Gabriel Cruz kept his binoculars glued to his eye sockets until the silhouettes of Susanto and his companion completely disappeared from view. When he lowered the glasses, he was shocked to see how far they already were from the island. He turned round to face the front of the boat, and felt a fresh rush of fear.
There was nothing but water, water, water stretching all around him, as far as he could see. Water that was alive: it moved constantly, rising and falling, making sounds. It was as if the boat was riding the back of a gigantic beast whose body consisted of water. It was docile right now: its hiss was the soothing sound made by a mother calming a child. But Cruz remembered its roar during the terrifying storm right after New Year's Day.
He'd listened to it aboard a luxury yacht that had been built to handle cyclones and typhoons, and he'd been scared shitless. Now he was sitting in an open boat that lurched and bounced even on the tiny waves caused by the wind. Well, he could console himself with the thought that he wouldn't drown if the boat ran into a storm. He would have a heart attack after the first few thunderbolts.
He needed a distraction from those thoughts. He turned to Felipe. Felipe, first mate of the Golden Dawn and its de facto captain, was also the captain here. Cruz felt inferior to Felipe, even though Felipe throughout his entire life wouldn't make half the money Cruz made in a single day.
"How far do you think we have come?" he asked. Felipe frowned and threw a glance over his shoulder at Henderson Island. He ordered fresh men to the oars before looking back at Cruz and saying:
"You mean our distance from the island? Five, maybe six miles."
Cruz was horrified. According to his map, Henderson Island was much bigger than Pitcairn. Yet it was already no more than a smudge on the horizon to his naked eye. He raised his binoculars again, and it reassuringly popped into view. But already he couldn't see the trees, couldn't even see where the cliffs began.
He knew Felipe had meant sea miles. A sea mile was nearly two kilometers, 1.85 if he remembered right. They were roughly ten kilometers away from Henderson Island, and it was already starting to disappear from sight. It would be invisible at night, he was sure. And since Pitcairn was at best half the size of Henderson Island...
If they didn't reach Pitcairn before nightfall, they were as good as lost.
"Do you think we'll get close enough to Pitcairn to see it before it gets dark?" he asked Felipe. Felipe pursed his lips; his eyes darkened. He pretended to be deep in thought because he'd heard the fear in Cruz's voice, and wanted to prolong that delicious moment: the all-powerful billionaire was hanging on his lips! Eventually he said:
"We should, if everything goes well and we don't drift too much."
"Drift? Why should we drift? Those guys are rowing like crazy!"
"I estimate we're drifting east about half a mile an hour," said Felipe. "I am going to adjust our course for that later in the afternoon."
"Why not now?"
"I'll be able to do it more precisely later."
Cruz wanted to press the point, but didn't know how to do it effectively. He expected he'd hear some navigational mumbo-jumbo that would tell him nothing, and fail to provide him with a valid counter-argument. He needed to assert himself, somehow: he felt he'd lose face if he didn't. So he said:
"What do you think about us, you and me, taking a turn at the oars? Those men aren't fresh any more."
"You want to row the boat?" said Felipe, and grinned although he really tried his best not to do that. He was afraid it would make Cruz angry, and he was right.
"No, I don't want to row the boat," snarled Cruz. "I don't even want to be in that fucking boat. I wish I was somewhere else. But if those guys run out of steam just as we're getting close to Pitcairn and it's getting dark, we're sunk."
"We have three shifts. An hour's rest for each half an hour at the oars. It really isn't necessary," Felipe said placatingly.
"I want to do it, goddamit!"
"All right. If you insist. It's my shift next. I'll let Francis off halfway through, and you can take his place. Is that all right?"
"You think I can't handle an oar for half an hour?"
Felipe's eyes turned opaque. Looking over Cruz's shoulder, he said:
"I don't think anything, sir. I haven't seen you row a boat. I don't even know if you've ever done it before."
"Yes, I did. Many times, in fact."
"All right. But it will be good if Francis stretches his muscles a little, too. So maybe you could take over after fifteen minutes and I'll row together with you for as long as you like. The men will get some extra rest. That will be good."
"Fine," said Cruz.
When his moment came, it turned out to be somewhat less than fine. It was the skin on his palms that was the problem. It was so soft! He wished he'd brought a pair of gloves. He had three: a fingerless pair he used when exercising with weights, a string pair he used for selected leisure activities, and a silk pair he sometimes wore to bed after applying cream that promised to keep his hands looking younger. It was a lie: they were looking older with every year. But he kept using it anyway, because who knew - maybe without it, his hands would turn into wrinkled claws even faster.
The fingerless weightlifting gloves were a lie, too. He'd put them on, swing a couple of relatively light dumbells for a minute or two, and then put the dumbells back in their bag together with the gloves. He didn't need gloves at all for that kind of exercise.
Cruz felt blisters forming on his palms after no more than ten minutes. He gritted his teeth, and kept going, concentrating on keeping rhythm with Felipe. He knew Felipe was throwing him discreet glances, evaluating his condition. He was absolutely determined to serve out a full half hour, no matter what.
After twenty minutes, his shoulder and chest stomach muscles were beginning to scream with pain. His arms were a bit sore, but still okay - who would have thought? Cruz had told Felipe a fib about having rowed a boat many times. The vessel in question was a small inflatable dinghy with tiny oars that weren't much bigger than paddles: it had been one of his favorite toys when he was a boy. He spent a lot of time in it on the artificial pond on his father's estate. The pond contained koi fish and he loved to sit in the dinghy and watch their graceful, silent moves in the green water.
Twenty five minutes! Just five more minutes to go! Cruz's body was on fire: even his legs were hurting. He was sure he wouldn't survive another minute, let alone five. So he was ecstatically happy to hear the observant, diplomatic Felipe say:
"Sir, I would like to take a break. I've been rowing for nearly three quarters of an hour. I would like Daniel and Joshua to take our places now. Is that okay?"
Cruz nodded: he didn't have the breath to speak. He returned to his seat at the stern of the boat and discreetly examined the palms of his hands. Half a dozen blisters on each, and nearly all of them had burst. He put his hand over his chin as if deep in thought, and furtively licked it clean. After a while he shifted in his seat and repeated the procedure for his other hand. He'd done that a few times when he was a boy and knew it worked really well. He didn't want to draw any attention by asking for the boat's first-aid chest.
Time passed; Cruz found himself sinking into a stupor. His body continued to throb painfully even when he kept perfectly still. He broke out of his trance to eat in the mid-afternoon, then slipped right back into it. He was experiencing reality in a totally new way, as if he'd just been born anew.
It was a highly mystical experience, and Cruz immersed himself in it so deeply he didn't notice the sun preparing to set until it touched the water and the ocean began sparkling with thousands of moving highlights. Cruz looked at the darkening, setting sun and felt heavenly inspiration. If he was going to go out, he would go out in a blaze of glory, just like the sun. Because he, Gabriel Cruz, was a sun too. His light and warmth brought life to thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions! Millions of people depended on paychecks from the Cruz empire.
He didn't realize that his flight of fancy was caused solely by his extreme physical effort earlier on. It was something he hadn't done for many, many years, and his organism went on red alert. A wide variety of kickass hormones was injected into his bloodstream, while thousands of repair teams worked feverishly to repair the damage to his muscles. Muscles always get torn during exercise: the whole process of growing bigger, better muscles is a consequence of damaging existing muscles. But Cruz's muscles, weakened by thirty years of next to no exercise at all, felt like they were more than torn: they felt shredded.
This was the reason why Cruz experienced the ecstasy people reportedly feel when they're about to die from torture. There was less than an hour before nightfall, less than an hour to spot Pitcairn. But he wasn't scared any more. He turned to Felipe and said:
"So, what's your bet?"
"Sir?"
"What's your bet? Are we going to see Pitcairn before it gets dark?"
Felipe was still considering his answer when one of the crew shouted:
"Ey!"
They both looked at him, then at his arm - he was pointing at the sky. His finger was aimed at a solitary bird, suspended above the boat as if on a string - its wings hardly moved at all. It was too high up to tell details, but it definitely wasn't of a size that would let it stray very far from land.
"I think we might see Pitcairn before dark," said Felipe.
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