The Back of the Turtle (34 page)

IT WAS TIME.

The spring tide had arrived, the highest and lowest water of the season. And all around, for as far as Gabriel could see, there was sand where there had been sea.

Life as a circle.

Not that his life had had any such shape. Lethbridge. Minneapolis. Palo Alto. Toronto. Samaritan Bay. Not a circle. Not a straight line. Something less precise. Something broken.

Gabriel stood and shook the beach off his pants. He would have liked to have said goodbye to someone. To Mara especially, not that that was going to happen. To Crisp, for Gabriel had come to enjoy the man and his passions. Even Sonny would have been welcome company.

And where in the hell had Soldier gone?

THE
walk across the sand flat was uneventful, but as Gabriel started the climb up the side of the Apostles, he was surprised by the flashes of colour against the darker rock. And movement. Tiny crabs scuttled about. An orange starfish tucked itself away in a deep crevice. He was still climbing on brittle
shells and bones, but now there were living creatures to avoid.

The ocean was coming back to life. In spite of everything, it was coming back to life.

Not that Gabriel could claim any credit.

He found the saddle. The wind was sharp, and he gathered his jacket around him for warmth. He wouldn’t take it off this time. Fully clothed or naked, it wouldn’t make any difference.

He fished the marker out of his pocket and tried it against the rock, but the surface was too damp and cold to leave any sign. What he needed was a sharp knife or, better yet, a piece of caulk.

Church Rock.

He had almost forgotten about that. He touched the basalt, slowly using his finger to spell out each word. New Mexico. 1979. The Navajo reservation. A large nuclear waste spill had destroyed the Puerco River a few months after the Three Mile Island disaster.

Gabriel picked up his drum and wiped the head against his jacket. He hadn’t intended to bring it with him, but Mara had made it clear that she wanted all of him gone. He tested the hide. Soft. But the sound was still good, and he began a steady rhythm, matching the beat to the ocean, pitching the song against the wind as it drove the waves onto the rocks.

He turned to face the shore. In the distance, he could see the burning tower and was cheered by the light. The drum sounded good. He sounded good. He could almost hear his father singing with him.

“A crow hop?”

Gabriel reared back and lost his balance. The drum banged against the rock.

“Damn!”

He whirled around and came face to face with a large yellow sea creature that had clambered over the side of the basalt and was slithering towards him.

“Suicide?” shouted the yellow creature. “Suicide? And you sing a crow hop?”

“Mara?”

Mara’s face was obscured by a slicker. It had slid over her head and bunched up in a wedge around her shoulders. More than anything, she looked like a movie-monster crab with a lumpy dorsal fin.

“You can’t be here.”

“Sure I can.” Mara pushed the slicker off her head.

“The tide’s coming in. You need to get back to the beach.”

Mara looked over her shoulder. The early surges had already found the base of the Apostles. “You don’t get to kill yourself.”

“What?”

“I have questions.”

“Questions?”

“And I want answers.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Make time.” Mara braced herself against the side of a column. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“This is crazy.” Gabriel wiped the salt spray out of his eyes. “I killed your mother. I killed your grandmother.”

“I know.”

“I killed my sister and my nephew.” Gabriel’s voice was a whisper now. “I killed them all.”

“Yes,” said Mara. “You did.”

“I couldn’t save any of them.”

“Maybe you can save yourself.”

“I don’t want to save myself.”

Mara moved forward along the rock face until their shoulders were touching. At her back, she could feel the waves slam into the pillars.

“All right,” she said. “Then you can save me.”

THE DOG IS FAST. SONNY IS FAST, TOO. BUT NOT AS FAST AS
the dog.

Slow down, doggy.

The dog runs ahead and waits, runs ahead and waits, runs ahead and waits.

Slow down.

By the time he gets to the beach, Sonny is out of breath. But the dog doesn’t wait. He runs on ahead, and every so often he runs back to make sure Sonny is still following and has not become discouraged and given up.

Now there is no doubt. The dog is trying to show him something.

Wait for Sonny.

Sonny checks the ocean. The night was brighter when the moon was up, but even in the early-morning darkness, Sonny can see that it is low tide, and Sonny doesn’t like low tide.

There is too much land at low tide. The world is strange and frightening at low tide. Low tides are sneaky. It is easy to get lost in a low tide.

Today the tide is very low and very sneaky, and as Sonny follows the shore, he makes sure he keeps both feet on dry sand.

Sonny is no fool.

Low tide, he shouts after the dog. Be careful like Sonny.

Suddenly the dog breaks away from the ocean and the low tide, and runs up into the soft sand and the grass.

Good listening, doggy, Sonny shouts. Good listening.

Suddenly, there is a low flicker in the gloom, and now Sonny knows where the dog is taking him.

The tower.

The dog is taking Sonny to Sonny’s tower.

The flame is weak. That’s the problem. The dog is trying to warn Sonny that the beacon is about to go out.

Sonny pumps his arms and charges through the sand.

Clear the way. Clear the way.

Sonny quickly lays pieces of driftwood on the harrow disc and watches as the beacon flares, hot and powerful again.

Situation saved by Sonny.

Situation saved by Sonny and doggy.

The pile of wood is smaller, and Sonny knows he will have to find more, but for now, he needs to rest. He’ll look for wood later.

And then Sonny smells it.

Sonny stands up and looks around, and when he does this, he sees the blanket spread out on the sand and he sees the wicker basket. He sees the dog lying on the blanket next to the basket.

The doggy is having a picnic.

Sonny knows that smell. Sonny would know that smell anywhere.

Toasted cheese sandwiches!

Good doggy, Sonny tells the dog. Toasted cheese sandwiches are Sonny’s favourite.

“Aye,” says a voice that makes Sonny jump. “I remember ye have a tooth for a soft melt.”

Wham-wham!

Sonny reaches for his hammer.

“Easy lad,” says Crisp, “for I mean ye no harm. This be your tower? A fine piece of work it is.”

Crisp sits down on the blanket, opens the lid of the basket, and lets the aromas spill out.

“I thought you might be hungry from your exertions.”

Sonny looks at the tide. Then he looks at Crisp.

Tide. Crisp.

Crisp. Tide.

“Toasted cheese with Dijon mustard. There’s fruit and juice. Scrambled eggs and sausage, and tea in the Thermos, if ye have an inclination.”

Sonny looks at the dog.

“Yes,” says Crisp, “the dog will vouch for me, for we saved each other upon a time, and if ye have an inclination, I’ll tell ye the story while we eat.”

Sonny comes to the edge of the blanket. He is very hungry, and the food smells very good.

Is it safe? Sonny asks the dog. Is it safe?

The dog rolls over in the sand and farts.

Good doggy, says Sonny. Good doggy.

“Eat what ye will.” Crisp holds out a sandwich. “For there’s more things in heaven and earth than can be imagined.”

Sonny takes the sandwich. It is still warm and soft, but with a crunchy crust. Just the way he likes it. Sonny gives part of the sandwich to the dog.

“His name is Soldier,” says Crisp, “though he’s not opposed to a new name now and again, and perhaps ye can find something to please the both of ye.”

Sonny chews on the sandwich. He can taste the cheese and the mustard, the bread and the butter.

Salvage, Sonny tells the dog. I name you Salvage.

“A fine name,” says Crisp, wiping the grease from his beard and licking his fingers. “And when ye have done your fill, there’s something I must show ye, something ye will want to see, for it is creation itself and not to be missed.”

Sonny sits in the sand at the edge of the blanket and eats his sandwich. Somewhere behind him, he hears the sharp scraping sound he has heard before, and he turns to find it.

“Aye,” says Crisp, “I hear it, too. But ye must eat first and gather your strength, for we’ve a long day ahead of us.”

The tide has turned. Sonny surveys the ocean, watches it swell and rise up, marks the fog as it tries to steal its way back across the water. He smells salt on the wind now, tastes it on his tongue.

And in the distance, out on the Apostles, Sonny catches sight of two figures huddled together on the rocks.

DORIAN SAT IN THE HOTEL RESTAURANT, ENJOYING A LIGHT
breakfast while he watched the street come to life. He had been tempted by the sausage and waffle pairing, but had resisted, had ordered the yogurt and fruit with a whole-grain bagel instead.

As a single man, he would have to watch his figure.

The server had just cleared away the dishes, when Dorian’s cellphone began to vibrate.

LAST
night had been intriguing. And revealing. The hospital, the tour of Bloor Street in the dark, the woman in the doorway. He had spent the rest of the night and early morning sitting in bed with his clothes on, watching television with the sound off, and coming up with questions he could have asked.

Sixty dollars.

Will I be remembered?

God, but he was glad he hadn’t asked
that
question. The woman had frightened him. He didn’t like to admit it, but she had. Her red hair. Her blue eyes. Her yellow teeth. He had been thrown off, had lost sight of who he was.

What had she said? Something about being well?

THROUGH
the window of the restaurant, Dorian watched a Mercedes SL65 AMG drift by. “I am the master of my fate,” he said, letting his voice roll across the table. “I am the captain of my soul.”

“Sir?”

The server was standing at his shoulder.

“‘Invictus.’” Dorian took the napkin off his lap and considered the man. “Tell me, how long have you worked here?”

“At the Hermes?”

“Yes.”

“Since it opened,” said the man. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, “everything is fine. But I was curious. If you had one question you could ask, what would it be?”

“About the hotel?”

“No,” said Dorian. “About life. Life in general. Your life.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the man. “We’re not allowed to ask such questions.”

Dorian’s cellphone began vibrating again.

HE
had called Olivia’s suite after he had returned from the walk. He expected he would get her answering machine. And he had. He waited until he heard the beep.

“We don’t need no stinking questions.” That’s the message he had left. “We don’t need no stinking questions.”

And then he had hung up.

THE
server circled the table. “Will there be anything else?”

“Do you have pie?”

“Pie?”

“Cherry,” said Dorian. “Apple, if there is nothing else.”

“I’m afraid we have no pie.”

“No pie?”

“We have some excellent lemon pound cake with a raspberry compote,” said the server. “Shall I bring you a portion?”

“No,” said Dorian. “We don’t need dessert all the time, do we.”

A heavy-set man in a dark suit hurried into the restaurant. He looked remarkably like the bronze statue on Cumberland.

“Mr. Asher?”

Dorian smiled generously and waved the man to the chair across from him. “Mr. Knox, I presume.”

“I’m sorry to be late, but it was somewhat short notice.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Dorian raised a hand, but the server was already on his way.

“Gordon Knox,” said the man, and he handed Dorian a card.

“Dorian Asher.”

“The head of Domidion.”

“Just the CEO,” said Dorian, pleased that the man had done his due diligence.

Knox waited until the server had poured the coffee. Then he opened his briefcase and took out a large brochure.

“Are you staying here?”

“Last night.”

“It’s a very exclusive property.”

“Yes,” said Dorian. “It’s why I called.”

Knox cleared his throat. “In addition to the hotel, the Hermes has seventeen residences. There are two currently for sale.”

Knox turned the brochure so that Dorian could see the pages.

“The Miliken and the Leeson.”

“The residences have names?”

“The names can be changed of course,” said Knox. “Depending on the owner.”

Dorian ran a finger down the page. “Does either of these have eastern and southern exposures?”

“Yes,” said Knox quickly. “The Leeson. It has 3,587 square feet, two terraces, and a private elevator, all on two levels.”

“Price?”

“Asking 7.5.”

“Offer 6.5. Settle at 6.8.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see it first?”

“No need.”

Dorian glanced outside. The limousine was at the curb. Dorian hoped that Kip was at the wheel. He wanted to tell him about the woman and the sixty dollars. The man would enjoy that story.

“Have the papers sent to my office. Tell the courier to ask for Winter Lee.”

DORIAN
finished his coffee and paid the bill. He was sorry there was no pie, and he would mention this to the management after he moved in. As he walked through the lobby, he could feel the phone buzzing in his pocket like an angry insect.

He could check the screen, but Dorian was sure that it was Olivia. She had come to her senses. She was calling to tell him it was all a misunderstanding, that she didn’t want a divorce, that she had just been annoyed with him and his reluctance to consider a property in Orlando.

“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”

The doorman saw him coming and moved effortlessly to open the door.

“Have a good day, sir,” said the man.

“The Asher,” said Dorian out loud, as he stepped through the door and into the first day of his new life.

What will I do with my new beginning?

Now there was a question he could answer.