Impact

25

Egg Rock was just about the most desolate island Abbey had ever seen, little more than a pile of sea- battered boulders in the Atlantic Ocean. It took less than five minutes to determine that the island had no crater. After wandering about disconsolately, they rested on the highest boulder at the top of the island. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out. The ocean thundered on the encircling rocks.

'Well?' said Jackie, sitting beside her. 'That was a bust.'

Abbey swallowed. 'We still have Shark.'

'Yeah, right.'

'Fog's coming in,' said Abbey. The fog bank was rolling in from the south, a low, gray line on the horizon. Even as she watched, the bank began swallowing Monhegan Island, which grayed out and disappeared, and a moment later it ate up the smaller island, Manana, next to it. She could hear the lonely moan of the Manana Island foghorn every few seconds.

Her eyes moved across the water to Shark Island, a speck of land about eight miles offshore, no more than two acres in extent, treeless and desolate. It was the last island on their list. If the meteorite wasn't there . . . she tossed a pebble, musing gloomily about their odds of finding a crater on Shark. The clouds above began to roll in and a shadow fell across them, the light leaving the air, enveloping them in a cold seaweed smell.

'Gonna rain,' said Jackie. 'Let's go back to the boat.'

Abbey nodded. They picked their way down through the rocks and the sea wrack to the dinghy and launched it into the light swell. The ocean was calm and it seemed to be settling down, as it often did in a fog. Abbey rowed back to the Marea, pulling hard, and in a moment they climbed over the stern. Back in the pilothouse, Abbey ran through a mental list, checking the fuel level, batteries, and bilge. She started the engine, the Yanmar rumbling to life. As she was switching on the electronics, Jackie came in.

'Let's find a nice gunkhole somewhere, drop anchor, and get stoned.'

'We're going to Shark Island.'

Jackie groaned. 'Not in the fog, please. My head aches from that wine last night.'

'Fresh air will do you good.' Abbey hunched over the chart. Shark Island was exposed to the wild Atlantic, surrounded by sunken ledges and reefs, and swept by dangerous currents. It was going to be a bitch to get on it. She tuned the VHF to the weather channel and the strangely flat computer voice began reciting the report.

'Let's just park here for a while, wait for the fog to blow over,' Jackie said.

'This is our chance. The sea's relatively calm.'

'But the fog.'

'We've got radar and a chartplotter.'

As the fog bank rolled toward them, an eerie half-light fell on the sea.

Jackie flopped into the seat next to the helm. 'Come on, Abbey, can't we just chill for a while? I've got a hangover.'

'Weather's coming in. If we don't take advantage of the calm sea now, we may be waiting for days. Look-- once we land, it'll take us five minutes to explore that rock.'

'No, please.'

Abbey laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. 'Jackie, the meteorite is waiting.'

Jackie snorted sarcastically.

'Haul anchor, first mate.'

As Jackie stumbled forward, the fog bank swallowed the boat, shrinking the world into a few yards of gray twilight.

Jackie slotted the anchor into its stay and smacked in the anchor pin. 'You're a Captain Bligh--you know that?'

With her eye on the chartplotter, Abbey eased the boat into forward, and swung the bow of the Marea toward Shark Island. 'EBay, here we come.'

26

Ford waited on the verandah as the minutes passed. The soldiers stood around, weapons at the ready. Six sat in the rocking chair, gazing down the valley, the chair making a faint creaking sound as it rocked back and forth, back and forth. Brutally hot even in the shade of the verandah, the air was dead. A cacophony of sounds reverberated from the mine, where ragged lines of workers labored in an endless loop of horror, an occasional gunshot marking the unceremonious end of another life. Children swarmed over the rock pile and the smoke from cooking fires rose into the white-hot sky. Tuk stood unmoving, his eyes closed as if in sleep. The soldiers shifted nervously, their eyes darting into the sky or over at the double-topped hill.

The slow rocking creaked to a halt. Six checked the fat Rolex watch on his wrist, and lifted his binoculars to examine the hill. 'Forty minute. Nothing. I give you ten minute free.'

Ford shrugged.

'We go in house,' Six said to Ford, rising from the chair. 'Cooler in there.'

The gunmen pushed Ford through the house to the back. A shedlike extension had been built out behind the kitchen, next to a pigpen. The room, made of raw lumber, was empty except for a wooden table and chair. As soon as they entered the room, the pigs outside began squealing and snorting with anticipation.

Ford noted dried blood on the chair and in several large smears on the floor that had been halfheartedly mopped up. Flies roared in the stinking heat. A streak of blood led to a door in the back, which opened directly into the pigpen.

The soldiers pushed Ford into the chair and tied his hands behind his back and to the chair rails. They duct- taped his ankles to the chair legs and wound an old chainsaw chain around his waist and the chair, padlocking it behind, the teeth biting into his skin.

The soldiers worked with an efficiency borne of practice. Tuk entered the room and stood in one corner, long arms folded in front.

Outside, the pigs began to scream.

'Well, well,' said Six, positioning himself in front of Ford. He slid an old Ka-Bar knife out from under his shirt, and smiled. Standing in front of Ford, he hooked the knife under the top button of his shirt, and gave it a little flick. The button popped off. He positioned it under the next button, popped it off, and the next, until the shirt was open.

'You a big liar,' he said.

The knife flicked off the last button, and then he hooked it under Ford's tank top, blade out, and made a neat slice upward, cutting it open. He raised the tip of the blade to Ford's chin, paused, and gave it a little flick. Ford felt a stinging sensation and the gathering of blood on his chin, dripping down to his lap.

'Oops,' said Six.

The knife flashed, making a little cut across Ford's chest, flashed back, making another. Ford stiffened as he felt the warm blood running down. The knife was extremely sharp and so far he felt very little pain.

'X mark spot,' said Six.

'You really enjoy this sort of thing, don't you?' said Ford.

Tuk watched from the doorway.

The point of the knife gently traced a line down his chest toward his abdomen. The point hooked in his