Fall from Grace (12 page)

Alberg was getting red in the face, hauling sailbags up from below and squinting at whatever was stored within.

“You should be wearing sunblock,” said Cassandra. “Maybe they've got some at that place that says ‘Groceries.' I'll go see, shall I?”

He fumbled in his shirt pocket and held up a container of lotion.

“Oh,” said Cassandra. “Good.” She glanced around the boat and rubbed her hands. “What can I do?” she said brightly.

Alberg got up and went over to her, took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss firmly on her mouth. “Sit down and shut up,” he said.

They motored out of Secret Cove, past Turnagain Island and into Malaspina Strait, and then Alberg raised the mainsail.

“I hate it,” said Cassandra a few minutes later, “when it tilts itself over like that.” Her voice sounded thin, and higher than usual.

“You don't say ‘tilted,' ” said Alberg. “You say ‘heeled.' I thought you told me once that you knew how to sail?”

Cassandra hesitated. “I exaggerated.”

Alberg, one hand on the tiller, hugged her with the other and laughed. “Look around you,” he said. “Go on.” He gave her shoulders another squeeze. “Look.”

And Cassandra looked.

It was a dazzling day; a perfect day. It would not be possible, she thought, as the twenty-seven-foot sailboat slid through the water, to make it more perfect. They were sailing through a world painted in multiple shades of blue. The sky was pale blue, and glowing. The sea was dark like ink, or grape juice, and the sun shot sparks from it. The sea sometimes rippled, and then small flecks of white appeared upon its blue-black surface. Cassandra felt the deep heat of the sun, yet the surface of her skin was cooled by the sea breeze.

There was land to every side of them, falling back from them in layers. The nearest islands were so close Cassandra could see the dried grass on the hillsides, and almost smell its hot, hay-like fragrance. Then there were more islands, farther away, and she could still see details of their geography but it was less defined; these islands were tinted blue, as though blue forests blanketed them. Still farther away, the land was bold blue shapes, smooth and featureless, like dark glass. The most distant island of all, Vancouver Island, was pale blue and fuzzy, looking like a mirage.

Alberg said, “I'm going to tack now.” He pushed the tiller toward her. “Change places with me.”

She scrambled in front of him, while the boom and sail swung flapping to the other side; then the sail filled again with wind. The sail was so enormous that the thought of having to manipulate it, assisted only by the capricious wind, caused Cassandra's heart to stutter.

Soon Alberg poked her and said encouragingly, “Go on out to the pointy part.”

Cassandra felt herself challenged. And besides, she wanted to feel alone; she wanted to get a sense of being all by herself on the big ocean in only a sailboat.

She made her way forward, clutching at the lifelines and the shrouds, and sat down with her back against the mast.

It was very quiet out on the water. But it was a quietness full of exuberance and motion; it was a quietness made conspicuous by what could be heard: the rippling of the water as the sailboat sliced through it, the motors of far-off powerboats, the lazy shrieks of seagulls.

Suddenly a flock of small birds appeared, swooping and swirling in perfect unison, as though they comprised a single being; their concentration absolute, their wings creating a soft, fervent whir.

Twice a seal popped a gray-brown head above water and watched with large calm eyes as the boat swept by.

Cassandra marveled at herself. Here she sat, right up in the front of the damn boat, hardly nervous at all, exhilarated by the blueness of the ocean and the panorama of sea, sky and islands that stretched before her.

“Hey!” called Alberg, and she turned to see him grinning at her from the cockpit. He gestured, vigorously, and she made her way cautiously back to the stern. “Gotta lower the sail,” he said, starting the motor. “See there?” He pointed. “We're going in there.”

“What is it?” said Cassandra.

“North and South Thormanby Islands,” said Alberg. “Here. Take hold of the tiller.”

“Oh God,” said Cassandra. “I can't steer this thing.”

“You don't have to steer. Just keep it going into the wind.”

“What do you mean, ‘into the wind'? What's ‘into the wind'?”

Alberg changed course slightly and the sail emptied and began to flap.

“Oh God,” said Cassandra.

“Find yourself something on land to aim at and just keep it there, right where it is,” said Alberg, and he climbed up onto the cabin top to haul down the sail.

“Oh God,” said Cassandra, gazing blindly, fixedly shoreward.

“It's hard to believe you've never been here before,” said Alberg a few minutes later. They were passing a group of small islands on their left.

“I haven't been here,” said Cassandra, “because it isn't a place you get to in a car.”

“Anybody who decides to live in this part of the world ought to have a boat,” said Alberg.

As they proceeded into the bay, drawing closer to land, Cassandra saw that the gap between North and South Thormanby Islands was spanned by a long, wide isthmus of sand. Several sailboats and powerboats were anchored offshore, and there were people sunbathing on the beach. Beyond the sandy isthmus Cassandra saw the broad, deep waters of the Gulf of Georgia winking in the sun.

Cassandra took the tiller again while Alberg went forward to drop the anchor. When he cut the motor she could hear children laughing on the beach. They had anchored next to a green sailboat; Cassandra saw swimming clothes and towels hung over the lifelines to dry, and she realized again how hot it was.

Children were splashing in tidal pools on the isthmus, and adults were swimming in the bay. South Thormanby, to the left, was much the bigger of the two islands, with rolling, rocky hills; North Thormanby presented to the sandy isthmus, and the children playing there, a steep cliff face with a thick forest crowding the top. The cliff was pale, like the sandy beach at its foot.

Alberg beamed fondly upon the landscape, as if he had created it. “Buccaneer Bay,” he said. “Didn't I tell you? Is this the most beautiful beach in the world, or what?”

Cassandra, smiling, gazed at the children playing in the sand, and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun's glare—and something caught her eye. She looked quickly to the right; her eye had captured a memory; a sharp streak of movement. “Karl,” she said.

He turned quickly, hearing something in her voice.

“The cliff,” she said.

And they both watched, and saw sunbathers sit up, uncertain, and somebody wearing brightly patterned shorts clambered to his feet and began to walk, tentatively, toward the base of the cliff. Halfway there he beckoned urgently; something in his hand flashed in the sun; Cassandra thought it was maybe a can of beer. Two more men got up from the sand and started toward him.

Alberg hauled the dinghy up from below and inflated it. He tied it to the stern pulpit and dropped it overboard. They climbed down the ladder into the dinghy, first Alberg, then Cassandra.

It was strange to be suddenly so much closer to the water, thought Cassandra.

It was very hot. She felt trickles of sweat on her temples, and there were beads of it on her forehead, and the small of her back was damp.

She looked apprehensively toward the land, where everyone, it seemed, was being drawn slowly but inexorably to the cliff.

They beached the dinghy and splashed up onto the sand. Alberg strode off toward the small crowd, and Cassandra followed.

When they got there, Cassandra saw a shape covered by an orange tarpaulin. All she could see was the shape's left arm; it was smooth and brown, obviously male, obviously young.

People stood around quietly, some holding children by the shoulders, pressing the children's faces to their thighs. The place was a jumble of bare limbs, brown or reddened or freckled. Cassandra felt the oiliness of sunscreen and smelled the sweet innocent smell of summer sweat, and she knew that the children huddled against their parents would never forget this sight, and that neither would she.

Alberg identified himself to the crowd and shouldered his way gently through it. He hunkered down next to the body. He lifted the tarp, and felt in vain for a pulse.

“What happened?” said Alberg, studying the body closely. There was a wide, thick, zippered, belt-like thing around the waist of the dead man.

“Nothing. I mean, I don't know. I heard this great jeezly thunk and there he was. He fell, I guess. He must've fallen. Jesus, man—”

“Take it easy,” said Alberg. He pulled the zipper. The belt was stuffed with money. Alberg looked quickly around him; nobody but the kid wearing the bright flowered shorts was close enough to see, and he was looking resolutely away. Alberg pulled the zipper closed and replaced the tarp.

“I covered him up as quick as I could,” said the young man. “I didn't want anybody else seeing it. Kids. Jesus.”

Alberg beckoned to Cassandra. People looked at her curiously as she made her way through them to get to him.

“Go back to the boat,” he said. “Get on the radio to the detachment, tell them we need the police boat with a full crew, and the doctor, right away. I've got to stay here. Okay?”

Cassandra couldn't speak. She couldn't remember how to operate the radio. She nodded, feeling sick and helpless.

“You got a dinghy?” said the young man, looking at her.

“Yes,” said Cassandra, and cleared her throat.

“I'll row you over.” He turned to Alberg. “Okay?”

“Okay,” said Alberg. “Thanks.” He watched them traipse across the sand together, Cassandra and the young man wearing the flower-patterned shorts.

He turned to the small, shaken crowd. “Better get back to your boats, folks. But don't go anywhere. We'll need to get statements from you.”

They drifted off to pick up blankets and picnic baskets, herding their children toward the dinghies scattered along the water's edge.

Alberg sat down on the sand next to the body.

He thought it a very strange thing, this accident. The kid was carrying at least ten or fifteen thousand dollars. Who the hell came to Buccaneer Bay wearing ten or fifteen thousand dollars?

Beneath the orange tarpaulin the young man's blood trickled into the sand.

Alberg listened to the soft lap of the sea, and felt the heat of the summer sun.

It was a dazzling day.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER Alberg was still sitting by the body, waiting for reinforcements.

“The tide's gonna come in, you know,” said the young man in the bright shorts, who had hair the color of straw.

“I know.”

“How long will it take your guys to get here? Should we move him?”

“They'll be here soon. It'll be okay.” He looked at the young man, sizing him up. “What do you do, kid?”

“I'm a student.”

“What kind of student?”

“U.B.C. Economics.”

They were sitting side by side on the sand. Alberg's sunblock had long since worn off and he was red wherever his skin was exposed—legs, arms, face, neck. He was wearing deck shoes and socks, and brown shorts, and a yellow T-shirt. He sat there in the sand next to the tanned student from the University of British Columbia and felt himself burning, and tried to ignore it. He picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. “What's your name?”

“Joseph Dunn. Joe.”

Alberg studied Joseph Dunn. He was a big, sturdy kid. He didn't look like he ought to be so pale and nervous. By now he should be recovering; getting his confidence back.

As casually as possible, Alberg asked, “Was he still alive when you got to him, Joe?”

The young man gave him a swift look. “Yeah.”

“How come you didn't mention that?”

Joe held up a hand. He was sitting with his legs crossed. He looked down at the sand and took a deep, ragged breath. “I can't believe what I'm seeing, right? All of a sudden there's this thump, and out of nowhere a guy's lying on the sand—he's bounced down those rocks, he's all battered and bleeding. So I figured—he's gotta be dead. And all I can think of—I want to make sure nobody else has to look at this, the place is crawling with kids.” He shuddered, and hunched his shoulders. “So I turn around and wave the other guys back. So they stay back, and they keep other people back, too, and I go over to the guy…”

Alberg said, “Go on.”

Joe clasped his hands, which were broad and strong and brown, with big knuckles. “So I'm leaning over him, he's lying sort of on his side and…shit.” He shuddered again. “And then, I see his eyes open. And I see he's still breathing. So I get down on my hands and knees next to him.” He looked at Alberg again, horrified. “I'm thinking, like—what the hell do I do? I start hollering for first-aid stuff, does anybody on the beach have a first-aid kit, but he reaches out to me and he's trying to say something to me, see?”