"The rooms on this side of the hotel aren't air conditioned," Brenda said. "They're a bit cheaper. It gets pretty hot, I'm told, so he probably left the door open for some air."
"I'm sure you're right," Moira said, as I, growing more suspicious by the minute, went to take a second look at the phone that wouldn't work. It was easy to see why: The cord had been cut. I held it up for the other two to see.
"What would cause that, I wonder?" Brenda said.
I was tempted to say a knife, or scissors, but I held my tongue. Nobody was going to believe me on this one, including Moira. Even though I'd predicted she wouldn't, and even though I knew in my heart of hearts hers was the rational reaction, I was still a little hurt by it and feeling rather put upon. Then I had the most wonderful idea, one I went to implement the minute Moira headed off to get her tattoo.
"Brian!" I said to the nice young man who had unfortunately not yet snagged himself a job. "You are obviously the most technologically advanced person at this congress. I am really hoping you can help me."
"You flatter me," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"
"My partner Rob gave me this camera to bring on this trip," I said. "I thought that was really nice of him, particularly given the fact he couldn't come with me."
He looked at it. "I'll say. This is a really good camera," he said. "Five megapixels. Great resolution."
"Yes," I said. I had no idea what he was talking about. "Rob couldn't get away from his job, you know. I thought it would be nice to send him some photos I took with the camera he gave me. I read the manual, and I think it should be possible, but I don't know how to do it."
"You just have to transfer them to your computer and then attach them to an email. Did you bring your laptop?"
"I didn't," I said.
"Okay," he said. "We'll use mine. I have software on my laptop that should work. But I'd have to hook your camera up to my laptop. I don't suppose you brought a connector for the camera for a USB port."
"Would this be it?" I said, handing him a cable. I'd been so intimidated by the manual, I'd brought everything that had come in the box with the camera. This was the first time I'd needed any of it.
"That's it!" he exclaimed. "We're in business. Now, I'll get my laptop and transfer your photos to it, and you can send them through my email. I can log on in Santiago."
"I'll pay the charges," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "One of the advantages of living in the middle of frigging nowhere is that Chile takes good care of you. Valparaiso, on the mainland, even though it's 2,500 miles away, is a local call."
"But Santiago?" I said.
"Look," he said. "You and Moira were so nice to me when no one else in the whole world would talk to me. If I can repay you in even this small way, I am grateful."
"I really thought your paper was terrific and that those other people were horrid," I said.
"I rest my case," he said. "Okay, here we go," he said when he returned with his laptop. "Now, you put in your partner's email address, say it's a message from you in the subject line, just so he doesn't think it's spam, and tell me what photos you want me to attach." I told him.
"Well, these are different," he said, looking at them. "All this dirt."
"Actually, Rob is a soil engineer," I said. "I agree with you, as would almost everyone else on the planet, but he'll be over the moon with these photos." You are a pig, Lara, I thought. Life list: I will never lie to a nice young man again.
"I think you'll have to send two or three separate emails, with all these attachments," he said. "Now here's the space for you to write your own message."
I wrote my own message all right. Over the course of three emails, I told Rob my feelings about Dave Maddox and about how nobody believed me. I said I hoped he'd take a look at the photos I'd taken and send a reply, not by replying to Brian Murphy, of course, but to me.
"Is that a dead horse?" Brian said, as he attached the last photo.
"It is," I replied. "Sad, isn't it? But so artistic, don't you think? Rob is also a farmer on the weekends. And a painter. He uses scenes like this as his subject matter. I know he'll find this interesting." / am damned, I thought. My aku-aku will torment me forever for this.
As soon as the emails were on their way, I hurried into Hanga Roa to the Internet cafe and logged on. I'd sent the emails to both Rob's home address and work, hoping he was at his desk one place or the other with the email beeping to tell him there was a message from me.
He must have been nearby, because there was already a message from him asking me what I was up to and about how I should just come home. I sent him another in which in a rather testy tone I pointed out that he'd offered to come and help me on these trips, and even though he wasn't there, I still wanted his help.
This time he was at his desk, because by the time I'd managed to reply to another inane request from Clive, Rob had replied again. This time the message said: The dead horse on the rocks did not make the prints on the dirt where the body was found. The dead horse was wild, i.e. unshod. The prints on that Tomb thing, whatever it is you keep calling it, are horseshoes.
Ha, I thought. / knew it. Then I realized I wasn't much further ahead. I had merely eliminated one horse among what had to be thousands on the island. Fuentes would just say another horse killed Dave.
Do you think Maddox was trampled by a horse? I typed.
Could be, but only if the horse considered itself, or its foal, for example, to be threatened by him, the return email read. Horseshoes are unique, made for a specific horse. You could look for distinguishing marks in the prints. I can't tell from your email. Be careful were the last two words.
So real had been my dream about Rob on horseback, that I almost emailed him to ask what else it was I'd forgotten about Dave Maddox's death. That one would have stumped him, I'm sure. I sincerely hoped I would remember whatever it was I was supposed to soon, because this feeling of unease was starting to get to me. I didn't want to think about Dave Maddox's body at all, that crushed face still very fresh in my mind.
As an afterthought I asked Rob how my kitchen was coming along. The reply was that progress was being made at a rate that was essentially imperceptible. I wanted to cry.
Back at the hotel everyone was getting ready to go to Ahu Akivi on the last field trip of the conference. The flight to Tahiti was not until late in the day, so everyone was there. I put Susie Scace's bags in our room for safekeeping until it was time for her to go to the airport.
While we waited for the others to assemble, I went over to talk to Mike and Daniel, who were sitting surrounded by their gear, in the shade. Kent Clarke was standing beside a Jeep in the hotel drive, tapping her fingernails on the hood of the vehicle and looking about with a particularly vexed expression on her face. Brittany was sitting in the passenger seat looking, well, bored. She had acquired, I noticed, another tattoo, this one of a jelly fish, that sort of climbed up her neck, somehow.
"She's going to wear her fingers out," Daniel said, nodding in Kent's direction. "And then how will she be able to count out the vast sums of money she owes us, Mike?"
"Star gone walkabout?" I said.
"He probably drank himself into a stupor somewhere last night, savoring his triumph," Mike said. "I can see him now, sprawled on the floor behind the bar of some dive, arms still wrapped around that rongorongo thing."
"You're such a cynic, Mike," Daniel said. "You have no appreciation for greatness." He couldn't keep a straight face, however, and soon we were all laughing. I rather hoped Rory and Gordon would happen along so they could join in the fun, but perhaps their sense of humor had deserted them the previous evening, or they were off by themselves licking their wounds. Rory, now that I thought about it, wouldn't be here, because he was taking Moira to a tattoo parlor in Hanga Roa, of all things.