The Undertaker's Widow

Part Two

The Cove of Lost Souls

Chapter 12.

Can I get you something to drink before we take off?" the flight attendant asked.

Quinn was lost in thought, oblivious to the attendant and the passengers who were filing past his aisle seat in first class while the flight crew prepared for the plane's departure from New York for St. Jerome. When he realized that the flight attendant was speaking to him, Quinn looked up at her with a blank expression and she repeated the question with a pleasant smile.

"Scotch on the rocks, please," Quinn answered without returning her smile. The attendant turned to the first-class passenger across the aisle and Quinn looked forlornly at the empty window seat beside him. Yesterday Laura had told him that she would not be able to go to St. Jerome.

"Honey, I have really bad news," she had said in a midday call from her office to his chambers. "A group of businessmen in Florida are putting together a condominium deal like the one in Maui. They heard about the job I did for Eddie Meyers. They have some of the same problems. The deal is going to be finalized this weekend and I have to fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon so we can meet on Wednesday. Then they want me with them during the negotiations through Saturday."

There had been stunned silence on Quinn's end. The conference on St. Jerome was from Thursday to Sunday. Quinn was speaking on Thursday morning. He had planned it so that he and Laura would leave on Tuesday and have every day but Thursday to themselves. If Laura had to be in Miami from Tuesday to Saturday, there was no way she could come with him.

"Can't someone else go in your place?" he had asked, but Laura had told him that the clients insisted on her handling the matter personally and were willing to pay a large retainer to secure her services.

"Turn them down," Quinn had snapped, unable to hide his anger and disappointment. "There must be hundreds of lawyers in Miami who can review their damn contract."

"I know you were looking forward to this vacation," Laura had answered calmly. "So was I. But this will give me a foothold in Florida. Do you know how many condo deals are made there?"

"I don't care, Laura. This vacation ... I was hoping so much . . ."

Quinn could not finish the sentence.

"I'm sorry, Dick. I'm not in this just for myself. You were a partner at Price. How could I explain turning down a fee like this and losing the potential business?"

Quinn wanted to remind her that she was also a partner in their marriage. Instead, he hung up after assuring Laura that he understood in a tone that let her know that he did not.

The line of boarding passengers started to thin. To distract himself, Quinn took the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of him and found the crossword. Completing the crossword before takeoff was a ritual that Quinn followed whenever he flew.

"Excuse me. I think the window seat is mine."

When Quinn looked up he saw a woman standing in the aisle. She was about five feet four and wore a white T-shirt under a red sports jacket. Her jeans were secured at the waist by a brightly colored red and yellow fabric belt with an unusual silver buckle that resembled a seashell.

"I have 2A," she explained, showing Quinn her ticket.

"Sorry," Quinn said as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet. As the woman edged by him, she smiled apologetically. Quinn guessed, that she was in her mid-twenties. She was not wearing makeup and she looked tired. Her straight black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Here and there, strands had escaped to add to the picture of an exhausted traveler. The woman had a small nose, full lips and almond-shaped brown eyes that were a little bloodshot. The overall effect was vaguely oriental. Just as the woman sat down, the flight attendant brought Quinn his drink.

"Can I get you anything?" the attendant asked the woman in the window seat. The woman looked at Quinn's drink.

"Is that a Scotch?" she asked him.

"Yes."

"Then make mine the same."

The attendant left to fill the order.

"I need a stiff drink," she told Quinn while flashing a tired smile. "I just got off a nonstop from Italy."

"Vacation?" he asked to be polite.

"I wish," she answered with a pleasant laugh. "I was in Bologna checking out leather suppliers for my business."

"What do you do?"

"I'm the president of Avalon Accessories, creators of the best custom-made belts in the known universe," the woman answered proudly. Then her shoulders sagged dramatically. "But sometimes I wish I had a partner. All the travel kills me. If I'm not in the shop, I'm on a plane."

"Do you sell your belts out of your shop?"

"I don't actually have a shop. That's just a figure of speech. I make the belts in a small factory. I sell through specialty shop customers and catalog sales. But I also work with a few fashion designers. They show me their designs for the season and I make belts that are appropriate for the collection." The woman pointed at her belt. "This is part of Gretchen Nye's spring collection. Do you like it?"

"I noticed it when you sat down. It's very nice."

"Nice?" the woman answered with mock indignation. "You're supposed to say that it's a startlingly innovative combination of style and color that knocked your socks off. Nice doesn't sell Gretchen Nye originals at two thousand a pop."

Quinn laughed. "I did mean to say that it was startlingly innovative. It came out wrong."

"You're forgiven."

The flight attendant brought the woman's drink just as the plane began taxiing toward the runway. She swallowed most of it, then sat silently during takeoff. Quinn could see that her knuckles were white from tension. As soon as they were airborne, she downed the rest of her Scotch.

"No matter how many times I go through that, I still get scared," she confided to Quinn. "A friend of mine was killed in an air crash."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah. It really shook me up. I'm a mess every time I fly."

The attendant passed by and the woman ordered a second drink. So did Quinn.

"Are you vacationing on St. Jerome?" the woman asked.

The question reminded Quinn that Laura was not with him and he lost the relaxed feeling he had been experiencing since his conversation with the woman began.

"Business, I'm afraid. Though I'm going to take advantage of the beach."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a judge."

The woman looked impressed. "I've never met a judge before."

Quinn smiled. "Well, this is what we look like."

She laughed. "Where are you a judge?"

"Portland, Oregon."

"I hear that Portland is a beautiful city. I'd like to visit someday."

"I like it."

Suddenly, the woman looked confused. "You can't be a judge on St. Jerome, can you?"

"No. I can only hear cases in Oregon."

"That's what I thought. So what kind of business do you have on the island?"

"I'm speaking at a legal seminar. I only hope I can keep my audience interested. My lecture is going to seem awfully dull compared to those white sand beaches outside the hotel."

"I'm certain you'll hold their interest, Judge . . . Say, I don't know your name. Mine is Andrea. Andrea Chapman."

"Richard Quinn," he said as they shook hands. "Dick, actually. And please don't call me Judge. That's for the courtroom."

"Okay, Dick. Are you staying at The Palms?"

"No. I'm at the Bay Reef Resort."

"Oh, the new one. They were just finishing it the last time I was on the island."

"It looks beautiful in the brochures. Are you going to St. Jerome on business?"

"God, no. This trip is strictly R and R. A friend of mine owns a villa on the island. He lets me use it when I need to get away."

"A boyfriend?"

Andrea giggled. "Freddy is gay. Flaming. But he's a great friend and one of my best customers. We met at a leather goods show in Milan about five years ago. He owns a catalog business and he really pushes my belts."

"Is the villa near my hotel?"

"No. It's on the other side of St. Jerome. You should see it. The place is unbelievable. The floors are these different-colored marbles, the walls are all glass, and the view is to die for. It's right on the ocean on this cliff. When I wake up and pull the drapes it's like I'm floating in space."

"It sounds fantastic."

"It is." Andrea leaned over toward Quinn and dropped her voice an octave. "There's a story behind the villa. The way Freddy got it. Some Guatemalan drug lord owned it, but he was busted in Rhode Island of all places. He gave it to this lawyer in Boston that Freddy knows as part of his fee and Freddy bought it from the lawyer for a song. I don't think the lawyer ever saw it. He just wanted cash."

Andrea lowered her voice even more.

"The last time I used the place, I found a stash of coke hidden behind a phony panel in the bathroom. It scared the hell out of me."

"I can imagine. Did you turn it over to the police?"

"On St. Jerome? You're kidding? I wouldn't go within a mile of an island cop if I was being murdered. St. Jerome is great, but everyone--and I mean everyone--in the government is on the take. If I told the police about the dope, I'd either be in jail or penniless now."

"So what did you do?"

"Flushed it as quickly as I could. Then I scrubbed down the toilet bowl to make sure there wasn't a trace of the stuff left. It was my last day on St, Jerome, thank God. If it had been my first, I would probably have been on the next flight out. As it was, I didn't sleep a wink. I kept expecting Governor Alvarez's Gestapo to kick in the door and throw me in prison."

Quinn laughed. "If you were so frightened, why did you come back?"

"You wouldn't ask that if you'd been on St. Jerome before. The place has got to be the most beautiful island in the world. Besides, Freddy swore to me that the place is clean now. He was just as scared as I was when I told him about the coke. Can you imagine what it would cost an American to buy his way out of a drug beef?"

Chapman paused. "Say, are you going to be working all the time?"

"Not the first two days."

Quinn realized where the conversation might be going and his wedding ring suddenly felt very heavy on his finger. He decided to make his marital status clear to Andrea.

"My wife was supposed to come with me, but something came up at the last minute. She's a lawyer, too, and there was a business emergency."

"That's too bad. I bet she would have loved St. Jerome. There's a lot to do if you know your way around."

"Such as?"

"Do you snorkel or scuba dive?"

"No. I'm a lousy swimmer."

"You don't have to swim great to snorkel. And there are these fabulous reefs where you can see all these tropical fish. You've never seen such bright colors," Andrea said excitedly. "Electric blues, iridescent greens. It's wilder than a Missoni fashion show."

"That sounds terrific. Are any of these reefs near my hotel?"

"Oh, sure. But the best one is on my side of the island, away from the hotels, where Freddy's villa is, off Cala de Almas Desoladas."

"What was that?" asked Quinn, who spoke no Spanish.

"The Cove of Lost Souls. Freddy said it's called that because of a ship that was wrecked on the reef in 1700 something. The captain was in love with a beautiful woman. They were going to be married. On their wedding day, the bride was kidnapped by pirates. The captain chased the pirates to St. Jerome just as a terrible storm struck the island and the captain's ship and the pirate-ship were wrecked. Everyone died, including the Captain and his bride.

"Freddy told me that if you go to the cove at night, sometimes you can hear the souls of the captain and his bride calling to each other across the water. Isn't that sad and romantic?"

"Yes, it is."

"There's more, though. Freddy says that there have been mysterious disappearances in the cove. Not often. Once or twice, every ten years or so. They occur when lovers come to the beach at night on the anniversary of the shipwreck. They swim out toward the reef. One minute they're there, the next they're gone. The locals think that the lost souls on the reef are harvesting other souls to keep them company."

"It's probably cramps," Quinn said with a smile.

"See, that's the lawyer in you talking," Andrea scolded Quinn. "Lawyers are so unromantic." She paused as if debating whether to say more. "Do you want to hear something spooky?"

"Sure."

"The last time I stayed on St. Jerome, a day before I found the coke, I went down to the cove at sunset and waited around to see if I would hear the lost souls calling. At first, I just heard what you usually hear on the beach at night, the surf and the wind. Soon after the sun went down, the temperature dropped and I got cold. I was just starting to leave when something very strange happened."

Andrea paused. She looked distant.

"What's the matter?" Quinn asked with concern.

"I was remembering the voices. Only they weren't really voices. It was more like a moaning sound and it was so sad."

Quinn was weaned on logic and had the overly rational mind of the contract lawyer, which has no cubbyhole where the supernatural can dwell comfortably.

"Do you think it might have been the wind?" he asked tolerantly.

"I knew you'd say that. Everyone I tell this story to says the same thing. If you'd been there, though, you'd know that it wasn't the wind. That sound ..." Andrea shivered. "It was inside my bones." She shook her head. "I just don't know how else to describe it. And the way it made me feel. At first I was really scared, but suddenly I felt so lost and alone."

Andrea paused thoughtfully.

"What if it's true? It would be so tragic. The two lovers, so close to each other, but separated by the raging sea for eternity."

Quinn could not think of a thing to say that wouldn't sound patronizing, so he was silent. He did not want to insult Andrea. He liked her. She was so different from Laura. Quinn thought of the way Laura would react to Andrea's ghost story and laughed.

"You don't believe me. I know. No one does."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you."

"Oh, that's okay. No one takes my experience at the cove seriously. I'm used to it. Say, I just got an idea. You could hear the lost souls yourself. I could take you to the cove."

"I don't know."

It had been some time since he had spent a day alone with a woman other than Laura and the thought of it made him uncomfortable, especially with the way things were between them.

"Oh, come on. You'd love it. And it's not a place that the tourists get to see. They pretty much stay near the hotels. Freddy told me that the governor likes it that way. There's a lot of poverty away from The Palms and Bay Reef. Freddy said that poor people are bad for tourism, so Governor Alvarez only paved the road on one section of the island. You have to drive on a dirt road to get to the villa and the cove. It goes through these shantytowns."

Quinn knew he was being foolish. He didn't believe for a moment in the lost lovers, but the cove and the reef with the tropical fish sounded fascinating, and he did have two days with no plans. Spending one of them in the company of an attractive woman suddenly sounded like a good idea.

"The invitation sounds tempting," Quinn hedged.

Andrea turned slightly and put her hand on his arm.

"I insist. I'll even teach you how to snorkel. You'll love it. What do you say?"

ttj > >

"I'm not taking no for an answer. There's no way I'm going to let you leave St. Jerome without learning how to snorkel. I can pick you up at the hotel around four, tomorrow afternoon. That will give us both time to get over our jet lag and catch up on sleep. It takes about three-quarters of an hour to get to the cove from the hotel. I'll bring a picnic basket. We can swim for a while.

I have snorkeling equipment and Til give you a lesson. Then we'll eat and wait for the sun to go down."

Andrea grinned mischievously. "I just got a great idea. If we hear the sound of the lost souls and you can't explain it, you have to treat me to dinner. But it's my treat if you can come up with a rational explanation. What do you say?"

Quinn made a decision. He would go and have a good time. Maybe an evening with Andrea would help him get rid of his melancholy mood. But Quinn did not want anyone connected to the conference seeing him drive off with Andrea: judges had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.

"Why don't you give me directions to the cove and I'll meet you there? I'll rent a car."

Andrea's smile widened. "So, you'll come?"

"I'll come. And, if you win, we can invite the ghosts along. I'll even spring for their dinners."

Quinn's first glimpse of St. Jerome was filtered through gauzy white clouds. A patch of sugar-white sand, a strip of crystal-clear blue water, groves of swaying emerald-leafed palms. When the plane dropped beneath the clouds and Quinn had an unobstructed view of the island, he was certain he had found paradise. After the steady diet of gray and rain he had dined on in Portland, the sight of the sun, the palm trees and the clear blue water was exhilarating.

The exhilaration ended when the hatch of the airplane opened and Quinn was engulfed by a thick soup of hot, sticky air. He had rarely experienced such all-consuming heat. It bounced off the railings of the portable, metal steps that descended to the tarmac, melted the black asphalt and stirred the tar into a sucking mixture that threatened to wrench his shoes from his feet during the walk from the plane to the one-story terminal building that shimmered before him in the undulating waves of heat. Only the breeze from the sea made the heat bearable.

The lime-green paint on the exterior walls of the terminal had been savaged by the salt-heavy sea air. On one wall hung a huge poster of a smiling, mustachioed man in a military uniform. Quinn could not read the Spanish words on the poster. A large tear almost disconnected the top of the poster from the bottom. It looked to Quinn as if the damage had been done with a knife. Lounging against the wall next to the poster were two soldiers carrying automatic weapons. Quinn could not help noticing several other soldiers who were similarly armed.

"Why all the heavy artillery?'' Quinn asked.

Andrea lowered her voice.

"The soldiers are here to protect the tourists. Governor Alvarez lets drug smugglers use the island for a fee. About five years ago, he executed six dealers who tried to cheat him. They were members of a South American cartel. A few weeks later, six tourists were gunned down in an ambush in retaliation. The island's economy is dependent on tourism. The massacre had a disastrous impact."

"You're making St. Jerome sound pretty dangerous."

"Oh, you don't have to worry. There hasn't been any trouble since. Freddy told me that a lot of money changed hands and Alvarez worked out the problem."

"This Alvarez sounds like a petty criminal."

Andrea looked alarmed. She cast a quick look around to see if anyone had heard the judge's comment.

"You don't criticize Governor Alvarez here," Andrea warned. "Enjoy the beaches and forget politics. It's not a healthy subject for discussion on St. Jerome."

Louvered windows let air into the terminal, but it was still hot. Quinn looked for the baggage carousel before noticing two black men in shorts and sweat-stained shirts taking luggage off a cart and stacking it near one of the interior walls. He found his bags and looked around for customs.

The dominant language on the signs inside the terminal was Spanish, the official language of the island, but there were translations in English, French, German and Japanese. Quinn heard most of these languages being spoken by the tourists who queued up in front of the customs officials. The heavyset, sleepy-eyed man who checked Quinn's passport spoke broken English. After a few perfunctory questions, he smiled at Quinn and welcomed him to St. Jerome.

"The Bay Reef Resort is supposed to provide a shuttle service between the airport and the hotel," Quinn told Andrea.

"Don't worry about me. Freddy's driver will pick me up."

A brand-new air-conditioned van with the Bay Reef logo was waiting at curbside.

"I'll see you at the cove at four tomorrow," Quinn said before boarding it.

"At four."

The air-conditioning in the van made Quinn forget about the debilitating heat. Two middle-aged couples were the only other passengers on the shuttle. From what Quinn could hear, they were Australian and they were on holiday together. Quinn turned his attention to the royal palms with their thick tan trunks and broad green leaves that shaded the highway. Beyond the palm trees, waves rushed across a white sand beach. Everywhere Quinn looked he saw the sea or lush tropical vegetation. St.

Jerome was every bit as beautiful as the brochure from the Bay Reef Resort had promised.

After a fifteen-minute ride, a high white stucco wall appeared on the ocean side of the highway. They drove alongside the wall for a mile. Then the van pulled up in front of a guardhouse and waited while a black man in a clean, white short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks opened a gate topped by black spikes. The bold black letters on a copper sign affixed to a column next to the gate identified the enclave as the Bay Reef Resort.

The van drove for a short distance down a wide road lined with pink bougainvillea and more palms, then stopped in front of a one-story white stucco building. To the left, Quinn could see the beginning of a line of elegant shops. To the right was a row of two-story suites. High hedges blocked Quinn's view in both directions.

Quinn got out of the van and identified his bags for a porter, who directed him through an arched portal toward the reception area. Quinn noticed that there were almost no doors in sight. The reason was soon obvious. As he stepped through the archway, the breeze that blew in from the ocean cooled him.

There was a red and yellow terrazzo floor and a dozen varieties of flowering plants in the lobby of the Bay Reef. Beyond the reception area was a wide flagstone terrace. Guests in shorts and bathing suits were eating lunch at tables covered with white cloth under the shade of sea-grape trees. The trees were strung with lights that illuminated the open-air restaurant after the sun set.

After he checked in, a porter showed Quinn to his suite. A king-size, four-poster bed dominated the bedroom. The sight of it made Quinn sad. He had requested it after seeing pictures of the suite in the brochure for the resort. Before Laura's abrupt withdrawal from their trip, he had imagined the pleasure they would both take in making love in that bed.

Quinn tipped the bellman, put away his clothes, and switched on the air conditioner and the overhead fan. The judge was tired from his nine-hour flight, but he did not want to nap. As soon as he showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, Quinn wandered onto the balcony. Oleander, coconut palms and more sea grape were planted liberally along the edge of the beach, providing some shade for the bathers who lounged around, soaking up the sun. To the left, Quinn could see the thatch-roofed bar at the end of the flagstone terrace. Brown-skinned waiters and waitresses cruised back and forth between the bar and the guests with drink-laden trays. The ocean near the resort was dotted with sailboats, catamarans and splashing, laughing vacationers. Quinn checked his watch. Laura's plane would be in by now. He walked inside, lay down on the bed and called Laura at her hotel.

"Hi," Quinn said as soon as they were connected. "I just wanted to make sure you got in okay."

"No problems here. How was your flight?" Laura asked.

"The flight was fine."

"Does St. Jerome live up to your expectations?"

"Yeah, it does. It's even more beautiful than I thought it would be. The resort is unbelievable."

"You know I want to be with you, don't you, Dick?"

Quinn wanted to tell Laura that she would have turned down her new clients or had someone else from the firm handle the business if she really wanted to be with him, but he did not want to start a fight. So he said, "I know, honey." Then he added, "I really miss you," which was true.

"I miss you, too. Maybe we can get away together soon. Just the two of us."

Quinn wanted to remind her about the Crease trial and his other cases, which would eat up most of the year, but he didn't.

"That would be great," he answered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "I love you."

"Love you, too," Laura answered before she hung up.

Quinn replaced the receiver and lay back, staring at the long-bladed ceiling fan that spun slowly overhead. It dawned on him that he had not mentioned Andrea Chapman or their plans for the next day. Quinn wondered why it had slipped his mind. He felt vaguely guilty about not mentioning Andrea, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Quinn walked onto the balcony again. He missed Laura terribly. There were so many happy couples frolicking on the beach. The sight of them made Quinn feel worse. He wished he were with Laura lying in the sun, reading a trashy novel and getting smashed on banana daiquiris. But Laura was working and he was alone.

Chapter 13.

The heat and light of the sun woke Laura Quinn. It was a pleasant change from the alarm clock that usually shocked her out of bed in Portland. She stretched and turned so she could see the clock on the hotel night-stand. It was eight-thirty. Laura could not remember the last weekday when she had been in bed at this hour.

Laura rolled onto her back and contemplated a lazy morning. Her client had left a message saying that she would be contacted at ten. That left her time to shower and have a leisurely breakfast. She got out of bed wearing the T-shirt and panties she'd slept in. It was hot in Miami, but Laura had switched off the air conditioner so she could enjoy the warmth after the cold and gray of the Oregon winter.

Laura found a space on the hotel carpet that was wide enough for her to do some stretching and proceeded to go through the routine she followed every morning at home. Repeating the familiar exercises made her think of Quinn, who was usually shaving and showering while she worked out. She missed her husband, and her good feelings were replaced by pangs of guilt.

Laura completed fifty crunches and twenty pushups. The Florida heat and the exercise had covered her in a thin sheen of sweat. She stripped and went into the bathroom. Quinn had sounded so lonely during the call from St. Jerome, but it was his reaction when she told him that she could not make the trip to the island that haunted her. He had sounded betrayed and abandoned and, she admitted to herself, he had every right to feel that way.

Affection for Quinn had crept up on Laura. Bushwhacked and ambushed her. It was something she never anticipated when the two of them were teamed to work on the Remington litigation. Quinn was someone who rarely entered Laura's thoughts before the Remington case. He was nice-looking, but not handsome enough to moon about. He was also shy and clumsy. Laura knew that Quinn had been a varsity basketball player in college, but she still had trouble imagining him playing with grace. Of course, Quinn was very smart, even brilliant at times, but so were most of the lawyers at Price, Winward. You didn't get invited to join the firm unless you were a superstar in law school and you didn't make partner unless your talent sparkled in the real world.

Laura turned off the shower. While she toweled off, she thought about the first time she and Quinn had made love. It had been in a hotel room. They were staying at the Adolphus in Dallas while they took depositions in Remington. She had a small room, but Quinn was a partner, so he was staying in a suite. It was the end of a grueling fifteen-hour workday. They were in the living room of the suite under a wide skylight going over their notes of the depositions they had conducted from nine to five at the offices of Remington's attorneys. The night had been clear and Laura remembered a moment when she had leaned her head back against the couch and stared up through the skylight at a swirl of stars and a bright, white quarter moon.

Quinn had been brilliant that day. He had broken Remington's CEO and they were both excited. Laura remembered feeling like a timber wolf circling a terrified calf as she watched the CEO's expression change slowly from disdain to despair. They could both taste blood when they packed their attache cases and left the offices of Remington's attorneys. Hours later, Quinn and Laura, exhausted by the long day and tipsy from the wine they'd drunk at dinner, were sitting next to each other on the couch when Laura said something that had struck them both as funny. What normally would have merited a good chuckle made them giddy in their weakened state. When their laughter was spent they found themselves pressed together. Laura remembered Quinn looking at her with such longing the moment before their lips touched.

The morning after their first sex, Laura had been in torment. Quinn was not a particularly good lover, but he did love her. That much Laura knew. As they lay together in the dark, Quinn had confessed the feelings that had exploded in him during the past year. He told her how he had come to care for her but had been afraid to tell her. He was a partner and she was an associate. He was concerned with appearances, worried about the difference in their ages. But he was also helplessly in love with her, he admitted, laying himself open for rejection.

Quinn's honesty impressed Laura, but intimacy terrified her. Laura's father had adored her and her mother, or so Laura had believed. Then he had left them. How could Laura trust Quinn's feelings? How could she trust her own? Laura had slept with men, but she had never let herself expose her emotions to a man. Quinn wanted that. He needed it.

Laura had told Quinn that she did not want to rush into a serious relationship. Quinn backed off. She could read the pain in his eyes. The sag in his shoulders reminded her of the defeated CEO. It upset her to think that she had hurt him.

In the week after their return from Texas, Laura thought long and hard about her feelings for Quinn. She had learned to admire and respect Quinn during the time they'd worked together, but did she love him? What was love, anyway? Her emotions were so jumbled by the life she had led that she wasn't certain that she would ever be able to answer that question. If love existed, she knew that it did not last forever. Her mother had loved her father, and her father said he loved her mother, but neither loved the other now. Laura was convinced that love could be a lie. Still, she did feel something for Quinn that she had never felt for another man. He was gentle and considerate and he respected her legal abilities. She felt safe and comfortable when she was with him. Was that the way someone in love was supposed to feel?

Laura suggested that they spend time together. Quinn agreed eagerly. He did not pressure her and he seemed to understand the difficulty she had committing herself emotionally. When Laura thought about their future, she imagined herself and Quinn working together with the same verve and success they'd had in the Remington case. Only, in her thoughts, she, too, was a partner at Price, Winward. When she agreed to marry Quinn she was still not certain that her feelings for him were love, but they were what she thought love was supposed to feel like.

Laura took the elevator to the lobby and treated herself to fresh-squeezed orange juice, cold cereal and coffee in the hotel restaurant. As she ate, she wondered what had happened between her and her husband. There had not been anything dramatic. No affair, Quinn did not drink like her father or suffer from depression. He was the same man she had married, but somewhere during the past seven years, the marriage had started to die.

Who was to blame? Laura thought that their problems started with Quinn's ascension to the bench. When Quinn told her that the governor had approached him about the appointment she had been stunned. Laura knew that Dick was Patrick Quinn's son. Everyone knew that. She knew that he was basically an intellectual who enjoyed the law because of its mental rigor and not because of the money and thrill of combat that drew her to its practice. What she could not understand was how anyone could achieve her dream of making partner at Price, Winward and abandon it for the bench. As an associate, she was making almost as much as an Oregon Supreme Court justice. When she made partner, their combined salaries would be more than $300,000 a year. How could Quinn throw away the prestige and financial security of his present position? Laura tried to understand her husband's motivation, but she could not accept what he wanted to do. Should she have tried harder to understand Quinn's feelings? The thought nagged at her. Had she lost respect for Quinn simply because his job paid less than hers? Was that fair?

Laura returned to her room. Her client had not called by ten-fifteen. She took out the letter in which the retainer check and first-class plane ticket had been enclosed. The letter had been Fed-Exed to the firm and there was a phone number on the letterhead. Jerome Ross, the man she had spoken to on the phone, had also signed the letter. She reached for the phone, then stopped herself. Ross would call when he was ready.

Laura walked to the window and stared out at the ocean. Since Quinn's ascension to the bench, and her promotion to partner, Laura had increased her workload. Was she working hard to establish a reputation and to prove her worth to the firm, or was she hiding in her work? One thing was certain, she and Quinn were growing apart and she had to decide what she wanted to do about it. There were two choices: seal the rift or separate.

At ten-thirty, Laura dialed the number for SeaCliff Estates. The phone rang twice. Then a recording told her that the number she had dialed was not in service. Laura redialed, assuming that she had misdialed the first time. She heard the same message again. There was a phone book in her end table. Laura could not find a listing for SeaCliff Estates or Jerome Ross, so she rang the front desk.

"This is Laura Quinn in room 517.1 have a reservation for five nights. I need to call the company that made it for me and I've misplaced the phone number. Did they give it to you when the reservation was made?"

"Let me check, Mrs. Quinn."

A moment later, the desk clerk read her the same number that was on the letterhead.

"You're certain that there aren't any other phone numbers for the company?" Laura asked.

"That's the only one."

"Thanks."

"Uh, Mrs. Quinn. Did you say that the reservation was for five nights?"

"Yes. I'm supposed to fly out Sunday."

"We only have you down for two nights. Yesterday and today."

"There must be some mistake."

"That's what I have here "

Laura thought for a moment. Then she asked, "Have I received any messages?"

"Your box is clear."

Laura hung up. She called Portland and asked for Mort Camden, another partner at Price, Winward. They talked for a few minutes, then Camden told her he would get back to her. Jerome Ross had still not contacted her when Camden called twenty minutes later.

"This is fucked, Laura. The retainer check is drawn on an account in a Miami bank that was opened a week ago, but there's only one hundred dollars in it."

"One hundred! The damn retainer is twenty thousand."

"I don't know what to say, but something stinks. I think you should hop on the first plane back to Portland."

"What do you think is going on, Mort?"

"Beats me. Maybe someone is playing a joke on you."

"It's one expensive joke. The first-class round-trip ticket and the hotel reservations cost several thousand dollars."

"I don't know what to say."

Laura threw her file on the floor. She was livid.

"I'm checking out. I'll see you tomorrow."

As soon as Camden hung up, Laura angrily jabbed out the number of the airline. The phone rang. She planned to ask for a seat on the next flight from Miami to Portland, but a thought occurred to her and she hung up the phone. She had hurt Quinn when she chose a business deal over a vacation with him. It was only Wednesday morning and St. Jerome was not far from Miami.

Laura's arm dropped to her side. Quinn had given her seven good years. The hurt in his voice when she told him that she could not go to St. Jerome was proof that he still cared for her very much. If she wanted her marriage to survive, she had to act. Laura dialed the airline and asked for a seat on the next flight to St. Jerome.

Chapter 14.

Andrea was right about the difference between the resort side of St. Jerome and the other side of the island. The Bay Reef and The Palms were palaces where the wealthy, dressed in the latest fashions, dined on lobster and caviar, played golf and sunned themselves while sipping cool drinks by the pool. Puerta del Sol, the brightly colored capital city, was filled with fashionable shops and upscale restaurants. The buildings were freshly painted sunny yellow, happy blue and festive red, and the shop owners greeted everyone with a laugh and a smile. Poverty had been banished from the immaculate streets of the capital by order of Governor Alvarez. True, the taxis were dilapidated and there were some beggars who managed to evade the ever-present police patrols, but this was local color, the source of quaint Third World stories that could be told back home for the amusement of neighbors and friends.

The far side of St. Jerome was another story. The island's only paved highway was an oval that passed through Puerta del Sol, then swung around behind the hotels on the way to the airport before curving back to the resorts. Seven miles past the capital, a dirt track branched off toward the far side of the island. This road was the only open space in a jungle of towering trees whose branches interlocked to form a dense, dark green canopy that blocked out the sun and cast thick shadows over the narrow highway. The air was filled with the sweet smell of flowering plants and the wet, fetid smell of rotting vegetation. Quinn passed only a few people during the forty-minute, cross-island trip. More than once, he nervously checked his fuel gauge, having no desire to be stranded in the dense jungle.

At the suggestion of the concierge, Quinn rented a Land Rover and soon discovered why the recommendation had been made. The road was not well maintained. Quinn felt his kidneys suffer each time the Rover hit a pothole, and the billowing dust clouds kicked up by the thick tires completely obscured the scene in the rear-view mirror.

The jungle thinned, then disappeared when the road descended toward the ocean and into a civilization quite different from the one most St. Jerome tourists saw. Scattered along both sides of the road for half a mile were rusting shacks constructed from corrugated tin and a few more-substantial buildings made of concrete blocks. Some of the structures had colorful curtains strung across the doorway. None had glass windows, but some of the more solidly constructed buildings had louvered shutters. An emaciated goat was tethered to one shack and scrawny chickens wandered among many of the buildings pecking at the dusty ground.

A group of children was playing soccer with a tin can in a dirt field. They stopped when they heard the Rover and watched it drive by. An old man with nappy gray hair smiled and waved at Quinn and Quinn waved back. The old man's teeth were yellowed and decaying and there were gaping holes in his mouth where some teeth had rotted out. His T-shirt and shorts were in the same state of decay as his teeth. The clothing worn by the children who were playing soccer was also torn and tattered. All of the people he saw as he passed by the shacks were barefoot. A group of women in colorful skirts and blouses, their hair covered by multicolored scarves, walked along the road balancing tin basins filled with fruit on their heads. They also stopped to watch the Rover pass. Except for the old man with the rotting teeth, no one smiled.

Quinn drove through the village and around a curve that put it out of sight. The road straightened out. Quinn noted the location of the village on the map Andrea had drawn for him. According to her notes, four miles after the village a narrow dirt trail branched off toward the sea. Quinn looked up from the map and saw a jeep with two soldiers closing fast in his rearview mirror. The jeep pulled around Quinn to pass, then slowed when it was next to the Rover. The soldier in the passenger seat studied Quinn. His expression was hard and he cradled an automatic rifle. Quinn flashed a nervous smile at the soldier, but the soldier did not smile back. His cold appraisal was intimidating and Quinn looked away. After what Andrea had told him, Quinn was not certain that tourists were safe on St. Jerome. The land on either side of the road was flat and sandy and totally deserted. If something happened to him here, there would be no witnesses.

The jeep drove parallel to the Rover for a few seconds more, then cut in front of it and sped up. Quinn did not relax completely until the jeep was out of sight.

The dirt trail to the cove was right where Andrea's map said it would be. The sandy track was flat for a short distance. Then the Rover climbed upward to the crest of a hill and the road ended. Quinn stopped the car and got out. He was on the edge of a high cliff. Below him was the sea, which the cliff surrounded on three sides. An overhang blocked Quinn's view of the beach except for a strip that was adjacent to the ocean. Quinn looked for Andrea's car but did not see any other vehicles. He checked his watch. It was only a few minutes after four.

Quinn grabbed a towel and locked the Rover. A moment later, he found a narrow pebble-strewn path that wound downward along the cliff side. A stiff breeze messed with his hair. He was wearing a pair of baggy, khaki Bermuda shorts over a blue boxer swimsuit and a T-shirt with a colorful map of the world on the back. His sandals had smooth soles and twice he slipped sideways on small rocks.

When he was halfway down the trail, Quinn spotted Andrea lying on a large blanket. Beside her was a towel, some clothes, a large wicker picnic basket and snorkeling equipment. During the plane trip, Andrea had looked tired and bedraggled and her clothes had concealed her figure. Today she was wearing dark glasses and a bikini that was no more than three minute patches of yellow fabric. Her trim figure impressed Quinn. Andrea's legs were smooth and faintly muscled and her waist was narrow. He could see her ribs just below the bra of the bikini, then a flat stomach. Andrea's only imperfection was a pale, half-moon-shaped scar that stood out on her hip just below the string that secured the right side of her bikini bottom. The sight of Andrea's near-naked body aroused Quinn. Before he had time to think about his feelings, Andrea saj/tip and waved. Quinn waved back, then walked down the trail slowly to give his erection time to subside.

"You found me," Andrea said with a smile.

"Your directions were excellent and you're right about this place. It's beautiful."

"Wait until you see the reef."

Quinn lowered himself onto the blanket and eyed the snorkeling equipment nervously.

"I'm not a very good swimmer. Are you certain I can do this?"

"If you can swim at all, you can snorkel. All you really do is paddle around with your face in the water. It s a piece of cake. You'll see. I won't let you drown."

Andrea stood up. Quinn could not help noticing the way her breasts moved under the thin fabric of her bikini top. For a second, he fantasized Andrea naked, lying next to him on the blanket in the hot sun.

"I'm going to cool off. Come on."

Andrea reached out for Quinn and he took her hand. Her palm felt warm and smooth and she held on for a second before pulling him toward her. Quinn lurched to his feet and stumbled forward. Their bodies touched. Andrea laughed. Quinn was aroused again. The sensation was exciting but disturbing. He was certain that nothing would happen between them, but a part of him wished it would.

Quinn tossed his T-shirt and shorts on the blanket. Andrea jogged toward the water. Quinn followed, entranced by Andrea's muscular thighs and the way the movement of her buttocks made the fabric of her bikini bottom undulate. Quinn wondered what Andrea would be like in bed. She seemed so carefree and he imagined that her lovemaking would be loose and spontaneous. He remembered how quick and unsatisfying sex with Laura had become. Instantly, a wave of guilt washed over him.

Andrea ran into the surf, slowing as the water got higher and diving in when the ocean was at her waist. When she surfaced, her long black hair was wet and it gleamed in the strong sunlight.

"Come on in."

Quinn walked into the water. From his experiences in Oregon, he expected the ocean to be freezing, but when the water touched his skin, it felt like a cool shower on a warm summer day. At first, the water was shallow and the sand was smooth. Then fields of dark green seaweed grabbed at his ankles, snarled between his toes and obscured the bottom. Without warning, the seafloor dropped abruptly and Quinn stumbled into water that reached his waist. He bucked a small wave and nearly lost his balance. When he recovered his footing, he squatted and let the waves wash over him. Quinn was still not used to the torrid heat, and the cool water felt great. He closed his eyes, stretched out flat in the water and windmilled his arms, swimming gracelessly for a short distance. When he was winded, Quinn rolled onto his back. Unlike pool water, the salt water supported Quinn and he relaxed a little.

Andrea was a polished swimmer and she swam over to him with a natural stroke.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

"It feels great. The sun is really hot."

Andrea rolled onto her back and closed her eyes.

"This is the most wonderful place in the world, don't you think?"

The water slipped under Andrea's bikini top and the fabric rose and fell with the motion of the sea. Andrea drifted next to Quinn and he watched as the water washed across her breasts when the fabric shifted. Andrea opened her eyes and caught Quinn staring. He blushed and she smiled. Their eyes met and Andrea rolled against Quinn. Her arms snaked around his neck. Quinn froze. He knew what was happening and he knew he should stop it, but he couldn't. He did not want to.

Andrea's lips were cold and tasted salty. Her kiss was gentle. She teased him with her lips and he responded. The kiss was long and deep. Quinn closed his eyes and savored it. When her breast brushed his chest, Quinn cupped it. Andrea let Quinn caress her breast for a moment, then broke away, laughing. Quinn was confused. Andrea's fingers brushed his cheek, a feather touch. Quinn felt desire and guilt simultaneously.

"The sun will start to go down soon," Andrea said. "If you want to snorkel, we better do it now."

Quinn's mouth was dry from sexual excitement. He nodded instead of speaking, grateful for the chance to sort out what had just happened and to think about what he wanted to happen later when the sun was down and they left the water for the blanket Andrea had so carefully spread out on the sand.

Andrea swam in easily. Quinn followed her using an ungainly crawl. He was a slow swimmer and he used his time in the water to calm himself. Andrea's kiss had shaken Quinn and made him want more. He and Andrea lived on opposite coasts. They would probably never see each other again after St. Jerome. If he slept with Andrea, Laura might never know. But Quinn would know and he had no idea how that would affect his marriage.

Andrea was gathering up a set of fins, a mask and a snorkel when Quinn swam ashore. She held up the mask. "This is the key to snorkeling," she instructed. Quinn was still in a state of sexual confusion, but Andrea's tone gave no hint that anything had happened between them. "Without this, you'd be blind underwater. With it, you can see clearly."

Quinn concentrated on what Andrea was saying to distract himself.

She held up the snorkel. "This is basically a tube with a U-bend at one end that's fitted with a mouthpiece. With the snorkel, you can breathe while you're swimming facedown on the surface of the water without raising your head."

Andrea sat on the sand and slipped on her fins. Quinn copied her. He tried to stand up but he had trouble. When he was on his feet he took a few tentative steps and almost fell.

"God," he laughed self-consciously, "I feel like I'm a clown in the circus."

"You're doing fine." Andrea handed Quinn his mask and snorkel. "Let's wade out a ways."

Quinn struggled through the surf. He noticed that Andrea was holding her mask and snorkel out of the water and he did the same. When they were in waist-deep, Andrea said, "Spit on the glass on the inside of your mask like this and rub the spittle all over it, then rinse it off. This will stop the glass from misting when you're underwater."

Quinn did as he was told. Andrea put on the mask and slid the snorkel under the thick black rubber strap that secured the mask to her head.

"Breathe through the mouthpiece," Andrea said, "then bend forward and stick your face in the water. Just stand there. I want you to get used to breathing through the snorkel. I'll hold onto you so you can concentrate on what you're doing."

Quinn bent forward hesitantly until the mask was submerged. Andrea's hands were firm and her touch aroused him again, so he tried to concentrate on her instructions. He put his face in the water and tried to breathe through the mouthpiece, immediately sucking in a mouth full of seawater. The salty taste panicked him and he stood up, spitting. Andrea showed him the correct way to breathe so he would not get water in his mouth. Quinn got it right after a few tries.

The first thing that amazed Quinn was the clarity with which he could see the underwater world beneath him. A small crab scuttled across a rock on the sandy sea bottom. Then a bright blue and indigo fish that shot into and out of his vision startled Quinn. He jerked up and spit out his mouthpiece.

"Did you see that?" he asked excitedly. "This fish . . . it was incredible . . ."

Andrea laughed. "You ain't seen nothing yet. Wait till we get to the reef."

Andrea spent a little longer in the shallow area close to the beach getting Quinn used to swimming with the snorkel. The memory of the solitary blue and indigo fish spurred Quinn to learn quickly. Finally, Andrea motioned Quinn to head for the reef.

"You think I'm ready?" he asked anxiously.

"No question. Let's do it."

Quinn was nervous about leaving the area near the beach, but he was soon swimming slowly but steadily into deep water. The most frightening thing was how far away the bottom seemed and the fact that it kept receding, but the sheer beauty of the world below kept him from turning back. He was soon looking down on chasms of coral divided by rivers of white sand on which the wave action had inscribed ripple patterns. The coral was shaped like knobs, spines, fingers and fans. Andrea pointed out several round gray boulders covered by a maze of ridges and grooves that looked remarkably like a human brain. Quinn crossed over a coral cliff from which strands of seaweed waved. Attached to the cliff were clusters of brown coral shaped like the antlers of a great stag and reddish brown spines that jutted high up in the water like the fingers of a drowning man.

Quinn noticed two small plastic bags filled with bread crumbs tied to Andrea's bikini bottom. He watched as she opened the tie that secured one of the bags and took out some bread. Andrea motioned to Quinn to look down. He could see a large section of whitish brown coral directly below him, but no sign of life. Andrea let the bread fall. The crumbs floated downward undisturbed until they were almost touching the coral. Suddenly, the sea was filled with multicolored fish. Flashes of bright yellow, garish red, electric blue and neon green swooped below him. Andrea handed Quinn the other bag. He opened it quickly, anxious to keep the sea filled with tropical fish.

Quinn shredded a piece of bread and dropped some of it into the water. A bright yellow goatfish darted out of a hole in the coral and nipped at a bread crumb, while a butterfly fish with a fat white body and broad black stripes attacked another piece.

Quinn was so absorbed by the swirl of colors that he forgot about Andrea. When he remembered, he looked along the surface for her. She wasn't there. Quinn treaded water to keep himself upright and spun in a circle. The endless ocean and limitless sky gave way to the shoreline, the beach and the high cliff walls, then the ocean and sky returned. Quinn grew anxious. Andrea had been beside him a moment ago. He started to spin again when Andrea erupted from the ocean a few feet from his face. Quinn started to laugh, then Andrea screamed. Quinn froze. Something jerked Andrea underwater and Quinn dove after her without thinking. Through the glass plate in his facemask he saw Andrea clawing at the arms of a diver in scuba gear, her legs and arms flailing helplessly.

Quinn grabbed the arm that was wrapped around Andrea's throat and tried to pry it from her neck. Andrea's eyes were wide with fear behind her mask. Quinn used all his strength and the diver's arm loosened. Then Quinn's snorkel filled with salt water. Quinn gagged, panicked and bolted straight up. When he cleared the surface, Quinn spit out his mouthpiece, gulped in air and dove again. Andrea and the diver were fading away. She was no longer struggling and she looked like a rag doll in the diver's grip. Quinn took a few desperate strokes in Andrea's direction even though he knew that he could not save her. He came up for air and dropped under the water once more, but Andrea and the diver had disappeared.

Quinn surfaced and scanned the horizon. The sun was setting, the air was suddenly cold and uninviting and the stunningly beautiful ocean floor had been transformed into a frightening abyss. Andrea had been snatched away and he could be next. Terror propelled Quinn toward the beach. Each time he kicked, he expected to feel a hand clamp onto his ankle. He wanted to look down so he could see if he was in danger, but he was afraid to stop.

The shore seemed miles away and Quinn's lungs burned. Though he swam with all his might, the beach never seemed closer. He struggled forward, but his arms felt heavy and he could barely kick his legs. He wanted to rest, but terror drove him on. Just when he thought his arms and lungs would give out, a wave carried liim into shallow water and he waded ashore.

The panic-driven swim had exhausted Quinn. He threw himself onto the beach and gasped for air. When he had recovered a little of his strength, Quinn struggled to his knees and threw up. Then he collapsed on the sand and experienced a momentary rush of joy because he was alive. That feeling was rapidly replaced by fear for his own safety and guilt over his failure to save Andrea.

Quinn scanned the beach and the ocean for any sign of Andrea or the diver, but he was completely alone. He threw on his clothes and collected everything else that he had brought to the cove. The sun was starting to set. Quinn hurried up the trail. The Land Rover was the only vehicle in sight. If Andrea had not driven to the cove, Freddy's villa had to be nearby. There would be a phone he could use to call the police.

Andrea had told Quinn that the villa overlooked the ocean. He had not noticed any turnoffs between the village and the cove, so he headed away from the village. He assumed that Andrea had not walked far in the heat. After driving two miles without spotting a side road, Quinn began to wonder if Andrea had been dropped off at the cove and was counting on him to drive her back to the villa.

Another roadside collection of shacks appeared a short distance ahead. Quinn slowed, looking for someone he could ask for directions to the villa. Halfway through the makeshift town, Quinn saw a concrete-block building slightly larger than the rest. A sign dangled from a roof that overhung a small porch. Quinn guessed that the building housed a shop. He started to slow down when he spotted a metal cooler advertising Coca-Cola at the far end of the porch. The soldiers in the jeep were sitting next to it, drinking sodas. As the Rover neared the shop, they stopped sipping their drinks and watched it.

It occurred to Quinn that he knew very little about Andrea and that the subject of drugs had come up several times since they had met. There was the drug dealer who owned the villa where she was staying and the cocaine she had found there. Andrea was also knowledgeable about Governor Alvarez's drug connections. If Andrea's murder was drug related, the authorities could be involved.

Even if Andrea's death had no connection to drugs, it might not be smart to tell the soldiers about the murder. Would they believe Quinn if he said that a diver appeared out of nowhere and spirited Andrea away? The story sounded fantastic even to Quinn, and he had witnessed the murder. It was possible that the soldiers would conclude that Quinn and Andrea were lovers who fought and that Quinn, afraid that Andrea would ruin his marriage and career, had drowned her.

Quinn made a quick decision. He would drive back to the Bay Reef Resort and explain what happened to the manager or one of the organizers of the convention. There might even be an attorney from St. Jerome at the conference with whom he could consult. Quinn made a U-turn and hoped that the soldiers did not follow him.