Galilee (50 page)

“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.

Taking her leisurely time, she washed her hair and then rinsed the remaining soap from her body. She'd neglected to bring a towel from the rack, so she stepped out of the shower soaking wet, and there he was, standing in the doorway, looking at her.

Her first instinct was to cover her nakedness, but the way he was looking at her made the idea nonsensical. There was nothing salacious in his stare; the expression he wore was almost childlike in its simplicity. His eyes were wide, his face almost slack.

“So now they're killing their own,” he murmured. “I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.” He shook his head. “This is the beginning of the end, Rachel.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother Luman predicted all this.”

“He knew there was going to be a murder?”

“Murder's the least of it. Margie was a sad creature, and she's probably better off—”

“Don't say that.”

“It's true. We both know it's true.”

“I loved Margie.”

“I'm sure you did.”

“So don't say she's better off dead, because that's not right, that's not true.”

“Nobody could have healed her. She'd been swimming in that poison for too long.”

“So I shouldn't care that she's dead?”

“Oh no, I'm not saying that. Of course you should care. Of course you should mourn. But don't expect any justice to be done.”

“The police already have her husband.”

“They won't have him for long.”

“Another of your brother's predictions?”

“No, that one's mine,” he said. “Garrison'll walk away from what he did. He's a Geary. They always find someone else to blame.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“They're the enemy,” he said simply.

“So what makes me any different?” Rachel said. “I've been swimming in the poison too.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I tasted it.”

She was reminded of her nakedness as he spoke. It was no accident; as he spoke of tasting the poison his eyes had left her face. Gone to her breasts; to her sex.

“Will you pass me a towel?” she said to him.

He dutifully took the largest of the towels off the rack. She reached out to take it from him, but rather than pass it over he said,
“Please, let me . . .
” and, opening the towel, he pressed it against her body and began to dry her. Despite the prickly exchanges they'd had of late—first in the boat, now here—she was instantly comforted by his attentions; the intimacy of his touch muted by the plushness of the towel, but all the more teasing for the fact. When he dried her breasts she couldn't keep herself from sighing appreciatively.

“That feels nice,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Yes . . .”

He drew her a little closer, carefully drying beneath her breasts, then making his way down toward her groin.

“When will you go back to New York?” he asked her.

She had some trouble concentrating on the question; even more formulating an answer. “I don't see . . . any reason why I should.”

“I thought she was a friend of yours.”

“She was. But I'm no use to her now. I'm better off here, with you. I know that's what Margie would tell me. She'd say: you've got something that gives you pleasure, hold on to it.”

“And I've given you pleasure?”

“You know you have,” she purred.

“Good,” he said, with a kind of forced brightness, as though the idea was in equal measure pleasing and troubling to him.

His hands were between her legs now. She took hold of the towel and pulled it away. “Let's go to the bedroom,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Here,” and suddenly his fingers were inside her, and he was pressing her against the wall, his mouth on hers. He tasted strange, almost acidic; and the way he stroked her was far from tender. There was suddenly something ungainly about all of this. She wanted to call a halt, but she was afraid of driving him away.

He was unbuckling his pants now, pressing himself so hard against her she could barely draw breath.

“Wait . . .” she said to him. “Please. Slow down.”

He didn't heed her. If anything his behavior became more frenzied. He pushed her legs open. She felt his erection jabbing at her, like something blind, poking around for its bed. She told herself to relax; to trust him. He'd made the most extraordinary love to her last night; he understood the signals her body was putting out better than any man she'd ever been with.

So why did she want to push him away now? Why did it hurt when he got inside her? What had seemed like a wonderful fullness a few hours before now made her want to cry out. There was no pleasure in this; none.

She couldn't govern her instincts any longer. She closed her mouth against his kisses, and put her hands on his chest to push him away.

“I don't like this,” she said.

He ignored her. He was buried deep in her, to the root, his cock brutally rigid, his hips grinding against hers.

“No,” she said. “No! Will you please get
off me?'

Now she pushed him as hard as she could, but his body was too strong, his erection was too implacable: she was pinned against the wall.

“Galilee,” she said, trying to look into his eyes. “You're hurting me.
Listen to me! You're hurting me.”

Was it the fact that she was shouting now, her words echoing around the tiled walls, that roused him out of his stupor? Or was he simply bored with his own cruelty, as his body language seemed to suggest? He pushed himself off and out of her like someone leaving a dining table because the food didn't suit them, his expression one of mild distaste.

“Get out of here,” she told him.

He retreated a step or two, still not looking at her, then turned and crossed to the door. She hated everything about him at that moment—his idling gait, the way he glanced down at his erection, the little smile she caught in the mirror as he slipped through the door. She closed it after him, then listened as he made his way through the house. Only when she heard the sound of the French window opened, and then being slammed as he exited, did she go to her clothes and start to dress. By the time she ventured out into the house he'd disappeared.

Niolopua was sitting on the lawn watching the ocean. She went out onto the veranda, and called to him.

“You had an argument?” he said.

She nodded.

“He didn't even speak to me. He just went down onto the beach, looking like thunder.”

“Will you stay here for a little while? I don't want him coming back.”

“I'll stay, if it makes you feel more comfortable, but I'm sure he's not coming back.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“He'll set sail now,” Niolopua said. “You'll see.”

“I don't care what he does as long as he stays the hell away from me,” she said.

Just as Niolopua had predicted, Galilee didn't come back. The day waned, and Rachel stayed in the house, feeling drained of any energy or desire, eating a little, drinking a little, but getting pleasure from nothing. As she'd requested Niolopua kept his. watch on the lawn, coming to the veranda once to ask for a beer, otherwise leaving her alone. The telephone rang several times, but she didn't pick up. It was probably Mitch, or perhaps Loretta, trying to persuade her to go back home. In fact, since Galilee's leaving, she'd started to think that returning to New York was not such a bad idea. Certainly staying here in the house would not be wise; she'd only brood on things. Better to go back to the family, where at least she understood her feelings. After the emotional chaos of the last few days there would be something bracingly plain about being among the Gearys. They were hateful, it was as simple as that. No confusion, no ambiguity, no kisses one moment and brutality the next. Maybe she'd just get drunk and stay that way, like Margie; pronounce against the world from behind her funeral veil. It wasn't a very pretty prospect, but what did she have left? This island had been a last resort: a place to heal herself; to watch the miraculous at play. But it had failed her. She was left empty-handed.