”

“-and I can’t open it for us, you just pull the inflation handle, you don’t have to open the valise. Make sure you wait till you get it out the door first.”

He managed a dry laugh. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“Now get that jacket on. And then pull the seat belt tight. Don’t worry, we’re going to be all right.”

“Of course we are.” He said it like a man already dead, but he shrugged the mildewed orange jacket over his head and pulled the bands tight. Claudia did the same with hers.

“I’m really sorry I yelled at you like that,” she said a few moments later. “I had no call to do that. You’ve been great to me, Mr. Torkelsson, you and your brother both.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I had it coming.” He was very calm, very still. “Can I do something to help?”

“No, there’s really not much to do. Can you see anything down there?”

“No, it’s black as ink.”

She checked the altimeter. “We’re at sixteen hundred feet now. I’m going to put on the landing lights. If you can help me look for the waves, that’d be a help.”

“Look for the waves?” he said blankly.

“Which way they’re running. We want to come in parallel to them, between the crests, if we can. If we run smack into them, it’ll be like running into a stone wall. Into a row of stone walls.”

“I see. Yes, all right, I’ll try.”

Neither of them said what they both knew to be true: What did it matter whether they landed in one piece or ran head-on into a wave and got it over with all at once? They were in one of the most remote, little-traveled areas of the largest body of water in the world, it was pitch-black, and, most important, no one had any idea of where they were. They had taken off from Waimea after-hours, with no attendant around. No flight plan had been filed, the transponder had been turned off, no radio contact had been made. The chances of anyone accidentally spotting their little orange raft, if they ever made it out of the plane, were a million to one, probably less.

But the will to live, if even for a few hours longer, didn’t depend on such considerations, and when she turned on the lights they both peered hard to determine how the waves were running.

It took a while for them to make sense of the water’s surface. “I don’t see any waves at all,” Torkelsson said.

“There have to be waves.”

“No, it’s like a lake, there’s nothing.”

“There have to be waves,” she said again, but she couldn’t see any either, only a flat surface of green so pale it was almost white. She’d never come in over water at night, so she wasn’t sure if the color was the result of her lights, or if it was a sign of relatively shallow water. Shallow water… no waves, she thought with a little jet of hope. Could it be a lagoon? If it’s a lagoon, that means land. .. an island “Watch out!” Torkelsson shouted.