The Saint of Quarantine Island

By Edward Hoornaert

Maybe you've read about viruses that turn people into zombies. But how about a virus that turns people into madmen, some of whom become creative geniuses?
Spurred by her husband’s infidelity, a suburban housewife smuggles herself into a wilderness quarantine to catch the new disease. She’s hoping to redeem her empty life by writing a great book . . . and maybe, just maybe, find love with the man called the Saint of Gilford Island. She’d once spent a memorable, though chaste, night with him. Surely he’ll help her.

But a lifetime’s exile on an island of madmen -- pirates, a suicidal Indian boy, an arrogant Cambridge scientist, a licentious cult leader who kidnaps her, all of them periodically insane then sane and back again -- is crueler than any suburban daydream. To survive, she’ll need to adapt.

Adapt how, though? Even if she wins the saint’s love, nothing in her life -- or anyone’s life, ever – could possibly prepare her for the unpredictable society these creative madmen have built.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463984017

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

Book preview

Book One: The Psychology of Fireworks

Chapter One

There’s your tomb, lady, said the Indian.

The words slowly penetrated Janet Davis’s regrets, creeping with the insidious stealth of fog slipping around a corner. With a mental pop that seemed more real than reality, she recalled where she was.

On a grimy, reeking gillnetter, alone with this man. Crossing the River Styx to the land of the dead.

Metaphorically speaking.

She had to force a deep breath before she could answer. Pardon me?

There it is, the First Nations boat driver said slowly, as though dealing with an idiot child. He jabbed at the window to Janet’s right without taking his eyes from grey seas that were indistinguishable from the grey blanket of clouds and grey hills covered with evergreens whose color had been sucked dry like a bloodless corpse. He shook his head and made a disgusted clucking sound. Your tomb.

Janet blushed in embarrassment but regretted it. At this point, why should she care what others thought of her? Without some guidelines, she had no idea how to react. Nonchalant? Defiant?

She sat straighter and at the same time tried to relax. Tried to pretend this trip was nothing more than a boring drive to Safeway for boring groceries to take back to her boring gated community and her bored husband.

It would be better after she was rid of this man. Then, for once in her life, she wouldn’t have to pretend.

Gilford Island, the man said, pointing again at the rain-misted window.

Janet strained to find what he was pointing at. Failed. The archipelago ahead was a maze of indistinguishable hills whose valleys lay drowned under the frigid North Pacific. Her gaze stumbled from one mist-shrouded hummock to another, hoping for some sign of her destination. Her fate. Her tomb.

Hope quickly died. She saw nothing that proclaimed Gilford Island with the brazenness of the Hollywood sign on a friendlier hillside back in California. It would take such a sign to show her the way.

Lost, she was lost. And had to pretend otherwise.

Oh, she said over the roar of the inboard motor. Thank you.

Bugger shit, the driver said, pronouncing her response inadequate.

Janet blushed again. He knew she was faking. She pretended harder, sitting more stiffly, hugging her stylish, thigh-length pink jacket against her body.

I’ll mind you to remember, sir, that I bribed you to smuggle me onto the quarantine island. Not judge me! Pleased with herself, she repeated the words more forcefully, scathingly.

Aloud, of course, she said nothing.

For several minutes they traveled without speaking. Janet’s hardwood bench throbbed like an incompetent vibrating chair. This boat was old and tired, filled with smells of exhaust, sweat, cigarettes, and fish that blended into a nostril stew as grey as this soggy coast.

Janet felt rather than saw the man’s eyes on her. There was nothing to keep him from robbing her. Raping her. Dumping her overboard. Absolutely nothing.

Bugger shit, he muttered.

Bugger…that was British slang—Canadian too, apparently—for sodomy. Was that what he was thinking about as he watched her from the corner of his eye? God oh God. He had a beer belly—Canadians drank a lot of beer, she’d read—and his straight black hair looked as though it hadn’t been shampooed since at least yesterday. Definitely the kind to crave brutal sex.

You have kids? the man asked.

Janet stared straight ahead. No. Unless, of course, it counted that her husband was having a child by another woman, a twenty-two-year-old. Half Janet’s age—forty-four, how could she be forty-four already?—with unwrinkled skin and silicon-firm breasts.

Sodomy would almost be appropriate—but it would be her decision, not his. She would give him her hand, letting him know he could do what he wanted with her. He’d take her outside, bend her over the side of the boat, lift her white linen dress, rip away her silk underwear she’d bought on Rodeo Drive. Each thrust would threaten to break the wobbly aluminum banister atop the gunwales and pitch her, headfirst and drowning, into the frigid grey Pacific. And she would pretend she liked it, pretend she wanted him harder, deeper. Morality didn’t matter any more, and rutting like an animal, being sodomized by a foreigner with dark skin, would somehow shift the degradation from her onto Franklin.

Even though he would never know?

I have four, the driver said. Three boys, one girl. Here’s their picture.

With a sigh, Janet looked at the wallet picture he held out to her. Four smiling mouths and eight soulful eyes brimmed with an innocence that made her ache. They’re beautiful.

He grunted. Maybe if you had kids you wouldn’t be so damned eager to kill yourself. Look, I know I agreed to sneak you into the quarantine—but please, don’t do this.

He was a decent man, a husband and father. Not a sexual predator. Sex with him would be lovemaking, not rape. If she seduced him—and why not a last fling?—they’d do it here in the cabin so she’d be warm and protected. He would slowly disrobe her, hanging her dress across the back of the bench so it wouldn’t wrinkle, taking his time with the clasp of her bra and teasing her with his fingertips as he slowly brushed the straps off her shoulders.

You a poet? he asked.

She shook her head.

Painter, and hoping Fireworks will turn you into another Rembrandt?

She didn’t have to answer or pretend to be polite, did she? So she said nothing, just pictured his dark hands flowing over her alabaster breasts.

Alabaster breasts? Lord, even she could write better than that.

The boat lumbered around a point of land where a lone Douglas fir stood like a proud phallus. Rocks rose straight from the sea, painted black near the water, white near tide line, and mossy grey above. How could the tree survive? There looked to be no topsoil, just rocks. This land was too wild and uncivilized for topsoil.

Why are you doing this, Lady?

She froze. Moistened her lips. He was staring at her, expecting an answer. Why?

Yeah, why?

Because I’m an idiot who wants to punish my husband?

Because I’m afraid that underneath a pretty face, I’m hollow?

Because in the blink of an eye, I was forced to realize my life was a lie?

Because I want to die but I’m afraid of death?

Because I’m a drama queen and this is the most melodramatic exit I could think of?

All true, yet so incomplete as to be falsehoods. It’s…complicated.

Yeah, and about to get more complicated. Echo Bay straight ahead. He pointed to a sixty-foot cliff guarding the entrance to a deep but narrow harbor.

Kendo Carlisle was based in Echo Bay. That was why she’d asked the driver to take her there rather than another settlement, because of Kendo, the famous Saint of Gilford Island. Surely he would remember her. And help her.

A splash of unexpected color riveted her eye. At the top of the cliff stood a figure wearing a hooded orange jacket like hunters wore to keep from getting shot by accident. Man, woman, child, she couldn’t tell at this distance. Probably a man. The overwhelming majority of the patients-slash-inmates on Gilford Island were male. The HNH virus was harder on women, and few women were stupid enough to seek the disease.

No, not stupid. Most women weren’t brave enough.

***

Beatle t’battle t’bottle t’boodle, fourteen-year-old Billy Seaweed chanted into the wind. The hood of his bright orange jacket made his voice sound odd, as though it belonged to someone else. He liked that, because he wasn’t himself. I’m a totem pole. My legs are cedar, solid and immovable.

From his vantage point, alone atop the cliff, Billy saw the supply boat pass the sophisticated electronic buoys guarding the quarantine line. He ignored the boat, just as he ignored the drizzle, the complaints of the seagulls, the chill in his fingertips and, most especially, the wild energy that mushroomed inside him like a marshmallow zapped in a microwave.

Unmoving, Billy chanted, unbending, unblinking, untouched by time, wind or rain.

Or fucking disease. But he didn’t say that aloud. It’d be bad luck. And he was in a tough place to invoke bad luck—the edge of the cliff that gave Echo Bay its name, with his toes hanging over a twenty-meter drop to the submerged rocks at the base.

Eagle, he said louder, moving his lips as little as possible. Raven. Beaver. Salmon!

The energy growing inside him was becoming difficult to control. Soon then, soon. Like shaking a pop can, pointing it at a meddlesome asshole who hadn’t yet learned that you left Billy Seaweed alone, and then stabbing the can with a pocketknife. Whoosh, pop flies right in his kisser! And then pointing the knife at the asshole and staring with the expressionless face that always sent white guys running in fear of the savage red man.

Soon. Just concentrate and bottle up the whizzing unrest churning through his body. Concentrate and then boom. Yeah!

Boom.

Boom.

Boom, he could fly!

But…the supply boat? Two days early?

Concentrate, damn it! Billy’s fingers writhed at his side. He wanted to laugh from the fucking energy and at the same time cry because he was losing the battle to bottle it. Beatle t’battle t’bottle t’boodle…

You stupid fucker, he shouted at himself. Concentrate!

Billy stiffened his arms and legs like a mythical creature carved on a cedar pole, stiffened his limbs until they hurt. If he didn’t concentrate, he couldn’t fly, and if he couldn’t fly, he might die. Like a guy cooked in a pie, he’d die in the sky.

Shit. This wasn’t working. And he didn’t want to die like a fucking spy in a pigsty. The tide was low, which meant the rocks were barely under the surface. Waves pounded the base of the cliff, thrusting watery fingers toward him, beckoning him to its chilly embrace. So concentrate, motherfucker!

Tsonkwa! Billy hoped that sheer volume would give him the energy of the creatures his ancestors had carved on totem poles. Sisiutl! Komokwa!

But the supply boat coming early meant another eager, soon-to-be-dead, crazy white guy who’d paid to get himself smuggled through the quarantine, hoping to become a fucking genius.

Billy tried not to think about that. Instead, he imagined himself one of the three watchmen the Haida up the coast carved atop their poles. Each watchman looked in a different direction: left, right, or straight ahead—but not behind. In the old days, people didn’t need a watchman to guard the back of their poles, which faced home. Nowadays, that was the most dangerous direction.

He wondered who was in the boat.

God damn you, boat! Billy’s adolescent voice cracked, low then high then low, robbing the cry of any hope of magic. He exploded like fireworks gone mad, lashing out at the red berries on a nearby soopolallie bush, kicking rocks over the cliff, spouting a black torrent of swear words taught him by the endless stream of crazy white guys who’d died as he watched their chests for the stillness of death.

He ended on his hands and knees, his concentration gone. He was mere flesh and blood, not mighty thunderbird. Jesus, he sometimes acted as crazy as a white guy.

Speaking of which, the new crazy white guy would have stuff he could borrow, if he got to him first. Billy popped to his feet, propelled high in the air by the wild energy that fizzed through his limbs. The supply boat was nearly to Hotel Point. Eventually someone in Echo Bay town would see the boat and dash out to borrow the crazy newcomer’s good stuff. Living near the mouth of the bay, Billy usually got first crack, but this time he wouldn’t get to borrow anything, and that fucking sucked a mucking buck.

Unless he flew down.

Flew?

Yeah. Of course!

Except that in the past, he’d survived the jump from the cliff only by harnessing his explosive burst of energy until the last possible moment. It was hard to leap past the submerged rocks. None of the white guys could do it. They all went splat, turning themselves into itty bitty squishy fishy food.

Not him, though. He was Billy Seaweed, the last of the fucking Mohicans. He was Kwakiutl, not Mohican, but the principle was the same. Last of his tribe, here on Gilford at least. And he could fly, man. Fly!

Whooping so loudly he startled the gulls riding the cliff’s updrafts, Billy backed into the bushes clogging the edge of the forest. He was enough in control of himself to brace one leg against a lodgepole pine so he could push off.

Not dumb, he shouted. Not fucking crazy. Not me-ee-ee-ee-ee!

And with that, he ran as hard as he could for three meters, until suddenly there were no rocks under his feet or moss or kinnikinick or bird-dropping stains, only rain and air and wind, and death, and he was flying through the mist toward the supply raft, shouting and laughing maniacally.

***

For several seconds, Janet watched the figure standing there atop the cliff. Then she turned to the driver and immediately looked away because he was staring at her and shaking his head. If they made love, he’d beg her afterward not to go to Gilford, to come away with him instead so he could keep her safe and protected.

Up ahead, the orange-clad figure plunged off the cliff.

Janet gasped.

The driver swore and gunned the boat’s engine to a roar.

A professional stunt man might survive such a jump. But a normal human being? She shook her head. Had she really seen what she’d seen? A glance at the driver’s grim, squinting eyes confirmed the worst. Death, death. The reality of death invaded her like saltwater into the jumper’s lungs.

Please, lady, let me take you back. Don’t want to die like that crazy nut, eh?

Janet trembled. Yet strangely, the suicide calmed her. I’ll die anyway. We all die.

The driver shook his head.

Words tumbled out of her. "This way, there’s at least a chance my death will be meaningful. Back in college I dreamed of being a writer. A great writer. Or at least a published one. But then I met Franklin, and I’ve always… She stroked her cheeks. This face. She ran her hands down to cup her breasts, not caring if she gave him ideas. This body…"

Swallowing hard, she lowered her hands. I always settled for what they brought to my feet, like offerings. But they were always the easy things, the second-best things. And I’ve failed at, well, at everything. Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a huge failure. Just a mediocre one. She cocked her head to one side. Does that mean I’m a failure even at failure? Anyway, I’m not a spectacular beauty anymore…

Embarrassment tugged at her as she realized she was pausing to give him time to disagree. Compliments about her looks had declined over the years, but never disappeared. She’d thought she was fine with that, even welcomed being more than a pretty face. Right now, though, a compliment would feel fabulous.

He said nothing, just stared at her. Oh, well.

I’m not beautiful anymore, and I’m vain, fastidious, unadventurous, shallow—

"Fastidious? Unadventurous? Lady, Gilford is not the place for you."

You’re wrong. Before I die, I want to know—need to know—if I settled for third rate because that’s all I’m capable of, or because I defeated myself by not aiming high enough. Gilford kills, but it also offers one last, slim chance to exceed mediocrity.

Slim? Make that miniscule, lady. More than ninety-nine per cent of men survive the initial fever, but only ninety-four percent of women. And of the survivors, only twenty-eight percent experience any increase in creativity.

That’s twenty-eight percent more chance than I have anywhere else. She maintained a brave face through a minute’s strained silence before turning to him, her forehead wrinkling in earnest entreaty. You understand, don’t you?

Oh, bugger shit, lady. Bugger shit.

Chapter Two

By the time the boat driver pulled up to a large, freshly painted raft anchored in the middle of the entrance to Echo Bay, Janet knew the jumper hadn’t committed suicide. Or at least hadn’t succeeded. The orange jacket, topped by a thick mane of black hair, bobbed on the surface as arms rose and fell in ineffectual swimming motions headed in no particular direction, just drifting through the killer-cold water.

It was crazy. Not crazy like funny or cool. Like insane. Janet shivered.

This is where I leave you, lady, the driver said as he jumped onto the raft more lightly than she’d imagined him capable of. The raft was roofed against the incessant rain with rough-split cedar shakes, a picturesque gazebo floating in the wilderness. Same place I dump the supplies.

Janet shivered again. She was the equivalent of a sack of potatoes?

Moving quickly, he tied up the boat then held an arm out to help her onto the raft. When she didn’t move fast enough, he picked her up and lifted her off. The gesture would’ve been romantic if he hadn’t done it with hurried desperation.

With one hand, Janet clasped the lapels of her pink jacket around her neck. With the other, she shielded her eyes from the rain and surveyed Echo Bay. Not much here. The bay was a narrow finger of water less than a mile deep, hemmed in by rugged hills, rocks, and trees. The jumper’s cliff dwarfed a small bungalow on a raft at its base. The head of the bay looked the most promising for human habitation, being somewhat flat with a long pier jutting out from a forested bank. But she saw no one. Echo Bay was empty, aside from the jumper who swam as though he didn’t care if he lived or died. She watched him, wondering how the driver could ignore the poor soul.

She opened her mouth to ask, but what came out was, How will I get to shore?

The driver leaped back onto the boat and tossed Janet’s large suitcase onto the raft. Rowboat. He gestured to the far side of the raft.

I don’t see a rowboat.

A box thumped onto the raft and rolled a couple times before teetering to a halt.

There is no rowboat, Janet insisted. You can’t just— Don’t throw that! My laptop’s in there. Give it to me.

The driver handed her the black leather case then tossed a suitcase onto the raft. Don’t worry. He dumped another of her carefully packed boxes off the boat. When they see you’re female, they’ll come for you. Some of ’em will probably swim out here to get to you.

Janet clutched the lapels more closely around her as she studied the empty shoreline. Gilford was home to people who created beautiful works of art and literature. People like that weren’t uncaring abusers, no matter what this man was implying.

She let out a breath. The driver was obviously projecting his own fantasies. He had thought about sex with her. I knew it!

Something broke with a glassy tinkle as he dropped the last of her boxes onto the raft. What was it? The framed portrait of her sister’s family?

I’m out of here, lady.

Huh? But—

Out of here.

He was in an awfully big hurry to be rid of her. He’d be like that in bed, too, impatient and finished way too soon. Just as well she hadn’t seduced him.

But aren’t you going to help him? Janet pointed toward the swimmer, who’d managed to halve the distance to the raft.

And risk infection? The driver leaped lightly onto the raft and untied the boat. "Not a chance, lady. Don’t want to spend the rest of my life on this stinking island. Even this raft gives me the creeps. I’m not crazy like some people."

Help! This from the swimmer.

The driver’s head jerked toward the call. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, Billy Seaweed? That you?

Help!

Aw, shit. The driver again cupped his hands. Billy, if you’re going to go jumping off that bloody cliff, you got to wear a life jacket and learn to swim proper, you hear? He turned to Janet, sighed, and beckoned. Hop on.

Why?

I said, hop on.

Janet jumped, startled. She tried to climb onto the boat, but her skirt kept her from lifting her leg high enough. Just as she got a knee onto the gunwale, the driver grabbed her and hoisted her on board, sending her sprawling onto the deck in an untidy mess. After tugging her dress down to cover her knees, she clutched the laptop to her chest and glared up at him.

You, sir, are no gentleman!

He darted into the cabin and sent the boat toward the swimmer at full throttle. The cabin was warm and dry. Because of that, not because she’d forgiven him, she went in. She peered through the window toward the orange jacket. Do you know the jumper?

Billy’s Kwakiutl, like me. Lived on Gilford before the plague arrived. Fireworks hit Gwayasdums village real hard, so those who could, packed up and left before the island was quarantined. Billy’s the only one of us left. He’s as crazy as the worst of them when he’s soaring, and when he’s isn’t soaring he’s wild, you know? Comes from being an orphan and seeing too many people die.

Does he have HNH?

Yeah, I guess it comes from that, too. He reversed the motor to stop the boat’s motion. Let’s go.

Where?

Save the little bugger, what else? He grabbed a white life preserver off the wall outside the cabin, took careful aim, and threw it, Frisbee-like. The lifesaver splashed gently beside the orange jacket. When it suited him, this man could have a soft touch, not hinted at in the way he’d manhandled her luggage.

Okay, the driver said, he’s got it.

Do you need help pulling him on board? The life preserver had a long rope attached.

You crazy already? I get too close and maybe I get sick, too. Hold the rope for a minute while I let down the dinghy.

Janet stared down at the rope in her hand then looked at the swimmer, Billy Seaweed. Surely that wasn’t his real name. Then why the dinghy?

As the driver untied some ropes, the tiny rowboat hanging from stanchions at the stern of the gillnetter lowered until it was even with the gunwale. "You’re going to row it out there and pull Billy onto it. Then you’re going to row to his floathouse, the one at the base of the cliff, and you’re going to get those wet clothes off him and get him warm before he dies. Capiche?"

Capiche? What was a Canadian Indian doing speaking Italian? But—

Get in. The driver gestured toward the dinghy.

But—

I said get in!

He yanked her toward the fragile, swaying dinghy. She climbed in quickly, afraid he’d toss her like a sack of potatoes if she didn’t. I don’t know how to row.

"With your life on the line—with a kid’s life—you’ll pick it up real quick."

He did something with the ropes, and the dinghy plummeted into the sea, dousing her with frigid water and nearly tossing her overboard. She clung desperately to the bare metal seat as the craft pitched and swayed. Then the driver tossed the rope attached to Billy Seaweed’s lifesaver into the dinghy. After brushing wet hair out of her eyes, Janet grabbed the rope and began pulling. It wouldn’t take too long to get the boy to the side of the dinghy, but how could she get him into it without capsizing?

If you’re smart, the driver said, you’ll stay on the floathouse with Billy. Don’t even poke your head out. Not many women here and some of these characters lose their scruples when they’re soaring. They have no judgment, like Billy jumping off that cliff.

But my things, Janet said as she pulled the rope. They’re on the float.

The driver shook his head impatiently. Stay with Billy until Carlisle comes back from Victoria.

He’s not here? Janet wailed.

No, but when he gets here, he’ll help you get settled. Now row, damn it.

Janet redoubled her efforts to pull the boy to the dinghy. Anger at the driver spurred her on. Leaving her things on the raft might not matter to him, but she had only her laptop with her. Not even a change of underwear.

Yet in the face of Echo Bay’s savage strangeness, she was secretly glad to have the driver’s advice and a destination. She’d hoped, or maybe assumed was more accurate, that the danger here was all from disease; that after a week or two, the creases in her forehead would turn red with the first telltale streaks of the HNH virus; that, along with HNH’s similarities to bipolar disorder, would come a spark of mad genius; and that her last years would be spent bravely toiling over a manuscript that would bring tears to everyone’s eyes.

Especially Franklin’s. Her words would zip past his literary dullness like one of his smelly NASCAR favorites charging to the checkered flag and touch his soul with regret.

Franklin, Franklin, a trailer-park soul with a Malibu Visa. He’d married a woman of good taste and artistic aspirations, hoping sophistication would rub off on him. It hadn’t worked—he’d rubbed off on her more than the other way around—so he’d tried again, screwing a twenty-two-year old with the same qualifications. Janet’s book, her sad, noble book, would touch the bastard’s soul. He’d cry over what he’d given up and what he’d driven her to do.

It was all a daydream, of course. She knew that. Daydreams, she’d learned in a University of Arizona psychology class, were of two types—the conquering hero and the suffering hero. And she was both.

Still, she had no other guidelines, no other plans beyond her daydream, so she welcomed the driver’s advice. She would stay with Billy Seaweed until saintly Kendo Carlisle came to rescue her.

Sometimes, dreams and a bit of well-timed advice were all a person needed.

Abruptly realizing she’d stopped pulling the rope, she resumed hauling the boy in. He was almost to the dinghy, thanks as much to his swimming as to her efforts.

It’ll be okay, Billy, the driver called. I brought a mom to take care of you.

What! Janet dropped the rope then scrambled to pick it up again. What did you say?

The driver grinned at her. Bye, lady.

Fingers appeared over the side of the dinghy, followed by a hand and a wet, half-drowned head covered in matted hair that was so long it almost looked like a beast’s. Janet took his hand and pulled, but he didn’t need much help. He hauled himself into the dinghy with an efficiency that spoke of practice. He shook himself like a dog, splattering her with cold seawater then lay on his side, coughing. Billy Seaweed smelled briny, like his name.

He looked at her. Blinked. You’re a female.

Uh, yes. Not knowing what else to do, she held out her hand. Janet Davis.

The boy didn’t take her hand. She lowered it to her lap. Too late, of course. She’d already touched him, breathed the air containing tiny droplets he’d exhaled. Already might have the HNH virus.

Female…

Women were so scarce as to invoke awe? Even in the bloom of her youth, males hadn’t looked at her with awe.

She imagined Kate Hudson starring in a movie about the life of Janet Davis, the famous, doomed novelist. Shelley Long was too old for the starring role, though in her youth she’d looked a lot like Janet. Or maybe the movie could star—

Row, for chrissake, the driver bellowed.

Janet almost stuck her tongue out at him, but the gesture was beneath her. As she fumbled with the tiny oars strapped to one side of the dinghy, Billy Seaweed’s teeth started chattering. The sound spurred her on. Without too much wasted time, she got the stirrups of the oars into the holes on the dinghy’s gunwales and began flailing in the direction of the little house perched on a raft near the base of the cliff.

Take care of him, lady, the driver said. Please.

Janet looked back at the driver. He stood on the rear deck, watching while gripping the brass railing. A cold breeze ruffled his hair, strands of black against grey, the grey of a dooming sky. A lump rose in her throat and, it suddenly hit her, really hit her, that unless she proved to be immune, she would never be allowed to leave Gilford Island. She would die here. Even if the virus didn’t spur her to a single story of genius, even if she decided tomorrow that it was a mistake and she wanted to crawl back to Franklin—she couldn’t.

Billy Seaweed’s teeth still chattered like her sister Rosie’s parakeets pecking at the metal floor of their cage. She hadn’t known teeth could chatter so loudly. But then, if southern Californians felt cold, they simply turned up the thermostat.

She would never see California again. Nor the boat driver. She would die here.

Die.

A seagull swooped and squawked, bringing her back to the moment. Billy didn’t look good, but she could do this—save a life. She’d never come close to doing such a thing, although when she’d donated blood she liked to think she was saving someone. This was different, though. Real and immediate, wooden-oar-pressing-flesh real. She, Janet Davis, was saving someone’s life.

The supply boat had drifted away from the dinghy, but the driver still watched them.

What’s your name? she asked him as she rowed. Her voice was a hollow, empty whisper. Some trick of the water and the cliff, no doubt. Either that or fear. Dearest God, what had she done?

What’s your name? she shouted. Remember me, she wanted to add but didn’t.

Oh, bugger shit, lady.

Tears came to Janet’s eyes, but she kept rowing. I wonder what the ‘O’ stands for, she said to herself. Omar? Ozymandias?

And she smiled.

Chapter Three

Awe and a sense of fulfillment overwhelmed her as she reached the raft holding Billy’s small, battered house. She’d just saved a life.

Getting to Gilford Island hadn’t been easy; it wasn’t as though there were non-stop flights from LA. The arduous trip showed a lot of initiative, determination, and more courage than anyone who knew her would’ve given her credit for. She’d shown them all.

Except that the only them anywhere nearby were a few seagulls sitting on the raft, interested only in preening their wings. When the rowboat slammed into the raft, they hopped a few feet away and returned to preening.

Billy Seaweed didn’t need much saving. He walked into the floathouse without her help, and when she told him to get out of his wet clothes, he mumbled that he’d fallen in the chuck lots of times and he didn’t need no crazy white chick telling him what to do. She tried to help his fumbling fingers undo his jacket, but he screamed that he didn’t need her help, and he wasn’t going to get undressed with her around, and she should leave.

But—

Get the fuck out! Spittle flew from his mouth. His face was a mask of rage and something more. Madness.

Janet dashed outside. The door slammed behind her loud enough to echo off the cliff behind the house.

She pulled the lapels of her jacket around her neck as she huddled on the narrow plank walkway that surrounded the house. There were no railings. She turned and spoke to the closed door. You know, you wouldn’t fall in the water nearly as often if you had railings around your raft.

The only answer was something shoe-sized hitting the door.

I’m just trying to help, Billy.

The other shoe hit the door.

Billy?

After a moment’s pause, something metallic thumped against the door. After that, the only noise was a seagull’s plaintive screech. Janet faced the door for several minutes, expecting the boy to let her in at as soon as he’d put on dry clothes.

He didn’t.

She was tempted to keep calling his name until he ran out of things to throw, but that wouldn’t be fair, in his condition. Feeling conspicuous in her bright pink jacket, she faced the water.

Oh, no! The dinghy, her only means off the float, was twenty feet away and drifting toward the mouth of the bay. In her haste to get the boy to safety, she’d forgotten to tie it up. She watched it for a few minutes, until watching hurt too much. A sigh mushroomed from her mouth like a cloud. Visible sighs. For the rest of her life, visible sighs?

Suddenly, voices sounded from the right, sending the preening seagulls screeching into the air. Janet spun around, as startled as the gulls though she kept herself from screeching.

Remembering the driver’s dire warnings, she hurried as fast as she dared on the rain-slicked walkway until she reached the corner of the house and crouched behind two rusty, greasy metal barrels. Her coat touched a barrel, leaving a dark smear. She brushed ineffectually at the stain then gave up and peeked between the barrels.

The voices were farther away than they’d sounded, so she didn’t think she’d been spotted. A small craft was rounding the cliff at the mouth of the bay. A canoe or skinny rowboat, she guessed.

Come on, lads, said a man standing in the bow. Row!

Eight paddlers strained. The craft knifed through the choppy water.

Faster! The man in the bow stood proudly, like a man o’ war’s figurehead, despite the cold spray that showered him with every wave. He cut an imposing figure, with brown hair cascading from under an Australian digger’s hat.

Then answering shouts arose from Janet’s left. She couldn’t see who it was because she didn’t dare emerge from her hiding place. Her colorful jacket would draw attention like a beacon, and the man in that rowboat looked awfully forbidding.

Forbidding, yet fascinating. She peeked out. His craft went straight for the raft. But why?

Her belongings!

They were thieves, intent on pillaging her belongings. She had no idea what to do about it, which made her feel worse. This sense of imminent violation-of-self was as close as she ever hoped to come to rape.

The oarsmen sprang onto the raft. A short man with wild red hair slipped and fell then fell again as he tried to rise. The thieves tossed her boxes and suitcases willy-nilly into their craft. Each throw landed on her heart like a blow.

Please, she whispered from her hiding place, don’t do this.

When shouting on the left intensified, she forgot herself enough to peek in that direction. A dozen men were piling into a pair of rowboats at the pier that jutted from the deepest part of the bay. As they rowed toward the raft, the men shook their arms and cursed the thieves. Most of their words were an angry blur, but they repeated one phrase over and over, like a chant:

You filthy pirates!

One of the pirates, the redhead who’d slipped, looked in her direction. Swallowing hard, she ducked and rested her head against the barrels. Had the man seen her? Her heart pounded in fear of the unknown.

With a vividness that exceeded any reality, she pictured and heard and even smelled the pirates as they abruptly shoved aside their booty in savage eagerness to seize the real prize—her. She imagined them rowing toward the floathouse, racing the men from Echo Bay—and winning, unfortunately. The huge pirate in the digger’s hat would leap from his still-moving boat to where she cowered. As he loomed over her, laughing cruelly, he’d hold up his right arm. Where his hand should be was only a hook—long, curved and sharp. A sudden beam of sunlight somehow pierced the gloom to glint off the metal.

But though Janet hunkered for several minutes behind the barrels, crying quietly, she heard no outcry directed her way. Lots of shouting, yes, and thumping as her things were carelessly dropped. But nothing about her.

Her imagination was too darned powerful sometimes.

Again came a cry of pirates. Why wasn’t someone calling nine-one-one?

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, but of course it showed NO SERVICE.

Oh, God, Janet whispered. Again, she rested her back against a barrel, not caring if she got dirty.

She peeked around the barrels. The Echo Bayers wouldn’t reach the raft in time to save her belongings from the pirates. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore fear that made her shiver.

A gigantic laugh boomed across the water. The pirate’s laugh, surely, the huge, dramatic pirate captain in a digger’s hat. He alone was big enough for such a larger-than-life laugh. Stifling a moan, Janet searched for somewhere to run, but there was nowhere. Fear filled her mouth with salty cotton. The pirates would surely wonder where the owner of the baggage had disappeared to, and when they did—

Got it all, lads. Now row!

Heart pounding, Janet peered out. The pirates left the raft just before the first rowboat from Echo Bay arrived. The pirate craft shot away, a greyhound to the Echo Bayers’ dachshunds. The big man standing in the bow looked back, gave another booming laugh then made a florid, mocking bow to his pursuers.

Tears slipped from Janet’s eyes. She wished she were invisible. Wished she were home, safe, warm and dry. She couldn’t stop chewing at her lip, and her bottom was damp from sitting on these drizzle-soaked planks. Now it would be the Echo Bayers turn to wonder about and search for the owner of the baggage. What if she were to stand and call out to them? Would that be safe?

Just as she started to rise, a burst of swearing came from the raft. She ducked back down. Her head throbbed from tension, but no mere painkiller could fix what ailed her.

Eventually, she heard metallic thumps as the Echo Bayers climbed back into their rowboats. She waited several minutes longer before stumbling to her feet. She shaded her eyes against the drizzle and darted quick glances in all directions, like a bird searching for a lurking cat. The raft in the middle of the bay was empty except for two huge ravens, pecking around in hopes that the men had left scraps of food.

Gone? Everything she owned, gone?

The sight of the empty raft made her want desperately to change clothes. Her linen dress felt damp and clammy. She yearned for the blue corduroy slacks she’d bought for the trip north, and her smoky grey angora sweater. Her favorite. But the sweater was gone.

Janet sniffed. Even though the rain was falling harder now, Billy Seaweed, whose life she’d saved, hadn’t opened the door to let her in. That, at least, she could do something about. Trailing one hand along the floathouse’s damp, peeling clapboard, she edged around a ceramic pot filled with dead petunias near the front door. When no one answered her knock, she tried the handle.

It was unlocked. Or rather, there was no lock. What kind of barbaric place was this that didn’t even have a lock? What if the pirates attacked?

Billy wasn’t in the combination living room and kitchen where she’d left him. The unlit room was so quiet and murky that she heard his wet clothes dripping before she spied them hanging neatly over a wooden clothes rack near a square, metal oil heater topped by a massive chimney pipe. She reopened the door to let in light. The heater was ungainly, utilitarian, and so, so—what was the right word? So Canadian in the way it dominated the room. People claimed