AT 29 (102 page)

On the third day he despaired of his wanderings. The simple fact that he had no idea where she could be hit him hard. He drove into Port Fairy, down Main Street to the hotel where he wrote the songs with Nigel during a colder time of year. The faces of the people he saw remained unknown. A few hours later, having pressed on through Yanbuk, Tyrendarra, Narrawong, and finally, Portland, he gave up. It was dusk and he wasn't ready to face a long night's drive back to Melbourne. He found a small hotel, booked a one night's stay and grabbed a quick meal in a greasy spoon a block away. After dinner, he strolled the streets until he found a liquor store.

When he awoke the next morning, the near empty bottle sat on the nightstand in full view of his bloodshot, burning eyes. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. He had no desire to rise. Heaviness engulfed his spirits. So much so that his body seemed heavy,
too. His limbs moved slowly. He fought against the overwhelming depression, stripping off his tee shirt and boxers and climbing into the tiny shower stall. The water did little to ease his heartache. He resolved not to call Sister Marie as he had done each of the preceding days. The answer would be the same. No word from Les.

He drove straight through, a slow pace marred by heavier traffic. Vacationers had begun to arrive in the cities and towns along the way. Christmas was still a week away, but the holiday loving Australians took their typical head start. At two p.m. he pulled into a diagonal space in Apollo Bay. He hadn't eaten since the night before. His headache was coming back. He took a quick lunch in the same restaurant where Aaron Whitehurst once waited nervously for Melissa to give birth. When he exited, the bay came into view. It startled him, empty except for a few children splashing in the calm waters at the edge of the beach. It occurred to him that it shouldn't be that way. Something was missing, boats perhaps, and a long wooden dock. He stared for a moment then got into the car and drove away.

At four he rounded the bend on the outskirts of Anglesea. Bells Beach was beyond on the other side of the town, marking the route to Torquay and the faster highway to Geelong and then Melbourne. By seven he'd be back at Saint Malachy's, hoping this time that Sister Marie had good news. If not, he had no other option, but to fly home to his empty apartment in Manhattan.

He stopped at a small store and picked up a bottle of single malt. Maybe he'd watch the sunset from the cliff above Bells Beach. After all, there was no rush. He knew Les would not be waiting for him at the orphanage. Before starting the engine, he picked up the small package on the passenger seat. He unwrapped the tiny box. The ring sparkled. She didn't love him. Resignation overcame his emotions. If she loved him she would never have run away. Not from the lifeless child, not from the man who could have helped her deal with the pain. He was alone again. It didn't feel good like before. He couldn't embrace it. It simply felt lonely.

Nigel's Ute was parked in the same spot it once occupied when Jimmy reluctantly donned a wetsuit to surf for the first time. He should have been surprised, but he wasn't. Of course, Nigel would be there below the cliffs, out among the waves with his board. He understood the pull, remembering the invigorating satisfaction of mastering a curl. He shut off the motor and got out with the open bottle in his good hand. The bandaged one no longer hurt. The stitches could have been removed days ago, the shoulder, too. The deep cut was closed and healing well, although it still smarted if he moved his arm a certain way.

***

Peter Ling took the call from dispatch at his station in the customs section of Singapore's brand new Changi International Airport. He switched to English from his native Hokkian as soon as he heard the accent on the other end. The tip seemed legitimate. The caller gave the letters of the well-known U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Peter jotted down the details, two names, the arriving flight number and the possibility of narcotics either on their person or in their luggage. He asked for a call back number, but the line went dead.

***

Jimmy took a sip and walked along the cliff to the wooden steps that led down to the rock-strewn surf break called Winkipop. The sun was well above the horizon, still
high for that time in the afternoon, as it should be on the verge of summer south of the equator. Whitehurst was far out, a mere speck, almost invisible in the surging water. He was resting on his board, legs dangling in the water, his palms pressed down, shoulders hunched, looking back toward the gathering waves. Jimmy watched, wondering which wave he would choose as one after another lifted him in its swell before rising to break another fifty meters closer to the shore. Nigel let them go, perhaps resting until he was ready.

The wind was strong, blowing from west to east. Huge rocks jutted out from the east side along the entire shore. As he watched the waves slam against the immovable objects, white froth burst into the air like an explosion, only to slide back into the sea. After a few minutes, while Nigel continued to sit astride his board, Jimmy noticed a gathering swell much farther out. It came in slowly, getting bigger as it gained speed. That's the one, he decided, as Whitehurst leaned down, readying himself to paddle forward and push up onto his feet.

In seconds, the wave mushroomed up behind the fast moving surfboard. Whitehurst waited to the last possible moment, just as the peak began to crest, then he expertly sprung to a crouch, gripping the side of the board with his right hand while steadying himself. The wave lifted him higher, the point of the board seeming to jut straight up before knifing sharply down and leftward. A curl formed quickly, becoming a tunnel that the wind caught and pushed toward the shore, carrying everything toward the rocks. Nigel looked to his right, shifting his weight as the board sped up. Even from far away, Jimmy could see that he was in complete control. Despite the wave towering above his head, its curl forming a waterfall that nicked the back end of the board, he deftly stole energy and speed from the force of nature, drawing near to the rocky point of no return where the water met the only obstacle that could withstand its force. Jimmy wondered when Whitehurst would bail out.

***

The space between the tarmac and customs represented a gray area for the strict laws of Singapore. Peter remembered his training. Technically, that span was not Singapore soil, at least not for foreign nationals who had yet to show their passports. Therefore, he waited behind a row of kiosks where customs agents studied documents, asked a few questions then stamped passports before waving visitors on. He stayed out of sight with two of his heavily armed men. He spotted the two Americans in the line, looking relaxed.

***

As his speeding board neared the end of the tunnel of water, Whitehurst suddenly stood up to his full height. His head penetrated the arch of the curl as blue water flooded down on his shoulders. The board immediately slowed, slicing back and forth until he righted it, crouched once more and dove left, letting the board veer away. His body disappeared beneath the water then reappeared an instant later. The board found its way closer to the rocks where it nestled atop the water, waiting to be retrieved.

Jimmy watched the scene for an hour, taking occasional sips from his bottle of scotch. The wind whipped up from the beach, tussling his hair until he realized that it presaged a line of dark clouds at the southern horizon. Whitehurst stopped briefly, exiting the water to a spot where the rocks afforded an easy climb from the breaking waves. Jimmy watched him tiptoe to the bottom of the long wooden stairs where he retrieved a
towel from one of the dry steps. After drying off, Whitehurst tossed the towel at his feet and reached down again, this time retrieving a small object. In a moment, smoke curled into the air. Jimmy squinted to make out the stunted pipe, surmising quickly that it contained marijuana or possibly something more powerful. Nigel never looked up. If he did, he would have noticed the lone figure leaning on the railing high above. After a while he put the pipe down on the towel, grabbed his board and re-entered the ocean.

***

Drugs are a capital offense in Singapore. Justice is meted out swiftly for the native born. But, depending upon where they are from, non-citizens fare slightly better, if only because the city-state is focused entirely on economic growth. Trade with other nations and international financial partnerships with powerful institutions trump the harsh penalties some well-connected visitors from other countries might otherwise receive. Still, the benign dictatorship that ruled the tiny economic powerhouse exacted its punishment. Caning, followed by a long sentence, still served as a persuasive deterrent - barbaric in the eyes of western nations, but steadfastly adhered to in some countries in the Far East.

The smaller man went quietly when he was pulled from the line and ushered to an interrogation room. The bigger man, the message said his name was LaSalle, was less cooperative. He struggled until he was wrestled to the floor and handcuffed. A strip search was done roughly and without concern for dignity. The drugs were found in pants pockets, a small amount of marijuana. A search of the suitcases yielded a bigger find, crack cocaine in two plastic vials.

***

Over the next hour, the easterly wind grew increasingly strong. The dark clouds came nearer, obscuring the sunlight although not so much that the big waves could not be seen rolling in from the south. Nigel took more chances, perhaps driven to do so because the short spell by the stairs instilled recklessness. Soon it would storm. Jimmy thought about returning to his car and moving on, but Whitehurst's elegance atop the waves captured his imagination. The powerful man challenged the rocks, letting the wind and water bring him closer with each wave. The swells continued to get bigger. Although he'd only surfed the one time, Jimmy understood the significance of this afternoon. For Nigel it was life. He must have longed for these waves all those months in America. Now, he was home, alone and free to do what thrilled him more than anything else.

In the far distance it started to rain. A line of black clouds, signaling the front moving in, extinguished the sun. As if sensing his dwindling time, Whitehurst paddled farther out to catch a wave sooner and ride it longer. He waited, letting smaller swells lift him up and down until something bigger came along. In minutes, the big one showed, white capped and ferocious. Whitehurst turned and paddled out to meet the challenge.

***

The arrest and incarceration was quiet. Chase and Benson were removed to separate holding cells where they spent the night with people of a different race who spoke an unfamiliar language. The next day they were transported to the Magistrates Court off Orchard Boulevard, seventeen miles away. Charges were filed. They made no plea, too frightened by the process that neither man could understand. They were handed a telephone. On the other end was an American voice, the consulate's office.

***

He caught the wave at its highest point, far higher than any that preceded it. The water arched west and Nigel let it carry him with increasing speed down the watery slope into the trough that magically formed a perfect curl. Jimmy stopped leaning on the railing and stood to fix his eyes on his friend. The water hid its rider then opened briefly to reveal his fast approach to the rocks. It must have been exhilarating. A lesser man would have yielded to the mighty force, but Whitehurst was bigger and stronger than other mortals. He was also unafraid or unaware. The wind was a gale. It buffeted the water and its lone rider. Blue had given way to angry gray. The sudden gust pressed down upon the curl, collapsing a ton of water directly over the front of the board, lifting the backend upward and shooting its rider into a contorted somersault. Nigel was helpless. He hit the water headfirst, just as the full force of the huge wave crashed down, sending the surfboard in one direction while his body was flung toward the rocks. In the few feet of space between the protruding sediment reef and its unseen rocky brothers below, the water swirled violently, sending up sprays of white. Jimmy let the bottle slip from his hand and studied the area with total concentration. The water churned relentlessly. Whitehurst did not come up.

Urgency, not terror, compelled him to hurry down the stairs. He kept his eyes on the spot where Nigel should have surfaced, quickly shedding his shirt and pants. When he'd traversed the rocks, he dove into the surf, feeling a dull pain in his bandaged shoulder. The mission made him ignore the pain as he swam out beyond the froth. He'd seen men go into the water before although the images that instantly flooded his subconscious bore little resemblance to the current scene. Those men wore heavy clothes and thrashed about, calling for help. The instinct that drove him was about time. He knew he had little time to save one of his men from certain death.

A wave crashed him back. He fought against the next one then dove beneath it, kicking underwater for as long as his lungs permitted. In this way, he made steady, but chillingly slow progress. Each time he came up for air, he took stock of where Nigel should be. How long? Two minutes? Soon, it would be too late. Then he saw him just below the surface, bobbing and banging against the sharp edges of huge underwater rocks. Jimmy redoubled his efforts, flailing his arms and kicking his feet until he reached Whitehurst's limp torso. He tried to right himself, stretching his toes to touch bottom so he would have the leverage to heave the bigger man above the waves. But his soles scraped against the rocks, pointed pockmarked stone that opened stinging abrasions.

A brief reverse current lifted Whitehurst up. Jimmy used the opportunity to slip his arm under the bigger man's chin. Blood spilled from the Australian's scalp. He was unconscious. Jimmy held him in place, treading water while he looked back to the shore. It was hard to withstand the relentless buffet of wind and water. A heavy rain began to fall. He made a decision. Using all his strength, he flipped the bigger man onto his back. Then he slipped his good arm under his shoulders and pulled him close, causing his head to rest upon his shoulder. With all of his remaining strength, he stretched out his damaged limb and began to swim. The bandages fell away, revealing the ugly black stitches. Pain burned from shoulder to fingertips. He made slow progress. The wind fought the waves, pushing him back, then forward, then back again. The downpour made it hard to see the rocks of the shore beneath the stairs. Heavy drops splashed loudly all around, adding more confusion to the cacophony of roaring wind and surf. He gave it another try, then
another until he was exhausted. The light was dim, not dark, but a hazy mist of twilight caused by the storm.