Jocelyn’s widowed father, a retired physician, flew in from Scottsdale and was greeted warmly by the intensive care staff. Here was a fellow professional who would understand the situation and the decision that had to be made. Dr. Lewis listened gravely as the neurosurgeon showed them the CAT scan of Jocelyn’s brain, explaining that she had suffered a severe brain trauma. Skye had to swallow hard when the neurosurgeon, sympathetically but clinically, went on to say that her brain had swollen, closing the reservoir of spinal fluid. When he said there was no evidence of spinal fluid in her brain, and the monitor showed no sign of brain activity, Jocelyn’s father looked at Skye and sadly shook his head.
“We have to let her go, son,” he had said when the two of them were alone. “She’s brain dead, and you and I know she could never stand to exist like that.”
Unable to speak, Skye had nodded silent agreement.
Both Jocelyn and Skye had signed organ donor consents. It had been her idea. After reading some material put out by HOPE—the Human Organ Procurement and Exchange organization—she had said, “Skye, we’re both healthy and we lead kind of a high-risk lifestyle, with the airplane and horses.” Ironically, she hadn’t mentioned skiing. They signed the forms on the back of their driver’s licences that same afternoon.
She was kept alive for another forty-eight hours so that a team from Harvard could fly in to retrieve her heart. The computer network showed there was a potential recipient in Boston who was a perfect match. Local surgical teams retrieved her liver, kidneys, pancreas and corneas for patients in western Canada.
At first, Skye had been almost sickened by the thought of his adored wife being dismembered like that. But then he began to take comfort from the fact that she was helping others to lead longer and fuller lives. At least her death was not entirely in vain. As always, that thought was followed by an inner rage that the son-of-a-bitch who had killed her had gotten away with it. The Kelly power and influence had seen to that. There had never been the slightest expression of remorse or regret from the Kellys. The clan had closed ranks and took the position that whatever had happened had nothing to do with them. And now the former wife of that bastard was here on Manchineel.
A huge moth, as big as a bat, banged against the screen, waking Skye from his unhappy reverie. He picked up the case and carried it with him to the master bedroom suite where he shoved it under the bed. He knew what he would do in the morning.
Compared to the Manchineel airstrip, the runway of the Grantley Adams Airport in Barbados seemed to go on forever. Skye applied enough power to keep the 180 a few feet in the air before touching down halfway along the runway. He taxied over to the far end of the terminal where Manchineel Air was located. They knew him there; customs wouldn’t be a problem and, besides, he had the necessary papers for the ashes.
Inside the office, Donald Gillespie, who flew the left-hand seat on Manchineel Air’s Twin Otter, was conferring with a mechanic. After shaking hands, he asked a few desultory questions about the flying conditions between Manchineel and Barbados. Skye told him that, as usual, it was “Caribbean perfect”—unlimited visibility, high scattered cumulus clouds. Still chatting, Gillespie walked with Skye over to the “Air Crew Only” gate, where the customs officer glanced briefly at Skye and the knapsack he was carrying and waved him through.
“I know why you are here, my son. I got a call this morning.” Father Donahue led the way into the cluttered livingroom of the rectory. His name was as Irish as “Paddy’s pig,” but the portly priest was black.
“You’ve heard what happened, then.” Skye wasn’t surprised.
Although his parish was in downtown Bridgetown, Father Donahue went over to Manchineel every Sunday to celebrate mass in the little white church. One of his Manchineel parishioners, undoubtedly a scandalized one, had called to tell him about last night’s dark saturnalia.
The priest watched as Skye carefully placed the knapsack on the floor, undid the straps and lifted the black case out. “I am interested in why you came to me. Neither you nor Jocelyn are of the Catholic faith.” He smiled almost mischievously. “Maybe it’s because you think my ju ju is stronger than that of my Protestant brothers?”
“Something like that,” admitted Skye. “Will you bless her remains, Father?”
“Of course I will, Skye. She was a lovely woman. Come with me.” The priest held out his hands for the case.
A few solitary worshippers, women with scarves wrapped around their heads, knelt in prayer in the vast nave of the old stone church. Skye, his head bent in solitary meditation, sat in a front pew. A white-robed assistant entered from a side door and lit three white candles with a taper. Father Donahue entered from another door and began to celebrate mass. The solitary worshippers, realizing that they would have the unexpected benefit of communion, quietly moved up to the front benches. The priest delivered an extemporaneous eulogy that was as moving a tribute to Jocelyn as Skye had ever heard.
After communion, of which Skye did not partake, Father Donahue asked Skye to come forward and hold the case. After reading a lengthy prayer, he raised his arms in benediction and blessed both the departed and her grieving husband.
“Thank you, Father. Now she can rest in peace,” said Skye as he bade the priest goodbye.
“Bless you, my son.” A frown darkened the priest’s round, cheerful face. “My Manchineel brothers and sisters are going to hear from me come Sunday, I can tell you.”
Jason Carmichael was on duty at the Manchineel customs desk. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a greyish cast to his black skin. What had the self-righteous customs official been up to last night? He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with a large red handkerchief that also effectively hid his eyes, and motioned Skye to be on his way.
The wall safe was too small to hold the case, but it would take the urn. Skye removed the bronze urn from its plastic carrying case and placed it inside the safe. He should have done that right from the start. But the villas were supposed to be inviolate. Strictly off-limits. Whistling Frog, like many of the other villas, had been designed by a renowned English architect who made them airy and open to take advantage of the constant trade winds. It made for delightful living—at the cost of security. The place was a sieve. Security wasn’t supposed to be a problem on the island, especially back when the villas were designed. It hadn’t mattered—until now.
With the ashes safely stowed, Skye went looking for Adrienne. If she was not too exhausted to work, he knew where to find her. She was there, standing on the reef, plucking sea urchins, the white ones with soft spines, from the rocks and placing them in a pail floating beside her. Skye climbed out of the jeep and walked out on the little jetty. A number of small boats, including his eighteen-foot Boston whaler, bobbed gently against the pilings. Looking down, he smiled at the green frog logo painted on the whaler’s transom. There would be work for the little boat that night. Adrienne, anchored the floating pail and waded through the knee-high water toward him. Reaching the edge of the reef, she dove in, swam across the narrow channel, and porpoised onto the jetty.
She said nothing as she stood, dripping, beside him, seemingly fascinated by the distant, mist-shrouded horizon. The only sign of fatigue or stress