The Stranger in the Lifeboat(10)

ANCHOR: Tyler, the list of those lost is extraordinary, isn’t it? A former president, world leaders, captains of industry, popular entertainers.

REPORTER: That’s correct. Perhaps because of that, there are calls from foreign governments to investigate the cause of this tragedy, to ensure that it was not in some way politically or financially motivated.

ANCHOR: But first, I imagine, comes the solemn tradition of funerals, made more painful for the lack of the actual bodies.

REPORTER: Yes. Here, at the memorial for Jason Lambert, there will be no casket or gravesite ceremony. He’ll be remembered by friends and family, which include three ex-wives and five children. We’re told none of them will be speaking, only his longtime business associate Bruce Morris.

Jason Lambert, of course, was a controversial figure, an extremely wealthy man who seemed to enjoy showing the world his fortune. He grew up in Maryland, the son of a pharmacist, and started his working life as a vacuum salesman. Within three years, he took over the business. He soon leveraged his company to buy others, eventually earned a master’s degree in finance, and started his now-famous mutual fund Sextant Capital, which has grown to the third-largest fund in the world. Among other holdings, he owned a movie studio, an airline, a professional baseball team, and an Australian rugby club. Lambert was also an avid golfer.

The Grand Idea was Lambert’s final creation. It was hailed by some as visionary, and criticized by others who saw it as a frivolous gathering of the rich and powerful. Of course, no one knew what a dark turn the voyage would take. Jason Lambert, presumed dead at age sixty-four.

ANCHOR: We should also mention that in addition to the famous names lost at sea, there were workers on that boat, the crew, the service staff, and the like, I imagine?

REPORTER: Yes. They should be remembered as well.





Sea





Bernadette is gone, Annabelle! She is gone! I must calm down. I must keep my wits. I will write exactly what happened. Someone has to know!

I told you yesterday how the man we call “Lord” merely touched Bernadette’s body, and she opened her eyes. We all saw her smiling and whispering to Jean Philippe. He was so happy. He kept saying “This is a miracle! The Lord has made a miracle!” I told you this, no? I’m sorry. I am so rattled, I’m not remembering things clearly.

Last night was an uneasy slumber, the raft rocking on the waves. I was out for maybe four hours. I dreamed of sitting in a barbecue restaurant. The smell was so real, so pungent. But the food never came, no matter how many times I craned my neck to look into the kitchen. Then, suddenly, I heard a customer howl.

I awoke to the sound of Jean Philippe crying.

I rolled over and saw him with his head down, his arms limp by his sides. The “Lord” had a hand on his shoulder. The space between them, where Bernadette had been resting, was empty.

“Jean Philippe,” I croaked. “Where is your wife?”

No answer. Nevin was awake, tending his wounded leg. When I caught his gaze, he just shook his head. Mrs. Laghari was awake, too, but she just stared out at the dark ocean.

“Where is Bernadette?” I repeated, rising. “Did something happen? Where did she go?”

“We don’t know,” Nevin finally said.

He pointed at Jean Philippe and the Lord.

“They won’t talk.”





Three





Land





Leaning against a large rock, LeFleur removed the notebook and examined it closely. Its pages were stuck together, likely from the salt, and he realized this would be a delicate process. But there was writing. In English. He felt his hands shaking. He looked up at the breaking waves and contemplated what to do.

Most of his life, LeFleur had been a rule-follower. He’d done well in school, earned badges in scouts, scored high on his police tests. He’d even thought of leaving Montserrat for England to train as a constable. He was a good size for law enforcement, tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick mustache that hid his smile and made him appear quite serious.

But then he met Patrice. A New Year’s Eve party, fourteen years earlier, part of Montserrat’s annual festival that features parades, costumed performers, and a Calypso King competition. They danced. They drank. They danced some more. They kissed at midnight and tumbled passionately into the new year. They saw each other every day for the next few months, and there soon seemed little doubt they would marry.

By summer, they had. They purchased a small house, which they painted yellow, and bought a four-poster bed where they spent a great many hours. LeFleur would smile just watching Patrice walk away from the bed and smile even more watching her walk back. Forget England, he thought. He wasn’t going anywhere.

A few years later, he and Patrice had a child, Lilly, and they doted on her as new parents do, taking pictures of every move she made, teaching her nursery songs, carrying her on their shoulders for trips to the market. LeFleur painted their second bedroom a light-pink shade and added dozens of little pink stars on the ceiling. Under those stars, Jarty and Patrice put Lilly to bed every night. He remembered feeling so good during those days, it seemed undeserved, as if someone had accidentally given him a double share of contentment.

Then Lilly died.

She was only four years old. She’d been visiting Patrice’s mother, Doris, and that morning they’d gone to the beach. Doris, who suffered from heart issues, had taken a new medication at breakfast, not realizing it would make her drowsy. In a beach chair, under the hot sun, she fell asleep. When she blinked her eyes open, she saw her granddaughter facedown in the surf, motionless.