Medusa

CHAPTER 49

BONEFISH KEY, FIVE WEEKS LATER

SONG LEE WAS SITTING ON THE SUNLIT PATIO IN FRONT OF the lodge going over some notes when she heard the drone of an outboard motor echoing through the mangroves. Recognizing the sound of Dooley’s boat, she looked up and smiled at his impending arrival.

Dooley had been her main contact with the outside world since she had returned to the island to work on her medical text on ocean biomedicine. Returning to Bonefish Key had required determination. But the lab had been at the forefront of a science whose roots went back to the ancient culture of Nan Madol and the Micronesian islands, and it was the most compelling place for her to write.

Lee could not yet muster the courage to visit the barrier beach. She had no desire to see the cove where she had killed a man or to revisit the burned-out hulk of the cabin cruiser that had nearly been her funeral pyre. She still kayaked but stayed closer to the island. She went to bed early and was up with the sun, tapping at her laptop computer in the lab’s research library for hours on end.

The island was practically deserted. With the project at an end, Dr. Mayhew had returned to academia, and his team had scattered to the four winds. A small cadre stayed behind to tend to the specimen tanks, but the guards who had put in double duty as support staff had left. Dr. Lee enjoyed the camaraderie of a handful of technicians as they prepared their own meals.

Dr. Kane had visited the lab once. He had breezed in with a camera crew to film the lodge and lab buildings before he swept out again as if carried on the wind.

Although the governments of China and the United States were still nervous about telling the whole story of their secretive collaboration in stopping the near pandemic, the Herculean effort to stop the virus was big news around the world. Kane basked in his celebrity, flying from interview to interview, consulting with health experts and politicians around the globe. He was using his status as pandemic guru to pry money from Congress to support the type of ocean biomedicine research that had saved the world.

Song Lee had been content to labor in anonymity, but the remoteness of the island had started to get to her and she had been thinking of finishing her book back in China. She often thought of the NUMA people who had swooped in to save her and the world. She missed the Trouts and Joe Zavala, but most of all she missed Kurt Austin. A few weeks after she had arrived on the island, he had called her on one of the lab’s radiophones. He was on Pohnpei, still helping with the recovery of Davy Jones’s Locker, and would be in Micronesia longer than anticipated.

The drone of the marine motor grew louder, and seconds later Dooley’s double-hulled boat rounded the corner of a mangrove island and coasted up to the dock. There were two people in the boat: Dooley, who was at the wheel, and, beside him, a broad-shouldered man wearing a Hawaiian shirt. As they approached the dock, the broad-shouldered man removed the baseball hat from his head, revealing a thick mane of steel-gray hair. Song was already up and running down to the dock by the time Kurt Austin had started to wave his cap in the air. She and the boat got to the end of the dock at the same time.

Dooley tossed her the bow line as the boat bumped up against a piling.

“Brought you some company, Dr. Lee,” he said.

Song barely heard him. Her eyes were fixed on Kurt, who had a wide grin on his bronzed face. The grin grew even wider when he climbed out of the boat and Song threw her arms around him. He returned her embrace with enthusiasm. She planted a kiss on his lips that was warm and long, and might have gone on forever if Dooley hadn’t cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, folks, but I’ve got to get back to the mainland.” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kurt. Call when you want to go back to Pine Island.”

“Thanks for the ride, Dooley,” Austin said. He asked Dooley to toss him his small rucksack.

As the boat disappeared into mangroves, Austin said, “I got back to Washington a few days ago and thought I would hop down here to say hello.”

Lee hooked her arm in Austin’s and led the way toward the lodge.

“I’m glad you did,” she said. “How are Joe and the Trouts?”

“They’re fine. Zavala has found true love with a NUMA cartographer, and the Trouts just got back from New Bedford. The city’s whaling museum was dedicating a room for Caleb Nye’s diorama. It’s part of a special exhibition on the strange voyage of the Princess.”

“And a very strange voyage it was,” Lee said. “I start off my book with their experience on Trouble Island.”

“How is the book coming?”

“I’ve finished the outline and I’m doing supplemental research. I think the findings will revolutionize our understanding of viral immunology, particularly inoculation. But we have just scratched the surface of wonder drugs that will come from the ocean. It’s ironic that the vaccine might never have been developed without the threat of the Triad’s epidemic.”

“A classic case of yin and yang?” he asked.

“I hate to think that the opposing forces of good and evil were bound together in this case,” she said, “but without one, the other would not have produced a benefit to the world.”

“More than one,” he said. “China and U.S. relations have never been warmer. And the Triad is no longer with us. Yin and yang on hormones.”

They had climbed the hill to the patio and settled into a couple of chairs that faced the waterfront and the mangroves beyond.

“I have a tough question to ask,” Austin said. “Dr. Huang’s role as an informant enabled the Triad to pursue its evil goals. After he tipped off the Triad about the lab, they eavesdropped on Doc Kane and pinpointed its location. What should we do about him?”

“I don’t know,” Lee said. “He is a mouse and frightens easily, but he’s a brilliant doctor. I would hate to turn him over to the government. They would execute him.” She looked off at a snowy egret gliding over the water, and when she turned back to Austin a smile lit up her face. “This is what I propose for Dr. Huang.”

She explained her idea to send Huang to take her place as a country doctor. Austin threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

“A solution that is perfect in its symmetry. Now it’s my turn to make a proposal.”

He zipped open his rucksack and pulled out a bottle and two shot glasses. He poured each glass half full and offered one to Song.

“This is the Micronesian sakau I promised you. It’s made from a pepper plant and is slightly narcotic, so it is best taken in small doses.”

They raised their glasses, and, after a moment of thought, Song said, “Here’s to warm relations between China and America.”

They clinked glasses. She made a sour face and put her glass down on the table.

“It’s an acquired taste, which is probably a good thing,” Austin said with a smile. “As I recall, I also promised you a dinner with a water view.” He swept his hand in the air. “Here’s the water view. Dinner may have to wait until your work here is done.”

“Maybe not,” Song said. “One of the lab techs caught some fresh redfish this morning, and we will be grilling them for dinner. Please join us.”

Austin accepted the invitation, and they sat on the patio talking until the dinner bell clanged. They ate in the dining room with a half dozen staffers, then retired to the patio to enjoy an after-dinner drink as the island became enveloped by a liquid darkness. Austin had repacked the sakau, and they were drinking a less lethal port.

Kurt and Song talked for hours, with the sensuous sounds and smells of the semitropic night in the background, and it was late when they realized that the rest of the staff had drifted off and they were all alone.

Austin glanced at his watch, and said, “It’s almost midnight. I had better call Dooley to have him pick me up.”

Song laughed softly, and said, “Dooley is in bed by now. And you would have to climb the water tower to pick up a signal. Why don’t you stay the night with me in my cottage? It’s quite snug and comfortable.”

“Never let it be said that Kurt Austin stood in the way of warm Chinese-American relations,” he said. “But these clothes are all I have. I left my pajamas at home.”

Song reached out and touched Kurt’s hand.

“You won’t need them,” she said with a smile in her voice.

THEY AWOKE EARLY THE next day to a waterbird symphony. Austin had to get back to Washington for a meeting. While he climbed the tower to call Dooley, Song and the lab technicians produced a send-off breakfast that was heavy on fresh fruit. As they dined on the patio, Austin savored the peace and quiet of the island.

“It’s going to be tough to leave paradise,” he said.

“Do you really have to go so soon?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. I’m sorry to rush off.”

“Maybe you can rush back just as quickly.”

“I have the feeling we’ll be seeing each other sooner than we think. How’s your research going on the New Bedford anomaly?”

“I’ve been going over what material I have. But so much is missing.” She frowned, and said, “I think I hear Dooley.”

Song walked Kurt to the end of the dock. They embraced and kissed good-bye. Before Austin got in the boat, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out a package wrapped in plain paper. He handed it to Lee.

“You might find this of interest,” he said.

Lee took the wrapping off and stared at the book in her hand.

The blue leather cover was crinkled with age and weathered from the time it had spent at sea. She turned to the first page and read aloud:

“November 20, 1847. Wind northwest at ten knots. Good ship Princess departs New Bedford on maiden voyage. Adventure and prosperity beckon. H. Dobbs.”

“It’s the missing logbook!” she said. “Where did you find it?”

“The Trouts picked it up when they went to New Bedford for the dedication. Seems Harvey Brimmer’s story about Caleb Nye’s secret marriage was true. The book was part of a dowry he gave his daughter. It’s been in her family since then. They’d like it back after you’re done with it.”

Kurt gave Song a peck on the cheek, then got in the boat with Dooley. As the boat headed toward the mangroves, Song finally seemed to realize that Kurt was leaving. She waved her hand and shouted a thank-you.

“Too bad you got to leave Dr. Lee so soon,” Dooley said.

“That’s okay,” Austin said. “She’s got a young guy to keep her company.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Dooley said with real concern. “Anybody I know?”

“Probably not. His name is Caleb Nye.”

“Women,” Dooley muttered with a sad shake of his head.

Minutes later, they broke out of the mangroves into open water. Dooley goosed the throttle, and the boat raced across the blue-green waters of the bay to the distant mainland.