1. Chapter 1 (1/2)

disclaimer: they're

not my characters; i make no profit from them. there is no place

called paupao, though the geography, tactics, and casualty rates

described herein reflect those of an actual wwii island campaign.

rated: pg

author's notes: it

was only after i started writing this that i found out that nostalgia

originally meant a particularly malignant form of combat fatigue, a

longing to be home that was so strong, that men would lose interest

in their own safety and would take insanely dangerous risks. in the

american civil war, 'nostalgia' was sometimes listed as a cause

of death.

thank you, cheri; it

really was half-baked when first i sent it to you.

nostalgia

by l. m.

lewis

"let

us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at

least we learned a little,

and

if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we

got sick,

at

least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful." buddha

his first thought was,

my god, he looks old. and close upon the heels of that, i

wonder if i look as old to him as he looks to me? but what he

said was, "jake, it's been a while, hasn't it? what's up?"

and jake beckman tried

to smile back as he ushered his invited guest into his front hallway.

"milt, i'm so glad you could come by on such short notice."

beckman

pivoted on his good foot and led hardcastle into the living room.

there was nothing new in the limp, he'd lost his right leg over

forty years ago. but the weary hunch of the man's shoulders, and

the unrelenting worry in his eyes, those hadn't been there the last

time they'd gotten together.

"milt,

it's about david. i don't know what to do. i've tried the state

department; i've contacted damn near everybody i could think of.

all they can tell me is, 'we'll look into it.'"

now

it was hardcastle's turn to look worried. "you said he was in

paupao on business?"

"yes,

doing research for a resort development consortium."

"on

paupao?" the judge asked skeptically.

beckman

nodded. "you wouldn't believe it; he showed me pictures before he

left. it's the most damned beautiful place."

hardcastle

frowned, trying to reconcile that notion with his own memories of

four decades past. then beckman's voice

oke in on that thought.

"but

he never made it onto the flight he was supposed to take home. that

was two days ago. and the fellow who was renting him a house says he

hasn't been back there, either. milt, i'm scared."

"any

idea what might have happened?"

"the

liaison there--paupao isn't big enough to rate an embassy-- his

name is troutmann; he asked me if maybe david was doing any diving,

looking at the reefs. he thinks davey might have gone out alone and

gotten into trouble. i'm telling you, milt, you know my son, he's

not like that. hell, he told me how treacherous some of the currents

are south of the island, how a man could get swept out into the

pacific with no way back. he wouldn't take a chance like that."

beckman's

anxious patter slowed; he looked up at his old friend. "i need

somebody to go there--to find out what's happened. damn it

all, if i could go myself . . ." beckman was looking down

shaking his head angrily. "a man shouldn't have to live long

enough to be useless."

hardcastle

nodded his understanding. he knew the leg was only the most visible

of his friend's medical problems. he also knew the burning need the

man was expressing. what happened? how and when and where? along

with the dread that came with maybe finding the answers.

he

suspected his friend wanted nothing more than a referral, a

suggestion of someone reliable who could be hired. instead he said,

"i can go take a look for you, jake." beckman's lifted his

head, his eyes full of doubt and surprise. "aw, come on, i've

still got two good legs and there's nothing wrong with my ticker.

besides, you know i got a guy who helps me out, about your son's

age; he can do the heavy lifting, if there is any."

00000

mccormick tilted the

last of the fifty-pound bags of fertilizer off his shoulder and onto

the stack he'd made on the edge of the lawn nearest the flower

beds. seven bags of high-grade cow-dung neatly stacked in a pyramid,

awaiting distribution among the eternally demanding hardcastle roses.

he found himself thinking (just thinking, he would never have said it

out loud) if only nancy, god rest her soul, had taken up a less

physically demanding hobby, like needlepoint.

he dug in his pocket

for the box cutter and reached down to open the first bag.

"mccormick!" he

heard hardcastle's shout before he saw him stride into view around

the side of the house. "why the hell didn't you answer the phone?

i've been trying to call since--"

"sorry, judge, i

didn't hear." mccormick made a sweeping gesture towards the bags.

"i was one with the manure; it's a zen thing. what's up?"

"well, you better

stop the meditating and get packed; we have a plane to catch," the

judge said impatiently.

mccormick's eye

ows

when up. "pack what? plane to where? are we talking about a month

in oregon here?"

"nope, sunny, warm,

beaches."

"gunrunners? banana

republics? san rio blanco?"

"nothing like that.

we're looking for a guy, david beckman; he's the son of an old

friend of mine. he went missing on a business trip."

"where?"

"paupao. it's an

island in the south pacific," hardcastle added, seeing that

mccormick was drawing a blank. "and you're going to be," he

made a dubious face, "a journalist, a guy who's writing a book

about the place. you got anything that looks like what somebody from

national geographic would wear?"

"wait a minute,

kemosabe," mccormick was grinning. "why don't you be the

journalist, and i'll be the guy who carries your pencils."

"nope, can't;

you're the journalist, and i'm gonna be the guy who's showing

you around." hardcastle was already turning away to go back up to

the house, leaving mccormick standing there with a questioning look.

"now you better hustle," the judge added as he walked away. "our

flight leaves in three hours. and take a shower; that 'one with the

manure' doesn't work so good on a plane."

00000

they were two hours

southwest of honolulu and nine hours into what was shaping up to be a

very long night. mccormick fidgeted again, trying to find a more

comfortable position for his legs. he cast a sideward envious glance

at the judge, who'd managed to fall asleep even before the

stop-over, and had barely woken up during their refueling. granted,

the man had had a busy day, mccormick conceded. he'd managed to

accumulate a hefty file on both david beckman and their destination,

as well as clearing a whole series of bureaucratic obstacles to

last-minute international travel.

"see," the judge

had explained, as they were in the taxi to lax, "it's a little

island, maybe 20,000 people, an ex-american protectorate, been

independent for a few years now. they've got a president and

everything."

"20,000? that

wouldn't even rate a mayor back in jersey," mccormick observed.

"so what do you think happened to this guy?"

"dunno,"

hardcastle's eye narrowed, as if he were pondering the

possibilities and none of them were good. "i know this kid. he's

smart and responsible. i don't think he'd just wander off with

some girl he met and forget to call home. besides, the fellow he was

renting a house from, his name's rapoa, told his dad that david had

left his suitcases the day he was supposed to fly out. he said he had

a couple errands to run; then he never came back to pick them up."

"only 20,000 people,

how much crime can there be?"

"well, the last

president was assassinated, but i don't know why anybody there

would go after an american."

mccormick's eye

ows

had risen a notch. "robbery?"

"jake showed me

pictures; david's been at this a long time. he dresses like a young

guy doing island-hopping on the cheap. he doesn't want the

competition to know he's scouting property."

mccormick nodded,

leaning forward a bit to study the photo the judge had pulled out of

the file—a guy with sandy hair, thinning toward the front, with an

otherwise youthful face. he was smiling and tan and dressed more like

a beach bum than a businessman.

he

had an odd feeling that he'd seen that face before, in a younger

version, on a photo he'd run across while sorting out things in the

garage. that had been an unframed snapshot of two middle-aged men and

two boys, both about 14, posing with a pile of camping gear in the

drive at gull's way, obviously the start of a trip, everyone

looking happy. mark had only looked at the photo for a few moments

and then he'd mostly concentrated on the image of hardcastle's

own son, a kid with a cock-eyed smile and short

istly hair.

morbid

curiosity, he'd shoved the photo under a book, back in the

bottom of the box from which it'd come. then he'd beat down a

thought of where he'dbeen when he was that age. is

there a word that means the opposite of nostalgia? if there was,

he couldn't think of it.

now

he thought, as the plane headed west through the endless night,

one of them is dead, and maybe the other one, too.

00000

past guam there'd

been two more legs, on ever-smaller planes, the last one an

eight-seater in which room had been made for a crate containing four

squealing piglets. mccormick was bone-weary of flying by then, but

managed a joke about flying pigs.

eventually

he saw a speck of green, forward from the left-hand window, that

gradually resolved itself into knobbled mounds of dense treetops,

fringed in spots by white sand, in others by chalk-white cliffs, and

sitting in an ocean of variegated blue, from azure to pale turquoise.

the plane banked left; the whole thing spread out beneath them in

ever-increasing detail, until he could even make out schools of fish

just below the surface in the shallow water.

"my god," the soft

exclamation had come from just over his right shoulder. when he

turned his head, he saw the judge, staring down past him at the view

with a look of absolute astonishment. "he's right; it is

damnbeautiful."

"hard to believe

anybody could be killed there," mccormick replied quietly.

"no," the judge

shook his head slowly, "it's not."

00000

they trundled their

own bags across the tarmac and into the tin-roofed building that

sufficed for customs. mccormick lifted them onto the table. the bored

looking officer in sweat-stained khakis took a desultory look inside,

until he reached the nylon backpack—maps, a compass, flashlights,

and a handful of cold light sticks, canteens, and a first-aid kit.

"you are going over

to the caves?" the man inquired politely, addressing himself to

hardcastle, who nodded back in reply. "you should get a guide; i

have a cousin--"

"i think i'll

remember my way around," the judge answered.

"of course." the

customs officer smiled. "but you know, forty years--"

"like yesterday."

"yes." the officer

made a little waggling gesture with one finger. "so you think. then

maybe you find some trees are not where you left them and the next

thing you know, you are up to your knee in one of those holes and

then you are flying home with a cast on."

hardcastle laughed.

"i'll watch my step, just like i did last time."

"well, here is his

card, just in case." he handed it over and then waved at mccormick

to close up the bags.

00000

finding rapoa proved

easy. the driver of the ancient jitney, which was parked at the

airport for the occasional arrivals, took them to a two-story

weathered wood building near the outskirts of the town. rapoa was on

the veranda, looking every bit the island entrepreneur in a loose

cotton shirt, and light pants. he nodded at their approach, glancing

at their luggage and clothing without obviously assessing their

means.

"looking for a beach

house, gentlemen?" he began expansively.

"something not too

far from town," hardcastle countered.

"you have come to

the right man," rapoa's smile was shark-like. "i just happen to

have a place opened up."

hardcastle did a

moderate amount of negotiating, just for show. he took the place on

approval and rapoa offered to drive them over in a slightly

less-ancient vehicle. once during the drive, the judge had tried to

gently turn the conversation to previous visitors, but rapoa was

either oblivious or not biting.

he deposited them on

the beach in front of a thatched structure right out of a joseph

conrad novel. hardcastle took a perfunctory look inside and paid for

the week.

rapoa took the money

and was off.

"what'd ya think?"

hardcastle gestured after the departing figure as mccormick carried

the bags inside.

"him? huh, i've

had landlords like that. they just want to make sure they're away

before you discover how bad the cockroaches are. i don't think he's

burying people in the back yard. it wouldn't be good for business."

mccormick deposited the bags just inside the door and took a look

around. "not so bad." he spotted the camp lantern hanging over

the table in the main room, "quaint." he looked through the

doorway into the back room--two ancient iron bedsteads; above each

hung a canopy of netting. mccormick raised one eye

ow and glanced at

the judge.

"mosquito bar, i

hope it's in better condition than the rest of this place." the

judge took the edge of one down and stretched it out to look for

holes. "i'd forgotten about that. they'll eat you alive after

dark."

mccormick grinned.

"but you do remember where all the caves are?"

"hell, no, there

were hundreds of them." the judge shrugged. "i just know we don't

want a guide along, maybe coming back and talking to someone who

talks to someone."

"so what's the

plan, kemosabe?"

"well, we look

around here; see if he left anything behind that the cleaning lady

didn't toss out. then walk into town and have a look around, maybe

drop by troutmann's office, if he's there. jake said he covers

four or five islands. what's that?" mccormick had pulled

something out of his bag.

"it's a notebook.

i'm supposed to be from national geographic, remember?"

hardcastle made a

face. "not from national geographic, you're just supposed

to look like somebody from there. you're a free-lance

writer. that way you can ask a lot of questions but nobody can ask to

see your credentials, okay?"

"gotcha. plausible

deniability." mccormick was already progressing smoothly through a

search of the room.

the judge frowned.

"you are way too good at this, you know?"

00000

a half-hour later,

having found nothing at the house except for a couple of hand-written

receipts from local shops in an otherwise empty wastepaper basket,

they were walking back up the road toward town.

"no rental cars?"

"you know this whole

island isn't even half the size of los angeles."

mccormick frowned.

"bad example, judge, nobody walks in los angeles."

"i was wondering

when you were going to start whining, kiddo."

"that was not

whining; that was a point of information," mccormick protested.

"you'll know when i start whining." which is not going to be

anytime soon. he had a fairly good idea that the judge would be

able to trump any complaints he made with a quick comparison to how

things had been on his first visit here.

"anyway," the

judge explained, "about the furthest you can go here in a straight

line is less than ten miles. from where we are now it's about six

or seven down to the southern tip of the island; that's where the

caves are, and the old japanese military headquarters, or what's

left of it."

they were passing by

rapoa's place again. mccormick's eyes turned to the right and

stayed on it as they strolled by. behind the main building was

another, smaller structure, which looked like it was intended for

storage.

"where do you

suppose he stowed beckman's luggage? he didn't say anything about

shipping it back, did he?" mccormick was practically looking over

his shoulder now.

"don't gawk."

the judge gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs, "and don't start

thinking about an international criminal career."

"already got that; i

oke you out of that jail in san rio, didn't i? too late for me."

mccormick grinned.

"all right, at least

try to keep it limited to the western hemisphere. let's see if we

can do this with a little finesse this time."

they reached the

outskirts of the town within another half mile. the street

oadened

out, here and there were structures, a mixed lot mostly, with

corrugated iron roofing and

oad verandas supported on wooden posts.

there were patches of paint on the walls, but none that looked very

new. they passed a few people, mostly islanders, reserved but polite,

who looked at them as though it were nothing unusual to see a couple

of strangers wander into town.

the street had taken a

gentle downward slope and the buildings were closer together but

still none taller than two stories. a couple of shops, one had mostly

fishing supplies in the window, another more general, and then the

road made a gentle curve and the harbor was visible.

their route ended at a

cross street that fronted on the water: two jetties, a dozen small

boats, some sheds whose purpose could be construed from the strong

smell of fish. the judge stood there, rocking back on his heels a

little, looking it all up and down.

"not very sinister,"

mccormick commented, doing his own looking. "kind of sleepy. what

kind of trouble could a guy get into here?" then he shook his head,

"on he other hand, look at clarence."

hardcastle made a

face; his hometown was still a mildly sore subject for him. aside

from the fact that some of his old friends and neighbors had tried to

kill him during his last visit, it seemed to bother him that

mccormick appeared to be genuinely fond of the place.

he led mccormick up

the street to a small clapboard building, with a faded coat of

turquoise paint, and a sign that said 'harbour café'.

inside were a half-dozen small tables, mismatched, none occupied. the

young woman behind the counter gave a nod. hardcastle took one of the

wire-back chairs at the table nearest the front window. "two

cokes."

mccormick sat

opposite, putting his notebook conspicuously on the table in front of

him. the woman

ought the drinks, two small glass bottles, sweating

cold, but no glasses. "two dollars," the woman smiled politely.

hardcastle handed over the money and she went back to tidying up

behind the counter.

"handy, them taking

american currency," mccormick commented.

the judge was looking

past him, up at the menu signboard on the wall above the counter.

"oh, they take australian . . . looks like yen, too."

mccormick looked over

his shoulder, taking in the bilingual sign in a glance. he turned

around again and shrugged, "tourism. they must come back to see it,

too."

the judge gave him an

odd look and then said quietly, "we only took about two hundred

prisoners, and most of them were laborers from okinawa."

"two hundred?"

mccormick looked puzzled, "out of how many?"

"oh," hardcastle

was looking out the window now, down toward the harbor, "they had

maybe ten thousand guys holed up in those caves; not sure we ever got

an accurate count."

mccormick stared down

at his bottle of coke. the woman behind the counter said, "monks."

both men looked up at her. "they come sometimes. look for bones,

skulls. down there." she pointed vaguely south. "they do the

ceremonies. it's good for the ghosts."

"ah," hardcastle

said, "any monks here right now?"

the woman cocked her

head, thinking. "last week, yes. haven't heard if they left.

probably. they don't stay very long."

"where do they stay

when they're here?"

"oh, sometimes in

the town. usually further south. rapoa has some places to rent."

"small island,"

mccormick smiled thoughtfully and took a swig of coke.

00000

when they asked the

directions to the american consulate the woman laughed lightly and

told them, "no consulate, just a room on the second floor,

third building down from here."

"um, would mr.

troutmann be in today?" hardcastle asked.

the woman thought for

a moment. "tuesdays, i think, most weeks anyway."

mccormick frowned and

turned to the judge, "what day is it? i've lost track."

hardcastle

frowned back, "we crossed the dateline; it's--"

"friday,

all day," the woman piped up.

00000

they walked up the

stairs and knocked on the unprepossessing door that had troutmann's

name stenciled on it with the title, "american liaison"

underneath. no light on inside and no answer.

"well, no wonder

jake hasn't heard anything back. this guy's barely here enough to

keep his phone dusted off," hardcastle said in disgust.

"dunno, maybe he's

out there talking up the locals and beating the bush, too."

"i don't think so.

i think the lady in the café would have said something. from

what i can see there isn't a lot going on here. a missing tourist

and a worried american official would be something to talk about."

"what next,

kemosabe, the police? find out what they know?"

hardcastle shook his

head. "not yet. that'd make us officially interested and

so far nobody's talked to anyone who's officially interested. i

think we should go find a bar, some place where people hang out, and

see what the local rumors are saying."

00000

two beers, two

sandwiches, and an hour later, they were back on the street in front

of the black pearl.

they had only primed

the pump a little, by mentioning they'd been told the caves were

dangerous. one of the locals laughed, said, yeah, a guy'd gone

missing a few days earlier, but they'd searched the more popular

sites and, anyway, most likely he'd tried a little solo diving and

been swept out to sea. the general consensus was that time would

tell. the body would show up or not, as god and the sea willed.

they'd done their bit.

"what now?"

mccormick tucked his notebook back under his arm looked up and down

the street outside the bar.

"we buy some

supplies and go back to the house. it'll be sunset in an hour or

two and when it gets dark out here, it gets really dark."

00000

it got really dark.

mccormick had barely

finished putting their purchases away when he had to light the

lantern. almost immediately the air over the table was filled with

the flitting shapes of hundreds of insects. he looked over his

shoulder. the judge had already fixed the mosquito netting in the

bedroom; he'd gone out to the front porch and was sitting on the

steps. mccormick grabbed the insect repellent they'd bought,

hastily applied it, and then extinguished the light. he blinked a few

times to accustom himself to the darkness and felt his way to the

door.

he could hear the

ocean but not see it, except as a void of blackness that reached up

to almost eye level. above that, "oh, my god," he was staring up

at the stars. "where's the--"

"southern cross?

there," the judge was pointing nearly overhead and a little to the

south. "three

ight ones, and one a little dimmer. better than

seagull beach, huh?"

"it's . . .

amazing." mccormick looked down again. now, with his dark

adapted eyes, he could make out the edges of the

eaking waves,

tinseled by starlight alone. he edged back and sat down on the stoop

alongside the judge, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt. they were here

to find a man who might be dead. "what'll we do next?" he

asked, still casting furtive glances up. he sensed, rather than saw,

the judge shake his head.

"dunno, maybe we

should make it official, get a wire from jake, get david's bags,

talk to the authorities."

"maybe," mccormick

expressed his doubt in his inflection, "to get at the bags, but if

the authorities had a clue, then we wouldn't have to be here." he

heard the judge slap at an insect. "you know we've got insect

repellent."

"i don't think the

bugs were this bad the last time around. well, maybe the flies," he

added, after a bit. "well fed."

mccormick sat for a

moment, contemplating the stars, and the diet of flies. in the dark,

there still wasn't enough light to make out more than the outline

of the man sitting next to him; he thought he could risk a

straight-out question.

"what

was it like then?"

there

was no immediate answer and, after a moment, mccormick thought he had

wandered past one of those invisible 'do not enter' signs that

made life with hardcastle so challenging. he was on the verge of

apologizing for the question, when he felt the judge shift a little.

"muddy,"

he said quietly. "hot. and it stank to high heaven. it was better

when the bodies were charred. they didn't bloat up then."

mccormick

found himself staring fixedly at the southern cross, and not

eathing.

"and

the marines never left one of their own behind."

mccormick

turned his head slightly, "marines? i thought you were army."

"yup.

sixth army. but we had a pretty smart old colonel who knew we were

going to have to take a couple more islands before we got to japan,

and he thought just maybe it would be a good idea to profit from what

the marines had learned on bougainville. so i got attached to the 5th

marines as an observer."

mccormick

smiled into the darkness. "now why do i suspect that you did your

observing with a grenade in one hand and an m-1 garand in the other?"

"well

i didn't think i'd learn very much sitting back at regimental

headquarters, listening to a bunch of staff guys saying how well

everything was going."

"of

course not," mccormick sighed. "that would be too easy."

"so when i got to

the staging island, i looked around for somebody who'd been there

since the get-go--somebody who'd gotten through bougainville, and

guadalcanal and guam."

"credentials, huh?"

"yeah. some guys

thought it was just luck if you survived, but i always thought some

people made their own luck."

mccormick nodded. he'd

always thought the same thing.

"so that's how i

found beckman. he was a little younger than me, joined up before the

war, in 1940, when he was eighteen. he told me everything he knew

about banzai, night fighting, all that. but he said the japanese

weren't stupid, that they'd already lost a bunch of battles using

counterthrusts and banzai, and the next island would be different."

"and you figured

you'd better go along and find out?"

"that's about it.

i was fresh out of hawaii, jungle training, sure, but i'd never

been in a real battle." hardcastle paused. "i didn't have

enough imagination."

there was a long

silence. mccormick could see a faint

ightening in the east. it was

moonrise.

"so i got on the lst

with beckman's platoon."

the stars were

becoming simpler. the three-quarter moon seemed intolerably

ight.

"we saw the tail-end

of the naval bombardment. i thought, 'my god, who could survive

that?' it really was going to be a three day walkover, like all the

higher-ups were saying." he could see the judge's face now,

etched with memory. he was shaking his head slowly. "beckman

pointed out the hills. 'caves,' he said. 'can't bomb 'em

out of caves.' if they were smart,--and they were very

smart--they'd have hunkered down. and we were going to have to go

in after 'em."

the moon had lifted

itself free of the ocean and sat just on the horizon, casting the

outline of the long rollers. mccormick waited; it was light enough

now to see the sand at their feet. the palms threw shadows backwards

onto the porch. the judge had leaned forward and picked up a handful

of sand, and was letting it run out between his fingers. the silence

stretched out. another handful.

"we were there for

a month. we took five thousand casualties."

mccormick thought

about ghosts and skulls. he opened his mouth and then shut it again,

without saying what he had been thinking, but after another moment's

silence he heard himself speak, "it doesn't seem worth it.

it's not even on the way to anything."

the judge frowned.

"that's pretty much what they decided afterwards."

this time the silence

stuck. the moon was turning silver and the chirring jungle noises

settled in over the steady rush of the rollers.

"what'll we do

tomorrow?" mccormick finally asked.

"some more asking

around, i expect, hope something shakes loose." hardcastle pushed

up off the stoop and turned halfway around, looking down. "must be

jetlag--i'm pooped. going to bed."

"yeah," mccormick

feigned his own yawn. "me too, in a minute."

he heard the shuffling

noises and some softly muttered mild cussing while the netting got

untangled. he sat a while longer, watching the moon continue to

simplify things.

when

the

eathing from inside had steadied out to a low snore, he got up

carefully and walked with slow light steps into the front room. he

knew exactly where he had left his bag, already slightly open and

away from the bedroom door. he reached in and took out what he

needed. he lifted his jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it

on; he wanted it for its pockets and its dark color. then he slipped

back out the door and found the trail leading to the road.

00000

"mccormick!"

mark blinked and tried

to place himself for a moment. daylight. strange bed. the usual angry

shouting. "what?" he muttered, though he knew exactly what had

provoked the man who was yelling at him from the other room.

hardcastle was in the

bedroom doorway now, huffing and grumbling, with the leather-bound

book in one hand and a look of utter exasperation on his face. "i

told you we were gonna try and do this with a little finesse,

and then you head out for the midnight b&e."

"'e', yes, no

'b'." mccormick sat up and pulled the netting loose on the near

side of the bed. "somebody else got there first, lock

oken off.

don't blame me, i would have finessed it," he shrugged.

"dunno if they were after something in particular or just rummaging

for valuables. they left that in one of the side pockets of

his smaller bag-- journal, notes. take a look at the last couple of

entries."

the judge was already

fanning the book open. mccormick smiled to himself as he climbed out

of bed. mad, yeah, but never, not once, had the judge refused to look

at what was

ought to him.

"oh, and there was

this." he scrabbled through the side pocket of his jacket, back

hanging on the chair, and fished out the film canister. "it was in

the same compartment." he placed it on the table where hardcastle

now sat, pouring over the contents of the journal. the judge had

already read the later entries; he was paging back and reading more.

mccormick had done the

same thing by flashlight not too many hours ago. he yawned, scratched

at a few bug bites, and tried to remember on which shelf he'd put

the instant coffee. he gave the judge a few minutes to read as he

puttered around pulling out the things that most resembled

eakfast,

from what they'd bought the day before.

the judge looked up

from his reading, popped open the film canister and tipped the

contents into his palm.

"undeveloped,"

mccormick nodded, "and only one. how long did his dad say he was

here before he went missing?"

"almost two weeks."

"that doesn't seem

like much film for that long. i didn't find any pictures. maybe he

was having the rest developed."

"if they were

pictures of potential resort sites," the judge objected, "he

wouldn't want that information to get out. he'd

ing that film

home and develop it there."

"then maybe that's

what somebody

oke in after. they just overlooked one roll."

mccormick sat down across from him. "and it looks like he spent a

lot of time down by the caves." mccormick reached across and tapped

the open page with his finger. "he was looking for the place where

his dad almost died."

"why?" hardcastle

said with an edge of irritation to his voice.

"dunno," mccormick

shrugged. "morbid curiosity. people get that. maybe he'd heard

the story so many times he just wanted to see for himself. you can

ask him when we find him." he was watching the judge closely. there

was no response, only a turning of the page and a slow shake of the

head. "you think he's dead, huh?" mccormick sat back in his

chair. "you've thought that ever since we got here, maybe before.

you think we're looking for a body, and you're not real eager to

find it."

there was no immediate

denial.

"fine, maybe he is.

but i didn't come out here just to be part of some graves detail,

and if there's the slightest chance he is still alive, then we're

running out of time."

"he already has

run out of time," hardcastle said, low and insistent. his eyes

stayed down, directed at the open page of the journal. "injured men

didn't last a day out there without help."

mccormick sighed.

"okay. you're the expert. but dead or not we came here to find

him. his dad wants to know. he needs to know. do you think

it's better to have him be mia?"

hardcastle shot him a

sharp glance and looked like he was about to say something, then

halted himself. after a moment's pause, he conceded, "all right.

yeah. he was looking for that place. that's where we should

look for him."

"you think you can

find it?" mccormick prodded.

"sure . . . i

think."

"oh, great." it

was mccormick's turn to shake his head. then he added, "you're

not going to make me walk there, are you? i am not infantry."

00000

rapoa was sitting on

his veranda when they walked up, as though there were nothing out of

the ordinary. mccormick had the pack, blanket rolls tied underneath.

he made a point of not glancing over at the storage building to see

if the lock had been replaced.

hardcastle smiled

politely and asked if there was anyplace on the island that did photo

developing. rapoa smiled back, equally politely, and said 'no';

film was flown out to guam. hardcastle nodded. he inquired about

vehicles for rent. again rapoa made another polite, apologetic

negative, but said a car and driver could be arranged. he whistled a

man out of the house and tossed him the keys.

so they found

themselves in the back seat of an ancient land rover, venerable in

years though relatively light on mileage. their driver was a young

and cheerful local who rapoa had addressed as 'jim' and referred

to as 'my nephew'. hardcastle didn't give directions until

they'd come to a split in the road a mile south of rapoa's place.

"the middle road,

between the ridges," he said.

jimmy kept his smile

in place as he slowed to a crawl. "you want the west beach road,

sir. it goes all the way down to the landing areas, puts you close to

the caves. nice little walk, very pretty.

"the middle road,"

hardcastle insisted calmly.

jimmy shrugged and

accelerated. "ends up three maybe four miles from the coast. heavy

walking."

the green swathed

hills had already closed in on either side of the vehicle and the

road had become little more than a two-rut trail. mccormick reached

into his pack and took out his notebook and pen. the fronds of the

lower bushes swacked into the side of the rover as they crept along.

after a few miles the space opened up a little more. the judge was

peering up as though he were taking his bearings.

"recognize

anything?" mccormick asked hopefully.

"that set there,"

hardcastle pointed up and forward towards the nobbley outline of the

ridge. "looks familiar. i think we called it smokey ridge."

jimmy was nodding

enthusiastically from the front seat. "that's what the old men

are calling it."

"then the pocket

starts about a half mile south of here."

"the pocket?"

mccormick asked as he opened the notebook.

"yeah," hardcastle

hadn't taken his eyes off the ridge. "that's what they called

it. after the first week and a half, the marines had overrun damn

near the whole island. had the airstrip secured, specialists

ought

in, regular camp down there at the south end.

"but up here, up in

the ridges, there were still a couple thousand guys holed up in those

caves. they had artillery, mortars, snipers. they were surrounded;

they weren't going to win, for god's sake, but they would

never surrender and they made every shot count." he shook his head.

"it was just fighting for fighting's sake. truth was, though,

early on, there'd been a lot of 'suicide surrenders'--a wounded

guy with a grenade hidden under him; got so you didn't trust an

enemy soldier unless he was burnt to a crisp or in pieces."

the

land rover had halted; the road seemed not so much to end but to

peter out in an area of less-dense bush that barely qualified as a

clearing.

"this is it,"

jimmy announced. "end of the middle road. long way from the coast."

he pointed off to the south, straight through a dense bit of

undergrowth and a precipitous ridge. "got a trail there." he

nodded to something small and dubious a little off to the right.

"goes up to the caves along bloody ridge. monks use it sometimes,

looking for bones."

mccormick climbed out

of the rover and squinted as he stowed his notebook and shouldered

the pack. now that they were inland, cut off from the ocean

eeze,

the sultry heat was intense and the smell of rotting vegetation was

strong. but it's just vegetation.

he heard hardcastle

giving directions to jimmy. ". . . on the coast side, end of the

beach road, tomorrow morning, okay?" the younger man was nodding.

then he backed up the rover, thwacking through the taller growth at

the edge of the turn-around. he waved out the window once he got

himself pointed in the right direction. "careful of your step,"

he advised, still cheerful. then there was only the receding sound of

the engine, soon swallowed up in the drone of insects.

the judge offered

mccormick one of the canteens. he took a grateful swig; he was

already sweating and they hadn't even started the climb. "so,"

he asked tentatively, "you recognize this?"

hardcastle was looking

up a little, turning his head slowly. "yeah," he said with very

little hesitation. "this is the southern end of the ridge, 'bout

the middle of the pocket—that was only about four hundred yards

long. four hundred by maybe twice that wide, and it took a month more

to clean it out.

"they had the height

on us." he pointed off to the trail. "so we were trying to get an

emplacement up onto the ridge--mortars at least."

they started out with

hardcastle in the lead. the slope was gradual enough at first, with

an occasional outcropping of rock to give some sort of idea of how

far they'd come. mccormick wondered why the hell they'd ever

thought they'd need blankets, as the sweat ran down the between his

shoulder blades, soaking into the pack where it sat against the small

of his back.

"there's one,"

the judge pointed down to the side. "see?"

the opening was nearly

overgrown by roots and was not much larger than a man could crawl

through, even if it had been cleared away. "that'd probably hold

a couple guys, maybe three. some of 'em went further back than they

looked though. and low down like this one, would've taken it out

with a 75 mm tank cannon, fired point blank. not this one, though,

there wouldn't have been much cave left after a shot like that."

mccormick lifted the

pack off and set it down, rooting around in the side compartment for

a moment.

"taking

a

eak already?" hardcastle asked. "we haven't even gone a

quarter of a mile."

"nope," mccormick

fished out a flashlight and flicked it on, shining the beam into the

hole.

"what'cha doing

that for?" hardcastle protested.

"just looking,"

the younger man replied. "that's what we're here to do, isn't

it? look? i mean, we know the guys from town already searched the

bigger caves."

"yeah, but this one

isn't even big enough to fall into."

"hey, there's

something down there," mccormick pointed the flashlight around a

thick root. "see?" a smooth, white curve, among the mossy

green-

own, caught the light.

"bone," the judge

said flatly. "skull. not a 75 then, grenade maybe . . . or he was

shot and crawled back in there to die."

mccormick rocked back

on his heels and thumbed the flashlight off. he stood up and looked

over his shoulder. the judge had already moved off up the trail. he

hefted the pack and hurried to catch up.

"probably a

grenade," the judge continued, as though there had been no

eak in

the conversation. "problem was, most of 'em had the eight-second

fuse, so even if you had a pretty steady hand and good aim, so the

damn thing didn't bounce off a cliff and come back down at you,

there'd still be enough time for the guy in the cave to pitch it

back.

"so you had to judge

the distance pretty fine, and hold it a few seconds before you threw

it, so they wouldn't have time." he stood there, staring up at

the promontory to their left, at a darker opening in the rock.

"beckman taught me that."

"how many seconds?"

mccormick frowned.

"well, less than

eight, that's for sure. and the fuses weren't perfect."

he was still staring up. then, after a moment, his eyes took in the

place where he was standing, another outcropping of rock, this one

about fifteen feet wide with a shallow depression in the middle.

"this is where we were pinned down," he finally said, with an air

of weary certainty. "mortar. the rest of the platoon was over

there. beckman right about here." he pointed to the ground not six

feet distant. mccormick found himself looking at a spot not much

different than any other.

"you're sure?"

"yeah, very

memorable moment," hardcastle replied quietly. "longest twenty

minutes of my entire life." he looked up again at the promontory

and frowned. "that's the only thing that's different. might've

been where they fired from, must've been camouflaged then. they'd

only fire when there was a reason, then they'd stow the weapons and

batten down the entrances."

he headed off the

trail in the direction of the opening. mccormick slipped the pack

off, still clutching the flashlight, and followed him. they scrambled

up the slope, using roots as handholds. mccormick had to slip the

flashlight into his belt and use both hands. any semblance of a path

up had disappeared into erosion. they were both

eathing hard by the

time they got to the small shelf of rock outside the cave. hardcastle

turned around, looking down over the treetops to where they had been

a few minutes before.

"there, that's

where the rest of the platoon was." he pointed to the forward edge

of the outcropping. "they got bunched up; we never figured out why.

beckman taught 'em better than that. we talked about that later on.

he thinks maybe somebody stumbled; it was so damn noisy that you

couldn't tell when someone went down, if they'd just fallen or

they'd been hit. anyway, as soon as there were four guys close

together, the mortar came down, took out them and the two that were

coming up behind."

"and beckman?"

"he caught a couple

of fragments—right leg, right side, one kicked a patch out of his

scalp." the judge had turned away from the view and was looking

down into the pitch-black of the cave. mccormick pulled the

flashlight free and handed it to him.

"there,"

he said casting the beam on something half buried in the dirt just

inside the opening, a rusted metal tube. he crouched down and put

his hand across the end of it. "an 81 mm, i think. most likely. if

it had been a ninety, beckman and i'd both be dead."

he

straightened up slowly, keeping the beam on the unimpressive piece of

hardware. "i think that's when i first realized that you couldn't

make enough luck to survive a place like this. you could do

everything right and still die."

mccormick

had stepped inside the entrance. this cave was large enough to stand

up in and extended back into impenetrable gloom. he caught a shine

off something small a few feet further in. "there," he pointed.

hardcastle played the beam over it. mark bent down to retrieve the

film canister. "fuji 200, same as the other," he smiled. "it's

empty. that last entry was the day before he missed his flight, and

he still hadn't found this place. he must've been here the

morning he disappeared."

the

judge walked in slowly, shining the flashlight along the far wall in

a slow sweep. the cave was a single chamber and otherwise empty, not

even any bones. "so where did he go from here?"

"and

who

ought him this far?" mccormick asked, "you think he walked

all the way down here?"

"nope,

not if he had a plane to catch in the afternoon," the judge

replied. "someone drove him down, and knew he was here, and they

didn't tell anyone. so he hasn't just fallen in a hole

somewhere."

"okay,

so he didn't have an accident. he must've been either

kidnapped--"

"or

killed," the judge concluded.

"well,

just for now, can we maybe assume he was kidnapped? the other

option's not as time-sensitive."

hardcastle

grunted a concession as he stepped back out onto the ledge and looked

down in the direction they'd come.

"so

the question is," mccormick stepped up behind him, looking out over

his shoulder, "where would somebody put a kidnapped guy around

here?"

"no,

the question is, why the hell would anybody kidnap david

beckman?"

"yeah,

well, answer mine and we'll find out the answer to yours,"

mccormick shrugged.

"further

south there's some buildings, or what's left of 'em--the old

japanese military headquarters. must be ruins by now. or they might

of put him in one of the larger caves."

"then

that's the way we should go, right?"

"if

they killed him, they probably would have hid the body in a smaller

cave; everywhere else it's coral rock and roots," the judge added

grimly. "it was damn hard to dig in around here."

"jeez,"

mccormick huffed, already starting the climb down, "when did you

become such a fatalist?"

"dunno,"

hardcastle took one last look around before lowering himself over the

edge, "this is a very fatal place."

00000

they followed the path

southward, meandering off to investigate every cave they passed. some

were surprisingly large. mccormick found himself getting heartily

tired of the ever-smiling dead. he thought the monks still had their

work cut out for them and finally said as much.

"oh, this is

nothing," the judge replied. "over on the east side of the

island, where the landings were, they bulldozed mass graves. had to

ing water in, the rot had seeped into everything."

mccormick felt a

shiver run down his sweat-soaked back, despite the muggy heat. he

played the flashlight over the interior of yet another cave. not too

far from the entrance was a tall green-glass bottle, corroded with

age but still stoppered. he picked it up and sloshed it.

"sake bottle," the

judge commented.

"really?"

mccormick nudged the cork with his thumb.

"but i wouldn't

open it, if i were you," hardcastle added dryly. "i know what i

would've put in a bottle, if i'd been stuck in a cave under

artillery fire for weeks."

"oh, yeah,"

mccormick made a face and set the bottle down. "probably finished

the sake off the first day."

the judge gave the

cave a last perfunctory sweep of his flashlight and turned his back

on it, ignoring the bones protruding from the rubble in the back.

"four weeks they sat up here and took it. damn bushido,

warrior's code, no surrender. they were surrounded, on

an island. they were thousands of miles from home, cut off

from supplies. and still they'd come down at night and try to

infiltrate us, kill a couple more before they got killed themselves.

and we'd go back at 'em every day--artillery, mortars, grenades,

flamethrowers, until every single one of them was dead . . . and half

of us were killed or wounded."

mccormick glanced over

his shoulder at the half-covered bones. "it sounds like . . ." he

searched for a word, "anarchy."

"well, let me tell

you, there's a very fine line between

avery and mass insanity."

the judge frowned, "and when it was over, hell, it wasn't even an

important island." he stopped for a moment, looking down at

the trail in front of him, shaking his head slowly. "and now

they're gonna develop it as a resort."

mccormick forced a

smile, "don't let it get to you, judge. people stand around

outside the alamo eating ice cream and taking each other's

pictures."

the judge didn't

turn, still addressing the ground quietly. "and they don't learn

a damn thing."

00000

the trail had come

down into a flatter area south of the end of the ridge. mccormick

watched the sun dropping with tropical precipitousness. "dark

soon," he said. "how much further you think?"

"i'm not sure,

never came at it from this direction. there's a lot more vegetation

now, but i don't think it's much more than a mile across this

plateau, then another ridge, then the coast."

"so do we want to

find a cave for the night, or push on?"

"well, you're the

one who's pitching the 'time-sensitive' thing," hardcastle

replied. "we oughta go till we can't see our feet."

mccormick gave him a

pat on the shoulder. "now you're cookin'." he shifted the

pack a little as he took his bearings. "kinda looks like it opens

up down that way," he pointed southwest as he took the lead to

eak trail. hardcastle grumbled something he couldn't quite make

out as he fell in behind. they picked their way looking for openings

in the thick undergrowth.

"so,"

mccormick finally conceded a while later, "that's it. i can't

see my feet." with his a

upt halt the judge had almost run into

him. "should we risk flashlights?"

the

judge said nothing for a moment. mccormick couldn't make out the

details of his face but he seemed to be peering past him. "see

that?" hardcastle finally whispered.

mccormick

glanced over his shoulder, and then turned to take a longer look. a

flicker of light? there was the faintest glimmer that appeared and

disappeared several times. he turned back to the formless shadow that

was the judge and whispered, "no flashlights just yet, i think."

he

picked his way almost blindly through the undergrowth, wishing he

could dispense with the pack, but equally certain he'd never find

it again if he took it off. he heard the judge right behind him also

trying to move stealthfully with mixed results. now the light was

more visible, though it still flickered, and the campfire odor wafted

their way.

from

well within the bush mccormick could already make out the narrow

clearing, the small fire, and the man sitting a few feet beyond it,

with his back against a concrete wall that looked partly overgrown by

the jungle. he felt the judge's hand on his shoulder nudged him

silently to their right. without a word he followed him on a detour

away from the possible sentry.

they

emerged carefully into the clearing, well back from the place where

the man still sat. now the walking was easier, only a few roots

running up to the wall. hardcastle said nothing until they had

another fifty feet between them and the man by the fire. "he had a

rifle," the judge whispered, "propped up against the wall."

mccormick

hadn't seen it, but it so fit with their usual run of luck that he

just had to believe. in a way it was the first really positive thing

that had happened all day.

"now

what?" he whispered to the judge.

"we

run this wall until we find a door; you get it open, i go in and

reconnoiter."

"they

have rifles; we have flashlights," mccormick protested reasonably.

"one

rifle, maybe it was just a stick."

"oh,

sure, now it's a stick. when was the last time we ran into a bad

guy with just a stick?" mccormick's whisper had become a little

more urgent. "i think you should let me do the sneaking around. i'm

good at it."

"you've

got the backpack," the judge pointed out.

"i'll

let you carry it for a while."

they'd

come to doorway-shaped depression in the wall. there was a sign at

eye height, unreadable in the murk, but undoubtedly one that said 'no

entry' in several languages. mccormick felt for the door latch and

found what appeared to be the standard island security measure—a

metal flap secured by a padlock.

he

eased the backpack off and congratulated himself silently on having

had the foresight to

ing a set of lock picks on a hike in the

jungle, though the real reason had been his reluctance to leave

evidence of criminal intent behind in rapoa's rental house. the

rest he did by feel, torn between the skilled craftsman's desire to

make it look easy, and natural prudence for demonstrating these

skills around the judge. he couldn't help it; it was easy.

he felt a click and lifted the lock free from the hasp.

the

judge had the decency not to comment. mccormick slipped the pick back

in its case and the case into his vest pocket. he felt his way to the

opposite edge of the door and touched the bottom hinge. it felt as

rusty as he had suspected. he reached into the pack again and

retrieved the insect repellent; it wasn't wd-40 but it had felt

plenty oily when he put it on the night before. he dripped it onto

both hinges from above, waiting for it to seep through.

now

he handed the judge the pack and said, lower than a whisper, "stay

here; one of us has to be able to go for help if this thing

goes all to hell, right?" he didn't wait for an answer but eased

the door open a crack. even the indirect light from within seemed

piercingly

ight and he squinted for a few moments. now he could see

the judge's face and his disapproval was apparent, but even he

knew this was no time for an argument.

mccormick

said nothing more as he slipped inside and pulled the door silently

shut behind him. it was a deserted hallway. he heard faint noises of

habitation from further forward, voices rising and falling in a

language that wasn't english and wasn't anything else he

recognized.

there

were closed doors along either side of the hall. he made his way down

the corridor, listening carefully at each one, only silence. but the

fourth door on the right differed from the others by the presence of

one of the ubiquitous padlocks. mccormick smiled, not even bothering

to listen.

this

time he did the bug juice trick first, then slipped the bottle back

into one pocket while taking the picks from another. this lock

succumbed in less time than it would have taken for him to find the

key to the gatehouse on his own key ring. he pushed lightly on the

door, wishing he could warn the occupant. the light stabbed inside

and fell across a huddled shape crouched against the far wall of the

small room.

the

man lifted his head, peered at him through eyelids nearly swollen

shut and rasped out, "who the hell are you?"

mccormick

held out the palm of his hand to signal silence, then moved inside,

shutting the door behind him gently. "don't worry," he smiled,

in the tiny sliver of light that remained, "i'm the guy from

national geographic."

mccormick's

liking for david beckman went up a notch right off when this reply

only elicited a wry smile and a quick retort, "so where's your

photographer?"

"outside,"

mccormick grinned. "he's a friend of your dad's named

hardcastle."

"no shit?"

beckman's expression gave way to utter surprise. "the judge?

but he's . . . old."

"i keep tryin' to

tell him that, but he doesn't listen to me. can you walk?"

beckman nodded, "i

think so, as long as it's not too fast. hell, point me the way

outta here and i'll crawl." as if to prove it, he was

already

acing himself to his feet against the wall, though there

was a visible teeter and some raspy

eathing before he was done.

mccormick eased the

door open again and cautiously listened for activity outside. hearing

nothing but the same murmuring voices, he got beckman's arm over

his shoulder and steered him out and down the hallway. their progress

was worryingly slow with a pronounced limp from the injured man and a

small grunt of pain when mccormick had lifted his arm.

"sorry," mark

said.

"'s nothin',"

beckman replied

eathlessly.

once through the back

door, mccormick watched as a shadowy shape coalesced from the edge of

the trees. the moon was just up and he could see hardcastle

gesturing. they continued their slow progress until they were within

a few feet of the judge who whispered, "davey?"

mccormick interrupted

the reunion, "go. that way." he nodded east toward the

moonlight filtering through the trees. "there's more of them

inside. they may have more sticks." the judge waved them

ahead and fell in at the rear to cover their retreat, though exactly

what he would do against armed men mccormick had no idea.

with the moon's

assistance, they kept their bearings more or less due east and, after

a struggle that seemed interminable, intersected the path that had

ought them in. mccormick turned left onto it gratefully and, now

that he knew they were a good half-mile from the sentry, stopped. he

let beckman's arm down. the man swayed and then leaned against a

tree.

despite their slow

progress, hardcastle had fallen back a good ways. mccormick waited

for him with a worried frown, hearing his harsh

eathing before he

saw the man.

"you okay?" he

reached to take the pack off of the older man. the judge nodded

wordlessly. mccormick looked over his shoulder at beckman. "can you

walk on your own a bit?" the younger man nodded, too. no one had a

lot of words to spare.