"I can do that. You rest," she said. "Hello, everyone," she called, crossing over to the group in the breakfast area. "If I may have your attention for just a minute, I have an announcement. We're going to do something special today, a little surprise."
"A few too many surprises already, if you ask me," I heard Jimmy say.
"A lovely lunch at one of the finest restaurants in the country," she went on, undeterred. "Something special we're including as part of the tour."
"Fresh seafood, I hope," Ben said. "Is wine included, too?" Ben apparently was recovering quite nicely, and contrary to what I expected, was carrying right on.
"Of course," Jamila said, after looking at me for a sign. I nodded. "Drinks, too."
"I'm going to bed," I said to no one in particular.
Tired as I was, I couldn't sleep, just a few minutes here and there, broken by horrible dreams. By noon, I gave up trying and went downstairs.
"Your husband called three times, Madame Swain," Mohammed said as he handed me little pink slips of paper with Clive's name on every one. "Mme. Sylvie said we were not to put the calls through to your room while you were resting."
"Thank you, Mohammed," I said, tearing up the messages. Word of Kristi's demise had apparently already made its way back home, and Clive would be beside himself. There'd be time to listen to him rant, later on.
A few minutes later, I found myself in town in what is rather whimsically called a taxiphone, one of the few places, other than some of the large American hotel chains, where it is possible to dial direct overseas. I looked at my watch. It was 6:20 A.M., Toronto time, and it was Sunday. I put in a dinar coin or two and dialed, anyway.
"Rob," I said. "It's me."
"Oh," the sleepy voice said. "It's good to hear from you." He paused. "Is everything okay?"
"Not really," I said. "I needed to hear a friendly voice. I know it's early."
"That's okay. What's happened?" he asked anxiously. I told him.
"That's terrible," he said. "But it's not your fault, remember that."
"I know," I said miserably. "But it was really unpleasant, and Clive already thinks I'm making a mess of things--even before he heard about Kristi."
"I don't understand why you went into business with that fellow again," Rob said. He did not like Clive much, it was fair to say. "Moira would have understood if you'd said no when he suggested it."
"I know," I said again. That one phrase seemed to be the height of my conversational abilities at that moment. "You have no idea how bad an idea it was. Please don't ask me why. He may be right about my making a mess of this trip, though."
"That sounds unlikely to me," he replied. He was being so nice.
"I suppose you see this kind of thing all the time, being a policeman. Have you ever pulled someone out of the pool when they've bashed their head in?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Twice. Well, once in a lake. Same idea, though."
"What happens when they hit the bottom?" I asked.
"What?" he said. "Oh, I see. Your fellow died. Drowned, I suppose. If you get them out in time, they're usually paralyzed. Quadriplegics in some cases."
"Actually, I meant what happens to their head?"
"Isn't this a little grisly, Lara? Why would you want to know?"
"I guess I need to understand this in some way, Rob," I said. "Maybe I'll feel better about the fact that I didn't get him out in time." There didn't seem to be much point in mentioning I was being haunted by a dream that was making me question the conclusions the local police had drawn.
"I'm not sure telling you this is a good idea, but essentially they break their necks. I'm not a doctor, but I think the top of the head and the neck take the whole weight of the body, and one of the vertebra is forced out of position, slicing the spinal cord. The extent of their injuries, or the paralysis, depends on where it gets severed."
"I think what I'm really asking is, did I kill him taking him out of the pool? I mean should I have known his neck was broken, or anything?"
"I don't think there'd be any way of telling that his neck was broken just by looking at him, and leaving him on the bottom of the pool for a while until someone who understood neck injuries arrived wouldn't have helped him much, now would it? Don't do this to yourself, Lara! You did what you could. If he hadn't gone swimming by himself, then maybe someone could have got him out in time. From what you've told me, he was the instrument of his own death."
"I know, but I keep thinking of him lying there conscious for a moment or two, unable to help himself. He wasn't a very nice person, maybe, but he didn't deserve that. And Kristi . . ."
"Lara, if you're going to ask me now what happens to the lungs of people who die smoking in bed, forget it. I'm not going to tell you. I think you should just try and get some rest. You'll feel better tomorrow," he said gently.
"Who's with you?" I said suddenly. I could have sworn I heard a sleepy female voice asking him who it was he was talking to.
"Nobody," he said. That, I realized with a pang, was a lie.
"I think I'll take your advice," I said. "And get some rest. Thanks for being there," I added.
"Lara," he said. "We'll talk about this, okay? I mean you, we, aren't really . . . are we?"
"Whatever," I said. "Goodbye, Rob."
It was true, we weren't, if by that he meant lovers. We'd never got past the necking stage. Something always seemed to intervene: his daughter, my shop, his job, and then one or the other of us would think better of it. But when I was feeling really wretched, Rob was the person I wanted to talk to, to hear his nice calm voice, and knowing there was someone else with him early on a Sunday morning did nothing to improve my day. Looking on the bright side, I suppose, I'd found out what I needed to know, whether I liked it or not, about both Rob and Rick Reynolds.
"I thought you were supposed to be resting," a voice said as I passed through the lobby on the way back to my room. I turned to see Briars in the lounge. "Can't sleep?"
"It seems not," I agreed.
"Would you like a little fresh air?" he inquired.
"Sure, I guess so."
He hailed a little yellow taxi outside the hotel gate, and soon we were descending to the harbor, then picking up the coast road headed north. Just on the outskirts of Taberda we stopped at a pier, where several colorful fishing boats bobbed at anchor. Briars climbed down to a little outboard, and beckoned me to follow. Soon we were bouncing across the water toward a boat about a quarter mile offshore.
"Here we are," he said, as we pulled alongside. A smiling Hedi offered me a hand up the ladder.
"Welcome aboard the Elissa Dido," he said.
"And," Briars added, "our project site. Meet two of our divers: Ron Todd, one of my students at UCLA, and Khmais ben Khalid, a local archaeologist and diver. Hedi, you know, of course. He's our dive supervisor, and he's been filling in as project director while I've been with your group. We have two other divers--both, I gather, Hedi?--down below." Hedi nodded. "Gentlemen, meet Lara McClintoch. I shook a couple of wet hands. Briars reached into a cooler. "Something cold to drink, Lara? Cola? Mineral water? No alcohol allowed onboard, I'm afraid." I gratefully took the proffered mineral water. "Ron, see if you can find Lara a hat."
Ron emerged from the cabin a minute or two later with a black neoprene cap emblazoned with the words The Elissa Dido Project in white, and what looked to be some kind of ship, with a large square sail, the prow in the shape of a horse's head. Briars presented it to me with a flourish. "Since you're helping pay for this expedition," he said, "whether you knew it or not," he added, "you get to be an honorary crew member. Lara's had a bad day," he said to the men, "so we won't put her to work right away."