71

 

 

Gwen mingled, eyeing the house, eyeing Messenger, wondering when to make her move. Every time she wanted to peel off, someone collared her. Mel, Barclay again, Randy Sieber, Peter Weiss. An hour passed.

A shrill whistle made everyone freeze. Mandy stood on the steps, swaying slightly.

“Listen up! Listen up!” she trilled.

“Uh oh. Lookee here,” murmured Weiss. “The poster girl for moderation.”

“Does she make a habit of this?” asked Gwen.

“Every year,” replied Weiss. “That’s why Dr. M. supplies the limos. She tried to drive home last year. He had to haul her out of her VW.”

“Bet that dented her metrics.”

Weiss snorted.

Mandy glowered at him, wobbled back on her heels, then began to declaim.

“Well, speaking as one of the Falcon millionaires, though God himself only knows where all that dough has gone, probably on my ass and on my back,” she giggled. “Ah well, anyways … what I got up here to say was this … I’d just like to ask every a one of you good people to put your hands together and say a heruuuge thank you to Dr. Gabriel Messenger for this here party, for Falcon and all of that good stuff.”

Everyone clapped, thanked Dr. Messenger, but Mandy hadn’t finished.

“And when’s the guided tour I wanna know?” she yelled.

Messenger materialized by Mandy’s side. He took her arm gently.

“How about now? What say you we stick to the garden though?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Mandy. “Garden’s good.”

Damn! Thought Gwen. A guided tour of the house was what she needed.

Messenger said a determined good-bye to the journalists, then he began to lead a chain of Falcon staff through the five-acre garden. Mandy, clearly a gardening buff, fell behind. Gwen noticed her snipping off branches of shrubs with her fingers. She turned, saw Gwen.

“Cuttings, for my own little patch of green.”

“Plenty to go round,” said Gwen. She stayed behind Mandy, worried that the other woman would fall over. Mandy’s place beside Messenger had been taken, adroitly, by Atalanta.

It was when Messenger led them off the edge of the grass onto a stairway carved into the cliff that Gwen really started to worry.

They snaked back and forth. Toting her heavy shoulder bag, Gwen followed one step behind Mandy. A rope handrail separated them from the rocks fifty feet below. Gwen could see a wooden raft, moored a hundred meters out. Did Messenger swim to it, she wondered? He must do. It was opposite his property.

Around it, the Restless Sea lived up to its name. It bubbled and boiled and heaved. The swell was big today. Gwen could feel the mist off it bathing her face as she followed the path down. She could taste the salt.

They got to the bottom, Mandy and Gwen left behind by the others who were striding along a natural rock platform that jutted out into the sea.

Messenger was already leading his followers on up another cliff-carved path to what looked like a small viewing platform that abutted from the cliff. Like the Pied Piper, thought Gwen.

She saw Mandy try to speed up. The woman was teetering close to the edge.

“Hey, Mandy,” Gwen began to say, broke off as she saw the other woman’s heel snap, saw her beginning to fall. Gwen lunged toward her but she was too far away. Mandy toppled into the sea.

A wave picked her up, sucked her back and in seconds she was twenty feet offshore. She screamed, swallowed water.

Shit! Gwen kicked off her shoes, dumped her bag, eyed the waves, didn’t have time to pick a pattern.

Aware of shouts and screams behind her, Gwen stood at the edge, arrowed her body, and dived.

She felt the sea grab her, kicked, came up twelve feet from the jagged cliff. The current and the breaking waves pushed her back toward the cliff. She kicked out, swam as hard as she could to where she had seen Mandy. There was no sign of her now. She sucked in a breath, dived down. Underwater, she opened her eyes, saw a flailing limb below her. She dived deeper, grabbed it, kicked hard, hauled Mandy upward. Mandy was heavy, not just dead weight but one hundred and thirty pounds of panicking weight, flailing against her. Gwen got her to the surface, sucked in a breath, saw with horror how close they were to the cliffs. One slam from the waves and they’d both be unconscious, or dead.

Gwen kicked back, away from the impact zone, dragging Mandy with her. She wanted to time her approach, ride a wave in if she could, hauling Mandy with her, but Mandy wasn’t cooperating. She was climbing on Gwen, pushing her down so that she could stay higher.

“Cut fighting,” shouted Gwen. “Go limp!” she screamed, but Mandy was driven by terror. She flailed, pushed down on Gwen.

“You’re gonna kill us both, you stupid bitch!” shouted Gwen. “Go limp!”

They washed closer to the cliff. Gwen tried to kick out, to get distance, but dragging Mandy and fighting her to stay afloat, she made no progress. There was nothing for it. She pulled back her fist, punched Mandy in the head. The other woman went limp.

Gwen kicked, dragged her back, but it was too late. A huge wave was roaring up. All Gwen could do was try to cushion Mandy. She stuck her arm between the woman and the rapidly approaching cliff. At least it would raise them up, she calculated. Messenger seemed to be thinking the same, for he threw himself to the ground and stretched out an arm, reaching down. Randy Sieber grabbed his feet and held on.

The wave carried Gwen to the cliff. She felt the impact. Pain seared down the entire length of one side of her body. Miraculously, her head had not hit the rock, but she must have bitten her tongue for she tasted blood in her mouth. She was aware of arms grabbing Mandy, of the other woman being hauled up. Arms free, Gwen scrabbled at the rock, found a foothold, propelled herself up, felt Randy Seieber grabbing her, hauling her to safety.

“Fuck!” breathed Gwen.

“Fuck,” agreed Sieber.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Gwen. “Let’s get the hell off this platform before we all get swept in.”

She grabbed her bag, silently grateful that it hadn’t been washed away.

“Here, let me take that,” offered Sieber, reaching for it.

“Not your style,” retorted Gwen, gripping it tightly.

*   *   *

Up on the lawn, high above the Restless Sea, everyone gathered.

Gwen walked up to Mandy, who was sprawled on the grass.

“You OK?” she asked.

Mandy rubbed her head, and glowered at Gwen. “I got a sore head. Why the hell’d you hit me?” she demanded.

Gwen blew out a breath, contemplated hitting her again.

“To save your life, and to preserve mine,” she answered.

“She did what she had to do, Mandy,” said Sieber. “You would have drowned the both of you! Should have listened to her and stopped panicking!”

In response, Mandy vomited all over his shoes.

Sieber threw his hands up in despair. “This just gets better and better.”

Gwen burst out laughing.

“Thank God the journalists have gone,” muttered Mel.

Messenger exchanged a look of mild horror with her, then he turned back to Gwen. “We need to get you seen to.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding. You need treatment.”

Gwen followed his glance. Her arm was pouring blood.

“You’re lucky the sharks didn’t come after you, bleeding like that,” said Barclay.

“Thanks for that cheery thought,” replied Gwen, wishing Mandy had thrown up on his Tods, not on poor Randy Sieber.

She turned back to Messenger. “I’m fine. I’ll just wrap it in something.”

“It’s a big cut.”

“Not really. Jeez, stop making a fuss.”

“You need stitches or you’ll get another scar.”

“Look, I’m covered with scars from the sea, from my fin hitting me or me hitting coral or whatever. It’s no big deal. What I really need is a change of clothes.” She shivered as she said this, the first sign that she had been affected.

Messenger took her arm. “Come with me and I’ll get you one.”

She walked with him across the grass. Barbieri was helping Mandy to her feet. Everyone else stood round, waiters and guests, each uncertain of their roles.

“Listen Gwen,” said Messenger firmly. “Say what you want about your scar collection, that cut needs treatment. It could get infected.”

“Look, I’m not going to a hospital to be stitched up. More likely to pick up an infection than prevent one.”

“What kind of hospitals do you frequent?”

Gwen laughed despite herself. “Ones in dodgy out-of-the-way places in the back of beyond.”

“My case rests.”

“I don’t like your fancy hospitals here any better. In fact, I hate them.” She sounded about seven, she realized.

“You don’t need to go to a hospital. I can stitch you up right here if you like.”

“You?”

Messenger gave a forbearing smile, like a parent to a trying child. Gwen realized she had never thought of him as a father until confronted with the evidence. Was he a good father or did he forever torment his children with metrics?

“Yes, me. I am a doctor. Not a plastic surgeon, admittedly, but I’ve always had good stitch work, or so I’m told.”

“Oh God, go on then. Do what you must.”

They walked into the house. She’d wanted access.…