“Kombanwa,” Tanner said, using one of the three dozen Japanese phrases he’d managed to master. Good Evening.
“How do you do, sir.”
“Your English is very good.”
The boy beamed. “I am learning at school.”
“My name is Briggs.”
“I am Mitsu.” Introductions made, the boy scampered over and plopped down. He eyed Tanner’s swim fins. “What are those?”
“Fins.”
What were you doing in the water?”
“Diving.”
“For pearls?”
“For fun.”
Mitsu considered this. “Are you hungry?”
“Well, I—”
Without waiting for an answer, the boy sprinted off, gesturing for Tanner to follow. Tanner shrugged. Why not? He got up, stuffed his gear into his rucksack, and followed.
Dinner consisted of braised fish, vegetables, and rice. Mitsu’s mother, younger brother, and sister — both under four years old — spoke no English but did their best to make Tanner feel welcome, as though having a complete stranger join them for dinner was a perfectly routine event.
They sat on the hut’s porch, which was back a few yards into the tree line. A pair of sputtering kerosene lanterns hung from the eaves. In the distance Tanner could hear the hiss of the waves.
Once the dishes were cleared away, the mother served tea while the younger boy fanned the hibachi smoke to keep the insects at bay. Tanner asked Mitsu where his father was.
“He went out one night. In our boat. The boat came back the next morning. He did not.”
Tanner glanced at the mother, who merely smiled at him. Up to this point, Mitsu had been translating their conversation, but he had stopped at this last exchange.
“How long ago?’
“Six months. It was after the ship stopped coming.”
“What ship?”
“Every few nights for almost a month, a ship came. Over there.” He pointed off the beach. “It would stay for a few hours, then sail again.”
“Do you know what she — it — was doing?”
“No.”
“What did the police say about your father?”
Mitsu shrugged, and Tanner realized the police hadn’t been notified. It was a village matter, he guessed. He wondered why Mitsu had mentioned the ship. Was it simply the boy’s way of marking his father’s disappearance or something more?
Tanner stood up and bowed. With both hands he returned the teacup to the mother. “Domo arigato, Kombanwa.”
The mother returned his bow. “Do-ita-shimashi-te.”
Tanner tousled Mitsu’s hair, shouldered his rucksack, walked down the steps, and headed down the beach.
“He went out one night. The boat came back the next morning. He did not.” What happened to him? Tanner wondered. A man goes out in a boat, then disappears.
Back at the hotel, Tanner stood under a hot shower, then toweled off, slipped on a pair of rough khaki shorts, a navy blue tropical knit shirt, and sandals, then headed downstairs to the hotel bar, the Tiki Lounge. He still had trouble speaking the name without laughing, but it certainly did fit the general motif of the Royal Palms Resort.
What the designers had lacked in originality they recouped in lavishness. Seemingly transplanted from the shores of Tahiti, the hotel was a man-made tropical paradise on an island with plenty of its own. The crescent-shaped hotel was bordered on one side by the beaches of Cape Shiono and a forest of evergreen and bamboo on the other. Nestled between the concave sides of the hotel was the requisite kidney-shaped swimming pool, cabana bar, and artificial waterfall. And palms. Large and small, fake and real, they sprouted from every corner, with or without the aid of soil. Hidden in the foliage came the muted squawks of parrots. Tanner had yet to see a live bird, but to the hotel’s credit, neither had he spotted the loudspeakers.
He strolled through the Tiki’s doors, took a stool at the bar, and ordered a Kirin beer. It was a quiet night, with only a half-dozen patrons seated at the tables. His beer arrived, and he took a sip.
Then he sensed someone standing behind him.
“Do you ever get the feeling you’re in the wrong place?” the voice said.
He turned.
She had lustrous, shoulder-length black hair and a delicately curved neck that could only be called elegant. Her skin was flawless and tanned. She was stunning, Tanner thought.
As do most men, Briggs did his best to convince himself he was in control of his reactions to women, and like most men, he was wrong. Happy he hadn’t fallen off his stool, he smiled and said, “Pardon me?”
She gestured to the nearby tables. He looked and suddenly realized the rest of the Tiki’s patrons were couples — all newlyweds, he guessed.
“It seems we’re surrounded,” he said.
“May I?”
“Please do.”
“My name is Camille.”
He shook her extended hand and felt an ineffable tingle; her accent was Eastern European, perhaps Slavic. She smelled like plumeria. Or was it hibiscus?
“I’m Briggs.”
“Interesting name.”
“A long story. An ancestral name my father took a liking to.”
“I like long stories. Tell me.”
Tanner shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go outside. It’s too nice a night to waste.”
They ordered two more drinks, then stepped onto the pool deck and wound their way through the umbrella-covered tables and sat down at the edge of the pool. The aerators gurgled softly, and the underwater lamps glowed amber. Camille took off her sandals and dangled her legs in the water.
“So,” she said. “Your story.”
“You’re sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the unabridged version or the Reader’s Digest condensed?”
“Unabridged.”
“Okay…” Tanner said. “According to my father, it began back in 1774…”
By the time he finished the story, Camille was laughing so hard she was doubled over, tears streaming down her face. He caught her arm and gently pulled her upright. A few wisps of her hair had dipped into the pool, and she brushed them away.
“You made that up,” she said.
“Every word is true.”
“So you’re named after a… a… what is the word? A pirate—”
“Back then they were called privateers.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Not much.” He took her glass and stood up. “I’ll go freshen our—”
Beyond the fence came the squealing of tires. An engine roared, brakes screeched, followed by a crash and shattering glass.
“That sounds close,” Camille said, jumping up.
Tanner ran toward the fence. He was ten paces from it when he noticed a figure scrambling over it. The man reached the top, teetered, then tumbled headfirst into the shrubbery. Dragging his left leg, he lurched onto the patio.
Tanner caught him as he fell. “I’ve got you, slow down—”
“American!” the man sputtered. “You’re American?”
“Yes. What—?”
The man glanced over his shoulder. “They’re coming!” Tanner looked but saw no one. “Help me! Please!”
On an impulse that would be his first of two that evening, Tanner nodded and helped the man to his feet. “Okay, come on.”
They were turning toward the Tiki when Briggs saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced back. A pair of arms were reaching over the top of the fence. Then a head appeared. Tanner caught a glint, moonlight on metal. Instinctively he knew what it was.