The Professionals Circuit Archive - Poison Apples	  Poison Apples

 

by Pamela Rose

  
 *NB: Based on the book and the film THE WICKER MAN by Anthony Shafer.*

*APRIL 15*

"God, I'm sick of rain." Bodie sighed and lowered the field glasses. "Not
to mention being sick of bloody draughty warehouses, never-ending
stakeouts, and what passes for London springtime." He turned his attention
on his partner. "And you, mate, you're just plain sick. You look like
hell, Ray." 

Doyle made a face and snatched the glasses away. "And you're supposed to
be watching the place, not playing nanny." 

"Listen, sunshine, you turn green one more time and I'll pot you on my
windowsill next to me aspidistra." 

"Give it a rest, will you? I'm all right." 

"Sure you are. Come off it, Ray. You look 'orrible and probably feel
worse. What's wrong with you anyway? You haven't been your usual, bouncy
self for days. Why don't you tell Nanny Bodie all about it, son." 

Doyle dropped the glasses to glare at him. "Okay, so I've a touch of
stomach flu and, yes, I feel bloody awful. Your goin' on about it doesn't
help, you know." 

"If you're ill, mate, you should call off." 

"Wha'? And miss nabbing Whitley and his mob? Not a chance. We've put too
much sweat in this one to hand him over to another team." 

Bodie pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Yes, but the Cow won't love you if
you lose your lunch all over his new dancing pumps, will he?" 

Doyle's look would have withered an oak tree. "Pack it in, Bodie. This
won't last much longer; the drop's due to be made any time now. I can hang
on till then." 

Bodie regarded him doubtfully, noting the beads of perspiration, the lank
curls and the general air of misery. Irritated by the worried frown, Doyle
shoved the binoculars at him and snarled, "Don't say it! I told you I can
handle it, dammit! You just keep your eyeballs peeled for that lorry and
mind your own business." 

The other man's face altered in a flash, losing the affectionate, somewhat
indulgent expression he habitually wore when he was alone with Doyle. The
blue eyes were chilly now. 

"I was under the impression it was my business," he said quietly. 

Knowing he had said the wrong thing, and feeling too wretched to be
conciliatory, Doyle clung to his anger. "As long as I can do my job,
what's it to you if I feel rotten or not? Just shut up and leave me
alone." 

Bodie's eyes widened at the venom in the smaller man's voice. "Christ,
Ray, I was only--" 

"I don't give a damn what you were doing," Doyle snarled. "You're always
buttin' in where you're not wanted. I've had my fill of it, that's all." 

Bodie stared at him for a long moment before turning back to the window,
raising the glasses stiffly. "That's clear enough." 

Doyle cursed himself under his breath. "Ah, Bodie, dammit! I didn't
mean...." He trailed off as another wave of nausea caught him. With his
view directed at the truckyard below, Bodie didn't notice Doyle's sudden
need to sit down and clutch at his stomach. 

"I still wish it'd stop raining," Bodie remarked, his voice even. "I could
do with a bit of sun." 

Doyle took a deep breath as the sickness eased slightly. 

Bodie continued in a conversational tone, "Do good to get away from the
city for a bit, too. Some peace and quiet, fresh air. Someplace with a
jolly pub and some nice, friendly folk." 

Outwardly, Bodie seemed to have dismissed their little squabble, but Doyle
knew better. He had hurt Bodie and it would take some doing to soothe away
that particular wound. But he didn't have the energy to tackle it now;
it'd have to be chalked up with all the other minor cuts and slices he'd
inflicted on his partner over the years. One day, he'd have to make it all
up to Bodie. Not today, perhaps, and probably not tomorrow. Someday. 

Anyway, Doyle thought irritably, it was Bodie's own fault for breathing
down his neck all the time. Mostly it didn't bother him, but Bodie should
know him well enough to realise when he felt sick, he just wanted to be
left alone to suffer in peace, not be continually nagged over. Still,
Bodie meant well, and he had been excessively nasty with him.... 

"Eh," Bodie said, "a truck's coming in. Yeh, that's it. There's Whitley." 

Doyle clicked on the R/T as they headed for the stairs. "4.5 to Alpha. The
fish is hooked. Over." 

At the ground floor, they split up, taking opposite exits. In the
neighbouring warehouse, Murphy and Sims would be taking their positions as
well, blocking off the only other escape route. 

It was over in a matter of minutes. Quick but not without a good deal of
gunfire and momentary tension; Whitley's men didn't surrender without a
fight. All in all, however, it was a fairly clean op as drug busts
went--one of Whitley's men dead, one wounded. 

Bodie helped Sims cuff Whitley and shoved him into the police van that had
just pulled up. He was holstering his gun when he heard the cry. 

"Bodie!" 

The sound of it, high-pitched with pain and shock, cut through Bodie like
a blade of ice. "Ray?" He sprinted across the yard to where Doyle had
collapsed against the damp brick wall of the warehouse. He was in a
crumpled ball of agony, curled in upon himself, whimpering and panting. 

Terrified, it took a few seconds for Bodie to unwind the quivering form to
search for injury, fully expecting to see a flower of red blossoming over
the white tee shirt. There was nothing. 

Dizzy with relief, Bodie leaned his forehead against the rain-wet curls.
"What is it, sunshine? What's wrong?" 

Doyle clutched his stomach, his face ashen. "I don't...know. It
hurts...oh, Bodie...it hurts. I can't...." 

"Shhhh." Bodie held him close as he called on the R/T. "Murph, get an
ambulance over here quick. Doyle's in trouble." 

******

*APRIL 16 *

"I've been informed that 4.5 is doing as well as can be expected under the
circumstances," Cowley commented gruffly. "Not that he rates such good
fortune." 

Bodie didn't reply. At the moment he wasn't feeling particularly
charitable towards his partner either. Doyle had given him a real scare
and he resented the fact bitterly. 

"According to his physician," Cowley continued, "he'll be out of
commission for several days at the least, perhaps longer if the infection
gives them any problems." He shook his head in disgust. "Whatever
possessed the man to let it go on so long? A burst appendix is no laughing
matter, Bodie." 

"I know that, sir," Bodie said evenly. 

Cowley glared at him. "So where were you, 3.7? You're supposed to be his
partner, aren't you? Couldn't you see something was wrong?" 

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied carefully, holding his temper in check. The last
thing he needed right now was a scold from the old man; he blamed himself
enough as it was. "We HAVE been quite busy lately, sir. I knew Ray was
ill, but he kept passing it off as a touch of flu." 

Not that Bodie had believed it for a minute, but there seemed little
advantage in pointing out what a stubborn little bastard his partner could
be, and that he had more hair than sense when it came to staying on the
job. Cowley was well aware of that. 

Cowley sighed. "Well, at least the operation was completely successfully."


"At least," Bodie muttered resentfully. The damn operation had been the
reason Doyle had held off so long--damn near too long--keeping Bodie at
bay with a poisonous tongue to prevent him from dwelling on his partner's
obvious discomfort. 

"What was that, 3.7?" Cowley asked suspiciously. 

"Uh...nothing, sir." Then, with a touch of defiance, "But I did request
relief several times and you insisted we remain on station." 

Cowley cleared his throat uncomfortably and pulled off his glasses to
clean them with a tissue. "Point taken. Yes, well, it all turned out
better than we deserved. And next time Doyle takes ill, he'll know to
report it, or I'll remove his hide along with his appendix." 

Replacing his spectacles, Cowley began shuffling through the files on his
desk. "In any case, it worked out for the best. We put a stop to Whitley's
import operations and 4.5 is out of danger. Matters might have turned out
worse." 

They might, indeed, Bodie thought angrily. By the time Doyle reached
hospital, his situation had been critical. It had been touch and go for
quite some time, and Bodie was still trying to deal with the strain of
those nerve-wracking few hours. Raymond Doyle was doomed to hear a few
choice words on the subject. 

"However," Cowley continued, "4.5 will be incapacitated for some time.
That leaves you at rather loose ends, doesn't it, 3.7? Perfect for a
little project I've had in mind. As the last operation was satisfactorily
completed and nothing else of urgency presents itself, I've decided to put
you to use on an investigation of a more personal nature." 

"Sir?" 

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't waste an operative on what is no doubt a trivial
matter, but this case does interest me. There's something odd about it,
and I'm curious to see what's at the bottom of it. Three weeks ago, a
childhood friend of mine contacted me in the hope I could be of help. His
son disappeared nearly a year ago and he has been unable to obtain any
satisfactory answers from the local police." 

"A missing person? Not in our line, is it, sir? Unless he has diplomatic
connections." 

"No, there's nothing like that involved. Andrew Campbell is a respectable
businessman with comfortable means, but far from wealthy. Conservative
politically, but unconnected with the government in any way other than
paying his taxes on time. 

"His son, David, was a student at the University of Edinburgh, majoring in
anthropology and sociology. His marks were acceptable but not particularly
outstanding. A perfectly normal young man by all accounts; quiet, a bit
shy, but hardly either a loner or troublemaker. The only record of
disciplinary action against him was for hobbling a goat in the
headmaster's study." 

Bodie smiled. "Not exactly a left-wing radical, then." 

"Hardly. He was to begin his last year at University this past fall, and
already had a fellowship lined up to work with a Dr. Bitsmen in Australia.
Last spring, he was working on a thesis on insular cultures. To this end,
he arranged to spend his summer vacationing on Summerisle. He never
returned." 

"What do the authorities have to say about it?" 

"Summerisle has a population of less than five hundred; they seem to have
no need for a constabulary. Lord Summerisle's family has owned the island
for four generations, since his great- grandfather purchased it in the
last century. He functions as justice of the peace. According to him and
to the inhabitants of Summerisle, David never arrived in the first place.
They have never heard of David Campbell. He had planned to travel to the
island by boat--it has no airfield, or even much terrain suitable for
landing a plane--but there are no records of young Mr. Campbell engaging
transportation on the mainland." 

Bodie shrugged. "So he went somewhere else. It happens. Kids drop out, run
away, lose themselves on purpose. Excuse me, sir, but it seems the most
likely explanation. Perhaps he ran into a bird and she--" 

"Perhaps," Cowley cut in smoothly, "but Andrew doesn't think so. He is
positive his son did go to Summerisle. The police, however, tend to agree
with your theory." 

"And you think he's right? That something's happened to the boy?" 

Cowley frowned. "Not necessarily. But when I did a bit of research, I
discovered a few unsettling facts about this island. This isn't the first
time someone has disappeared in connection with Summerisle. I don't like
coincidences." 

He located the file he wanted and opened it. "Over six years ago, a
Detective Sergeant Neil Howie flew a seaplane to Summerisle to investigate
a report on a missing child. It was assumed at the time that his plane was
lost at sea. However, no debris was ever found and the day he left was
perfectly clear and calm. Moreover, Neil Howie was an expert pilot." 

"And the missing child?" 

"Was never missing according to the villagers. They knew nothing of the
business. The investigation was closed, listed as 'death by
misadventure.'" Cowley handed the file to Bodie who studied the enclosed
photo. The man in the police uniform was stern and unsmiling, looking
distinctly prim and priggish. But there was something in the eyes that was
vaguely disturbing; a man who courted suffering. It reminded Bodie of
paintings of burning saints and crucified martyrs. He closed the file
uneasily. 

"The island, where is it, sir?" 

"Off the west coast of Scotland. It is small and isolated, just barely
within our national waters; the farthest west in the Outer Hebrides chain.
There is little, if any, contact with the outside, and hasn't been for
centuries. The British government remains essentially out of their affairs
for the simple reason there has been no call for their services; no demand
for National Assistance, Health--nothing at all. They don't even have
automobiles to licence. The people keep to themselves, as they have done
for generations; the very reason for young Mr. Campbell's interest in the
place. Have you ever heard of Summerisle, Bodie?" 

"Not that I recall, but there is something familiar about the name...." He
snapped his fingers. "Summerisle apples. That's where I've heard it." 

"Indeed. That is their primary export. The island is located in the Gulf
Stream and the mild climate, combined with a richly volcanic soil, seems
to account for their amazing success with fruit." He opened a desk drawer
and took out an apple which he offered to Bodie. "Summerisle apples are
exported all over the world. They are considered a delicacy; worth ten
times the price of a regular apple." 

Bodie policed the fruit on his sleeve. "Looks like an ordinary apple to
me." 

"Yes, but you're more likely to find it at Fordham and Mason than on a
fruit pedlar's cart in market street." 

Curious, Bodie sank his teeth into the fruit and chewed appreciatively.
"Very nice." 

Cowley glowered at him. "I didn't require a taste test, 3.7. It's
fortunate that wasn't evidence." 

"Just digesting the facts, sir," Bodie grinned and continued crunching
away. 

Cowley shook his head despairingly and continued, "Something else I find
rather intriguing is the fact that, except for the physician who trained
in Glasgow and returned to the island to set up practice, there is no
record of anyone moving away from the island in over fifty years." 

Bodie shrugged. "Perhaps they're happy there." 

Cowley looked at him sharply, surprised by the comment. He had been
concerned about Bodie for some time now; the man seemed vaguely restless.
Sometimes he suspected Bodie was only staying in CI5 for Doyle's sake;
that he'd lost his heart for the job around the time Marikka Schulman was
killed. Cowley wasn't too worried at present, however; sending that as
long as he held Doyle, Bodie would be right there in "leading strings." 

"In any case, I've decided to send you up to nose around a bit. You can
leave tonight." 

Bodie straightened in his chair. "What? Tonight, sir? But--" 

"Tonight, 3.7," Cowley said firmly. "The sooner you go, the sooner you'll
be back to do some real work." 

"Does it have to be tonight, sir?" Bodie protested. "It can't be all that
urgent. Besides, it still seems out of our line. A waste of time--" 

"Have you forgotten I am the one who decides what is suitable of CI5,
3.7?" 

"No, sir. But--" He opened his mouth then closed it again. 

"What is it, Bodie?" Cowley snapped. 

Bodie regarded him sheepishly. "It's Doyle, sir. I know he's out of danger
and all, but I'd...I'd just as soon hang about for a day or two, just in
case." 

"That's a bit overprotective, isn't it, 3.7?" Cowley growled, but he was
thawing and Bodie saw it. 

Grinning cheekily, Bodie replied, "Well, it was you who pointed out I
didn't look after him well enough, sir. Just following orders." 

Cowley snorted, amused in spite of himself. "4.5 is in capable hands. I
doubt if your presence will improve his condition--particularly if it
includes alcoholic binges in his hospital room." 

Bodie's eyes twinkled, sensing he had won. "You'll never forgive us for
that broken scotch, will you?" 

"An entirely different matter," Cowley bit back. "Oh, very well. You can
leave Tuesday morning. But don't expect to make a habit of delaying your
assignments for personal reasons." 

"Oh, no, sir. Would I do that? Of course not. Thank you, sir." 

"Don't press your luck, Bodie. Just take that file and get out of here.
Give 4.5 my regards." 

******

Doyle was in a foul mood. He was running a slight fever, his incision
burned and ached from surgery and, most of all, he hated being flat on his
back in hospital. Having to face an understandably irate Bodie while flat
on his back was even more galling. It didn't help that he had a definite
suspicion that Bodie had every reason to be furious with him. 

"I swear, Doyle, you've got to be the most obstinate, thick-headed prat in
London. You must've had SOME idea it was your appendix." 

"No," Doyle got out through gritted teeth. "I told you, I didn't think it
was all that bad." 

"You didn't think at all, more like it." Bodie paced the narrow space
between the wall and the bed, becoming more wound up by the second. For
once, at least, Doyle was forced to lay still and listen. It was a relief
of sorts, being able to release some of the pent-up anxiety on the cause
of it. "What if one of Whitley's goons had got a bead on you when you
doubled over like that? What if they'd got away 'cause you couldn't hold
your position? Not to mention the minor fact you let it go on so long you
could've died as surely as if they had pumped ten rounds in your gut.
Christ, Ray, don't we take enough risks as it is? Or are you pitchin' for
Martyr of the Month? Hang on a bit and I'll run round an' light a candle
for you." 

Doyle flushed angrily. "I said I'm sorry; drop it, will you?" 

"Oh, you're sorry, eh? Well, that's all right then. Here I thought you
expected a pat on the back for bein' such a brave boy." 

The sarcasm stung. "What the devil do you want me to say?" Doyle snapped.
"I fucked up, okay? I could've got you or one of the others killed out
there. Do you think I need you to point that out? I'm a rotten human being
and should eat worms and die?" 

Bodie paused, half-smiling at the furious form on the bed. "Nah, mate,
you'd probably have me diggin' the worms for you. And stop scowling; if
your face freezes that way, you'll scare all the birds." He sat down on
the edge of the bed, reaching out to dislodge a curl that had adhered to
Doyle's forehead. "We'll let it go for now, then. Perhaps I did go over
the top a bit, but the next time I say you're sick, sunshine, you'd better
listen to me, right?" 

Doyle jerked his head away from the touch. "Leave off, damn it. Stop
fussing. Who the hell do you think you are anyway, giving me lectures! Lot
of nerve you have--" 

"I thought I was your partner," Bodie cut in coldly. 

"Yeh, well, sometimes you act more like a bloody sweetheart!" 

Bodie immediately stiffened, facing paling. "Why did you say that?" 

Doyle was too frustrated and irritated to pay much attention to Bodie's
reaction. At the moment guilt was making him uncomfortable and therefore
rash with his comments. His mind kept flashing a picture of Whitley
drawing a line on Bodie, himself unable to raise his own gun to stop him.
Right now, he just wished Bodie would go away until he could get a grip on
his bruised and shaken confidence. 

"What did you mean by that crack?" Bodie wouldn't let it go. 

"Stop smothering me, that's all! Get off my back! Stop hangin' around like
a mother hen. I've had enough of it." 

Bodie stood. "All right." 

Doyle chewed on his lip, already regretting the harsh words. They weren't
even totally true. "Bodie, wait--" 

"You're right," the other man said calmly, picking up his coat from the
back of the chair. "You need to get some rest." His mask was back in
place, solid and impenetrable. 

"Bodie--" 

"Take it easy, Ray." Bodie's parting smile was brittle and just a little
wishful. 

******

The weather turned even nastier that evening. Bodie spent a frustrating
half-hour trying to close a window that had obstinately stuck three inches
open, sending freezing gusts of wind and rain through his already damp
bedroom. He finally surrendered, afraid he would wind up breaking the
wretched thing and sound every alarm at headquarters. He wasn't in the
mood to explain to a sniggering security chief that he couldn't manage to
shut his own window. 

He showed a spare blanket into the crack to keep out the worst of it, and
returned to his clammy bed, not bothering to kid himself that it was more
than the smallest part of his insomnia. He'd slept in mud-choked ditches
before, waking up only long enough to dispose of the newest crop of
leeches. A slightly damp bed and a few chilly draughts was positive luxury
in comparison. 

Bodie knew after all this time, he should be able to take his partner's
mercurial moods in stride. They were hardly anything new, and this one
hadn't even been particularly bad up against some of the fireworks Doyle
had tossed his way. 

So why did this time hurt so much? 

It couldn't have been that crack about him acting like a "sweetheart." You
couldn't pay attention to particulars during one of Doyle's tongue-
lashings--he didn't know what he was saying half the time himself.
Besides, it was ridiculous. Perhaps he was a little over-solicitous
towards his partner at times, but that was understandable. They were a
team, weren't they? Good mates besides. But lovers? It was laughable to
even think about. 

It took a long moment for Bodie to realise he was thinking about it. And
he wasn't laughing. 

Impulsively, Bodie leaned over and snatched up the phone. 

"Mr. Cowley? It's Bodie, sir...uh...no, I didn't notice the time. Sorry,
sir. Oh, yeh, well I've been thinking about the investigation we
discussed...yes, Summerisle. I've decided to make a start right away. This
morning, right. Doyle? He's doin' much better an' all...no reason for me
to hang about.... Yes, sir. I'll be in contact. Sorry again for waking
you. Goodbye." 

******

*APRIL 17 *

This wasn't the first time Bodie had been in Scotland, but he had spent
most of his time in Glasgow or Edinburgh or climbing his way out of the
mountains during training missions. Unsurprisingly, it seemed spring was
taking even more time showing up here on the northwest coast than it was
in London. The sky was grey and sullen and water dripped from the eaves in
listless monotony. 

Leaving the train station, he hunched his shoulders against the chill wind
that whipped around the corners of the stone buildings. He ducked into a
tea shop to get his bearings. Finding an empty table against a wall, he
parked his carry-all underneath. After ordering some tea and a sausage
sandwich, he took out the file Cowley had given him and a map of the area.


The old mother who brought the tray caught sight of one of the photos
spread out among the pile of papers. 

"Oh my. That's puir Sergeant Howie, now isn't it?" 

Bodie looked at her with interest. "You know him, then?" 

"Knew him, puir soul. Lost at sea in that fancy boat-plane of his. Lord,
it must be five years now." 

"Nearly seven, actually." 

"No? That long, ya say? Well, when you get a bit long in the tooth like
meself, one year's verra like another. Was the Sergeant kin of yours?" 

"No, ma'am. Did you know him?" 

She wiped a smear on the formica table fussily. "Bless you, yes. He was of
a habit of stoppin' in nearly every afternoon fer tea, unless he was on
patrol o' course. Not like most o' the other coppers in the station--nice
as they are--but spendin' way too much o' their times in pubs and
dancehalls to my manner of thinkin'. Set a bad example for the young ones,
I say. The Sergeant now, he was a decent, god-fearin' man. Quiet like. Not
cheery enough for some, but I always said he had higher things on his mind
than makin' fun and causin' mischief." 

Bodie nodded solemnly, his expression giving room to suspect he'd never
seen the inside of anything so sordid as a common pub. Taking in the neat
suit and tie and the clear, healthy complexion, the old woman warmed to
him immediately. Even if he was a Foreigner (anyone outside the town being
foreign to her mind), he seemed a polite, respectful lad. 

"What are you doin' with Sergeant Howie's picture, Mister...?" 

"Bodie, ma'am." He slid his identification out of his inside pocket. 

"My...police, are you?" 

"Not exactly. But I am investigating a disappearance. Perhaps you could
help me." 

"Not the Sergeant's surely? Years ago, that was. And everyone knows his
plane--" 

"No, ma'am, not the Sergeant's." He located the photo of David Campbell
and handed it to her. "Do you recall seeing this man?" 

She took the picture, adjusted her spectacles carefully, and studied it.
"No...no, I don't believe I have. Not from around here, is he?" 

"No. He was on his way to Summerisle." 

She snorted disapprovingly. "No one goes to Summerisle, laddie. Not if
they have any sense. They don't take to strangers there, and we don't take
to their kind neither. Heathens, the lot of 'em." 

Bodie took the photo back thoughtfully. "Someone must go there, surely. If
only to deliver the post--" 

"They take care of all that theirselves, don't they. Send a packet boat
once a week or so to pick up the mail. That's the most we see of 'em,
except around harvest time. Not that they stoop to be bringin' their fancy
apples through here, mind you. Most of 'em gets shipped farther south to
folks willing to spend good money on such frippery. Summerisle apples,
indeed! Fruits of Satan, I say. We're well rid of it." 

"But they used to ship through here?" 

"Aye, when I was a girl. The islanders would come into town for a day or
two. Before the war, that was. An evil lot, all of 'em. Drinkin' and
dancin' on the Sabbath." She pursed her lips in disgust. "An' doin' worse
than that, if all be told." 

"After the war, they found another market, then?" 

"Aye, thank the Lord. That island never spells ought but trouble, Mister
Bodie. If the young lad you're lookin' for was goin' for there, I say he
deserved whatever he got." She looked at him coldly. "And I say the same
to you. Look, I can't stand here nattering with you all day. Will you be
needin' anythin' else?" 

"No, thank you. I'm sorry for taking your time with all the questions." He
offered his best smile. It seldom failed him, and this was no exception. 

"Aye, well, I know you're just doin' you duty an' all," she replied,
slightly mollified. "Surely you'll be wanting a wee bit of jam and cake
for afters? I did up a fresh batch just this morning." 

"Yes, that would be nice, thanks. Then perhaps you'll give me directions
to the police station." 

******

*APRIL 18 *

Sergeant Hugh MacTaggart of the West Highland Police was less than pleased
with his present passenger, nor with the detour he had been asked to make
in his patrol. 

"You're positive you want to be let off there? I can't guarantee how long
I'll be, ya know. Could be two days, could be a week. And if the
weather--" 

"Are you sure there's no other way off the island? No boats to hire to
take me to the mainland?" Bodie looked out the window of the sea-plane,
beginning to doubt the wisdom of this. The sky was still grim and what
little he could see of the odd islands and knolls through the leaden
streaks of cloud didn't seem promising. 

"You might convince someone to bring you back, but then again, you might
not. They're a clannish lot, and stiff-necked with strangers. Especially
uninvited ones." 

"Then I'll have to depend on you picking me up in a day or two, won't I?" 

The Sergeant scowled and banked the plane sharply. "Don't know as why
you're stickin' your nose in at all," he mumbled. 

Bodie ignored the grumbling. Being in CI5, he had become accustomed to
stepping on toes. No way to avoid the implied insult in re-opening an
investigation that the original investigators had been less than thorough.


"Have you been to Summerisle?" Bodie asked, hoping to get a little more
cooperation from the closed-mouth copper. 

"Aye, twice," came the short reply. 

"And...?" Bodie prompted patiently. 

"And what? I've been there twice, that's all. Wouldn't be goin' back now,
if you'd read my report." 

"Listen, Sergeant, I have read your report. Four times. It didn't take
long; there's not much to it." 

The man sent Bodie a resentful glance. "Not fancy enough for you big-time
charlies, eh?" 

"Yeh, that's right," Bodie growled. "I'm used to pink paper and gold
embossing. Give me a break, will ya? You did your job, let me get on with
mine. If your nose is out of joint, just be glad it's not your arse in a
sling." 

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" MacTaggart snapped. "Tellin'
me I don't know my job! Some city punk disappears, and just because he was
supposed to be headin' this way, we get all the flak for it. Well, I did
my job, Mister Cee Eye Four or Five or whatever outfit you're with, and
it's all in my report. Nothing! Because there was nothing to report. IF he
was comin' here at all, there's no trace he ever showed up in Portlochie,
let alone made it to the island. I talked to everyone at the wharf who
might have chartered him a boat or even gave him a lift. No one goes out
that far, except the fishers, and they don't go near Summerisle--the reefs
are too dangerous around there for a large boat. The only ones who risks
them are the Summerisle fishermen, and they've been sailing those waters
for generations. Satisfied?" 

"No," Bodie said bluntly. "What about the packet?" 

The Sergeant looked surprised. "What packet?" 

Bodie sighed. "I was told someone comes by boat from Summerisle every week
or so to pick up the post." 

"Oh. But that's from the island. Old Birch McDougal's been collectin' the
mail for years." 

"Did you talk to him? Perhaps Campbell got a ride over with him." 

"Aye, I talked to him! I talked to all of them on Summerisle; even his
Lordship himself. It's all in the bloody report, if ye'll take some heed
to it!" 

"And they say they'd never heard of David Campbell?" 

"That's right. Why should they lie, I ask you? ALL of them?" He snickered,
"But I suppose in your books I shoulda arrested the lot o' them for
conspiracy. No proof, no reason." He shook his head. "You London coppers
must spend a lot of time in court facing charges of false arrest." 

Bodie smiled wryly. "I'm not a copper. And, no, that doesn't come up very
often." He stared out the window for a long moment, recalling his
partner's long and passionate lectures on police procedure. Not that Doyle
wasn't above tossin' the rules in the trash bin on occasion; he'd just
bite his tongue off before admitting it. Before he could start wondering
how his partner was doing and fall to mooning over the jumble of emotions
he'd pushed to the back of his mind, he turned back to the pilot. 

"You said you'd been there twice. When was the first time?" 

"Oh, years back. My old sergeant cracked up his plane, and we had to do a
follow up." 

"Sergeant Howie." 

MacTaggart glanced at him, startled. "Yeh, that's right. Neil Howie. Let's
see...1973 that was. How did you know about it?" 

"Research, son. Didn't you think it odd that the island was involved in
that, too?" 

"Not particularly. It was only one stop of many on his patrol. We weren't
even sure he was headin' there first. It's a big area, Mr. Bodie, an' the
weather can be tricky." 

"But it wasn't that day, was it? Clear and calm, wasn't it?" 

MacTaggart shrugged. "For all we know, his ticker gave out. He was the
type--all tension, uptight with ulcers. He and McCallum went to the island
to check things out--" He broke off and looked at Bodie. "I take it you
know why he was stoppin' there as well, since you know so much?" 

"An anonymous letter about a missing child." 

"Yeh, well, like most anonymous letters, it was a crock. Some nasty ol'
biddy stirring up trouble most likely. The girl, Rowan Morrison, was there
right enough, fit and healthy, and no one had seen sight of the Sergeant."


"And you never found any trace of the plane?" 

"The patrols last anywhere from three to ten days, Mr. Bodie. We didn't
even start worrying about him for some time. The wreckage could've washed
up anywhere...or nowhere." 

"What was he like, this Neil Howie?" Bodie asked curiously, wondering if
MacTaggart's opinion would tally with the woman at the tea shop. 

The tone of the question was informal, almost friendly. The sergeant
relaxed a bit. Besides, he hadn't thought of his old superior in years. 

"Neil was an all right sort. Bit of a prig, though. No, that's puttin' it
mild. He was a bloody old maid. When he took a whiz he probably closed his
eyes so he wouldn't sneak a peek at his pecker. Too, too pure for this
mortal world, ya see." 

"You didn't like him?" 

"Did I say that? Like I said, he was all right. Narrow-minded and a bit
self-righteous, but mostly he was fair enough. You could count on gettin'
a decent shake from him, even if he didn't approve of your morals or
drinkin' habits off the job. He might lecture ya ta bloody tears, but as
long as you did your job, he took it no farther." As an afterthought, "He
was a damned good copper, too. Knew what he was about, did ol' Howie. Hung
onto somethin' like a bloody bull terrier until he got answers. Poor sod."


Bodie noticed with interest that the sky was lightening. Within a few
moments, they left the last of the wispy clouds behind them and burst out
into clear sunshine. Ahead of them, wide streaks of sun sliced through the
bands of clouds high above. The plane dropped altitude and flew towards an
island breaking through blue-grey sea. 

"There she is. Summerisle." 

Sheer, barren cliffs reached up from a churning, furious ocean. 

"Looks formidable," Bodie remarked. 

"Aye, from this angle, it is. These mountains here cut off the north wind
from the rest of the island, though. Wait until we get in a bit further,
then you'll see something." 

Jagged rock suddenly gave ground to rolling hills that gradually turned to
high pastures and bright green jewels of meadows. Black and brown specks
soon resolved into peacefully grazing cattle, and a fluid patch of white
became a herd of running sheep startled by the plane's engines. The
orchards stretched in charming, harmonious rows, just beginning to blossom
into pink and white. Wild roses rumbled over ancient, but carefully tended
stone fences. 

"It's lovely," Bodie commented, feeling the description inadequate, but
unable to come up with anything more expressive. After the long, dreary
winter, it was like looking down at paradise. 

"Aye, it is that. What with the mountains and the Gulf Stream, spring
comes earlier here. The winters are milder, too, from what I'm told.
There's his Nibs' castle." 

Set among softly curving orchards, with the sea to its back, the manor
house was breathtaking. A line of poplars crested a windbreak against the
ocean breezes, and the sinking sun reflected pink and gold in the latticed
windows, mellowing the blocks of stone to a rose-grey hue. 

Bodie wished suddenly that Ray, with his eye for landscapes and lovely
things, was here to see this. He would love it. 

"And there's the village. We'll land in the harbour by the jetty." 

To Bodie's amazement, he saw that the gentle curve of the harbour was
lined with palm trees, gracing it with the impression of subtropical
splendour. 

The village itself was small and cozy; brick and stone cottages jostled
close together as if the island jealously resented giving too much room to
anything without roots in the rich earth. 

As the Sergeant banked the plane in a wide circle in preparation to a sea
landing, Bodie asked, "What do you know of the Lord Summerisle?" 

"Not a lot. Met him, o' course, during the investigations. Very educated,
snobby but very posh manners; your typical long-nosed aristocrat. Bit odd,
just the same. Not that you'd expect much different from the high nobs. I
reckon they're all a jot strange when you come right down to it." 

"What's odd about him?" 

He wrinkled his nose uncertainly. "Dunno. Just is. You'd think a man with
his kind of money, wouldn't hole himself up on an island for most of his
life, would you now? 'Course it's just rumours, mind, but I've heard tell
that the present laird's great-granddad didn't leave the mainland all on
his own. They say he was crazier than a coot, with all kinds of strange
ideas and ways." Bodie pondered that cryptic statement while they made the
landing smoothly, kicking up only a few quick sprays of water. 

"Well, here you are. They'll send a skiff in a few minutes, once they see
the police seal on the plane." 

Indeed, a dinghy was already making its way out to the softly bobbing
aircraft. 

"You say there's an inn in the village?" 

"Aye. More of a public house, really, but they have a couple of rooms
upstairs to let." 

Bodie gathered up his belongings and stuck out his hand. "Thanks for the
ride, Sergeant. Sorry for the interrogation. Nothing personal." 

MacTaggart looked sheepish. "Aye, I know. Shouldn't be so bloody
thin-skinned." He shook the offered hand. "Good luck to ya, Mr. Bodie.
I'll be back round in a couple o' days." 

Bodie smiled. "I'm sure I'll be more than ready to go. Bored out of my
mind, no doubt. I've never liked chasing down dead ends, but ours is not
to reason why...." 

"That's surely the truth. Ah, here's your transport." 

Bodie opened the hatch and stepped out on the pontoon. 

The gristled old man in the dinghy pulled closer alongside. "You fellas
wantin' to come ashore, are ya? This is private property, y'know. Ye'll
need his Lordship's permission." 

"The only means of getting it seems to be to ask him," Bodie pointed out.
"And it's just me coming. The sergeant has other places to go." He moved
onto the boat, easily keeping his balance against the swells. He waved to
the Sergeant as the old man swung the dinghy around and began rowing
towards the dock. A few moments later, the engine caught and the plane
moved slowly out into takeoff position. 

"His Lordship know you're comin'?" the old man said shortly as soon as he
could be heard above the departing plane. 

"He will when you tell him, won't he?" Bodie replied cheerfully. 

The sun was just above the edge of the water now, and there was a warm,
rosy glow over everything. Bodie felt very good suddenly, peaceful and
content. A few days in this place wouldn't come amiss. He'd been wishing
for sun and quiet, hadn't he? And the Cow was paying for the holiday! It
would have been perfect except--he bit his lip, remembering exactly what
had sent him scurrying off to Scotland even quicker than necessary. Stupid
berk. If he'd waited another week until Ray left hospital, he might've
talked Cowley into letting them both come--a kind of R mixed with light
work. And Ray would've bloody loved this place. 

He conveniently forgot that the last time he'd seen his partner he'd felt
like choking him. And that Doyle had been about as friendly as a wounded
hedgehog. 

They'd work it all out. They always did, didn't they? 

When the boat nudged against the dock, there were several men lining the
edge, regarding him with a kind of bored interest. 

"Who's this then, Barley?" 

"Ask 'im yourself." 

Bodie climbed up the ladder. "I'm Bodie. The Sergeant tells me there's an
inn in town where I might find a room for a night or two. Could you point
me in the right direction?" 

"Only one direction, Mister Bodie. That's down the road. They all lead to
the same place. Back where you started." 

Bodie looked around the chuckling circle, eyebrow lifted doubtfully,
wondering what the joke was. "Ah, well, I suppose I'll find it then." He
handed a coin to the boatman and picked up his bag. 

"Depends on what you're lookin' for," someone called out. 

"If you even know," chimed another. 

Bodie stopped and turned slowly around, eyes narrowed. "Besides a room for
the night, what do YOU think I'm looking for?" 

"Trouble," came one answer, grimly. 

"The meanin' o' life," another offered sarcastically. 

"A piece of tail," came the capper. 

Amidst the roar of laughter someone else added, "With Willow MacGreggor,
he'll manage all three!" 

Bodie tightened his grip on his bag and his temper. It was nearly twilight
now, the air becoming chill, and he was tired and hungry. 

When the laughter died down, the man with the boat stepped forward a pace.
"People come lookin' for all manner of things, Mr. Bodie. Sometimes they
don't much fancy what they find." 

"It's lucky I'm easy to please," Bodie returned lightly, and walked in the
direction of the pub. 

As he strolled up the cobbled street past the neatly whitewashed houses,
something struck him as peculiar about the town. It was more than the
absence of motors; he had been informed of that and had expected it. No,
it was something more subtle than that. He experienced a small twinge of
deja vu, as if he'd been here before, in his dreams perhaps. 

The air was sweet, laden with pollen. Bodie sneezed explosively.
Surprised, he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He hadn't
suffered from hay fever since he was a child, but the island seemed to be
positively bursting with life; the atmosphere thick with visible energy. 

He was tucking his handkerchief back in his pocket when it occurred to him
one more thing that was odd about Summerisle. There were no lines of wire
connecting the houses, tying them together in the service of modern
technology. No electric then, and no telephones. No television either,
judging by the distinct lack of aerials adorning slate roofs. Beyond that,
there was no noisy bustle that Bodie was accustomed to. Instead, there was
a quiet, lazy hum, like a hive of constant bees. Lamps were being lit in
various cottages, casting a mellow glow on the twilight outside the
windows. The crickets were beginning their mating symphony, and ahead he
could hear the cheerful piping of a flute soon joined by the teasing notes
of a fiddle. 

The lighthearted tune was coming pouring out from the open windows and
door of the inn bearing a wooden sign with a face of a man sprouting
leaves from his hair, nose and ears. The faded letters spelled out THE
GREEN MAN. Light streamed out into the street and with it a jumble of
voices and laughter in concert with the music. 

As Bodie stepped over the threshold, the music died and the mumble of
conversation faded. Feeling a little self-conscious, he strode boldly
through the taproom to the bar. 

"Good evening. I was told you might have a room I could use for a night or
two." 

The innkeeper regarded him suspiciously. "And who might you be then?" 

"My name's Bodie." He smiled pleasantly, glancing around the comfortable,
wood-panelled room. Dozens of curious, silent eyes looked back. "Jolly
place you have here...or it was until I walked in. Didn't mean to disrupt
everything." 

Slowly the customers began talking among themselves again, and the fiddle
player plinked out a lively melody, recapturing their attention once more.


Bodie turned back to the man behind the bar. "That's better. I've never
considered myself such a wet blanket before." 

Easing a bit, the landlord smiled back and drew a pint of beer which he
put on the bar in front of Bodie. 

"Ta, very much. I was just going to ask for one." 

As he started to drink, the landlord offered. "I'm Alder MacGreggor,
Mister Bodie. Don't know as if I can help you with a room. Not 'till you
have a word with his Lordship. We don't get many strangers on the island,
and I don't feel comfortable about takin' in just anybody, ye understand."


"Of course," Bodie agreed amiably, totally at sea, unable to fathom what
the Lord would have to say about letting a room in a public inn. 

MacGreggor explained, "I'm the proprietor here o' course, but the inn
belongs to his Lordship. Everything on Summerisle does. It's private
property, ye know, and we don't get many--" 

"Strangers," Bodie completed, "yes, I know. Well, how do I go about
getting an appointment to speak to Lord Summerisle? It's a pleasant night,
but I don't much fancy dossing down under a shrub." 

A chair scraped back on the wooden floor. "I'll give ye a ride, if ye
want." A short, stocky person moved up to the bar. It took a second for
Bodie to register the fact that the muscular figure belonged to a woman.
"I'm Sorrel, his Lordship's gillie." At his puzzled look, she added,
"Gamekeeper, groundskeeper...general dogsbody. Do you want a lift or no?" 

"Uh...yes, indeed. If it's no trouble. May I leave my gear here?" he
enquired of MacGreggor, who nodded. Bodie smiled brightly at the toadish
woman. "Shall we be off then?" 

Following Sorrel out, he collided with someone coming in. Giggling, she
wiped away the splashes of cider that had drenched her from the impact
with the pitcher she'd been holding. 

"I'm terribly sorry--" Bodie began, but his apology faded as he realised
exactly what he'd run into. 

She was lovely--no, she was literally gorgeous. A long mane of silky
blonde hair framed a face that was so sensual and earthy, his body reacted
almost as quickly as he took it in. Her skin glowed with health, peach and
rose in the lamplight. While past the first blush of youth, her body was
supple and lush. Her green eyes sparkled with unabashed appreciation and
open hunger as she took stock of Bodie, gaze measuring him hotly from head
to toe, settling without coyness on the fullness of his crotch. 

Dipping her finger into the bounty of her cleavage to catch an errant dip
of cider, she brought it to her lips and sucked salaciously at the tip,
curling her tongue around it provocatively. "Never mind, I've caught it
all, haven't I?" Raising her lashes, she gave him a blinding smile.
"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" 

Bodie found himself reacting to her open lust, easily forgetting the crowd
that watched the little scene with interest. 

"That's rather like the pot calling the kettle hot, isn't it, love?" 

"Well, when your kettle's ready to boil over, pretty stranger, give Willow
a call." 

"Bodie," he said softly. "I'm Bodie." 

"Bodie...." She repeated his name like a love word. 

An impatient call from outside interrupted a blooming relationship.
Recovering himself, Bodie gave her an apologetic smile. "I've got to go.
Perhaps I'll see you later?" 

"I'm certain you will." Her eyes promised he would see all of her. 

Another irritated summons and he shrugged helplessly. Impulsively, he
leaned over and kissed the full, pouting mouth. Whistles and stamping feet
brought him back to himself, and he grinned sheepishly at the laughing
witnesses. He offered them a good-natured salute and hastily popped out
the door. 

It wasn't until he climbed into the horse-drawn cart beside Sorrel that he
remembered the comments of the fishermen at the jetty. So that was Willow,
was it? He grinned. The visit on Summerisle was looking better and better.


"How far is the castle?" Bodie asked the driver. 

"Not far. Half an hour or so." 

As the cart clattered out of the village and off the cobbled street onto a
road made of rock and sand, Bodie tried to initiate a conversation, hoping
he could get some information before he saw the Lord. "You said your name
is Sorrel?" 

"Aye." 

"Pretty name. I don't think I've heard it before." 

Bodie couldn't see her face in the darkness, but her voice was clearly
amused. "No need to try the sweet tongue on me, Mister Bodie. I don't like
men. Never did, never will. But don't worry, that git Willow doesn't
appeal to me either, so ye'll get no competition from me if your tail's in
the wind for her." 

Bodie couldn't honestly say he had been too worried by that threat, but it
seemed less than diplomatic to assure her of his unconcern in the matter. 

He tried a different approach. "It's a lovely place, this. Lived here all
your life, have you?" 

"O' course. Everyone has. So what's your business here?" she demanded
straight out. "A bit far out o' the way to be stoppin' in for a visit." 

"Just a formality," Bodie replied evasively. "Bookwork. Nothing very
important." 

A snort of pat disbelief greeted his remark. "A few thousand miles o'
travel is nothing, I suppose? Stop shoveling the muck, laddie. Yo're a
copper." It was not a question. 

Bodie kept his eyes on the now pitch dark road, hoping the horse knew his
way, since the rein lay lax in the woman's lap. 

"Not a copper, no. Just a civil servant. My job is to tie-up all the loose
ends. Very boring, but it keeps the computers happy." 

"What loose ends?" 

"We seemed to have misplaced a young man. The government census bureau can
get a bit stuffy about such things. No death certificate, you see. Have
you ever heard of a young fellow by the name of David Campbell by any
chance?" 

"No," she replied shortly. 

"You're positive? About twenty, dark hair, grey eyes? I've a photo I can
show you once we get to the manor." 

"No point in it. Any strangers on Summerisle would be common knowledge,
whatever they looked like. He's not been here, Mr. Bodie." 

"I see. Well, I was afraid of that; Sergeant MacTaggart said the same. Odd
you don't remember even hearing the name, though, during his
investigation." 

There was a short silence. "Oh, yes, that was the name of the lad they
were looking for last year. But I thought that case was closed." 

"Unfortunately, no. He hasn't turned up, you see. Perhaps some of the
fisherman found some boat wreckage or something like that?" 

"Current's too strong for that, Mister Bodie. Sweeps right on by us. The
undertow could've carried him to South America." 

"Yes, Sergeant Howie--" 

"Howie?" The question was sharp, surprised. 

Bodie wished he could see her expression. "Yes, Howie," he repeated
carefully. "Of the West Highland Police. Do you know him?" 

A short, tense pause followed. "No, I don't know as I do. I thought you
said his name was MacTaggart." 

"Sergeant MacTaggart handled the investigation on David Campbell. Sergeant
Howie was here a few years back to search for a missing girl. Do you
remember him now?" 

"Sorry, I'm very bad with names." 

Bodie felt a sudden tingle at the base of his spine, what Doyle would have
called a copper's itch. She was lying and he knew it sure as he knew the
Cow's favourite brand of malt. 

"Strange," Bodie mused, "on a place as small as this, you'd think you'd
remember something as upsetting as a missing girl. But then they found her
safe and sound didn't they?" 

Disgruntled, the woman snapped the reins against the mare's back,
increasing the speed to a slow trot. "If you're talkin' about that to-do a
few years ago, Rowan was never missin' at all. A storm in a teacup. Pity
about the Sergeant, though. I heard tell he smashed up his aeroplane
during patrol. Never came here, though, so the name went right out o' my
mind until you brought it up. I have my doubts if he'd intended on comin'
to Summerisle at all. Why would he bother with such a trifle when he had
other important business? We take care of our own here, Mister Bodie.
Always have done." 

"That's good to hear," Bodie said heartily. "Wish everyone did the same.
Make my job easier, wouldn't it?" 

"And just what is your job, Mister Bodie?" 

"Like I said, Miss Sorrel; tying up loose ends. Looks like this one will
be dead easy, won't it?" 

"Which loose end are you set on clearing up," she demanded coldly, "David
Campbell or Neil Howie?" 

Bodie let the silence stretch for a suitable time before saying very
quietly, "I never mentioned the Sergeant's name was Neil, Miss Sorrel." 

Without noticeable pause, she put in glibly, "Not that many Howie's lost
around here. Don't lose them every day, do you? The only one I know of was
Neil Howie." 

"Five minutes ago, you didn't even recall his last name." 

Again the slick reply. "That's right; the memory's a funny thing, ain't it
now?" 

"Hilarious," Bodie muttered. He was feeling vaguely uneasy; the darkness
and the unnerving silence broken only by the rhythmic clop of the hoofs,
the chirping of crickets, and the occasional lonesome song of a
nightingale. Once he could read the stirring of a jungle night or the
quiet rustle of savannah grass and know instinctively what lurked there.
But the years of civilised city life had corroded his senses-- or perhaps
honed them to different dangers. 

This lush, semi-tropical enigma was totally unexpected, and he wondered
why Cowley's usually thorough files had been so unspecific. The quick
mention of volcanic soil and warm sea currents had hardly prepared him for
this. Even in the blackness of a moonless night, he could feel the
stirring of life as the cart moved on the road; smell the heavy odour of
apple blossoms on the soft breeze; feel the intimate whir of a moth as it
flicked past his cheek. The entire place simply reeked and sang with
vitality, in direct contrast to the barren islands they had flown over
that afternoon, brown and dull with chilled heather and bracken. But they
had been more in line with what he'd expected of the Outer Hebrides, which
were not renowned for their gentleness. In fact, it was a standard joke in
the squad that Cowley sent unruly agents there to teach them a lesson. 

Bodie grinned into the darkness, determined to take all the punishment
Cowley was willing to dispense, if this was the hardship he was expected
to endure. Having anticipated a cold, damp, ungiving island, he had
dressed in thick cords and shirt with an even heavier roll neck sweater
topped off with a jacket. He had long since doffed the coat and was
considering removing the sweater. It felt more like a June evening in
London than mid-April in the dreaded north. 

Again, with a regretful twinge, he thought of Doyle. The very smell and
taste of the island reminded him of Ray; a kind of abandoned sensuality
that beckoned subtly. Just thinking of it got him going, remembering the
jagged mountains that had concealed the lush island from view. Like Doyle.
At first glance, rough and a bit off-putting, then incredibly attractive
and seductive. Warm and alive with sensual surprises as strange and exotic
as palm trees in the Outer Hebrides; more exquisite for the very fact you
had never expected it. 

Before he could fall any deeper in his reverie, he spotted an orange glow
up ahead. 

"Is that the manor house?" 

"Aye," she answered, obviously still irritated by his earlier questions,
or perhaps by her poor show in answering them. "And ye best straighten
yoursel' up a bit; his Lordship is one to be respectful of." 

Bodie lifted an amused eyebrow towards the shadowed lump beside him. While
he wasn't in his best attire, he prided himself on being neat and
presentable if at all possible--unlike his oft- times scruffy partner, who
he usually had to remind to straighten his tie or tuck in his shirt. And
considering what he remembered of his driver's shapeless coat and
trousers, the remark came off as somewhat ludicrous. 

As they passed through a wide stone arch, the road smoothed to a velvet
thrum under the wheels of the cart, indicating a careful pavement that
stretched into a graceful circle in front of the house. Pulling the horse
to a halt outside the torch-lit doorway, Sorrel turned to him. 

"Someone else can take ye back when you've a mind to go. I'm done for the
night. Clover might be headin' into the village later." 

Wondering if everyone on Summerisle was named for one plant or another,
Bodie hopped down from the cart. "Thanks for the lift, Miss Sorrel. It was
kind of you." 

With a snort, she chuckled at the horse and drove away. 

Torn between amusement and irritation, Bodie stepped up to the wide doors
and dropped down the heavy metal knocker. It was a strange shape; a round
but oddly squatted face representing a vaguely evil-looking sun. He
dropped it again, with more force, realising that a house of this size
must present some problems with hearing the knocker. 

The door opened in fairly short order to a man dressed in a formal
starched shirt and kilt. 

"Good evening, sir. May I be of some assistance?" 

"Thank you. I would like to speak to Lord Summerisle, if I may." 

"Very good sir. May I tell his Lordship what this is in reference to,
sir?" 

"I'd rather explain that myself, actually. My name is Bodie." 

"Yes, sir. If you will be good enough to wait here, please?" 

Bodie entered and found himself faced with an imposing hall, complete with
impressive staircase and intimidating coats of arms on the high walls.
Several wooden benches lined the entrance, and Bodie sat down as the
Butler indicated a seat, making it plain the stranger wasn't exactly a
first-class guest. Bodie settled down with a wry smile; the story of his
life--stuck in the foyer. He permitted himself to wonder what Doyle's
reaction to this would be, missing his partner's acerbic comments. Ray was
at his best abusing the class system; could rise to heights of poetic
obscenity on the subject. Bodie had never let it bother him, figuring he
could out-snob the best of them when he wanted to, but Doyle's East End
socialism had always amused him. 

While awaiting his landlord's pleasure, Bodie studied the huge wall with
interest. The last time he'd seen such a house, he'd paid 50p for the
privilege, and it hadn't been half as enthralling. This was like turning a
century back on the clock, and it was authentic, no reconstruction or
artful display for tourists. This was an actual, lived-in and enjoyed
home. He noticed a pair of muddy boots in the corner, complete with
matching handprint on the wall where the owner had leaned to tug them off.
There was a nice coat of dust on the sills and a few wayward cobwebs
drifting on the high ceiling, catching the torchlight as they moved
stirring the air. 

No picture-perfect tourist trap, this, but a working household where
important things took precedent over scrubbing baseboards. Bodie found
himself warming a bit to the unknown Lord who didn't expect his servants
to clean a twenty-five foot ceiling every other week. He couldn't be a
total tyrant; maybe Doyle wouldn't have disapproved so much after all. 

Bodie stood as the butler reappeared. 

"His Lordship will see you in the great hall. Follow me, sir?" 

Great hall, Bodie thought drily. How much greater could it get? After
trailing the butler through several smaller parlours and anterooms, he
soon discovered the answer to that question. 

The room was enormous. Breathtakingly beautiful with a ceiling that arched
thirty-five or forty feet at the apex. The flagged stone floor was covered
with smaller islands of deerskin, leopard, and other various animal rugs,
grouping the antique furniture into more comfortably intimate circles. The
room housed a great organ with pipes reaching half way to the ceiling, a
grand piano near a wide section of french doors that led onto a terrace,
and a harp sat gracefully at its side. Illuminated by what seemed to be
hundreds of candles, large oil lamps with crystal globes hung at measured
length along the walls, adding to a steadier light. A fire burned merrily
in a stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox. Four winged armchairs
faced the hearth, and from one of these Lord Summerisle rose to greet him.


"Ah, Mr. Bodie, I believe? It is so pleasant to see a new face. Do come
in." 

Bodie took the offered hand and found the grasp firm but not challenging.
"Thank you for seeing me at such an inconvenient hour, Lord Summerisle.
It's a pleasure to meet you." 

"Nonsense! It is we who are delighted to see you. We've become very dull,
I'm afraid, having so few visitors to our island." 

Bodie was a little surprised at the warmth of his reception, and found the
Lord not to be at all what he had expected. He was first struck by his
height, for Summerisle was well over six foot tall, with a magnificently
tapered body that wore the tartan kilt and ruffled shirt with true flair.
While probably in his late forties or early fifties, he had a crackle of
energy about him that made it impossible to pin down any age. His hair was
dark and cut fashionably long, with highlights of copper and silver that
glinted in the firelight. But it was his eyes above all else that mirrored
the true force of his personality. Large and dark brown, they were
incredibly direct and burned with a compelling inner flame. 

"Come, Mr. Bodie, do sit down. But I am forgetting my manners. Allow me to
present Miss Rose. My dear, this is Mr. Bodie." 

Joining the Lord beside the fireplace, Bodie turned his attention to the
woman seated in one of the armchairs. She was lovely; a cool, mature
blonde, with self-contained light-blue eyes that measured him with calm
interest. Bodie bowed over her hand, kissing it. 

"Miss Rose, it is an honour. Your name is very appropriate, I see." As she
smiled at the compliment, Bodie wondered if there was no middle ground on
Summerisle as far as women went--were they all either bad-tempered frumps
like Sorrel, or runners-up in the Miss Universe contest? 

"You are very kind, Mr. Bodie. And a very clever one. All women have a
weakness for handsome men with charming words. But you must save your
flattery for someone more suitable." 

"It's only flattery when it's not the truth, ma'am, and that's obviously
not the case here. 

Seeming gratified by the exchange of compliments, Lord Summerisle offered
a chair to Bodie. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Some wine, perhaps?"


"Yes, thank you." 

"Miss Rose is our village schoolmistress," Summerisle commented as he
poured the drink and handed it to Bodie. He sat down and looked at Bodie
inquiringly. "Now, Mr. Bodie, to what do we owe the honour of your visit
to our out-of- the-way island?" 

"Nothing of any great concern. It's more of a formality than anything
else. I'm investigating the disappearance of David Campbell." 

"Ah, yes. The missing schoolboy. I was under the impression he would have
been located by this time. It was, what?...nearly a year ago since the
police were here from the mainland. And have there been no traces in all
that time?" 

"No, milord. Nor was he quite a schoolboy. Mr. Campbell was twenty at the
time of his disappearance." 

"Really?" Summerisle looked puzzled. "I was under the impression he must
be younger. Twenty, you say?" He shook his head. "I don't want to sound
unsympathetic, of course, but a man of that age is surely capable of
taking care of himself. How can you be sure he wishes to be found?" 

"The only fact we know for sure is that he intended to come to
Summerisle." 

"Unfortunate, as that fact is obviously faulty. He never came here, as
doubtless you have already discovered. Nor had we ever heard of the poor
man until all of this came up. Are you certain that he met with accident
or even that he was in the area? Perhaps he simply...left the country.
Young people often take fancies in their heads to 'see the world.' I hear
California is very popular now. Have you checked with the American
authorities? The...uh...FBI, isn't it?" 

"Yes," Bodie replied, patiently. "There is no record of his leaving
Britain. He had a passport, but he left it at home." 

"Yes, I see. A most puzzling situation. So what is your interest in this
affair, Mr...or should I call you sergeant or maybe lieutenant?" 

"Just Bodie is fine. We don't have rank in my service." He took out his
identification and handed it to Summerisle. 

"CI5. I don't believe I'm familiar with it." 

"Just another branch of the civil service," Bodie replied easily. "We
mostly do follow-ups; mop-up operations, and the like. Clear out as many
loose ends as we can that the other services don't have time for." 

"Like this case," Miss Rose put in softly. 

"Precisely. For legal and insurance purposes, you understand." 

"So it's not a priority investigation?" she prodded gently. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the cautious look of warning
directed at her from the Lord, and again Bodie felt the "copper's itch,"
the certainty there was more here than was apparent at first glance. 

"No," Bodie said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm afraid not. It's basically
a waste of time; I'm sure you're right and the young Mr. Campbell is now
riding a surfboard in L.A. But paperwork is paperwork, you see." 

"Of course. But you'll probably be leaving us tomorrow, I imagine?" 

"Unless I can hire a boat to return me to the mainland, I'll have to wait
for Sergeant MacTaggart to come back in his plane. Could be several days."


Summerisle's eyes were suddenly hard and opaque. "Don't worry, I'm sure we
can arrange transport-- " 

"There's no rush, is there, milord?" Miss Rose cut in smoothly. "A few
days on the island could be very relaxing for you." 

Again, Bodie intercepted a quick exchange of glances. Whatever Miss Rose
was trying to communicate to Summerisle must have been understood for he
said very smoothly, "Quite right, my dear Rose. We must convince Bodie to
stay much longer. But I suggest we discuss it over dinner. You will join
us, won't you?" 

Bodie hesitated. His clothes were hardly suitable for the formal
atmosphere of the castle; it was obvious that it was customary to dress
for dinner. 

Understanding, Summerisle put in heartily, "Don't mind all that, dear
fellow. We'll waive being proper for once. But perhaps you would care to
freshen up before we dine? Broom can show you to a chamber." 

Bodie murmured his thanks and followed the servant out of the hall. He was
hardly out of the door before he heard Miss Rose's light voice speaking
eagerly to Lord Summerisle, but he couldn't catch what she was saying. 

******

The dinner, like everything else on the island, was lush and delicious.
For dessert Miss Rose presented him with a single, perfect apple. 

"Tradition, Bodie. Accept this, the most precious fruit of our island, as
a sign of our hospitality." 

Something about the gesture, the handing of the ripe red apple with an
open palm, gave him an uneasy sensation. Inwardly amused at flashes of
superstition tied up with thoughts of Eve, he took it from her with a
smile and bit into it. She couldn't have looked less like a wicked witch
or an evil stepmother. The apple was even better than the one he had
tasted in London; sweeter somehow, but with a special tang that left an
odd, not unpleasant, aftertaste. 

Soon after, they returned to the great hall for coffee and brandy. 

"You live in London?" Miss Rose asked. "Your family must miss you on these
long trips." 

For some reason his mind flashed back to a surly Doyle, flat on his back
and making it clear he was fed up with his partner's unwanted attentions. 

"No, I've no family." 

The blue eyes considered him over the rim of her glass. "No wife? No
children?" 

Bodie smiled. "No. I'm a confirmed bachelor, and reasonably quick on my
feet." 

The conversation continued on a more general note, with the Lord
discussing his new strains of fruit and Rose occasionally putting other
delicately probing questions on Bodie's personal life. He found it
somewhat unsettling, more because of the intensity of her expression as
she studied him than for the questions themselves. He was beginning to
feel like a bug on a pin. 

Of more interest, however, was the skilful way Summerisle managed to dodge
his own questions. Hoping to get the same reaction he had elicited from
Sorrel, he casually dropped Sergeant Howie's name, and found the Lord
nimbly turning the conversation to a discussion of the dangers of flying
and the treacherous weather in the area. 

When the butler, Broom, announced that the cart was waiting to return to
the village, Summerisle accompanied him outside. 

"Well, Mr. Bodie, I do hope you will find reason to enjoy your stay on our
island. When you have cleared up all this distressing paperwork, do come
back to the castle for a proper tour. You must see my conservatory and my
experimental orchard." 

Bodie offered his thanks, and as the driver urged the horse into a brisk
trot, reflected that Summerisle was a very slick customer indeed. It
wouldn't do to underestimate him. Bodie was convinced that something was
going on here on the island of Summerisle, but he couldn't be positive yet
if it was more than the natural suspicion and the ethnocentricity of an
isolated people. He was a stranger and, moreover, a stranger asking
uncomfortable questions that came very close to be accusations. It was
perhaps only natural for them to be uneasy with him. He could be reading
too much into their reactions. 

Nevertheless, he was now more determined to find out the answers than he
had been when he set out from London. 

After a few attempts to start a chat with the driver and receiving
desultory replies, he gave up for the moment. 

Feeling strangely mellow and languid, and putting it down to the dinner
and the brandy, he slid down in the seat and let the easy rocking of the
cart lull him to a light doze. 

He was startled awake some time later as the wheels left the comparatively
smooth path and met the rough cobblestones of the village street. They
pulled up outside The Green Man, and the driver left Bodie there without
saying a word. Shrugging, Bodie went inside. 

Although past eleven, the taproom was still crowded, but the atmosphere
was different, quieter with a sense of hushed expectancy. Someone was
strumming a guitar in soft, melodious chords. Bodie wondered if they had
been waiting to see if the laird would toss him out on his ear, or
graciously permit him to stay. 

"You're back then," MacGreggor, the innkeeper, said needlessly. "His
Lordship sent word you'd be stayin' with us." 

Surprised by that, Bodie replied noncommittally, "For a day or two." 

The landlord smiled mysteriously. "I've had yer bag taken up to the room
at the top of the stairs. First one on the right, it is." 

"Thanks. I'll--" 

"Have a drop of hot cider first, Mr. Bodie. See you sleep sound an' all." 

Bodie started to refuse, already feeling drowsy, but the mug was in front
of him, and the spicy odour was compelling. He nodded his thanks and took
a drink. Like everything on Summerisle, it was rich and almost shockingly
delicious. He downed the mug and nearly asked for another, but feeling the
delayed warmth in his stomach as the potent mixture began to take effect,
he decided against it. 

"I've also taken the liberty of fixin' a bath for ye," MacGreggor added as
he turned to the stairs. "Figured you'd like a good long soak after your
trip. Hot water's in the jars by the tub. The bath's at the end of the
hall." 

It sounded good. In fact, it sounded irresistible. 

At the top of the stairs, he paused to take his bearings; found his room
easily by the fact his bag was at the foot of the bed, his clothes neatly
hung up on a rack in the corner, and the rest folded in stacks in the top
drawer of the chest. Picking up the clean towel and flannel draped over
the bedpost, he made his way to the bathroom. His eyes widened at the
sight of the bathtub. It was an ancient, freestanding, clawfooted affair,
narrow but deep with a sloping back. MacGreggor had already filled it with
about eighteen inches of cool water, to which Bodie now added the steaming
jugs that lined the wall until the level and temperature was to his taste.
Hanging his gun on the hook behind the door with his sweater carefully
draped over to conceal it, he undressed and stepped into the water, easing
down as his skin adjusted to the heat. 

Bodie let out a satisfied sigh as he sank into the steaming water, head
falling back to rest against the enamel edge. It felt delicious. How long
had it been since he'd last had a bath; a long, slow experience instead of
a hurried shower on his way to a date or the job? He couldn't quite
remember. Ol' Doyle now, there was the boy for baths. He loved 'em, the
sybaritic little sod. Bodie had lost count of how many times he'd caught
him lolling around in the tub, curls screwed up tight in the wet heat,
face flushed with pleasure. Yeah, Doyle would've ate this up, he would.
Sell his soul for a bath like this. 

Feeling blissfully drowsy and comfortable, Bodie let his mind drift on the
vision of his partner, recalling the last time he'd seen him like that.
Hardly more than a month ago. 

Bodie had pounded on the door for five minutes, before giving up and using
his spare keys, irritated because he knew Doyle had been expecting him,
and guessing exactly why he hadn't bothered to get up and let him in. Sure
enough, Doyle was up to his chin in water, feet braced against the other
end, hands propped behind his head. 

"We have a date in thirty minutes," Bodie had reminded him with amusement,
closing the door with his foot as Doyle growled something about letting in
a draught. He loosened his tie against the damp heat, and leaned casually
on the wash basin, enjoying the view. 

Doyle hadn't bothered to open his eyes yet, just smiled and said lazily,
"No rush. They'll wait, won't they." 

"Don't be so sure. Went to a lot of trouble to set this up. Even gave you
the prettiest one, didn't I?" 

"That'll be a change," Doyle commented without malice. 

"Well, it'll all go for nothing if you show up lookin' like a prune." 

Grinning, Doyle offered a dripping foot. "Check for wrinkles." 

Bodie shuddered. "Hideous." 

"Feels good anyhow." Doyle took a deep breath and rubbed a sensuous hand
down his front. Bodie watched in fascination; through the murky water, he
could see a definite twitch from Doyle's cock. Feeling a responsive heat
of his own, Bodie turned hastily to the mirror, wiping away the coat of
mist and pretending to inspect his image. 

Doyle chuckled thickly. "Don't worry, sunshine, you're worth waitin' for."


"Naturally," Bodie retorted with his customary superior grin, "but the
question is, what about a boney little sod like you? If I pulled the plug
on you, you'd go right on down the drain." He turned back around, trying
to avoid staring at the most intriguing section of his partner's anatomy.
"Com'on, mate, get a move on." 

"All right, all right," Doyle agreed regretfully. Oblivious to Bodie's
discomfort, he soaped a flannel and proceeded to wash, sliding the foamy
cloth down his thighs and between his legs. The green eyes were so
catlike, the look so concentrated, Bodie wouldn't have been surprised to
see him using his tongue to clean his fur like any self-respecting tom. 

"I'll wait outside 'til you're finished," Bodie said abruptly. "Help
meself to a drink." 

It was so natural, so unconsciously sensual...so DOYLE, Bodie felt a bit
silly about fleeing from it, but he couldn't deny his helpless reaction to
the voluptuous expression and the warm, slick flesh so artlessly
displayed. Doyle was such an unselfconsciously sexy bastard, in another
century he would've been burned as a witch. Bodie was conscious of being
under his spell, and realised he had been for a long time. 

He thought of Africa and counted his blessings that Ray had never taken
that route. He was lucky to get away with such blatant exhibitionism in
the safe, cold civilisation of London. In Angola, no one would have
hesitated in making him live up to the promise he seemed to instinctively
make with his eyes and the movements of his body. Even now, Bodie found it
difficult to pass up the opportunity Ray presented. Old habits die hard,
and even years and miles hadn't dimmed the attraction of male sexuality. 

But habit and inclination was no match for affection, and he cared too
damn much for Ray Doyle to risk it for something that Doyle would probably
want no part of. For all Ray's sensuality, he'd never given a clue that
his interest could lie in that direction. Christ, it'd taken months before
Ray would even let him touch him without jumping like a scalded cat. True,
he didn't jump anymore--at times even appeared to enjoy the careless pats
and impulsive hugs, with an amused tolerance--but that was a long way from
responding positively to anything more serious, and Bodie didn't have the
guts to play the odds when he wasn't prepared to lose his stake. 

Now, with such thoughts on his mind and the silky feel of the water on his
body, Bodie was lulled into a gentle arousal. He slid his hand down his
chest to his groin, offering his cock a pleasant stimulation. The oil lamp
flickered in the mild breeze through the open window, creating a sweetly
secret island of pleasure without the harsh reality of electric light to
spoil the surreal effect of the moment. 

It took a few seconds for him to realise it hadn't been the window that
brought the stirring of air; it had been the door. 

Willow, quiet as a whisper, was standing with her back against the now
shut door. Startled, and resultingly embarrassed, Bodie searched for the
towel, only to find it hanging on a bar that was just out of reach. 

"I expect you'd like some more hot water," Willow smiled. 

Bodie swallowed, unable to find his voice, feeling a fool and fighting his
ingrained modesty. Willow's appreciative gaze on his body was anything but
modest. 

"Why, you're blushing, my pretty Bodie!" she teased. "ALL over." 

Feeling helplessly inadequate under her stare, he shrugged. "I wasn't
expectin' company," he managed weakly. 

She stepped closer. "No? You should've been." Slowly she poured the water
from the pitcher she carried into the bath down near his feet, and he felt
the warm swirl of liquid curl up towards his groin. 

"Too hot?" she asked sweetly, green eyes glowing with mischief. 

His mouth felt dry, conscious of his still hard cock bobbing in the
warming water, as if it was applauding the improvement in temperature. He
cleared his throat nervously. "No...it's fine." 

"Aye, I can see that." She laughed at his discomfort. "Not all of you is
shy." 

Seeing the humour in the situation, Bodie grinned back. "Doesn't know the
meaning of the word. Can't take it anywhere." 

"But YOU are embarrassed, poor boy. You shouldn't be; you are very
beautiful, you know. You make me wet below just lookin' at you.
Embarrassment is silly, pointless, isn't it? Our bodies know what is
natural to them. I've never seen an animal blush or try to deny their
nature." Her gaze swept down the wet length of him. "You are ready for me,
and I for you." 

Bodie was easily past being embarrassed; the look in her eyes was enough
to banish that, her words just fueling the flame. Once open sexuality
entered the picture, the situation was one he could handle. 

She stood back and pulled her blouse from the confinement of her skirt,
stripping it over her head to reveal her bare torso. Shaking back her mane
of honey hair, she unbuttoned her long skirt and let it drop to a puddle
on the floor. She was naked beneath. 

If he'd considered her lovely before, now he revised his estimate upwards.
She was a wickedly luxurious siren; a lewd Aphrodite against the backdrop
of a rough plaster wall. The lamplight wove a golden web around her,
drawing his eyes to the seductive shadowed hollow between her legs. Her
breasts sprang pertly off her ribs, tipped by nipples that looked freshly
sucked by other mouths. Her lushly rounded hips swayed for him, picking up
the best of the music from the taproom below. She posed for him wantonly,
drawing in his admiration and lust like sustenance, caressing her belly
and hips, toying with the tips of her breasts to increase their allure. 

His breath caught in his throat as she slowly approached him and boldly
straddled the width of the tub, spreading her legs wide to open herself to
his view, until her slender thighs rested on the rounded edges. 

Willow began humming to the music that wafted up from the pub; a slow,
sensuous song with an insidious beat that seemed to match the pulse in
Bodie's groin. He reached up for her, running his hands over her breasts
and down her stomach, then back up to finger the protruding nipples,
pebbling under his touch. She moaned in delight and the very sound of it
seemed to be part of the music of Summerisle; of joyful abandon to
sensation. 

For an instant Bodie nearly drew back from the overload of senses; a part
of him uneasy with it. He felt exposed as if he were being watched by eyes
other than Willow's, and for some reason remembered the crowd in the pub
below. Fancifully, he felt the lust he was experiencing was not all his
own, but was being fed on by others in some manner that was vaguely
unclean. 

The eerie feeling faded as Willow stroked his face, slipping her hands
into the water to caress his chest and pinch his nipples. Helpless under
the renewed stimulation, his hips arched up, striving to close the
tantalising few inches between his aching cock and the hungry, teasing
opening suspended above. His hands moved to her spread thighs, watching
the pearling of droplets on her skin as his wet hands smoothed over her.
They glinted like diamonds in the wavering lamplight. Eyes fastened on her
centre, on the secretly mysterious place of woman, so often explored, so
eternally intriguing. He slid his hands under her, cupping her behind, and
moved both thumbs against the wetness of her vagina, brushing over the
quivering tip of flesh she presented to him so eagerly. She gasped in
ecstasy, tossing back her head. 

Bodie sat up and bent to use his mouth to give her more pleasure. She
accepted it as her right, moving rhythmically in time to the lapping of
tongue, clutching greedy fingers in his short hair to hold him to her. She
cried out and the guitar throbbed in accompaniment. 

After a moment, she pulled back his head and smiled down at him, sated but
wanting more. She moved her legs over the side to join him in the tub,
pushing back so her knees rested on either side of his hips. She kissed
him slowly, offering her tongue to suck as she lowered herself onto his
swollen cock. He groaned at the beautiful relief of it, thrusting up to
meet her. 

She rode him expertly, using inner muscles to alternately tease and milk
him, until unable to bear more, he growled and jerked forward, thrusting
hard and taking the last few points of pressure he needed to burst into an
incredible climax that left him spent and shaken. 

******

Bodie could feel the sun on his bare back. With a little groan, he rolled
over, blinking against the light that poured through the open drapes.
Judging by the angle, it had to be late morning. 

He felt groggy, finding it difficult to think. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up
cautiously, trying to pin down the strange dream he'd been having. It was
all a confusing blur of fire and chanting and an exotic sexuality. He'd
been having a lot of dreams lately, all of them containing the same
elements, and all of them difficult to capture in the light of day. He
could almost remember making love to Willow in the dreams, but it was
Willow with dark hair...or Willow with curly hair...or perhaps it wasn't
Willow at all. 

He noticed the two empty mugs on the bedside table. Had too much to drink,
that was it. That damn cider was deceptively intoxicating; didn't make you
feel drunk exactly, just pleasantly muzzy and languorous. But it must pack
quite a wallop just the same. 

Bodie shook his head, trying to clear it so he could concentrate for a
change. Funny, it didn't feel like a proper hangover. He'd had enough
experience with those to know the difference. True, he had the same fog in
his brain, but none of the accompanying aches and pains. 

There was something, nagging his conscience. Something he was forgetting.
If he could just clear his mind of the cobwebs for a second, he could get
a grip on it-- 

Footsteps on the stairs burst his train of thought like a half-formed
bubble. 

"Ah, lover, you're awake, I see." Willow came in carrying a tray. She put
it down on the table and sat on the bed, hand sliding under the quilt to
move over his body as she kissed him. He felt a stir of response as he
always did when she touched him, but she playfully resisted his attempt to
pull her down on the bed with him. 

"Not now, naughty boy. I've things to do. I've tables to scrub and the
week's bread to bake." 

He released her reluctantly and she held out a thick slice of toast for
him to bite. 

"There now, that's your reward for being good," she said, laughing. 

Taking it from her, he took another bite. "Did you make this?" 

"O' course." 

"It's wonderful." 

"You've butter on your chin." She licked it off for him. 

"You make that as well? The butter, I mean?" 

"Ummm," she nodded, plumping the pillows up behind him. Bodie watched her
as she reached over to pour his tea, his expression troubled. 

"Willow, what day is this?" 

"Tuesday," she answered absently, dropping a leaf in the tea. 

"What's that?" 

"Mint. Don't you like it?" She smiled at him. "My, you're a curious one
this morning." 

Bodie didn't answer, forehead knotting in concentration. "Tuesday.... You
say it's Tuesday?" 

"Yes." She handed him the cup. "Now drink up your tea so I can get on with
my work." 

Abstracted, he sipped the liquid, eyes lost on something faraway. Then
suddenly he dropped the cup back on the saucer with a clatter. "Tuesday?
It can't be. No, that can't be right." 

She sighed. "Don't you remember, love? Yesterday we went to the glen. The
day before we walked in the orchards. Saturday we had a picnic at the
cove. This is Tuesday and I have to stay home and bake bread or you won't
have any toast for breakfast tomorrow--" 

"Willow, that means I've been here five days!" 

"Six," she corrected, unperturbed, "if you count the evening you arrived."


Bodie pressed his fingers to his temple, totally confused. "I don't
understand. I...I remember doing all those things, but it doesn't...it
CAN'T have been five days!" 

"Time flies," she quoted with a giggle. "What's the matter, Bodie?" 

"Cowley'll kill me," Bodie muttered, wondering how the hell he was going
to explain being out of touch this long to the old man. But right at this
moment, he couldn't even remember why Cowley had sent him here in the
first place. 

"Bodie, what's wrong?" 

Ignoring her, he quickly gulped down the tea, hoping the shot of caffeine
would help snap him out of it, then swung his legs over the side of the
bed. "I've got to go, Willow," he said with determination. "Where are my
clothes?" 

"Hanging up. Go? Go where?" 

"Home. Back to London, love. I'll have to--" Then he remembered MacTaggart
and the plane. A wash of relief swept over him and he relaxed with a grin.
So that was it. MacTaggart hadn't returned from his patrol; he had said it
might be several days. 

Clinging to that bit of sanity helped a great deal. For the moment there,
he'd been really shaken, unable to fathom how the days had slipped by
without notice, how he'd lost himself so completely. It still disturbed
him, but now that he knew he hadn't been missed yet, it didn't seem to
matter quite so much. He'd puzzle it all out later. 

Willow patted his cheek maternally. "Nonsense. You don't want to go
anywhere." 

"Well, not right at this minute, I suppose. But soon. The plane should be
back any time." 

"D'you mean the police aeroplane? Oh, that was here yesterday morning." 

Bodie stiffened, his stomach knotting sickly. "What are you talking
about?" 

"Just that. It's been and gone. What's wrong with you, Bodie?" 

He grabbed her wrist. "Why didn't you tell me!" 

Eyes wide, she tried to pull away. "Stop it, you're hurting!" 

He let her go, his own hand shaking. "I'm sorry, Willow. But you have to
tell me what's going on. Why didn't you tell me the plane was here?" 

"But you knew it. You spoke to the Sergeant yourself; told him you'd be
stayin' on. Don't you remember?" 

A smothering sense of panic settled on him. "No, no I don't." But he did.
God help him, he did remember now. He just had no conception of how or why
it happened. 

Willow began kneading the taut muscles in his neck. "Why would you want to
go, Bodie? You like it here, don't you?" 

Still stunned, he replied automatically, "Yes, of course. But I have to
leave. I have to go home." 

In spite of himself, her touch was calming him, making the worry fade
away. 

"This is home, lover." 

"No...." A wave of dizziness caught him and he fought it back. "I'll get a
boat today. Someone at the wharf will have to take me to the mainland...."


"Bodie," she murmured, moving around to kneel behind him, stroking his
back and sliding her palms around to smooth his chest, as if gentling a
skittish animal. "You want to stay. Stay with me." 

"No," he repeated stubbornly, although he was already finding it difficult
to focus on what he was denying. His head was swimming in the sweet, soft
pattern of her caresses. 

"There's nothing for you there," she whispered in his ear. "No one for you
there." 

"You're wrong. There's someone...." *Ray,* he thought desperately. I need
to see Ray, talk to him. He'd explain all this craziness. Figure out what
was happening to him. Ray would have the answer. 

"You're not needed there, Bodie. You're not wanted there." 

He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering Ray's face as he'd last seen him:
angry, impatient, disgusted; telling him to leave him alone, that he'd had
enough. 

"No one..." he whispered, suddenly hurting out of all proportion to the
cause. 

"That's right," she said quickly, picking up on the pain in his voice; her
tone so very sympathetic, so very loving. "No one for you there, my Bodie.
But here, here you're wanted. I want you--we all do. We need you.
Avellunau needs you; Nuada needs you. Summerisle needs you." 

Bodie took a shaky breath, a sob choking him. "No one's ever needed me.
Not really," he said brokenly, while part of his mind stood back in
shocked amusement at this uncharacteristic orgy of self-pity. 

"Now we do. Don't go, Bodie. Stay for Avellunau. Stay with me." 

The strange names she murmured meant nothing to him, but in some way they
sounded familiar; as if he'd heard them only recently. Had he? In a song?
A chant? He couldn't think, couldn't remember, couldn't bring himself to
care. 

She tugged him down on the bed beside her and he moulded her tightly
against him, suddenly realising how unimportant it all was. Cowley, CI5,
all of it. It wasn't real. They were something he had dreamed along with
the bonfires and mystic ceremonies. 

*And Ray?* 

Ray hadn't wanted him. It was simple as that. 

******

*APRIL 27 *

Cowley came through the door like a Gaelic tornado. 

Doyle, barely four days out of hospital and still feeling a bit weak in
his pins, stepped back just in time to prevent the door banging him in the
nose. 

"I want to know what the devil is going on, 4.5, and I'm not in the mood
for any double-talk." 

"Eh?" Totally baffled, Doyle nearly gaped at him. 

"Did you and 3.7 have a row?" 

Doyle blinked. "What?" 

"Come on man, it was your appendix that burst not your eardrums. You heard
the question well enough!" 

"I don't understand, sir. What's the problem with Bodie?" 

"That's what I'm asking you, damn it all!" 

Hoping to glean some sense from all of this, and wondering why Cowley's
voice was more than faintly accusing, Doyle tried to calm him down. "If
you'll just explain what's going on, maybe I can--" 

But Cowley was having none of it; his temper pushed beyond sweet reason.
"I asked you a question. Did you and Bodie have some kind of childish
squabble?" 

"Uh...no, sir." 

"Don't lie to me!" Cowley paced the room angrily. "There's something
behind all this. Ordinarily it would have taken wild horses to get that
partner of yours away with you hardly two days out of surgery. What did
you say to him?" 

"Me?" Doyle protested defensively, beginning to get a little annoyed at
the insinuation he was the cause of whatever trouble Bodie had got himself
into this time. "What've I got to do with it?" 

"What else would send him tearing off?" 

"Knowing Bodie, almost anything," Doyle answered tartly. "Listen, I don't
even know what you're talking about. What's going on?" 

"Och, if I knew that, would I be here asking you?" 

Doyle could only remember a very few times he'd seen Cowley this furious
and frustrated. But this was obviously about Bodie, and everyone but Bodie
knew how important that one, infuriating operative was to their
controller. 

"So you didn't have a fight with him?" Cowley demanded. 

Doyle thought back to the uncomfortable scene in the hospital. It had
bothered him ever since, but he wouldn't exactly qualify it as a fight.
While he might have been a bit sharp with Bodie, it wasn't a tenth as bad
as some of the rows they'd had during their partnership. Both of them were
stubborn men, and even if Doyle's temper was quicker to flare, Bodie's
exploding point usually wasn't too far behind. They'd even had a couple of
punch-ups, as far as that went. 

"Honestly, sir, maybe we weren't getting on as well as we normally do, but
there was nothing said to cause any problems." He took a deep breath. "Now
will you please tell me what this is all about? What's happened to Bodie?"
A frightening thought occurred to him. "He's all right, isn't he?" 

"He won't be when I get my hands on him," Cowley growled. 

Doyle let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. He should have
realised Cowley was more mad than worried. If Bodie was hurt, it'd be the
other way around. 

"He's in Scotland, isn't he?" Doyle said, having heard on the grapevine
that the old man sent him on a rather private investigation. It was quite
a joke among the agents that Bodie had finally pushed the old man too far
and he'd made good his threat to pack him off to the Outer Hebrides.
Doyle, although he missed his partner's cheerful company terribly during
his convalescence, found it rather amusing himself. 

"The point is, 4.5, he's STILL there. He was supposed to take three or
four days; it's been well over a week." 

Alarmed, Doyle said, "Maybe he's in trouble. Have you--" 

"No," Cowley cut in. "I've already sent Dawson up to check. He returned
this morning." He stuck his hand in his inside coat pocket and pulled out
a folded sheet of paper. "He brought this back with him." 

Doyle took it, recognising the scrawled signature at the bottom. He read
it and sat down very suddenly. 

"What do you make of that?" Cowley demanded. 

Doyle stared down at the paper, re-reading the few hurried lines, then
looked up at Cowley, plainly stunned. "A resignation? I don't understand."


"So you knew nothing of this?" 

"How could I?" Doyle felt kicked in the gut. What the hell had happened.
Where had he been when the world turned upside down?" 

Doyle stood and shoved the paper at Cowley. "No, I don't believe this for
a minute. Something's wrong." 

"According to Dawson, your partner wouldn't agree. He's having a bonny
time, enjoying the sunshine and smelling the flowers. Bodie's found
himself a lass, and looks to settle down and raise apples." Cowley's tone
was distasteful. 

"A bird?" Doyle snorted. "No way. Bodie wouldn't ditch the squad for a
girl." 

"No?" 

Doyle swung around angrily, knowing Cowley was thinking of Ann Holly.
"We're talking about Bodie, dammit. BODIE! He's not the type." 

"To fall in love? You've a very cynical view of your partner, 4.5. I'd say
of the two of you, he's the more romantic." 

The sarcastic tone was beginning to grate on Doyle. "Yeh, he's a fantastic
weekend Casanova, but come Monday mornin', he's ready to move on. Nah,
something's wrong." 

Cowley gestured impatiently. "I don't have the time to stand around
speculating on 3.7's love life. Nor do I care one way or another, as long
as it doesn't affect CI5. I thought you might have some insight into this
mess, but since you don't--" 

"Wait a minute," Doyle stopped him as Cowley made as if to leave. "What
are you going to do about this?" 

"Do?" Cowley seemed surprised. "Why, nothing." 

"Nothing! But--" 

"Surely you don't think I believe this, do you?" Cowley tapped the paper
in his pocket. "No, Bodie has some bee in his bonnet for the moment, but
the bucolic country life is hardly for him. He'll be back in a week or so,
tail tucked between his legs. And I intend to see it stays there." 

Doyle tended to agree with Cowley in principle, but there was still
something very wrong here. 

"If he's just skiving off, it doesn't explain the resignation, does it? He
wouldn't go that far, would he?" 

A troubled look passed over Cowley's face, but was gone in an instant.
"Another one of his gambits, no doubt. Perhaps he fancies I'll be so
pleased to see him back, I'll be willing to forget he left me shorthanded
when I can least afford to be. I don't have time for all this nonsense.
With you laid up for at least another week, Carson hobbling around on a
broken ankle, and at least four separate dignitaries choosing to visit
London in the same week--Damn the man! What does he think he's playing
at?" 

"I think I'd better go find out," Doyle said thoughtfully. 

Cowley's head snapped up. "You'll do no such thing. I've already wasted
one agent's time and energy checking up on our lost lamb just to discover
he's acting the wolf we already knew he was. Bodie will come back in his
own sweet time...and he'll wish he'd taken the long way round." 

"But I'm going to be off the job anyway," Doyle said reasonably. "Why
shouldn't I--" 

"Kindly remember why you are off work, 4.5," Cowley cut in icily. "To
recuperate from an operation that should have been minor--except for the
fact you were too idiotic to take care of it until it became major. Your
physician tells me you were very lucky to be alive. Don't push it." 

"I'm all right now," Doyle protested. 

"Hardly 'all right' or you wouldn't be on mandatory sick leave. I'm not
having you risk a setback in your progress by chasing after your partner.
Obviously, you can't be trusted to watch your own health, and I can't
afford to have you off the job any longer than is absolutely necessary." 

"But--" 

"That's an order." 

Knowing Cowley was none too pleased with him as it was, Doyle didn't push
it any further. "I suppose you're right," he mused, avoiding his boss's
suspicious look. "Bodie'll be back when he gets enough of it." 

Satisfied by the casual attitude, Cowley nodded. "I must be going. I have
an appointment with the minister. You see you mind the doctor's orders,
4.5." Then, as if realising Doyle had capitulated a bit quicker than
usual, he added, "And mine as well. Or I'll nail your hide on the wall
right beside Bodie's." 

Doyle shrugged. "No problem, sir." 

He saw Cowley out and waited only until he saw the car pull away from the
kerb, before grabbing up his jacket and heading out the door. 

Dawson's latest flat was only a couple of miles away, and the Escort made
it in record time. Doyle rang the bell several times, then pounded on the
door impatiently. 

"All right, all right...'ang on, will you?" came the mumbled answer from
inside as the locks snicked back. Dawson's drowsy face peered around the
door. His hair was sticking up and he was dressed in a tattered yellow
bathrobe. "Oh hell, it's you. What do you want?" 

Doyle pushed inside. "What going on with Bodie?" he demanded without
preamble. 

"Oh shit, Doyle, can't you have a heart." He closed the door and yawned
widely. "I've been up almost forty-eight hours, travelled a few thousand
miles in various public conveyances, none of which had any creature
comforts of any kind, and I just got through a grilling on the subject
from the Cow. Can't you just ask him?" 

"I'm asking you," Doyle snapped. "You saw Bodie, talked to him. What's
wrong?" 

Dawson scratched his chest and yawned again. "Nothing I know of. He looked
okay to me." 

"He sent you back with his resignation, dammit! Don't tell me nothing's
wrong with him!" 

"So?" Dawson shrugged, longing to get back to his warm bed and make up for
lost sleep. "People resign, y'know. Get fed up. Find somethin' better.
What's it matter to you, anyhow?" He grinned drowsily. "You act like a
jilted girlfriend." 

Doyle's patience dissolved. He grabbed the robe and shoved the other man
back against the door. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Dawson was totally awake now, and more than a little peeved at the
aggressive treatment. He'd never liked either Bodie or his temperamental
partner in the first place. It was difficult to like them; they certainly
never went out of their way to be exactly lovable to anyone. And if you
were one of the younger members of the squad, as Dawson was, having tales
of their derring-do shoved down your throat didn't help matters.
Truthfully, Dawson had been quite pleased to discover Bodie had feet of
clay just like the rest of them. 

Now, he looked at Doyle coldly. "Let go, Doyle, unless you want to find
yourself right back in hospital." 

Belatedly realising he was going over the top a bit, Doyle stepped back.
"I just want some answers, Dawson. You can save your cute comments. The
sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I'll be out of your
hair." 

"Okay, but you just lay off snarling at me. If you treated Bodie like
that, it's a bloody wonder you've kept a partner this long." 

"Just get on with it," Doyle barked. 

"There's not a lot to tell. Told me he wanted to stay there. He seemed
happy as a friggin' clam, and who could blame him. You should get a look
at the bird he was with. Enough to have a bloke's tongue hangin' out. She
knew how to use it, too. I had the feeling she would've had it off with me
right then and there, if I didn't have to get back on the plane." A
puzzled look came to his eye. "Funny thing, though, I got the impression
Bodie wouldn't have given a damn if I had." 

"I thought you said he was in love with her?" Doyle scoffed. 

"No, I didn't say that exactly. But he must be, mustn't he? He's stayin'
with her, ain't he?" He shrugged. "Maybe he was just sure of himself." 

Well, at least that sounded like Bodie. He'd never be the jealous type to
begin with. 

"What did he say to you?" 

"Just that he was chucking the job; gave me the letter for Cowley. Didn't
have much time for anything else. I'd come on the police plane and Cowley
wanted a quick report back. Didn't see any reason to hang about anyway,
once it was clear Bodie was all right. Oh, the place was pretty enough an'
all, but I could never abide the country. Weird, though, seeing all those
flowers and trees blooming at this time of year. And palm trees, for
Chrissake." 

Doyle thought quickly. "The job Cowley sent him on; did he finish it up?" 

"The way I understand it, there wasn't much of a job to it. Just
double-checking on some missing kid. Friend of Cowley's. I asked around a
bit about that as well, but it seemed pretty clear cut there was nothing
to it." 

"Do you still have the file?" 

"Sure. I told you, I just got back a couple hours ago. Haven't had time to
get it to records yet." 

"Give it to me; I'll take it back for you." 

Dawson hesitated. It wasn't exactly procedure, but then again, the
information was hardly classified material. He dug through his still
unpacked suitcase and fished out a folder. "Here; have a ball." 

"Thanks." Doyle started for the door, but stopped. "Dawson? Do me a
favour. Don't mention to the Cow that I was here, okay?" 

"What do I owe you a favour for?" 

The green eyes made it clear the favour would keep his jawbone in one
piece. 

"Oh, all right. Just get out of here and let me get some sleep will you?" 

Doyle did so gladly. He had a train to catch. 

******

*APRIL 28 *

Finding the means of getting to Summerisle proved more difficult than
expected. He couldn't, after all, go to the West Highland Police and ask
for transport as Bodie and Dawson had. Doyle wasn't there in an official
capacity, and the chances of Cowley getting wind of his activities were
too risky. Much to his frustration, however, he discovered that trying to
charter a boat to take him to the island was far from a simple
proposition. Whatever interest he aroused by flashing a wad of cash,
quickly evaporated when the word Summerisle was mentioned. Even more
frustrating, none seemed willing to give a logical reason for declining.
The most he was able to pry from any of them was that the island wasn't a
smart place to go. 

After reading the puzzling file on David Campbell and Sergeant Neil Howie,
Doyle had already gathered that much. 

He was beginning to wonder if he would be forced to show his hand by going
to the coppers after all, when one of the fishermen made the laconic
observation that "T'packet's due." A little more persistency revealed that
he was talking about the mail boat from Summerisle that came to the
mainland every two weeks. 

Grateful for the fortunate timing, Doyle was waiting for it when it
arrived the next morning and made certain he was a passenger at its
departure by means of sheer aggression and flashing his identification.
The captain of the little boat was far from happy, but it was just as
obvious he wasn't sure how to handle the situation. 

"His Lordship won't like it," he grumbled as they set off. 

"Pity about that," Doyle responded mournfully. "Will I be beheaded, d'you
think? Or just let off with a light horsewhipping?" He regretted his
flippancy as soon as it was out. Antagonising these people wasn't going to
help anything. Nor was showing up with a chip on his shoulder the size of
a football. 

Doyle found the entire idea of Summerisle irritating. The fact that
someone could own an entire island and everything on it, smacked too much
of feudalism, and the "his Lordship" crap didn't help any. From what he'd
read in the file and heard in Portlochie, the inhabitants of Summerisle
were passed down from Lord to Lord like a bloody silver tea set. But Doyle
had to remind himself he was going there to bring Bodie back, not stir up
a rebellion. He'd have to keep his prejudices to himself. And his temper. 

The effort to do so wouldn't be made easier by his physical state. He was
totally fagged out, exhausted by the trip and the worry over Bodie. It
wouldn't take much for him to fall asleep on his feet. Discovering it
would take several hours to reach the island, he found a dry section of
deck and, using his jacket as a pillow, dozed off. 

It seemed like only moments later that he was awakened by the cry of
seagulls and the scraping of the boat against the dock. Doyle scrambled to
his feet and grabbed his carry-all. 

"You'll need to see his Lordship," the captain called as Doyle jumped off,
onto the wharf. 

"Fuck off," Doyle snarled, still groggy, eyes watering in the sunshine. He
started down the street towards the main part of the village. Dawson's
report had said that Bodie was staying at an inn called The Green Man. In
a place this tiny, it shouldn't be hard to locate. It wasn't. He saw the
sign across the green as soon as he reached the post office at the end of
High Street. 

Ignoring the curious stares he received, Doyle took a short cut across the
grass and entered the pub. It took a moment for his eyes to adapt to the
cool dimness after the blinding sun outside. But he saw Bodie immediately.


His partner was sitting by the open window, chair tilted back, feet up,
sipping contentedly from a pewter mug. 

"Bodie?" he asked quietly. 

The blue eyes looked up, registering his presence. A sweet smile of
uncomplicated delight spread over the handsome face. 

"Goldilocks! Come an' have a drink!" 

Doyle stopped still, dropping his bag limply. He wasn't sure what he'd
expected--rushing in to rouse him from a horrible bout of melancholy,
perhaps--but not this careless, almost absent- minded welcome. 

"Did the ol' man send you lookin' for me?" 

Doyle shook his head numbly. "Bodie--" 

"You came on your own then?" Bodie seemed pleased at this. "That's
terrific, mate. You'll love it here. Come on, don't just stand there.
MacGreggor, bring my partner here a drink!" 

A man came from around the bar, looking Doyle over with dislike. "Mr.
Bodie, I don't think your friend here will be stayin' long. No doubt,
he'll want to get back to the mainland straight away." 

"Nonsense," Bodie scoffed, dropping his chair back to the floor and
jumping up to steer Doyle over to the table. "I've missed you, Angelfish.
You look...." He paused, making a closer study of Doyle's pale face.
"Well, you look like you need to sit down. MacGreggor, where's that
drink?" 

The landlord hesitated, then beckoned to the teenage boy who was dividing
his time between sweeping the stone floor and staring at Doyle. 

"Here, lad, you'd best get up to the castle and let his Lordship know we
have another guest on the island." He smiled coolly at Doyle. "The Lord
likes to greet visitors personally, ye see, Mister...?" 

"Doyle," Bodie answered for his partner happily. "Ray Doyle. Best mate
I've ever had." 

"O' course." The landlord gave the boy a shove towards the door. "What'll
ye be havin', Mister Doyle?" 

Doyle was ignoring all of it, his attention still focused on his friend.
"Bodie," he said hoarsely, "what the hell's going on?" 

Bodie sat down, chuckling. "Yeh, I bet the ol' man's having kittens by
now, wondering where I've got to." 

"No," Doyle said bluntly. "I think the resignation cleared that up." 

The blue eyes flickered uneasily. "Resigna--" He broke off, chewing on his
bottom lip. "I...." 

Seeing the confusion, Doyle leaned forward to put a hand on the other
man's shoulder. "What is it Bodie? What's going on?" 

Bodie shook his head and smiled up at Doyle. "Nothing. Why?" 

"Nothing? How can you call turning in your resignation NOTHING?" 

Taking another drink from the mug, Bodie wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand before replying carelessly, "Lighten up, Ray. It's just a job." 

"But why--" 

Before he could complete the question, a woman came into the pub from the
back room, drying her hands on her apron. "Lover?" She stopped when she
saw Doyle. "I was just going to ask if you wanted chops for supper, but it
looks like I'll have to lay another place at the table. Who's the sexy
stranger?" 

"I've come to take Bodie home," Doyle said flatly. 

"Really?" She looked him up and down. "I thought you said you didn't have
a mother, Bodie?" 

Bodie chuckled, oblivious to the sudden tension. "Willow, this is my
friend Raymond. Ray, this is Willow." He slipped an arm around her waist
and pulled her close against him, then down on his lap to nuzzle her neck.


Doyle had stepped back at her approach, and now he watched the couple with
cool green eyes. Over Bodie's dark hair, she watched him back with eyes
just as green and just as measuring. Within the space of two seconds they
had taken an instant dislike to each other that was mutual and deadly.
Without need for further words, they knew the lines of battle were drawn
and that neither would give up easily. 

*So this was the scrubber that fancied she had Bodie by the balls,* Doyle
thought viciously, muscles clenching in his jaw. He hated her with a
sudden and inexplicable violence that amazed him. Hated her voluptuous
body, her pink and gold loveliness; hated the way her fingernails combed
through Bodie's hair, touching the back of his neck with familiar
possessiveness. Hated the confident expression in her hard eyes; the
knowledge that she was on home territory and he was the intruder. 

Having had more than he could take of the scene-- and very conscious of
the fact that such public displays were out of character with his
partner-- Doyle carefully took the girl's arm and pulled her out of his
lap. 

"Pardon me, miss." 

Bodie blinked up at him, as if he had nearly forgotten he was there. He
gave Doyle a cheerful grin, and reached for the mug. 

"Bodie, are you pissed?" 

The other man laughed. "Probably. Why don't you join me, mate?" 

"No, thanks." He grabbed Bodie's arm decisively and jerked him to his
feet. "Come on, MATE. We're gonna have a talk--in private." Hanging onto a
handful of shirt sleeve, Doyle led him out of the door and down the
cobbled street in the direction of the jetty. Bodie went along agreeably
enough, and when Doyle released him, he even slung a companionable arm
over Doyle's shoulder. 

"Did I tell you how glad I am to see you, old son? I've missed you
something terrible." 

"Oh yes, so I see," Doyle retorted grimly. 

"Where're we going?" Bodie asked amiably. 

They had reached the stone wall that divided the beach from the village.
There was no one about that Doyle could see at the moment. 

"This is good enough." He stopped and turned to face his partner. 

Bodie hopped up to sit on the wall, swinging his legs a little and still
taking sips from the mug he had managed to hang onto when he was dragged
from the pub. "So how've you been, sunshine?" 

For a second Doyle was too angry to speak. He wanted to knock Bodie off
that wall; wanted to wipe the sweet, bland expression from his face. 

Rather belatedly, Bodie noticed Doyle was nearly shaking; his face
flushed. "You don't look so good, you know. Maybe you shouldn't have been
travelling until you got your strength back. You were pretty sick. You
must be tired." He seemed as if he was finding it hard to remember just
how sick Doyle had been or why. 

"I AM tired," Doyle said tightly. "I'm tired and confused and disappointed
and--" He broke off, taking a deep breath. 

"Then why'd Cowley let you come?" Bodie asked, puzzled. 

"Cowley doesn't know I'm here!" Doyle roared. "You stupid berk! I came to
find out what the hell was going on, sure you were in some kind of
trouble, and I find you acting like everything's just peachy." 

Bodie regarded him soberly. "It is Ray. I'm sorry if you were worried
about me, but I'm perfectly fine." 

"Fine? You're drunk on your arse, and don't seem to care--" 

"I'm not drunk," Bodie said calmly. 

Doyle looked at him, seeing how he sat steadily on the wall, remembering
the ease of his walk-- nor was his voice slurred in the least. Bodie could
hold his liquor, but.... 

"If you're not pissed, there's something else wrong. You're not making
sense, Bodie. And you haven't explained why you're still here." 

Bodie shrugged. "That's simple enough. I like it here." 

Doyle stared at him. "You like it here?" 

"Yes. I think you'll like it too, if you'll give it a chance." He sat the
mug down on the wall and jumped lightly to his feet. "Take a look around,
Ray. It's wonderful here...like magic." 

For the first time since he'd arrived, Doyle actually took stock of his
surroundings. He had been so concentrated on his purpose, so preoccupied
with finding Bodie, he'd scarcely noticed anything else; letting his
subconscious absorb the barrage of colour and brightness. Now, he gave it
another look, finding it fairly much as he'd expected from the report and
Dawson's comments. 

"So? It's pretty. So's Tahiti, but I've never seen you so keen on
landscapes before. Why now?" 

"You don't understand. It's more than that, Ray. It's...peaceful here.
It's...." He shook his head. "I can't find the right words for it." 

Doyle sighed. "All right; so maybe you needed a holiday. You were griping
about the weather back in London anyway. So you needed a little sunshine
and quiet. But why resign to get it? Cowley might've chewed you out for
skiving off, but he's going to eat you alive when you go back now, you
know that." 

"I'm not going back," Bodie stated. 

Doyle felt a strange lurch in his chest, as if his heart had skipped a
beat. "Don't be daft. Of course you are. The sooner the better, too. I
think the sun's cooking your brain--" 

"I'm staying here, Ray. I'm happy here." He put his hands on Doyle's
shoulders, standing close. "I want you to stay, too. Please stay,
sunshine." 

The blue eyes were totally serious, and it scared Doyle to death. "You
don't know what you're talking about, Bodie." 

"Of course I do. Stay on Summerisle with me." 

Doyle jerked away, feeling like he was being held by a stranger. "And do
what?" he snapped. "Drink all day in the pub and screw the barmaid all
night?" 

He sensed rather than saw Bodie stiffen. 

"Christ, you can be such a nasty little bastard, Doyle." 

"Why? Because I'm telling the truth? What the hell else is there to do
around here? Pick apples?" 

There was a spark of anger in Bodie's eyes now, and Doyle was gratified to
see it. At least he was getting some reaction out of him besides
good-natured blankness. 

"Well?" Doyle demanded contemptuously when it seemed Bodie wasn't going to
answer. "What else is there?" 

Bodie replied simply, "Being happy for a change." 

"I didn't realise you were all that miserable," Doyle shot back. 

"No, no you wouldn't have, would you?" 

The quiet words hit hard. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Bodie just shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Look, if you want to go,
fine. I won't try to stop you. Go on, go." 

"Not without you, dammit. Bodie, this isn't like you. Letting Cowley
down--" 

Bodie laughed and there was a tiny note of bitterness in it. He leaned
back against the wall, crossing his arms casually over his chest. "I doubt
if the Cow is too upset about it. He knew I might opt out sooner or later.
What you really mean is that your nose is out of joint because I didn't
tell you first." 

"All right. Why didn't you? If you'd been thinking of quitting, why'd you
keep so quiet about it?" 

Again the puzzled look passed through Bodie's eyes. "I...." 

"You came here on a JOB, Bodie. You weren't running then. So what happened
all of a sudden? And don't tell me the scenery suited you." 

As if uncomfortable with this line of questioning, Bodie turned his back
to Doyle, propping his elbows on the wall and looking out at the sea. "I
met Willow," he said weakly, but Doyle sensed that wasn't all of it. 

"You're saying you really love her?" he demanded sceptically. 

"Yes...no...." Bodie rubbed his forehead in confusion. "I don't know. Why
shouldn't I? You saw her, Ray. She's beautiful." 

Doyle refrained from offering his opinion--that it was a real pity she
wasn't drowned at birth. But he was suddenly both relieved and strangely
even more nervous. So it wasn't Willow alone that held him. Yet, that left
the situation even more inexplicable. 

"Bodie," Doyle began uneasily. "Was it something I said?" 

Bodie turned to him and burst out laughing. "I don't believe you said
that. That's classic, that is." 

Doyle flushed with irritation. "You know what the hell I meant. That last
night in the hospital...I was feeling pretty crummy and I might've
said...." 

"No, you were your normal, lovable self, Doyle. Don't fret." 

Doyle's frustration exploded into fury. "Then what the bloody hell are you
playing at? All this garbage about 'belonging' here, and being happy.
You're off your nut!" 

Bodie's eyes were cold again. "Maybe I am. Does it matter? Could it
possibly matter to you? That'd be a new one, wouldn't it? You wouldn't
know happy if it kicked you in the face, Doyle. Since I say I'm happy, it
must mean I'm mad as a hatter, right? Your logic is wonderful." 

"And your logic's obviously moved to your balls!" Doyle replied viciously.
"She's drained it all out of you." 

If he expected to get a rise out of Bodie, he was disappointed. 

"Give it up, Ray. You can be as nasty as you like; I'm not in the mood to
argue." 

"And what am I supposed to tell Cowley? That my partner's found a nice
pasture and put himself out to stud?" 

Bodie smiled sadly. "I think I understand now. The old man blamed it on
you, did he? So that's why you're here." 

"That has nothing to do with it," Doyle protested, flushing. 

"No? Don't con me, Raymond. You felt guilty, didn't you? That's why you
were asking me about the hospital. I should've seen it straight off. What
else would bring old Raymond it's-all-my- fault Doyle running? A good
unhealthy dose of guilt. You eat it up every time." 

"Shut up, Bodie," Doyle said grimly. "You don't know what you're talking
about." 

Bodie shrugged. "Have it your way, mate." 

Frustrated, Doyle grabbed Bodie's arm. "I can't talk to you, can I? You
won't listen to anything I say. I don't know why. No, you're not drunk,
but there's something...." 

He stared at Bodie intently, trying to put his finger on what was
bothering him, what had been subtly wrong from the moment he had first
seen him. What occurred to him was almost too absurd to be considered, but
right now he was so puzzled at his partner's behaviour, it seemed as
feasible as anything else. "No, not drunk...." Shoving up Bodie's sleeve,
he inspected his arm; then repeated the action on the other. 

Bodie suffered the handling mildly. "What are you doing, Ray?" 

Finding nothing, Doyle's gaze fell on the mug still sitting innocently on
the wall. He picked it up, took a sip and spit the liquid out quickly. 

"What the hell's in this?" 

Bodie regarded him blankly. "What?" The blue eyes looked clear enough, but
up close now, Doyle imagined the pupils were more dilated than they should
have been in the bright sunlight. 

"What have you been drinking?" Doyle demanded patiently. 

"It's cider," Bodie answered vaguely. 

"Maybe," Doyle mused. "And maybe it's more than that." 

As it dawned on Bodie what Doyle was thinking, he laughed. "So, if I'm not
crazy, or drunk, I must be doped, is that it? Maybe you should check
between me toes as well. Always the copper, aren't you? Listen, why don't
you just run on back to London where you have more scope?" 

"Not just yet," Doyle said absently. "Why not drugs, Bodie? Something's
wrong, that's clear enough. Why not consider the possibility?" 

"Because, old son, it doesn't make sense, that's why." 

"It would if they wanted to keep you here." 

"It's you who's flipped, mate," Bodie said, lightly, but he looked
troubled. "Why would they want to do that?" 

"Willow--" 

Bodie chuckled. "Thanks for the boost to my ego, but in spite of my
obvious charm, no bird has thought it worth doping me up to hang onto me.
You're reaching, Doyle." 

Bodie was right; he was grabbing for straws. Yet, there was more here than
was apparent at first glance. 

"All right, what about the job you were on? Maybe you found out something
they didn't want you to know. If they wanted to keep you quiet--" 

"Job?" There was a flash of true panic in Bodie's eyes, and this time
Doyle saw it. 

"Bodie, what is it? What's wrong?" 

"I.... Nothing. It's all right." 

But Doyle knew it wasn't. "My god, Bodie, you don't even remember anything
about it, do you? Why the Cow sent you here?" 

Bodie shifted his gaze uneasily. "Of course I do. I was to check out leads
on Campbell. David Campbell." 

"And did you?" 

It was almost painful to watch the struggle in the confused blue eyes.
Instinctively, Doyle reached out, but Bodie backed away. 

"I didn't.... There wasn't anything to find." But the answer was hesitant
and he was trembling slightly. 

"I think there was. I think something's rotten here, and they did
something to you to make sure you couldn't smell it. Think, damn it!" 

"Lay off, will you!" Bodie yelled, fighting the cloud in his mind and the
passionate demand for attention in Doyle's face. "Why don't you just give
it up and go back to the city and leave me in peace?" But in direct
contrast, he grabbed Doyle's arm and held on tight. "Ray, I'm not going
crazy. I know what you think, but I'm not- - -" 

"What I think is that you're doped to the eyeballs," Doyle said flatly. 

Bodie stepped back abruptly. "No." 

"It's the only thing that makes sense, can't you see that? You KNOW
something isn't right." 

"No. Why should they...? No that's daft." 

"Maybe. Or maybe not. But I'm going to find out, one way or another. I
think it's time to talk to Lord Summerisle." 

For some reason, this brought a thread of fear to Bodie. That way, danger
lay. If he could only concentrate, he knew he would be able to put the
pieces together, but he was suddenly terrified of the picture it would
show. Scared of what it all meant. And, most of all, he didn't want Ray to
be drawn in as he had. 

But the flicker of insight died before it was fully formed, and he was
left standing in the warm sea breezes of Summerisle, head filled with the
smell of salt and apple blossoms. 

"You're wasting your time, sunshine," Bodie said easily. "Your
imagination's taking you for walkies." He picked up the mug and drained
what little was left. "I need another drink. Let's go back to the pub,
shall we?" 

"Bodie--" Doyle stopped, giving up what he'd wanted to say. Bodie had
slipped back into that unshakable fog of the lotus eater. That short
moment when he had almost got through to him had passed as if it had never
happened. "All right," he said at last, "go on back. I'm going up to the
castle and try to get some answers." 

Unperturbed, Bodie ruffled the curls playfully. "Suit yourself,
Goldilocks. See you later then." And he sauntered off happily. 

Watching him walk away so casually wasn't easy. Doyle wanted to run after
him; drag him away from whatever force held him to this strange place;
whether it was sex, drugs or something he didn't understand yet. He felt a
strange new possessiveness in his regard of Bodie that he reluctantly
realised must colour all of his perceptions--of the girl, of the island,
of anything that threatened to take Bodie from him. At this point, he
couldn't even be sure if Bodie was really drugged, or if he had been
jumping to the easiest answer. 

True, Bodie was acting strangely, but that could be explained in a dozen
ways--nor was it the first time Bodie had withdrawn into his own world and
excluded Doyle. He had done the same when he was seeing Marikka Schulman,
and again when he went after the motorcycle gang that had killed his Para
buddy. 

What if Bodie really did want to stay? What if that was really all there
was to it? No mystery, no drugs, no dark reasons. Would he be able to
accept that? 

No. Doyle was honest enough to realise the fact he was too selfish to give
Bodie up whatever the reason. It was not a pleasant realisation, nor was
he quite ready to admit what lay behind the sudden wave of possessive
emotion. He simply hadn't time to think it all out. Until he could, all he
was sure of was that he was going to get Bodie out of here, one way or
another. 

Right now, the first step towards that seemed to lie in the direction of
Lord Summerisle's castle. 

******

Rose found Lord Summerisle in his laboratory, studying a section of an
apple bud under a microscope. 

"Ah, my dear, I didn't expect to see you so early," he commented absently.
"A school holiday?" 

"I dismissed the girls early to work on their May Day masks. Clover told
me about the policeman. I thought I should look into the matter." 

"Oh, yes. Doyle, isn't it?" 

"Tease, I think we may have a problem." 

He seemed only vaguely interested. "Really?" 

"What do we do about it?" she said impatiently. 

Summerisle smiled and straightened at her. "I don't see that we
necessarily have to do anything, my dear Rose. He will snoop around a few
hours, find nothing, and go away like the others. I suppose we should be
pleased they have evidently had a decline in the crime rate on the
mainland that they can afford to spare us so much attention." 

"I'm glad you find this humourous, milord, but I'm afraid I canna share
your ease. This one knows Bodie." 

He glanced at her sharply, then shrugged. "As did the last one, I recall.
There's nothing to concern yourself with. Our Bodie is very taken with our
lovely island. He won't leave on his own--not with Willow's forms of
persuasion--and they can't very well force him, can they?" 

Rose looked doubtful. "I'm not so sure. This one seems much more
determined." 

Summerisle's dark eyes sparkled with glee. "Ah, and I remember well the
last determined copper we entertained. None of the rest of them had nearly
his...fire. If you will pardon the pun." 

"I'm serious, milord. According to MacGreggor, this Doyle person is a
great friend of Bodie. And he listened to him--too long." 

"Indeed? I wasn't informed of that." He looked thoughtful. 

"It changes the situation, don't you think? If he knows Bodie well, he
might see the difference in him, unlike the other one. There's even a
chance he could convince him to leave us. It would spoil everything." 

"Calm yourself, my dear. That will not happen. Have Willow increase the
dosage; at least until the snoop leaves. It shouldn't effect
his...uh...performance too badly, and if the copper suspects something,
he'll find it difficult to prove at any rate." 

"It's dangerous," she warned. 

"Only if taken over a long period of time. And our handsome Mr. Bodie
doesn't have that problem, does he? It's only two more days until the
first of May." 

She nodded. "Very well. But that doesn't quite solve the entire problem.
What if he refuses to leave? Willow seems to think he suspects something
already. It could make things difficult later on." 

Unconcerned, Summerisle prepared another slide. "I can handle this Mr.
Doyle. He came here on the packet, didn't he? That was odd, don't you
think? If he was really here in an official capacity, he would have come
on the seaplane with all the other neat little coppers. Perhaps he's here
on his own to find his friend. That could simplify matters." 

"What are you thinking?" 

Summerisle smiled again as he bent his eye to the microscope. "Just that
there's a distinct possibility he wouldn't be missed. It was you who
suggested we keep our virile Bodie here; perhaps Doyle could be put to the
same use if he proves difficult to be rid of." 

"No," she replied firmly. "He's not right. He's...common. Even ugly. I saw
him when he passed the green; a pale, skinny boy with a broken face." 

Summerisle shrugged, accepting her judgement. "Pity. It was an interesting
thought. I'll simply make certain he's off the island as quickly as
possible then. You speak to Willow about keeping her pet on a tighter
leash until I do." 

"What do--" 

The servant interrupted Rose apologetically. "I beg your pardon, Lord.
Miss Rose." 

"Yes, Broom, what is it?" 

"The stranger, sir. The policeman, Doyle. He wishes to speak with you." 

Summerisle grinned. "How very efficient of him. He's been here, what? Two
hours? I do hope this one is more clever than the rest." 

"Bodie was almost too clever," Rose pointed out wryly. "If you remember
what Sorrel told us." 

"Which is one reason I agreed with your suggestion, my dear. We need
intelligence as well as beauty, you know. Broom, have Mr. Doyle wait in
the garden. I've had far too many coppers tramping through my house for
one year." 

"Very good, sir." 

As Broom bowed and left, Rose asked Summerisle, "What will you tell him?" 

The Lord pulled on his tweed jacket as he answered. "Simply that he is
quite welcome to take his friend and leave--if his friend wishes to go. I
can hardly tell him anything else, can I? I believe we can count on Willow
to have Bodie make the proper answer. Go ask Broom to prepare us some tea,
my dear. I'll be with you as soon as I've rid us of our pest." 

Unhurriedly, he went out the side door and around the side of the gardens
at the rear of the great house, pausing to take in the sight of the sea
beyond the wall. It was a lovely day, and he never felt so alive and
pleased with the world. 

He did hope this newest copper wasn't a complete idiot. He would
appreciate a true challenge for a change. It was quite depressing, really,
the calibre of law officer in modern Britain. Smiling at the thought, he
plucked a stray daffodil and spent a moment admiring its ragged beauty. 

In truth, he couldn't hold the police at fault. They had neither the
training nor the vision to recognise or accept anything outside their laws
and regulations. Their world was limited to thuggery and violence, robbery
and crimes of passion. Without possessing the poetry of imagination, they
had no basis to build an investigation. Only Sergeant Neil Howie had been
able to make the quantum leap between the ordinary and the sublime--but he
had the advantage of being wrapped in the mysticism of his own religion.
Miracles were old friends to him, familiar and believable; even if they
were the trappings of another faith. But he could recognise the signs of
belief. True and abiding belief as opposed to the mundane and meaningless
rites. His faith had given him insight. An insight that contributed to his
destruction...and rebirth. 

Summerisle looked out over the orchards with paternal pride. Every apple
he ate tasted of Neil Howie. He felt it in the very marrow of his bones
and exulted in the triumph. Even if the Sergeant's ultimate end had been a
foregone conclusion, he had still led a merry chase. 

Bodie might have been an amusing challenge; Summerisle had sensed a
quietly dangerous quality in him. But he had been neutralised very
quickly, his classic good looks and strong body sealing his fate before
the real threat was apparent to him. Rose had seen his possibilities
immediately and had urged the Lord's agreement with evangelical zeal. 

Tucking the flower in his lapel, Summerisle continued towards the garden,
hoping this new one had some small degree of wit. He was weary of boring
investigations and boring coppers. 

Rounding the yew hedge that bordered the garden, he paused in the shadows
seeking out his opponent, wanting to have the strategic advantage of
seeing him first. 

At first it seemed the garden was empty. Then he spotted the still figure
slumped on one of the stone benches against the wall. The man appeared to
be fast asleep, his arm propped uncomfortably on the ledge to brace his
head. 

For a second, Summerisle was a bit disconcerted, having expected a normal
copper to be chewing the grass at the purposeful delay. But the lines of
fatigue in the forehead and the circles under the oddly slanted eyes told
their own tale. Either the man had been very recently ill, or he was
pushing himself unbearably hard. 

For a long while, the Lord watched the sleeping figure, studying it with
growing appreciation. Rose's unflattering description had hardly prepared
him for the vision before him. Common? Uncommon was more like. Unusual.
Exotic. Fey. The adjectives rushed through his mind, none of them quite
filling the purpose, all of them apt, but all of them too weak to
accurately portray the reality. 

The wind stirred the fuchsia bush overhanging the wall, dropping petals to
rest in the long curls. The sunlight picked up streaks of copper in the
unruly hair that framed the elfin face. The eyelashes lay long and dark
against the too pale skin, and the mouth was slightly parted in the ease
of slumber; sensuous and perfect, in contrast to the flawed imperfection
of the chipped tooth. His marred cheekbone, obviously broken and poorly
mended, rested on one slender wrist. 

While realising that much of the charm of the man was a trick of the light
and dappled shade, of the mood and attitude of the moment, Summerisle was
nonetheless entranced. He silently moved closer. 

The figure stirred immediately, eyes flying open to reveal the startled
forest green of a wild thing. He was on his feet in a second, wary and
chagrinned at his weakness. 

"You're Lord Summerisle?" 

"Yes. I apologise for disturbing your rest, Officer Doyle." 

The embarrassed rush of blood to his face made him, if possible, even more
attractive. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I'm sorry. I was...tired." Then
added edgedly, "You did keep me waiting some time." 

"I apologise for that as well. I was in my laboratory, and sometimes I
become overly involved in my work. Do you know anything of horticulture,
Officer Doyle?" 

"Just Doyle. Raymond Doyle." He produced his identification. 

Summerisle inspected it with amusement. Policemen always presented these
little bits of cardboard and metal as if they were magic talismen, able to
open doors and convert sinners to saints. "Ah, you must work with our
friend Bodie. Yes, he told me you've dispensed with the niceties of rank
in your service. How refreshingly plebeian. You're a close friend of
Bodie's, I understand." 

The green eyes watched him appraisingly. "News travels fast, I see." 

"It is a small island. Visitors are quite unusual." He smiled wryly. "At
least until very recently. We seem to have become quite a tourist
attraction lately. And what has brought you here, Mr. Doyle?" 

"Bodie," Doyle replied simply. 

"Of course, you wanted to visit your friend. How splendid to come all this
way." 

"His resignation was something of a surprise," Doyle said carefully,
matching the Lord's casual attitude. "I must admit I'm curious as to what
seduced Bodie so thoroughly." 

"Seduced, Mr. Doyle? Surely an odd choice of words." 

Doyle smiled suddenly, holding the Lord's gaze with a ferocious intensity.
"Is it?" 

Summerisle's heart stepped up its beat. Truly wonderful! The man was
dangerous as well as attractive. How incredibly exciting. 

The tall man laughed. "Perhaps you're right at that. There is much that is
beautiful and rare here on my island. And beauty can be extremely
seductive. You will have to let me show it to you." 

"Then you won't mind my hanging about for a bit." 

"On the contrary, I'm delighted. Would you be interested in apples, by any
chance?" 

"I'm interested in everything, Lord Summerisle," Doyle returned coolly. 

"How very ambitious of you. I'll be most pleased if you permit me to
educate you on the peculiar specialties of Summerisle and its people. Tell
me, have you had time to speak to your friend yet?" 

The green eyes were abruptly icy. "Oh yes. I've talked to him. He seems to
have changed a great deal in a very short period." 

"Indeed? How strange. But perhaps he was ready for a change. Have you
known Bodie long?" 

"Long enough." 

"I see. Then you must realise how happy he is here. Not many people take
to our quiet life as quickly and enthusiastically as your friend has.
Although I'm quite sure that MacGreggor's lovely daughter has much to do
with that, don't you?" 

Doyle didn't answer, but Summerisle noted the tightening of his jaw with
interest. Jealousy? That could prove VERY interesting. 

"Yes, our Willow is quite smitten with your friend. I wouldn't be at all
surprised if they don't make a match of it. They make such a fetching
couple, don't you agree?" 

"Charming," Doyle said tightly. 

Summerisle turned away to hide his smile. "So you've met Willow as well?
You can hardly blame Bodie for being so taken with her, can you?" 

"I can see she's very...intoxicating," Doyle said smoothly. "Even habit
forming, I'd say." 

Summerisle laughed aloud in delight. So Doyle had caught on this quickly,
had he? This man was purely no fool. And he knew how to play the game with
finesse. It was pleasing to know that there was a sharp mind behind those
bewitching green eyes. 

He turned back to look at Doyle. "If you will pardon my saying it,
Raymond, you look as if you could use some refreshment. In fact, forgive
me for being rude, but you don't look completely well." 

Doyle noticed the cavalier use of his first name, but let it pass. "I'm
fine. Just tired from the trip." 

"But you will have some tea? Please, I insist. As a matter of fact, it's
such a splendid afternoon, why don't we have it out here on the terrace?
If you will wait for me here, I will have my man bring it out." 

"Thank you." 

Summerisle found Rose seated at the piano studying some sheet music. She
glanced up as he entered. "Did you manage to get rid of him?" 

"Oh, I do hope not." 

"What can you mean by that?" she asked, puzzled. 

Summerisle rang for the servant and moved to the window overlooking the
garden. From the concealment of the heavy drapes, he observed Doyle, a
confident smile curving his lips. 

"You were far too hasty in your assessment of our guest, my dear. He is
exquisite." 

"What?" She stared at him in amazement. 

He beckoned for her to come stand beside him. "Look again. Do you still
insist that he is ugly?" 

"Perhaps the term was a bit strong," she admitted reluctantly, "but I
still find him unattractive." 

Summerisle shook his head reprovingly. "You are much too preoccupied with
perfection, Rose. Don't you realise that a few imperfections only serve to
accentuate beauty? It gives it the allure of the exotic, the original." 

Tossing him a sceptical look, she returned to the piano. "He's still not
right for our purpose. Bodie is enough." 

"Yes, you're right about that. Your handsome, symmetrical Bodie is all
that is necessary for our purpose. But for MY purpose...." 

She looked up from the keys suspiciously. "What have you on your mind now,
I wonder?" 

Summerisle laughed softly. "I think you know very well." 

"Infatuation is dangerous, milord." 

He turned from the window, one eyebrow lifted haughtily. "Infatuation?" 

"Unless you have a better word for it?" she challenged. 

"Appreciation perhaps?" He looked back out at his quarry, smiling wryly.
"But you may well be right. Does it matter?" 

"Only if it brings more questions from the outside. We've had too much
disturbance as it is." 

"I wouldn't worry about that. I'm convinced that my sweet Raymond is here
without authority. He's come to fetch his partner, you see. When they are
finally missed, it'll be assumed they went off together. Hand in hand, no
doubt." 

"You're taking unnecessary chances," Rose protested without much hope of
being heeded. Her fingers picked out a light melody on the keyboard. 

The Lord hardly heard her, too absorbed in his own thoughts. "There is
something about him that is...." His brow furrowed in concentration.
"Something familiar, but I can't quite--" He snapped his fingers as it
came to him. Pacing over to an ornate wooden stand, he opened a large,
ancient book that lay upon it. Leafing through the brittle pages with
care, he found the item he wanted. "Rose, come see what I have
discovered." 

"What is it?" 

"I believe I may have unearthed the source of my fascination--or part of
it, at any rate." 

Curious, she went to his side and inspected the page he indicated. 

"This is Teague, son of Nuada the god of the sun." 

Rose looked doubtfully at the crudely drawn illustration, penned by some
unknown scholar over one hundred and fifty years earlier. There was some
slight resemblance to the man outside, she supposed, if one was willing to
interpret it loosely. That faded drawing showed a round impish face with
wicked, slanted eyes and hair that swirled in haloing curls to represent
the sun. 

"Raymond," Summerisle mused fondly to himself. "Ray. How very appropriate.
Son of the Ray. Ray of the Sun. Quite poetic, don't you agree?" 

"My Lord--" 

"Calm yourself, my dear Rose. I haven't mislaid my reason. Ray Doyle is
most certainly human. I simply find this representation fascinating in its
similarity. You must admit it is quite a coincidence. Or perhaps not so
surprising. My Ray is a throwback to the past. Yes, that is what intrigues
me so. He is one of the old line- - -the Celts, the Druids. It's still
there, in his face, in the way he moves. An accident of genetics, of
course, but even more entrancing for that." 

"As long as you keep your perspective," Rose cautioned. 

"And when have I not? Don't mistake my enthusiasm for more than it is, my
vigilant Rose. His arrival may be opportune, but it is hardly mystical."
He moved back to the window, looking out with a hungry smile. "I want him.
It is as simple as that. Therefore, I will have him." 

While long familiar with the Lord's peccadilloes, this one seemed more
than rash, it could be dangerous. "Is it worth it? The risk--" 

"Of what?" he cut in smoothly, tiring of her caution. "A crime needs a
witness. There are no witnesses on Summerisle." 

"He's an outsider--" 

"Look at him!" Summerisle said sharply, eyes glowing. "He belongs here
more than you or I. Whatever he believes himself to be, his line goes back
to the very beginning, to the very essence of our faith." 

Again, he paused to watch Doyle prowl the garden like a discontented cat.
"I need that--I need to touch our past. To hold it...possess it...." 

The servant entered with the tea tray, interrupting Summerisle's reverie.
"We will take it on the terrace, Broom." 

"Very good, sir." 

Summerisle took Rose's arm. "We've kept our guest waiting far too long.
You WILL be agreeable, I am sure." 

It was not a question, and Rose knew Summerisle too well to bother with
further protests. He had made up his mind about this Doyle and there would
be no shaking his determination. 

Doyle stepped forward to join them as they came outside. Broom sat the
tray on the stone table and poured out the tea. 

"Raymond, I would like to present Rose." 

Doyle took her hand lightly. "Lady Summerisle." 

"No, Mr. Doyle," she said coldly, removing her hand from his. "I am not." 

"I beg your pardon. I assumed...." 

"There is no Lady Summerisle," the Lord broke in smoothly. "Miss Rose is
our schoolteacher, and is kind enough to act as hostess for me on
occasion. An understandable mistake. My introduction was a bit vague. Do
be seated." 

Rose studied him casually over her teacup, revising her estimation of his
appeal, but still mystified by the Lord's newest obsession. She sensed he
might be attractive in an odd sort of way, but only if HE chose to be so.
At the moment he was very contained and concentrated, giving nothing,
revealing less. Unlike Bodie, he was making no effort to charm her. He
wasn't interested in her, nor in Summerisle for that matter, except for
the answers they might give him. 

"Do you take honey in your tea?" Summerisle asked Doyle. "We have our own
hives, you know. Very original taste. The apple blossoms add a flavour all
their own." 

"No, thank you." 

Summerisle noted with amusement that Doyle waited for both the Lord and
Miss Rose to drink first, already wary of falling into a trap. 

"I was under the impression that wine was the customary vehicle for
poisoning in all the thrillers. Tea is much too mundane, don't you agree?"


The green eyes regarded him directly. "How about cider?" 

Summerisle chuckled. "Far too pedestrian. Come now, Raymond, I realise
policemen are supposed to be suspicious, but you don't truly believe we
would attempt to serve you tea with a hemlock chaser." 

Doyle smiled. "Of course not," he added drily. 

"That's comforting. We can relax then, and enjoy the afternoon." 

"I would rather ask you a few questions, if you don't mind." 

"But I do mind. It's far too lovely a day for tiresome questions and
tedious answers. Besides, I thought you were on a visit--not on official
business." 

"I don't believe I said either way?" 

"Ah, mixing business with pleasure? It can be a dangerous combination." 

"It was for Bodie, at any rate," Doyle put in coolly. 

"You've seen your friend," Miss Rose finally spoke up. "Does he seem to be
in danger? He is content here, Mr. Doyle. I canna understand why you find
that so difficult to accept." 

"Because Bodie has never been 'content' in his life. Not like this. It's
like talking to a bloody zombie." 

"Exactly what are you accusing Willow of, Mr. Doyle? The crime of making a
man happy?" 

"When I start making accusations, Miss Rose, you'll be one of the first to
hear what they are." 

She stood, blue eyes snapping. "If you will excuse me, milord, I have
lessons to mark before tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Doyle." 

As she left, Summerisle leaned over conspiratorially. "You've offended
her, I'm afraid." 

"I have? What a shame." Doyle smiled nastily. "And what about you? Are you
offended?" 

"Not at all. In fact, I'm pleased to have you all to myself. Rose doesn't
take well to outsiders at all; she's never been off the island, you see,
and tends to view anyone from the outside as threatening. I, on the other
hand, enjoy new people from time to time." 

"And you HAVE left the island?" 

"Naturally. I attended Cambridge and had my tour of Europe during my
youth. Once a year, I still vacation in Nice. My island offers everything
one needs to be comfortable except variety." 

Doyle's eyes sparkled angrily. "And the Lord is the only one allowed the
privilege of leaving." 

Summerisle regarded him in surprise. "Whatever gave you that idea?" 

"There's no record that anyone has ever left Summerisle." 

Summerisle laughed heartily. "I see. And the only reason for that, of
course, is that I keep the poor serfs in chains. Did you ever stop to
think that they might want to stay here? That the people are intelligent
enough to recognise when they're well off?" 

"At least that's what you tell them," Doyle retorted. 

"Can you honestly say that the mainland can offer these people more than
they have right here? WHAT can it offer them? Unemployment? Poor housing?
Crime? Venereal disease? Air pollution? While it is true none of these
'privileges' can be found on Summerisle, I very much doubt if they are
missed." 

"What about freedom of choice?" Doyle snapped back. "Independence?" 

"Could you give me a rough estimate of how many of those 'independent'
people are on the dole? How many of them use this 'freedom of choice' to
commit suicide or strangle their wife out of frustration?" 

"So Summerisle is a paradise," Doyle said sarcastically. 

The Lord smiled. "Look around you, Ray. What would you call it? There are
no locks on Summerisle; no one fears his neighbour. Life is good, full and
rich." 

"You make it sound so simple, so perfect. Nothing is that perfect." 

"No, it wasn't simple and it was far from easy. You disapprove of me, I
can see that. Or rather, you disapprove of 'Lord Summerisle.' You're
something of a socialist, I think." 

"No," Doyle answered flatly. "Not exactly. But I don't like the idea of
one man owning an entire island--and the people on it. I've nothing
against wealth, just against exploitation." 

Summerisle shook his head sadly. "I see you don't understand at all. I
don't own all of this--oh, in the legal sense, I do, but that's the least
important factor--I am the caretaker. The custodian of a rare way of life.
And like my father and his father before him, I take my responsibility
very seriously, I assure you." He sat his cup down and stood. "Tell me,
Ray, do you ride?" 

"Yes," Doyle answered cautiously. 

"Good. I have an excellent stable. Come, I'll show you my island and
explain more fully." 

******

For all of his Lordship's professed concern over Doyle's health earlier,
he spared him little during the short tour of the island. The horses were
very fresh when they started out, and Doyle was anything but. He hung on
grimly, however, unwilling to admit to weakness or exhaustion in front of
the enigmatic Lord Summerisle. 

Doyle had gradually moved from being mildly mistrustful of the man, to
being convinced he was the source of all the mystery of the island.
Whether that included being responsible for the missing people or drugging
Bodie, he couldn't be sure, but it was obvious there was absolutely
nothing that happened on Summerisle without the Lord's knowledge and
consent. 

Oddly enough, however, the people they met and spoke with, while very
respectful, did not seem either awe-stricken or intimidated by the Lord.
Still, the exchanges had the flavour of a priest bestowing blessings on
his parishioners. They tended to ignore Doyle completely, although he
caught several watching him curiously out of the corner of their eyes, and
there were a few very ribald comments that he couldn't quite catch except
to know they were concerning him. 

Doyle couldn't deny the incredible beauty of the place; it practically
attacked the senses with a barrage of colours and smells. But that was
precisely what bothered him about it. It was spring, but the feeling of
the air was ripe and pregnant with sweetness. Nor was it merely the
profusion of blossoms; there was an underlying decay that wasn't physical,
but metaphysical. The sweetness was cloying. The whole island was an
overly baited trap; attractive but sticky, like a Venus flytrap. 

"When my great-grandfather came to this island over one hundred years ago,
the inhabitants were practically starving," Summerisle continued his
lecture. "The island, like the others in the Outer Hebrides, was nearly
barren; covered with heather and bracken. True, it was gentler than most,
situated almost perfectly in the Warm Gulf Stream, and the soil was
fertile--or would have been, if the villagers in their ignorance hadn't
grazed it nearly to death with their wormy and diseased sheep. Most of the
islanders made their meagre living from them or from fishing the
treacherous waters. They were illiterate, filthy, scrawny creatures,
living on the bare edge of existence." 

Doyle pulled his horse up closer. "And your grandfather changed all that,
did he?" 

"Most of his triumph was not achieved in his lifetime. He introduced new
strains of fruit, adapted to the particular climate and soil. They
flourished. 

"Gradually, he brought more and more species, and with care, they grew
abundantly. He built a school for the villagers; the first they had ever
seen. Taught them how to read and write; to understand the principles of
scientific farming. How to rotate crops, how to care and feed animals
properly. Taught them terrace farming to stop the erosion the overgrazing
of the sheep had caused on the high slopes. Each of us, in turn, have
continued with his grand plan; the creation of paradise, if you will. And
we have been rewarded tenfold." 

"And the apples?" 

"Ah yes, they were his favourite experiment and the most successful. With
the triumph of the Summerisle apples, came the capital for more
improvements, just as he had hoped." 

"What's that ahead?" Doyle asked, pointing to the circle of stones he had
passed earlier that day on the way to the castle. He had noticed them
then, but had been too abstracted to stop and investigate. 

Summerisle's smile was delighted. "I was rather hoping you would be
interested. To understand my island, you must understand the very bedrock
of our society. Follow me, my dear Ray." 

He urged his mount to a gallop, but Doyle followed at a slower pace. His
side was already beginning to ache with the strain and he didn't intend to
push the barely-healed surgery any more than he absolutely had to. As it
was, he had sincere doubts that the doc at HQ would have approved this
ride in the first place. But it was obvious that the best method of
obtaining the answers he needed was to stick close to Lord Summerisle and
keep him talking. 

The man was shrewd, Doyle granted him that, but he also had the egotism of
the megalomaniac that he was. He was convinced of his own invulnerability.
It would have been stranger, perhaps, if he was not, considering his
upbringing and the manner of his life here. His family had been the sole
rule on this island for generations, with total control of everything and
everyone on it--no matter how soft the glove of the iron hand.
Fortunately, this very vanity offered Doyle his greatest chance of
puncturing through the facade of Summerisle to the truth. 

Doyle was, moreover, beginning to catch a glimmer of the Lord's real
interest in him. What he'd passed off as upper class affectation, became
more pronounced as the afternoon wore on. The familiar use of his first
name had irritated him at first, interpreting it as a type of cut--a means
of putting him in his place like an unruly servant. But after awhile, he
noticed the manner in which it was said; the softening of the dark eyes
when they touched on him. It didn't bother Doyle unduly however. He had
dealt with rich faggots before, and he wasn't above stringing them along
to a certain point, if he could see some use to it. 

Summerisle had dismounted and was standing beside what seemed to be the
entrance to the area. The circle was large, with some of the stones
slightly tilted and settled into the ground by their sheer weight and age.
Some were capped by equally large stones. 

Doyle got off his horse, relieved at the opportunity to stretch his
cramped legs. "It's like Stonehenge," he commented. 

"Of course. It is from much the same period. Built somewhat later,
perhaps, but erected for the same purpose." 

"Which was?" 

"Worship of the original gods. The forces of nature. The true powers of
life." 

Doyle wandered around the grassy ring, stopping to touch the smooth sides
of the stones, warm in the sunlight. "It's fantastic," he breathed, awed
in spite of himself by the sheer primeval aura they exuded. He noticed a
good-sized firepit at the centre of the area. It still held lumps of
charred and crumbling wood. Doyle looked questioningly towards the Lord.
"I take it you were talking about this place being used for ceremonies in
the past." 

The dark eyes twinkled, mischievously. "Why would you assume that?" 

Doyle's eyes widened. "You mean that they still do? Dance around fires and
all that rot? And you let them?" 

Summerisle chuckled. "I have even been known to participate. Ah, I see
that you are shocked by the concept." 

"Well, it is a bit outdated. And you don't strike me as the superstitious
type." 

"You are correct; I am not." 

"You're not saying these people really BELIEVE this trash, are you?" 

"Raymond, Raymond," Summerisle reproved with mock seriousness. "It is
considered rude to disparage another's religion. Especially if you are
standing on one of their holy places." 

Doyle couldn't be sure if he was being had; with Summerisle it was
sometimes difficult to be sure. 

Noting the sceptical expression, Summerisle continued, "My grandfather
actively encouraged the islanders' faith in the living forces of nature.
He introduced--or should I say, reintroduced?--them to the old gods. It
made all the difference in their dour, unhappy life. Gave them a purpose,
a joy in living that the Calvinistic oppression of the Church could never
offer. The Christian religion taught them that suffering was holy, that
hunger and poverty were payments for...what is it?...ah, yes, 'original
sin.' Amusing term, that. Dooming a soul as soon as the head departs the
womb." He shook his head in amusement. 

"And they consider paganism barbaric. And this Christian dogma also deemed
sex as evil and the pleasure of the flesh as the work of the devil." He
laughed out loud. "What an absurd ideology. Very self-defeating and
counter-productive. The people had no difficulty in comparing the two
faiths and deciding which one had to go. Oh, how they loved the happy,
natural gods of nature; gods which gave them back the right of happiness,
of dancing and singing, of loving and lusting, without blame or fault." 

Doyle was trying to remember what he'd learned in school of Druids and the
Celtic myths, but it was all rather vague and all screwed with witchcraft
and warlocks and magic, and he didn't think that was quite the same thing.
He never really thought of it in terms of a real religion before- - -and
certainly not a living one. "Do you consider all of this to be a
blasphemy?" Summerisle asked lightly. "Some people react badly to the idea
of paganism. It upsets their rigid, civilised view of the world. Does it
bother you, I wonder? Are you so heavily entrenched in the Christian
piety?" 

"Not particularly, no," Doyle replied ruefully. "But I am surprised. I
thought all this died out a thousand years ago." 

"It is the one religion that can never die, my boy, because it is the most
basic, the most true to the very heart and soul of mankind. When man crept
out of the caves to discover fire, his first action was to worship it. And
the sun which gave him light to protect him from the dangers of the night.
And mother earth which gave him sustenance. All of these gave forth
tangible rewards; something other religions are very short of." 

Doyle was absorbed in studying a topiary hedge trimmed in the shape of an
erect phallus. Bemused, he didn't notice the Lord's stealthy approach. He
jumped slightly at the feel of the hand at the back of his neck.
Stiffening instinctively, he kept himself from over- reacting. As Cowley
was so fond of reminding Bodie, people tended to talk better with a full
set of teeth. 

"That's interesting," he commented calmly, trying to ignore the prickles
of unease down his spine. 

Summerisle followed Doyle's gaze to the hedge. "Yes, isn't it? A fancy of
one of the gardeners." His fingers toyed in the curls at the nape of
Doyle's neck. "Do you like it?" 

"Well, there's not much like it in Regent's Park," Doyle replied
noncommittally, moving cautiously out of reach. 

Summerisle indicated his appreciation of the manoeuvre with a wry smile,
but didn't pursue the chase for the moment. 

"I can see you are tired. I have been a most inconsiderate host. We should
return to the house so you can rest before dinner. It will be dusk soon." 

"I must be getting back to the village," Doyle protested. "Bodie--" 

"Will be dining with Willow, I'm certain. There will be plenty of time for
you to visit your friend tomorrow. Please, permit me to offer you the
hospitality of Summerisle House for tonight." 

Doyle hesitated, but it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. It
would give him the chance to do some snooping without Summerisle looking
over his shoulder. He had already decided how to deal with Bodie, and that
would have to wait until morning in any case. 

"Very well. I will accept your invitation with thanks." 

"Marvellous. Shall we go?" 

******

The windows in Doyle's chamber were concealed in a mass of heavy drapery.
The room itself was oppressively luxurious; brocade and silk, the curtains
on the enormous bed embroidered in gold thread that glinted in the
lamplight. Doyle had only read about places like this, and he'd seldom
liked what he'd read. They'd all mostly concerned haunted manors, seduced
virgins or ancient curses. And then there were always the vampire flicks.
They always included castles and candlelight. Difficult to take seriously,
but even more difficult to ignore when you were stuck in the middle of it.
Bodie would have burst a gut laughing at his jumpiness, of course. His
partner had always derived an indecent amount of amusement from Ray's
overactive imagination when it came to things that went bump in the night.


He pushed aside the plush drapes to reach the window, meaning to open the
casement to let in some air that didn't smell of dead violets and old
ghosts. It was a mistake; the open window brought in the scent of apple
blossoms and the sea. He was rapidly becoming sick of apple blossoms. In
fact, he was considering swearing off fruit altogether. Still, the tang of
salt helped, and he took in the cooler air with relief. 

Very faintly, he could hear music; a strange, lilting sound that carried
with the breeze, dancing over the tops of the trees and swirling and
sweeping with the soft movement of the branches, as if the song originated
there. Curious, he knelt on the padded window seat and leaned out further.
Then he saw the light. It caught his eye, golden and red, flickering
brightly in the darkness. A fire, obviously, but it took a second for him
to pin down its location. Figuring its geography in relation to this room,
it had to be in the midst of the stones they had visited, where he'd seen
the remains of an earlier bonfire. 

Sight adjusting to the moonlight, he watched the distant flames with
fascination, seeing the darting shadows that danced before it. 

*So he was telling the truth,* Doyle mused, intrigued, and wondering what
bearing this could have on the other mysteries of Summerisle. What did
Bodie make of this? Did he even know about it? 

He had planned on waiting until much later in the night to attempt another
private exploration of the house; what he had discovered earlier had been
interesting but inconclusive, and he had felt a strange jitteriness that
he had attributed to trying it too early, before the house was settled for
the evening. But now he had something else to check out. Intending to go
out and investigate the ritual in progress, he turned to find his way
silently blocked. 

Summerisle stood in the gap in the drapes, dark eyes glowing. Doyle jerked
back, sitting very suddenly on the window seat. For the half-second before
his heart started again, all he could think of was Dracula. 

But Summerisle's smile showed no fangs, only gentle apology. "I'm so sorry
I startled you. I did knock, but obviously you didn't hear it." 

Doyle swallowed his startlement, feeling a total fool. "No...I was
listening to the music." 

"Ah, yes. You've noticed one of our ceremonies." 

"Is that what it is?" 

"Of course. It's quite lovely actually. One night you must join us. It
would, however, be rude to intrude at this point in the festivities. As a
matter of fact, this particular ceremony is usually restricted to the
women...but they have been known to make exceptions on occasion." 

"What is it about?" Doyle asked warily. He would have liked to have stood,
but Summerisle was still blocking the opening, leaving little room to move
without actually brushing him aside. Instead, he leaned back against the
windowsill, and propped a foot up on the seat, refusing to be intimidated
by the man's height and aura of dark power. He'd let his imagination have
enough run for one night. 

"It is a celebration of fertility. Of fire and passion and moonlight. A
poetic mixture, don't you agree? Fertility is very important to us." 

"You mean, the apples and crops and things." Despite his resolution, Doyle
was becoming nervous again. The eyes that bored into him from above were
hypnotising, disquieting. 

"And people. A closed society such as ours must always be conscious of the
importance of new life, new generations." His hand reached out very slowly
and Doyle watched it, frozen. It touched his cheek with exquisite
gentleness. "Your eyes are very green in the candlelight, Ray." 

Doyle wanted to move, knew he had to move, but for a long, long moment he
found it impossible, pinned by those drowning black eyes and a lassitude
in his muscles. 

Finally, with an abrupt gesture, he jerked the enclosing drapes to one
side and stood. "Don't." 

Summerisle smiled, a soft, knowing smile that sent a small tingle of alarm
through Doyle. "What's wrong, Ray?" 

Doyle blinked, felt dizzy, and knew exactly what was happening. "Okay,
how'd you manage it?" 

"Manage what?" Summerisle, still smiling, approached him with slow, sure
steps. 

Doyle backed away again. "Don't," he said again. 

"Don't touch you? Why not? You like it; I certainly like it. You are a
fascinating creature. Do you find me that unattractive?" 

Doyle grinned drily. "You're not me type." He was starting to feel a
little better now that he understood what was happening to him. It was
only frightening if you didn't understand it. "So, WAS it in the wine?" 

Summerisle stopped. He threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, you are a
clever one. I'm delighted." 

"Obviously not clever enough. I was careful at dinner, but--" 

"Yes, you were. Admirably so. No, it wasn't in the wine. You were too
careful to see that you ate only what came from a common dish and only
what I took. The same with the wine. However, the glass you drank from had
a very light dusting of powder at the bottom, difficult to see by
candlelight." 

"Fortunately I didn't care for the vintage," Doyle replied sharply. His
vision was blurring slightly and his heart was racing, but he knew he
could handle himself even now. "Is this what you've been dosing Bodie
with?" 

"Bodie? Why should I do that?" Summerisle's smile deepened. "He's not MY
type." 

"Stop playing games. Why are you doing this?" 

The smile was gone in an instant. "It is necessary." 

"Just tell me why, dammit!" Frustrated, fighting off the dizzying effect
of the drug, Doyle kicked over a side table, sending assorted silver boxes
and figurines flying. "Did you do the same thing to the Sergeant and David
Campbell? And how many others? Well, did you?!" 

Summerisle ignored the crash. "You are the detective. You find out." He
turned towards the door. 

"Do you honestly think you can get away with this?" Doyle stared at him in
amazement. 

At the door, Summerisle stopped. "In a word, yes. But only assuming that
I'm trying to get away with anything at all." 

"You just drugged me, for chrissakes," Doyle snarled. "And you admitted
it." 

"That's true. But it would be rather difficult to prove, don't you think?"
Summerisle smiled again, eyes raking over Doyle hungrily. "Pity about
tonight, but if you aren't interested..." 

"You mean if I'm not doped enough," Doyle said nastily. "You fuckin'
pervert!" 

Totally unaffected by the insult, Summerisle continued, "...I can wait for
another time. I want your agreement. Your active cooperation, in fact." 

"You'll rot first!" 

"Rape is a very distasteful business, Ray. But if you stay, I don't think
I'll be forced to resort to such extremes." 

"If I--You think I'd stay here? You're madder than I imagined. Unless
you're planning on keeping me prisoner?" 

"Oh, no, of course not. You're quite free to leave, if you wish. IF you
can find transportation off the island. And if you want to leave your
friend. I don't believe he's quite ready to go yet. Perhaps you weren't
able to give him what he needed." 

"Whatever it is, he won't find it here," Doyle snarled. 

Summerisle just smiled. "Pleasant night, Ray. Do try to get some sleep.
You look all done in." 

As the door shut quietly behind the Lord, Doyle stared at it blankly for
several minutes, trying to work out what the hell was happening here. He
knew, without bothering to check, that the door was not locked and that no
one would try to stop him from leaving the house. Summerisle was right;
why should they bother? There was no way off the island without the Lord
finding out, and odds were excellent that all the boats were carefully out
of reach or guarded. Even if he did manage to steal one, he wasn't
positive he would be able to navigate it to the nearest island, especially
in these tricky waters. What he knew about the sea could be jotted down on
a postage stamp. Bodie would probably know, but that all depended on
getting him off whatever drug they were giving him--and convincing him of
the danger here. A danger Doyle couldn't yet pinpoint. The drugging itself
was serious enough, of course, but the reasons behind it went far beyond
an attempted seduction; something darker and more sinister. 

The bottom line at the moment, however, was that Summerisle was also right
on another point. How could he prove any of it? One could hardly call it a
kidnapping, since both of them had come there of their own accord. The
drugs would be out of their systems by the time they got back-- even if
they could establish they hadn't taken them willingly. 

It was at this point Doyle's mind refused to function. It was too
confusing, and he still couldn't fathom a motive to any of it. Doyle's
drug-fogged brain couldn't deal with any more. He curled up on the bed and
fell asleep. 

******

*APRIL 29 *

A pair of trousers fell onto the back of Bodie's head with a plop. He
stirred a bit, but didn't waken. Willow, however, sat up in the bed and
glared at Doyle. 

"What the devil are you doing in here!" 

Doyle ignored her. He poked Bodie brutally in the ribs. "Up, sleeping
beauty." 

Bodie groaned and rolled over. "Eh?" 

"Get UP," Doyle elucidated. "NOW." 

Willow glared at the invader. "Leave him alone! He's tired." 

Doyle raked her with a venomous glance. "I'll just bet he is, sweetheart.
Bodaaay!" he called again, drawling it out in the familiar way that never
failed to get up his partner's nose. 

"What do you want, Doyle?" Bodie demanded sleepily. 

"Stakeout, mate." 

"Stakeout?" Bodie rubbed his eyes, but sat up obediently on the edge of
the bed and fumbled for his trousers. 

Doyle rummaged through the chest of drawers and came up with a black
rollneck sweater, which he also tossed at his partner. "Hurry up," he
added curtly, anxious to be away from here. 

Bodie pulled it on with a mild curse, but as Doyle had counted on, he was
moving out of habit, too sleepy--or still too doped--to think clearly
about what was happening. 

When his head emerged from the sweater, he looked up at Doyle blearily,
reinforcing Doyle's original opinion. His pupils seemed as wide as
saucers; his gaze opaque and dull. Doyle's heart plummeted. Whatever they
were dosing him with, it was more powerful than he'd suspected. Only the
instinctive reaction to the word "stakeout" had any affect at all. 

"Let's go, Bodie." Doyle felt an urgency to run; the strange prickling at
the back of his neck making him aware of the danger here and glad of the
gun under his arm. They couldn't stop him taking Bodie--only Bodie could
do that--but he'd much prefer getting away quickly and cleanly. 

Totally nude, and as self-possessed as if she'd been wearing a suit of
armour, Willow leaped from the bed and confronted Doyle. "I told you to
leave him alone! He doesn't belong to you; he's ours now. Ours!" 

Doyle faced her coldly, her blatant sexuality having no effect on him at
the moment, he was too aware of the hate and ugliness that blazed from her
eyes. 

"Get out of my way," he growled. Her nails were digging in his forearm,
cutting into his flesh, but he didn't throw her off, afraid to spark
Bodie's fogged attention on the intensely nasty little scene at the door.
He couldn't afford to argue or fight with Bodie at this point, had to
concentrate on getting him away quietly and with as little fuss as
possible. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and bent it back slowly,
until she was forced to release him. Obviously, she was just as interested
in keeping Bodie out of it as he was, for she didn't cry out even though
the pressure on her wrist was intense. Tossing a glance at the oblivious
Bodie, she gave ground for the moment, pausing only to snarl a whispered
curse at Doyle. 

Doyle pondered this for a second. He'd expected her to call out to Bodie,
to arouse his protective instincts. Since she did no such thing, it might
mean--he HOPED it meant--that they weren't all that sure of Bodie's
reaction, in spite of the drugs. Had he given them trouble already? 

Bodie stood, touching the edge of the table to steady himself. His other
hand went up to his head. "Christ, mate, I must've had a skinful last
night." 

"Yeh, something like that." 

Willow tried to slip past to Bodie, but Doyle quickly blocked her way,
eyes warning her off. He took Bodie's elbow and tugged him through the
door. 

Bodie pulled back for just long enough to flash Willow an apologetic
smile. "Sorry, luv. Duty calls." 

Leaving a furious Willow at the top of the steps, Doyle managed to steer
his partner out the door without any more difficulty. The sun was barely
up and the square was deserted. For some reason, however, that made Doyle
even more uneasy. This was too simple, and long experience had taught him
to mistrust anything that seemed to go too smoothly. 

Holding fast to Bodie's arm, he pulled him around the corner of the
building to where he'd left the horses he had liberated from the Lord's
stables. 

Bodie stopped short. "What the bloody 'ell are those?" 

"Horses, mate," Doyle said patiently, untying the reins and checking the
tightness of the girth, "they're called horses." 

Bodie rubbed his eyes again. "These are HORSES, Doyle," he informed his
partner. 

"Bodie!" 

"I mean, what the devil are you doing with horses?" 

"You're getting on one, I'm getting on the other, and we're riding off
into the sunrise, partner. Just shut up and mount up." 

"I thought you said it was a stakeout?" 

"So it is." Doyle swung up on his horse, gaze darting around for watchers.
He could still see nothing and no one, and it made him more nervous. "Do
you have your gun, Bodie?" 

"Gun?" Bodie patted his side absently. "No...I must have forgotten it--" 

"Never mind, I've got mine. They've probably hidden it anyway. Will you
get on the bloody horse, Bodie!" 

"Don't like horses," Bodie muttered resentfully, but he did as he was
told. 

"Don't like stakeouts either, do you? All of a piece. Come on, you know
how to ride. Let's go." 

"Barely," Bodie grumbled, but he urged his mount forward after Doyle's. 

Doyle had counted on habit and training working where reason and
explanation would not. Years of being dragged out of bed at a moment's
notice and in various physical states stood in good stead now. The drug
already created a degree of pliability in Bodie's attitude, and Doyle used
that easy compliance to get him away. 

It wasn't until they had passed the boundaries of the village that Bodie
ventured to ask, "Are you going to tell me why we're on horseback?" 

"No motors on the island," Doyle said shortly. 

"Oh." Bodie's drug-fogged mind worked that over for a few minutes before
finally bringing his animal to a stubborn halt. "Wait a minute. Stakeout?
This is bloody ridiculous, Doyle." 

Swinging his horse around, Doyle pulled up alongside Bodie's. "I'll
explain later, okay? We need to get as far as we can--" 

"No. Explain now. Where are we going and why?" 

Doyle gestured to the line of mountains. "Up there." 

"What? That'll take hours." 

"Yes. And we're wasting time." 

Bodie shook his head doubtfully. His eyes looked clearer, but he was still
more than a little foggy. Oddly enough, it didn't prevent his easy
handling of the horse, nor the steadiness of his balance. 

In a way, this in itself worried Doyle a little. He was familiar with a
variety of drugs and their symptoms, but this didn't seem to fall in the
normal categories. After touring Summerisle's extensive and elaborate
laboratory and conservatory, it didn't seem at all unlikely that the Lord
had managed to develop something totally unique. If so, it would be
difficult to predict how sudden withdrawal of the drug would affect Bodie
after two weeks of constant exposure to it. 

"You haven't told me why," Bodie reminded him. 

"I promise I'll explain later. Let's go." 

For a second he was afraid the man would become obstinate and head back to
the village, but Bodie merely shrugged and grinned. "Lead on then." 

They rode for a long time, climbing higher, passing orchards and meadows,
moving up into the area near the foot of the volcanic mountain peaks.
Doyle kept a watch behind them, but could detect no one following. In the
distance, he could just make out the figures of workers in along the dock
and up closer in the fields, but their interest didn't seem directed at
the two men on horseback. It was probably well past ten by the time they
passed into a thin break of trees and the terrain became more difficult
for the horses. 

To Doyle's relief, the scent of pine and fir trees overwhelmed the
fragrance of the orchards below. The air was clear and tangy. 

Bodie pulled up his horse and dismounted. "Okay, Ray, enough is enough.
What's this all about?" The air of easy-going acceptance was beginning to
tatter a bit, showing signs of irritability. 

Doyle had hoped to get farther before Bodie baulked, but the ground was
becoming too rough for the horses in any case, so he also jumped down and
began to uncinch the saddle. "We'll walk from here." 

"Walk? Now, wait a minute," Bodie protested. "I don't like horses, but I
like walking even less. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this
is about." 

Doyle tugged off the saddle and dropped it to the ground before turning to
Bodie. "You've come this far, can't you go a bit more?" 

"Why?" Bodie demanded. 

"Because I'm asking you to," Doyle answered simply, too tired to put much
force behind the request. 

Bodie blinked. "Okay. See? All I wanted was a reasonable explanation." He
smiled sweetly at the smaller man, and turned to remove his own saddle. "I
just hope you've brought some grub, because I'm starving." 

Doyle felt it wiser to reserve comment on that, but was cheered by Bodie's
obvious trust in him. 

"What do we do with the horses?" Bodie asked. 

"Let'm go." Doyle took off the bridle and smacked the horse smartly on the
rump, then repeated the action with Bodie's. "Don't know how long we'll be
up here. Can't leave them tied, can we?" 

Bodie studied him silently for a moment. "Ray, what are you afraid of?" 

"I'm not sure," Doyle admitted wearily, hardly able to justify the
overwhelming urge to run as far and fast as he could even to himself.
Right now, it concerned more than getting Bodie away long enough to
counteract the drugs; it was a sudden, irrational fear, like an animal
sensing the presence of a trap. He sighed. "But you're right...I am
scared." 

"Ray--" 

"Not now, Bodie." He piled the saddles in a small depression and covered
them with fallen branches, then picked up the blankets and satchel he had
brought with them. Bodie watched him without comment. Doyle glanced at
him. "Ready?" 

"Ray, you know they can find us if they want to. Running won't help
anything." 

Doyle turned to stare at him, a little startled by the comment. Bodie's
eyes were strange--sad and confused and defeated all at once. 

"It'll help ME. It'll help you, too, mate. The drug is starting to clear
now, isn't it? You're beginning to remember, aren't you?" 

The blue eyes closed and he shivered slightly. "They'll find us, no
trouble. They know this place, we don't." 

"Yeah, well there's no sense in making it easy for them, is there? Bodie?"
He touched his arm and Bodie jumped back. "Easy, sunshine, it's just me.
You okay?" 

Bodie nodded. 

Doyle started to say more, but the closed expression on Bodie's face made
him hold his tongue. It was too early. It might be hours before the main
effects of the drug began to dissipate. 

"Let's go," he said quietly, setting off high into the trees. After a
moment, Bodie followed. 

******

They climbed up through the woods for another hour or so, until Doyle
decided they had gone far enough--or as far as he was able at the moment.
Pine trees surrounded the tiny glade and sunlight glinted on a clear,
bubbling stream. At least they would have water, and judging by the way
Bodie dropped down on the bank to eagerly cup up a drink in his hands, it
was none too soon. Doyle let everything fall and copied his partner,
thinking that nothing had ever tasted so wonderful. 

It was just as well they found a suitable place to settle when they did.
Doyle was on his last legs; the effects of the drug, mild as they were,
had long worn off, but in its place was a vague sense of depression
superseding even the intangible fear and urge to run he'd felt earlier.
Even the conscious knowledge that it was mostly the aftermath of the drug,
didn't prevent the weight of sadness he felt. 

He glanced at Bodie, worried at the possibilities inherent in the sudden
withdrawal. Already, Bodie had been far too quiet for too long. The
earlier irritability had subsided, leaving Bodie hardly more than a silent
shadow that followed Doyle robotically. 

Doyle knew he needed to rest now if he was to deal with the inevitably
unpleasant hours to come. 

He spread out the folded blanket and put the pack down as a pillow. "I'm
knackered. We'll stay here." 

Bodie stood over him, eyes dark and desolate. "No...not far enough." 

Doyle sat up, barely catching the soft, pensive voice. But the eyes
frightened him; troubled and spiritless, they were dark as shrouds.
"There's no point in going farther right now. Sit down, mate. Rest." 

"They'll find us, y'know," Bodie said matter-of- factly. 

"So you said. Bodie, what have they done to you?" 

The eyes blinked, and he shook his head. "Nothing. I'm hungry, Ray." 

"Yes, I'm sorry. But I've only got a bit of bread and a few apples. I was
afraid the rest would be drugged." 

"No apples!" 

Doyle started slightly at the sudden vehemence. "All right, you don't have
to eat them. I'm not sure I could swallow one meself, come to think of
it." 

Bodie didn't answer, but he dug in the bag and pulled out the bread Doyle
had nicked from the kitchen. He chewed it thoughtfully, glancing around
the tiny clearing as if he was finally seeing it. Taking a deep breath, he
sat down near Doyle. "Pretty here. Smells good." 

"At least it doesn't smell like damn apple blossoms," Doyle replied
bitterly, settling his head in the crook of his arm. "I hate this place,
Bodie. It's rotten. Really rotten. Last night...." 

Bodie turned to him abruptly. "What about last night?" 

The question was sharp and attentive, almost like the Bodie he knew. "I'm
not sure. It's all rather hazy now. I was drugged; I remember that much.
But the rest...it's odd, but it seems as much a dream as real.
Summerisle...." 

In the sunlight that slipped through the break in the tree, Bodie's eyes
were now deep blue and very piercing, demanding an answer. 

Doyle found it impossible to speak of the fantasy enchanter of the night,
the vampire after something far different than his blood. How could he be
sure any of it was real? Only the sense of danger haunted him, drove him
to flee, running from a phantom that could have caught them with a snap of
his elegant fingers. 

"Ray?" 

Brought back to the present, Doyle only shrugged one shoulder and nuzzled
back into the crook of his arm, too weary to think about it at the moment.
"Do you want me to explain why we're here?" he offered instead. 

Bodie's eyes shuttered and he stuffed the bread back into the sack, barely
touched. "No. I know why we're here." 

"Do you?" Doyle countered softly. 

But the other man ignored the question. "Tell me what happened to you last
night." 

Doyle sighed and shut his eyes. 

"Not now, Bodie. I'm too out of it to know what's going on. I have to
sleep for awhile. Maybe I'll wake up and this'll all have been a bad
dream. You'll be okay on your own for a bit, won't you?" 

"Ray--" Bodie bit back what he started to say. "Sure, I'll be okay...you
rest." 

But Doyle had already slipped into an uneasy sleep, filled with poison
apples and voluptuous blondes with pointed teeth. 

******

When he woke, it was late afternoon. The glade was silent except for the
burble of water over rough stones and the call of an eagle overhead. For a
second, he was fascinated, watching it soar and dance in the narrow
half-circle overhead. He knew little about birds, but this was definitely
an eagle and somehow he sensed that, like everything else on Summerisle,
this was a rare and carefully-cultured breed. He remembered the cliffs
behind the castle where Summerisle had shown him a species of bird that
was supposedly extinct to the rest of the world. Here, safe from the
ravages of man, it still survived. 

There is true beauty here, he thought suddenly, and an appreciation for
things long past. There is, so close to the darkness, a light in this
place, a knowledge and love of nature that had all but been surrendered
elsewhere. It confused and alarmed him, being so unexpectedly torn between
right and wrong; a wrong he'd only sensed and a right he'd only just
discovered. He'd been so engrossed in the retrieval of Bodie, he'd been
essentially blind to the rest. But it was there, in his subconscious, in
his soul. Summerisle's words had not been hollow or ignorant. And his
arrogance was the product of success as much as birth. This island was
alive because of him and because of his ancestors before him. 

A paradise, yes. But at what cost? 

The question nagged at Doyle, as always. The copper in him feeling the
wrongness; the cynic unwilling to accept perfection. 

And Bodie? How to explain his earlier eagerness to stay here? Or more
importantly, how to understand the defeat and terror he'd read in his eyes
that morning? Bodie was not a man easily driven to either. 

*Bodie.* 

Electrified by the thought, Doyle sat up, abandoning the eagle and his
meditation. At first, he saw nothing and his heart pounded furiously with
guilt and fear. He shouldn't have slept--Bodie needed him.... Then he saw
the figure standing by the stream, his back to Doyle. 

He stood up and nearly tripped over the notebook. For a second, he
couldn't remember what it was; then he remembered his silent foray through
the upper levels of the castle the night before. Or perhaps not so silent.
Now that he knew he had been drugged, he wasn't sure he could trust any of
his perceptions. Perhaps Summerisle or one of his servants had been
watching him the entire time. It seemed probable. Yet he'd obviously been
allowed to take this. 

With another glance to the still form by the stream, Doyle stooped to pick
up the notebook. He'd found it impossible to read the scrawled handwriting
by candlelight and had saved it for morning. It was the articles around it
that had moved him to take it: photos, tucked neatly in folders; pictures
of young girls in white dresses standing by heaped mounds of fruit and
vegetables; pictures of odd swords and erotic imagery. And pictures of two
men, also dressed in white, also involved in some ceremony; but only one
looked content with the idea. The other, the older man, was quite
obviously terrified--or offended. Oddly enough, it was difficult to tell
which. But it was enough to make Doyle grab both the photos and the
notebook when he'd heard footsteps on the stairs. It turned out to be only
Broom dousing the lamps in the upper corridor, but Doyle had felt both too
weary and yet too nervously unsettled to attempt more scouting that night.
Nearly everything after that point was rather dim. He could hardly
remember making it back to his room. 

Now, he knew he had been drugged. How he knew that was still a bit hazy,
but having been familiar with the effects from both his rebel years as an
East End terror, and to a greater extent, witnessing the effects on others
when he had been on the Drugs Squad, he realised that had to have been the
case. 

"Bodie?" he called softly. The other man didn't react. Doyle moved to
stand beside him. "How are you feeling?" 

Bodie still didn't respond. 

Doyle touched his arm. "Bodie--" 

Abruptly, Bodie swung around and pushed him, hard. "Stay away from me,
damn you!" 

"Why? What's wrong?" 

Bodie's eyes were wild, stormy dark and full of anguish and frustrated
anger. "You've done what you've had to do, haven't you? Made me see...made
me know.... Just leave me alone." 

"See what? Bodie, explain--" 

Bodie stared at him, and for the first time, Doyle felt the scorch of
hatred directly solely at him. "I was happy here, happy! For a few moments
I belonged. I was needed. Not as a killer, not as someone handy with a
shooter or a blade, but as a man. Maybe I was wrong--all right, I was
wrong about it all!--but did it have to be YOU to show it to me? Did you
have to prove you were better than me? Damn your eyes, Doyle, can't you
leave well enough alone? For just a little I felt needed
here...wanted...." 

"But needed for what, Bodie," Doyle interjected tartly. "Can you tell me
that?" 

Bodie's shoulders slumped. "Does it matter? It's more than I felt anywhere
else." 

Doyle took a hesitant step forward. "I need you." 

The other man just shook his head. "Too late, Ray...." 

Provoked, Doyle snapped, "Didn't know there was a time limit! What's all
this crap? You really think it'd have been better to leave you here,
cheerfully doped to the gills? All right, you think I'm a selfish bastard,
and you've probably sussed me out right on target. But you damn well
better be glad I am; because there's more going on in this sickly sweet
paradise than growing a few rotten apples!" 

Bodie spun around, furious. "Yeh, there probably is. How nice for you,
Sherlock. Figured it all out, haven't you. Come to save my bacon. Ossifer
Doyle to the rescue! Christ, it's a bloody wonder I can zip me trousers by
myself. Or maybe you'd prefer to check it out yourself? God, I can't stand
this!" 

Stunned, Doyle regarded him in silence, unable to understand most of the
tirade. Bodie was beginning to run on a familiar pattern for
withdrawal--irritation and depression, followed by aggression and anger,
blame, rejection. What was next, self-hatred? "Bodie, listen to me. You
were drugged--" 

"Does it matter?" Bodie snapped. "I fucked up, didn't I? I fell for the
ultimate swindle, the most seductive con in the world--I wanted to be
happy. Wanted to be..." his voice cracked suddenly, "...loved. Stupid,
stupid...stupid!" His clenched fist impacted with his forehead on each
word. 

Doyle caught his arm. "No! Listen--" 

Bodie jerked away violently. "Don't touch me!" 

Doyle backed away, very conscious of the fact that Bodie was on the
downslide of what portended to be a very nasty withdrawal. He'd seen it
before too many times; only this time, since he couldn't pin down the
drug, it was impossible to predict the ultimate reaction. 

"Bodie, calm down just for a second. I'm your friend, remember? What have
you found out? You think I know, but I don't. I'm still only guessing.
Help me out." 

Bodie, engrossed in studying some distant nightmare that Doyle could only
imagine, turned to him slowly. "What do you want to know?" 

"They drugged you, didn't they?" Doyle asked, sticking with the one thing
he was sure Bodie would no longer try to deny. 

Bodie laughed harshly. "Oh yes, they did that. Among other things." 

"What things?" 

The expression in Bodie's eyes as they met his sent a sudden cold ripple
up Doyle's spine. "Bodie, please! What did they do?" 

Bodie turned back to stare into the clear, burbling water. "They loved
me," he said simply. Then, almost as an afterthought, "They used me. They
hurt me." 

"How?" Doyle said intently. "How did they hurt you?" 

Bodie glanced at him with a kind of strange sympathy. "Don't you know?
Finding out I was being used. That I wasn't wanted for me, but for what I
could give them." 

"What?" Totally bewildered, Doyle grabbed his arms and swung him around.
"You said they hurt you? How...?" He trailed off as Bodie stared down at
him, eyes suddenly both scornful and filled with pity. *Pity?* 

"You just don't understand, do you? Never figured you would. That's what
hurts the most y'see. More than anything. Givin' and giving and gettin'
nothing back. But how could you see it? Oh, god, not you. You're the
specialist in takin', ain't you?" 

Bodie didn't move a muscle, but it felt like an electric shock breaking
Doyle's hold. He felt the rejection like a fist in the gut, for once
really seeing the deeply-buried resentment in Bodie. 

Standing there breathless, he couldn't answer. Wasn't sure he quite
grasped it even now. But he was haunted by a vague, will-o'-wisp promise
to himself to "make it all up to Bodie...someday." 

"What do you want from me, Bodie," he finally managed hoarsely. "Tell me
what you want." 

Bodie, seemingly bored with the conversation, or with life in general,
merely shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. Never did, I suppose. A bit of
yourself, maybe. A bit of you that was only for me, that only I could
reach." He smiled wryly. "But you're too democratic for that, aren't you.
Treat everyone the same; chance acquaintances, total strangers, even
snitches and the occasional villain can catch at that overworked
conscience of yours...get your sympathy, a bit of charity." He paused for
a second, then smiled ruefully. "No, that's not quite right. Capitalist is
more like it. You capitalise on your assets. Parcel it out special, don't
you? Dependin' on what you get back." 

"No." Doyle's denial sounded weak to his own ears. 

After a moment, Bodie turned to him, somehow seeing and noting the pale,
startled face. "Maybe that's it. Maybe I've just never been able to figure
you out. Nobody really owns a cat, do they?" 

Totally lost now, Doyle just stared at him, wondering what could be going
on behind those deep, agonised eyes. Bodie shrugged, "It's okay, Ray.
Don't go off on a guilt trip. You can't help what you are. I've never
blamed you--ever. My fault, being such a pushover. Mush inside where
you're concerned. Cowley told me that once, and I've been trying to prove
him wrong ever since. Only with you I fuck up. Only with you, I can't keep
up the wall. Not your fault, mine. I guess...guess I just needed somebody
and you were elected without your even opting to be in the running. I
can't help it, and you can't help it, so there it is." 

"Bodie--" Totally stunned and unable to deal with the magnitude of what
was being put before him, Doyle faltered. He cared for Bodie deeply--
obviously--but Bodie was talking more than caring, he was talking love.
Doyle, who tended to jump headlong into emotional whirlpools, was
suddenly, inexplicably shy. Hell, he was terrified. Exactly how far off
was this from what Summerisle did (or didn't--depending on the view of
reality) offer last night? Was it what Bodie meant at all? Brotherhood,
camaraderie, partnership, friendship--Doyle thought he'd already offered
all that freely. It had to be something else. Something deeper and more
definite. Or maybe he was wrong and he hadn't offered enough of any of it.
Subconsciously, he realised he always held something back, some intangible
essence of himself, but he'd always felt he had to--self-defence, caution,
and experience demanded it. 

Bodie patted his arm paternally. "S'okay, son. Let it go." 

"Let it go?" Doyle yelled, taking refuge in anger. "Talk straight, dammit!
What do you want?" 

Bodie smiled sadly. "Nothing, Ray. I gave up wanting long ago." Then,
curiously, "Why did you come here; what really made you come after me? I
was happy, y'know. For awhile. Until I found out. And even then, most of
the time, I couldn't think about it or deal with it. When I could--" His
face darkened suddenly, and he turned away, shivering. 

"What, Bodie?" Doyle clung to something more understandable at the moment.
"What have they done to you?" 

Bodie rubbed his eyes painfully. "Can't remember too well...it's...but it
hurt...it scared me." He hunched his shoulders as if ashamed. "I was
afraid, Ray. Really afraid. They would do it--I know they would do it; as
if I was no more than...." 

"Than what?" Doyle pushed. 

"...an animal. I'm sorry. Sorry. I was scared. Couldn't think." 

"You were drugged, Bodie. That's why you couldn't think. Tell me what you
know now. You know something. Please, tell me!" 

Bodie shrugged and turned away. "It's in the book. Read it. I read it,
while you were asleep--or most of it. Enough." 

"Book?" Doyle glanced back at the wind-ruffled pages of the notebook.
"That? What is it, Bodie? What do you know?" 

Like a wounded animal who could take no more, Bodie spun around, holding
Doyle's reaching hands at bay. "Leave me alone! I need time to
think...just...don't touch me!" 

As Bodie started to walk away, Doyle called after him nervously, "Where
are you going?" 

Bodie didn't answer, just continued to move away, his steps faltering and
unsteady, reinforcing the vision of a wounded wolf. 

"Bodie, don't go far, please! Bodie!" 

The man halted, swaying as if drawn forward to a quiet place of sanctuary.
"No...I won't go far." 

Doyle, torn, sensed that Bodie needed to be alone. He was afraid to
follow, but afraid to leave him alone. So he stood still and watched him
slip off down the curve of the stream. It was the wrong time to tell Bodie
how he really felt--even if he could pin it down. Bodie was still coming
off the effects of two weeks of the unknown drug. He could believe
anything or nothing of what Doyle said to him. 

Accustomed to making decisions in an instant, Ray Doyle was suddenly
indecisive, both about what to say and what to do with Bodie. All he could
know for sure was that he would not let him go for long--what that
precisely meant, he wasn't ready to analyse. 

Praying Bodie only needed a bit of privacy, and unwilling, unable (or less
attractively) not brave enough to discover for sure, Doyle turned his
attention to the notebook Bodie had mentioned. He was certain there must
be something in it that had made Bodie realise once and for all that the
island was evil. He suspected Bodie had been on a drug-powered merry-
go-round of contentment, suspicion, faith, doubt, and euphoria for some
time. From his own brief and subtle experience, if he had been
administered the same drug, he knew it to be powerful but ephemeral. It
had the tendency to peak and fade erratically, unlike most other drugs
Doyle was familiar with. The clarity of mind was also strange--and he was
trusting more on Bodie's reactions than his own experience, because the
drug also tended to blur reality once the effect dissipated. It was
impossible to second guess the situation. Heroin would have brought Bodie
down quicker and he would have been physically hurting, which he
wasn't--emotionally, yes, but not physically. Downers would have caused
him to be sluggish and uncoordinated, as would mescaline or amphetamines
once the effect wore off. This was none of those, yet it had the
appearance of several. Summerisle was a scientist, as were his father and
grandfather before him--and a botanist. It was impossible to know what he
had discovered in that laboratory of his, only to helplessly witness the
results. 

Doyle finally picked up the notebook, hardly caring what it said. He
wanted out--wanted Bodie out. For once in his life the eternal copper
couldn't find the energy to care about the possible crime. He was more
concerned with the sick dread of what might yet come. 

He sat down on the blanket and opened the book, leafing through the first
few pages to where the diary actually began--when David Campbell arrived
on the island. 

It was rather slow going at first, a young student intent on scientific
accuracy and dry facts, still a bit pompous with tomes of knowledge
crammed in his head at the University and self-conscious about living up
to what was expected of him. Somewhere, quite early on, however, the tone
of the diary began to alter. The descriptions of the island and the people
began to be less flat and scholarly and more personal. 

Doyle was a bit startled at first that none of the names were familiar;
there was no Lord Summerisle, no Miss Rose or winsome Willow. It occurred
to him finally, that it might be customary to alter names in such studies.
For what Campbell described was surely Summerisle and its people. But
instead of the Lord, there was the erudite high priest, measuring and
weighing the amount of modern civilisation he judged proper for his flock.
There was the cold, unbending high priestess, leaning always on the side
of the old ways with the caution of one who wanted her own limited power
to be felt. And there was the symbolic goddess of fruit, for none to marry
but open to all. Campbell called her Aphrodite, for her beauty as well as
her promiscuous nature. Many pages were devoted to her as the young
anthropologist found cold science less absorbing than the subject. 

*Aphrodite is very helpful to my research. She has taken me out many times
to the various shrines and holy places of their worship. The
churchyard--or "yard" as they prefer to call it-- is relatively
unimportant to them. With their deep belief that the spirit adapts to
other forms after death--animals, fire, water, air--the earthly remains
hold little significance. But I must note their custom of saving the
umbilical cord after birth to be attached to a tree planted on each grave.
Interesting concept suggesting they see birth and death as interchangeable
aspects of life, rather than the more common view as beginning and end.* 

*Another point of interest the lovely Aphrodite explained to me was that
unlike the Druid and Celtic cults of the past, it is the May Day
celebration here on the island that holds the primary importance. It is
then, rather than the more expected Winter Solstice, when sacrifice is
offered to the gods of the field and sea and to the all important god of
the sun. This is most fortunate for myself as the first of May is only a
few days away. Perhaps I will be allowed to observe or, if Aphrodite will
speak for me (and I modestly believe I can talk her into it), participate
as well.* 

The next entry was excitedly scrawled: 

*My wish has been granted! Aphrodite must have spoken to the High Priest
because he called me to the castle and spoke with me for most of the
afternoon. Seeing how devoted I am to the subject, he waxed at great
length on how their religion was founded and the history of the island and
his family. He is a fascinating man; highly educated and logical. But I
found it even more amazing to discover that he believes just as strongly
in the mythology and the spiritual aspects of the cult as the lowest of
his servants. He can speak passionately on the topics of parthenogenesis
and the pantheon of gods and goddesses. I concealed my surprise well
enough to convince him of my sympathy to their ideals. The suggestion he
made to me was a bit shocking at first, of course, but totally
fascinating. I could even understand the logic of his motives in asking my
cooperation. I must admit I was incredibly flattered--not to mention
titillated by the concept. It would be incredibly difficult to maintain a
truly scientific dispassion under the circumstances. Yet what an unequaled
opportunity to examine this unique society. If I have achieved this degree
of acceptance, I can attain access to the most private of their rituals.
It is not an offer I can bring myself to refuse. I hardly dare think what
my father would say, however. Still, I have an ace up my sleeve with which
I can avoid the more permanent consequences of my involvement.* 

A few pages later: 

*Today I helped in the construction of the wicker man. When it is
completed, it will be an incredible edifice, more impressive than I ever
imagined it to be when reading of the ancient rites while back in
Edinburgh. The reality is almost frightening, even knowing that in present
times the offering would be comprised of apples and vegetables and various
animals. I cannot help but remember its original prisoners down the dim
march of time. The men that had met their hideous death in the flames so
that the crops would fruit. Even now, the idea of animals disturbs me
greatly. As a scientist, I know I must remain impartial, but I can't help
but be a bit squeamish. Hopefully, I will be able to conceal it when the
time comes and they set the torch at the base.* 

*I am intrigued by some of the comments of the villagers as we constructed
the figure. Amidst the always present music and song and laughter, there
were wistful comments about the May Day of '73. "Now there was a TRUE May
Day," and eager nods of agreement left me puzzled. "Remember when..." and
then old Lark was nudged to shut him up. I asked what was so special about
that particular May Day. For a moment, they were all silent, then Beech
spoke up to say that the sacrifice brought great bounty that summer. They
all joined in happily to exclaim over the size and sweetness of the
apples, how large and clean the potatoes were, and how the onions grew as
big as melons. I finally gathered that the year of '72 had been very bad,
almost disastrous, and a special sacrifice had been required to revitalise
the island. I tried to question further, but Woodbine started up a rousing
song and everybody joined in. I am determined, however, to discover more
about that wonderful May Day celebration.* 

Soon after, there was another change, more abrupt and slightly more
disturbing. It was difficult to pin down as nothing was specifically
stated; in fact, the diary returned to a more clinical, observant nature,
spelling out in more detail the strange quasi-Celtic religion of the
island. But Doyle sensed a nervousness in the writing, a jerky, uncertain
style that hadn't been there in any of the previous pages--as if the
writer was afraid of being caught out. 

*It can't be true. And if it is, what can I do about it? I'm here to
observe, not to judge. It's only an assumption on my part. No proof. These
people, they couldn't do such a thing. I'm taking them too literally. Must
reconsider.* 

Several pages later, another entry, more ambiguous than the last: 

*So what if they find out? I never intended it to go this far. Never meant
to do any of it. But what a chance to observe, to participate. How can I
be blamed? But they would blame me. An insult to their gods. Father
wouldn't understand. Already they seem suspicious. It's been two months
since I came here; very soon they will know for certain. What will they
do? What they did to the other one? No, I'm just over- reacting. Must
study this rationally.* 

Puzzled, Doyle read on, absorbing more about the island through David
Campbell's notes and interpretations than he had been able to see in the
short time he had been here. The religion was analysed in depth; Campbell
finding it a fascinating bastardisation of several Celtic and
pre-Christian cults. The first Lord Summerisle had obviously carefully
chosen his own particular brand of paganism; leaning heavily on the
fertility aspects. Doyle wondered suddenly if that was all due to his
hunger to make the island bloom, or to his hunger to fulfill his own
lusts. It was quickly apparent that the Lord--or the high priest--took it
upon himself to indoctrinate the post-pubescent youth in the importance of
fertility. Oddly enough, it was not limited to the girls. Any sexual act,
it seemed was an honour to the gods. The act itself a kind of offering. 

Doyle found that difficult to understand for many reasons, until he
discovered the role the high priest played in the scheme of things. He was
in the part of the man/woman, the "teaser." Both as the leader of his
people and the part he was given to play, the Lord had to be all things to
all people. Judging by Doyle's memories of the day before, the present
Lord was more than comfortable with the job. 

There were other things as well, mores and customs Doyle only skimmed--the
custom of sitting naked on the grave of a lost love, planting a tree
between the vee of the legs to signify rebirth; reading portents in the
entrails of animals; the practice of putting a small frog in the mouth to
cure a sore throat. Folk medicines, folk cures, rituals and rites, lived
easily alongside scientific fertilisers, plant grafting, and advanced
experimental cultures. Magazines and newspapers such as The New York Times
and Punch were freely available (although a few months out of date), and
much of the fashion and hair styles were modern--the island even supported
a beauty salon. But there was no electricity, no radios--not even a
wireless. 

Doyle cared little about any of this. He'd already decided Summerisle was
an odd place--and only reluctantly came to realise it wasn't all as bad as
he wanted it to be. The people were happy here; that much couldn't be
denied. But if Summerisle and/or Miss Rose had decided that David Campbell
was a danger to that happiness, they might have felt justified in shutting
him up permanently. Even if he used false names and didn't pinpoint the
location, there was a lot to arouse suspicions. But suspicions of what?
Worshipping weird gods wasn't against the law. Nor was any of the rest of
it, except a few minor health or education violations. Nothing to kill a
man over. 

He read on, wondering what Bodie had seen that had shaken him so. Or maybe
it was something he had already known, but had only now came to realise?
Being stoned out of your mind tended to dull the instincts and sense of
observation. 

Campbell's earlier fear seemed to have faded. His only comment on the
subject, however, was still rather disquieting. 

*They must know by now, but no one has said anything. I was jumping to
conclusions, of course. I'm not sure what I was expecting. The High Priest
spoke to me, asked me if I had known. I saw no reason to lie; he would
have seen right through me. I've never been a very good liar. It was
difficult for a few days; no one would speak to me. I was the invisible
man, shunned and tabooed. I must admit this was the most terrifying time
I've ever spent. For three days I sweated, wondering how to get off the
island, if they would even let me. Ridiculous, of course. Goes to prove
one can't believe too literally the culture one is studying. Instead of
the result I halfway feared, I was punished by being ostracised for a few
days--and a very disturbing punishment it is. My nerves were on end every
minute. Naturally, it all came out at last, and Summerisle even asked me
to stay on until Winter Solstice. I wish I could, this society is
fascinating. I've barely scratched the surface of it. But I do have
commitments elsewhere and I can always return when I have my degree. But
deep inside, I suppose I know I won't ever want to come back to this
place.* 

It wasn't until the last page that the edge of fear returned to the book. 

*I went to the boat this morning. They wouldn't set off--said the sea was
too rough. But they said that yesterday and the weather was calm as it is
today. I don't understand. I thought they had forgiven me. I never meant
to offend them. Why can't they believe that? Why do they want me to stay
for the Winter Solstice? Is that why the boat won't take me back? I keep
remembering the May Day of 1973.* 

*Please god, I just want to go home. I want to see my mother. I'm so tired
of being afraid.* 

Doyle turned the page but it was blank. There was something eerie about
coming to the end of a story so obviously unfinished. Or was it? Had Lord
Summerisle finished it forever? 

It was still very vague proof. Perhaps the handwriting would verify it was
David Campbell's, but the final entry was ambiguous. Doyle could almost
hear the counsel for the defence stating that the alleged could have left
the island on his own, that nowhere in the chronicles did he directly
state he was being kept against his will. With 500 witnesses to back it
up, it would be tough to prove they had lied on that point. Just to get
this back to the mainland would be some degree of proof. Enough to open an
enquiry at the least. 

Doyle blinked as a sliver of sunlight caught him square in the eye. He
looked up, belatedly realising it was beginning to set. Bodie had been
gone for a very long time. 

For over five minutes Doyle wrangled with the idea of going after him. He
had been heading up into the mountains, farther from the village, and
somehow, Doyle knew Bodie would never return there willingly. But he
should have returned here by now. 

Actually, he should never have been let go at all. 

Doyle realised that very clearly, knew he'd been a fool, but also knew he
hadn't been ready to offer Bodie the one thing he obviously needed. He
wasn't sure he was now, if it came to that. But if the island had seduced
Bodie away from him, he was bound to seduce Bodie back if that was what
was necessary to hold him. If that was what Bodie needed from him, it was
a small price to pay. 

Deciding with a very pragmatic, semi-sacrificial air, Doyle headed off in
the direction Bodie had taken earlier, along the bank of the stream. 

He didn't have far to go. Bodie was scarcely a quarter-mile away. Doyle
pushed back a branch to see more clearly. The stream began here, tumbling
from an incredibly tiny fall that cascaded with great power over a steep,
high rockface. The fall was muted by its small size and only the force of
the water through the tiny crevice gave it any ghost of an angry roar. The
sheer walls that surrounded the gush magnified its limited noise to a
sweetly melodic rhythm, like a sonic rush of a bloodstream through an
artery. 

Bodie was seated at the foot of the falls on a wide rock spit that jutted
out over the stream. The mist had settled on him like a cloak. The
sunshine was still alive here, throwing out its last rays between the gaps
of the trees and mountains to the west, creating a prism of rainbows
around the curled figure. 

Apprehensive but enthralled, Doyle moved closer, seeing a Bodie he had
never known. The damp had moulded the trousers and shirt to the strong
body like a second skin, delineating every line and curve of the body like
Greek marble. The shoulders, in themselves, should have seemed over-wide
and the muscles on the back too sleekly defined to be real, but Doyle, the
artist, saw the sweet sweep of line and the despairing but proud carriage
of the spine; knowing all must be phantoms of perfection cast by the
ever-changing light and background, yet true and faultless in that second
of space. Sunshine glistened in the shining cap of dark hair that curled
softly on the collar and around the ears. Droplets gleamed on the strong
throat, the shirt open for once to reveal a wet expanse of bare, muscled
chest. The face seemed more made of stone than the body, only the sun
glinting off the long, lower eyelashes giving the figure a spark of life. 

Doyle stopped, frozen in place. 

Water dropped off the lash and streaked down the fair cheek to meet an
older, more tenuous tear. 

Bodie was crying. 

Doyle wanted to run. To retreat. To hide from this unacceptable show of
emotion. 

*Unacceptable to whom?

To Bodie?* 

Undoubtedly. He wouldn't thank Doyle for witnessing something brought on
by withdrawal from drugs. Something he couldn't help, something he
couldn't control. Thank him? He'd no doubt hate him for it. Bodie, the man
of steel and stone. 

Again the question stubbornly rose in Doyle's mind as he started to back
off. Unacceptable to whom? 

*To me.* 

Doyle sat down suddenly where he was, but the realisation was startling
and unexpected. 

*Bodie can cry. Bodie can hurt. 

Okay, I knew he could hurt. 

I let him hurt...so many times, because it was easier than finding out
what hurt him. 

He's crashing down after being hyped for weeks.... 

He still hurts. 

He'll get over it soon. 

Let him do it by himself? 

He'd want to. 

Would he? 

Would you? 

Alone? 

"You don't need me," is what he had said, is that what he feels? 

God, but I do need him.* 

Still selfish enough to take another look, Doyle found he couldn't look
away. The man was incredibly beautiful. Every feature so nearly perfect,
any more would be blasphemous. Yet he was so distinctively male, to call
him beautiful seemed wrong; to call him handsome, inadequate. Doyle felt
he had been blind for a very long time--for over five years, in fact. Yes,
he'd recognised the attractiveness from the beginning, but that was a
vastly different step from being attracted himself. Now he was caught and
understood belatedly that he'd been trapped for a very long time. Being a
partner didn't cover the way he felt for this man--he'd had other partners
and none of them had had him dancing for their wayward attention when he
briefly lost it. But he had done that for Bodie. Unconsciously turning on
the sex appeal, the tease, the "aren't-I-the-sweetest-game-in-town"
routine, whenever the other man wasted a bit of attention in another
direction. 

Doyle wasn't quite ready to deal with that, but more blatant bits were
coming back with nasty force, and Bodie's words echoed painfully. 

*"You capitalise on your assets...."* 

True? He'd never thought he had that many assets beyond shooting a gun
straighter and more consistently than the next fellow. But physically? All
right, he could turn it on when he wanted to; had seldom met a bird he
couldn't pull--even away from Bodie if it seemed appropriate. But he
couldn't keep them. Flash was one thing, substance was another. It was
Bodie that had trouble shaking them off when he was done, not Doyle. 

Bodie gave to his birds--if not his heart, then his charm, his time, his
imagination. Doyle seldom felt it worth the effort.... 

A sound drew his attention. A small sound, but loud enough to carry over
the fall of the water. He didn't want to look again, didn't want to be
drawn in any more. True, he'd brought Bodie here to clear the dope from
his system, but he hadn't thought beyond that, to what it entailed.
Abashed and guilty, he realised he'd held total strangers through this
stage, helped stinking, useless addicts to kick years-old habits--but this
was HIS Bodie. And he was scared. Scared of not being able to offer what
was needed. 

It wasn't the sex. The sex was easy, if Bodie wanted it. He knew himself
well enough to know the right time and the right person could make
anything possible. No, it was the deeper things that Bodie so obviously
needed that Doyle wasn't sure he could offer. To fail would be worse than
trying. Doyle knew Bodie had been right; guilt was his safety clause--I
tried, I blew it. Hurt for a couple of days (depending on the situation),
and then forget it. Bodie had never had that safety valve. 

The sound came again, impossible to ignore. Less than a sob, too loud to
be a whimper. Bodie was hurting. Deep down in his gut, hurting. And Doyle
was just sitting here contemplating the toes of his running shoes. 

Furious with himself for his cowardice, Doyle stood and moved purposefully
towards the ledge. Bodie was oblivious to his approach. 

Doyle knelt down beside him taking the slumped shoulders in his hands.
"Bodie, stop it! Snap out of it! It wasn't your fault, any of it!" 

Even with the somewhat bruising grip, it took a moment for Bodie to
register his presence. "Go away," he said savagely. "I can't take any
more! You've done enough." 

"What, shown you what a fucked-up place this is? Sorry, but that's my job.
Your job is to get your head straight, sunshine." 

"No more sunshine..." Bodie murmured desolately. 

Doyle pulled back at what seemed a complete non sequitur. "Eh?" 

"Almost gone now," Bodie continued vaguely, looking up at the sliver of
sky through the trees. "No more sunshine." 

Doyle watched as the last glimmer slipped over the barren rocks and left a
pale twilight. "Yeah, well, we'd better get back to where I left the
blankets, hadn't we? You've practically soaked yourself to the skin. I'll
see if I can fix up a fire, dry you out, okay?" 

Bodie jerked away from him, doubling over, face buried in his knees, arms
wrapped tightly around his legs. "Leave me alone! I can't handle this
right now!" 

"You mean, you can't handle me?" 

Bodie didn't look up. "Yes...no...go away." 

"Not a chance. You're my partner and I'm stuck with you, aren't I? We'll
just have to make the best of it." 

"Ray, stop. Just go away. I...." His voice broke and he hugged his head
tighter, keeping the world out. 

"You were drugged, Bodie," Doyle said angrily. "It wasn't your fault.
Think about it. Just stop and think about it, will you?" 

Bodie tried to squirm away from the embrace. "I've ruined it all," he
mumbled. "The job.... Never finished it. Never tried.... Disappointed
Cowley...you. All my life, I've screwed up...this is the worst.... Oh,
Ray. I've lost it all...what little I had...gone...." 

"That's not true! You haven't lost a damn thing. Please don't do this to
yourself. It's the drugs, dammit. Don't let them win!" 

His answer was a whimper of unbearable pain. "They already did, Ray...long
time ago. Couldn't fight.... Didn't know what I was fighting...." 

"So now you know," Doyle said sharply, hoping it was true. He still wasn't
sure himself. "So let's figure out what to do about it. Come on and get up
before I get as wet as you." 

"Just go away, Ray, go away.... They'll let you go...." 

"Not without you!" Doyle tugged uselessly at his arm feeling the tense
trembling in the muscles that had nothing to do with the damp. "I love
you, dammit!" 

For some reason, that broke Bodie completely. He began to sob hopelessly,
painfully, shoulders shuddering in Doyle's grip. 

Doyle held him tightly. "Okay, go on, have a cry. Get it out. I love you,
Bodie. I've said it, and you'd damn well better believe it. Don't say it
to just anyone y'know. You wanted to know why I came after you, and now
you know. Didn't know it meself, did I? Not straight out, anyway. Just
knew I couldn't let you go. Well I'm not. I'm not letting you go ever. You
hear that? You dumb bastard; I thought you always knew what I was on about
before I did. Why the bloody hell didn't you just tell me what was going
on with us, if you knew it before me? You know I'm not so quick on the
uptake sometimes. Can't see the forest for the trees--god knows you're big
as a bloody tree...." 

Doyle knew he was prattling on, that he hardly knew what he was talking
about himself, but he was finding it difficult to deal with this torrent
of pain from a man who never released it. 

Odd, he could remember other times--Bodie holding him while he cried after
Ann Holly walked out. Sobbing like a bloody baby. And so many other times,
when it was just a comforting arm and a cheery word, easily offered from
Bodie's normally caustic lips. Bodie could be so damn gentle; easy to
overlook when faced with the everyday slick cynicism, but impossible to
really forget. 

Now, put on the other end for once, Doyle didn't feel adequate. A wave of
emotion hit him that was so intense he felt dizzy from the force of it.
God, he loved this man; a man who obviously didn't think himself worth
being loved. 

Well, he'd never thought he loved Bodie for his sense. 

"Bodie, are you hearing any of this? Do you know what I'm saying?" He
rocked him silently in his arms, waiting for the storm to pass, hoping
something had got through, that Bodie knew that he did love him; that all
the harshness and snappishness had been ignorance, not rejection. He
didn't think that he could ever have rejected Bodie--even in the
beginning. 

The emotional tempest died out fairly quickly, the harsh sobs quieted.
Even if it was twenty years of pain escaping at long last, Bodie, being
the man he was, kept it to a minimum. The body was still trembling
violently, but it was partly chill, partly the effort to hold himself in
check. 

"Bodie?" Doyle offered tentatively. From desperately wishing Bodie would
calm, Doyle suddenly felt it was over too quickly, too easily. He hadn't
been certain how to deal with the breakdown, but he knew less how to deal
with a withdrawal. 

The dark head lifted slowly. The face was streaked with tears, the eyes
reddened. He sniffed and shuddered again. "Sorry. That was a daft thing to
do." 

"Don't be stupid," Doyle said kindly. "Wipe your nose." 

Bodie grinned fleetingly. "On me sleeve? Not ready to sink to your
standard, son." 

Doyle smiled back, rather shakily. "Use mine then?" he offered lightly. 

Bodie laughed. It was weak and fleeting, but it was a genuine laugh, and
it did Doyle's heart a world of good. "Thanks anyway." He dug in his
pocket and drew out a somewhat soggy handkerchief. "This'll do." He blew
his nose and tucked it back. "Christ, I feel a fool." 

In the gathering twilight, Doyle recognised the despairing expression. He
couldn't let it continue and spread like a cancer to eat away all the
truths they'd discovered. So easy to let all this pass--and Bodie would
let it. Turn back the clock to a more sober, sane time. But Doyle knew he
couldn't settle for that now. 

The other man turned to look at him reluctantly, obviously afraid of what
he would see. 

Doyle leaned forward and touched his mouth with his own. No more than a
brush of the lips, but the blue eyes lit with a surprised glow. 

"Why...did you do that?" he asked breathlessly. 

"Didn't you hear anything I said?" 

Bodie looked down in confusion. "You don't have to--" 

"Shut up, dammit!" Doyle pulled his head back up and kissed him again,
more decisively; forgetting the compassion and concentrating on how he
really felt for Bodie--remembering the rainbows and the water sparkles in
his hair. 

After a split second of hesitation, Bodie returned the kiss, admitting
Doyle's tongue, accepting the hands that pulled him down on the flat rock,
the fingers tangling with his shirt buttons. 

For several minutes they were caught in the newness, held by the heat of
the other's embrace. But as a light gust of wind caused Bodie to shiver in
the damp, Doyle finally drew away. It was very nearly dark now, and they
were both quite wet from the mist. Bodie, who'd been sitting within the
circle of spray for what could be hours, was totally soaked. 

"Hey, let's go get warm, shall we?" Doyle suggested gently. 

Bodie seemed loath to let go of what had so surprisingly been put in his
hands, but he nodded, willing to agree to anything Doyle wanted at the
moment. 

Doyle stood and reached a hand to help Bodie up. Together they made their
way through the near dark to where the blankets lay. 

Doyle made Bodie strip off his wet clothes while he found wood for a fire.
Never much of a boy scout, even with the assistance of his butane lighter,
it took some time before Doyle could get a blaze going; in fact, it took a
blanket-wrapped Bodie to finally achieve a blaze that put out a bit of
warmth. 

Doyle's clothes were more damp than wet, so he avoided removing them since
there were only two blankets at hand, and one was needed to cushion the
pine needles. Bodie, seeing the problem, ordered him to "get 'em off and
share the blanket." Since it wasn't far from what Doyle had in mind, he
agreed. 

For awhile, cuddled together under the blanket watching the fire, they
were silent, each trying to guess the other's thoughts. Doyle was afraid
to say anything, afraid he had pushed too much already. The drug was
apparently clearing from Bodie's system, but it seemed a poor time to make
any kind of declaration. The kiss had been erotic enough, but it wasn't
the kind of thing you could make assumptions on. Only a few hours ago,
Bodie had literally hated him. Now he was down, needing something as a
buoy to keep him from falling farther. Taking advantage of that for his
own needs seemed as selfish as Bodie had accused him of being. 

"Ray," Bodie said softly, startling him. "Can I kiss you again?" 

Considering the turmoil that had been rushing through his mind, it seemed
an incredulously innocuous question. He turned his face to Bodie in
relief. 

Again they found themselves clasped together on the ground; this time
without the hindrance of clothing. It made things considerably more
simple. Hands caressed, touched, moved down. Bodie's mouth followed,
kissing the pulse in Ray's throat, nuzzling down farther, his breath hot
against Doyle's skin. His hand slid between Doyle's thighs, and the legs
parted instinctively to encourage exploration. Doyle's breath caught as
the lips settled over his nipple, tongue and teeth teasing hungrily. 

The fire they'd built was burning merrily now-- both the one at their feet
and the one in their blood. 

Bodie licked along Doyle's cock, waiting for the moan to reward his
efforts. He took the shaft in his mouth and sucked softly, tongue lapping
at the head. Doyle's hands reached down helplessly to take hold in the
silky hair, afraid the exquisite pleasure would be taken away from him too
quickly. But Bodie was a generous lover, giving long, luxurious moments of
pleasure, waiting only for the signal that the end was very near to draw
off. 

Nearly delirious now, Doyle pushed him down and began mapping his own
territories. Bodie squirmed pleasurably beneath his questing mouth. Doyle
cupped the heavy balls in his hand as he settled on the iron hard arousal.
Bodie, as if afraid of forcing too much, fought back the urge to trap him
there, to reach for the enticing flow of hair that tickled his belly; his
fists clenched at his side, holding himself in leash. But after a moment,
one hand came up to gently entwine in the jumbled curls, more to hopefully
direct the rhythm of the suction than to make Ray take more than he was
able of the pulsing organ. Doyle, sensing Bodie was more familiar with
this than he, was grateful for the patience. For all his eagerness, it was
difficult to take him too deeply into his throat without gagging. But he
was conscious of a need to do so; he wanted all of Bodie, every
centimeter; wanted to hold him, please him. It was all very new in a
practical sense, but incredibly exciting. 

With a sudden groan, Bodie pulled him around, hands gripping at Doyle's
hips to bring his cock within reach. At the feel of the accomplished mouth
drawing him in, Doyle lifted his head for a second in sheer bliss, shocked
at the hot delight that tingled in his balls. He'd been sucked by a
plethora of women, but none had had quite the voracious strength and
ruthless knowledge of the mouth on him now, with its blatant and
overwhelming hunger for what he would ultimately give it. 

He tried to return to Bodie's cock, but felt hopelessly inexperienced, and
too caught up in his own firestorm. Finally, he simply rubbed his cheek
against the stiff flesh and gave way to the sensations in his groin. 

He cried out as he came, the feeling sending vibrating shocks of pleasure
that started in his quivering balls and raced through his nerve ends.
Bodie continued to suck powerfully, drawing and swallowing every drop of
semen; while his finger, at a particularly electrifying point, pushed
cautiously inside Doyle's anus to miraculously prolong the ecstasy to the
point of near pain. It was too much...it shook him to the core and beyond.


It took a long time for Doyle to come down from this peak and he felt limp
and helpless. His mind kept working, however, even if his body seemed to
have temporarily abandoned the use of its muscles. 

Analytical by nature, Doyle was trying to judge rationally if this was
really the best sexual experience of his life, or if it was just the
newness of being with a man, or because the man was Bodie, or because he
hadn't been thinking with more than half a brain for over a week anyway.
He decided that it really didn't matter. It was a man, it was Bodie, and
it was good. He shouldn't be silly enough to be worrying about the whys
and howfors. 

Bodie moved around so they faced each other. Even in the flicker of the
firelight, Doyle recognised the shy diffidence in the other's expression. 

"Are you okay?" Bodie asked softly. 

Doyle closed his eyes, letting his cat-cream smile demonstrate the answer
to the ridiculous question. Bodie kissed the corner of his mouth, then
buried his face against Doyle's throat and held him. Doyle couldn't recall
ever feeling so cherished. 

Curving his arm around the broad back, Doyle stroked the ripple of
muscles, enjoying the satin feel of the fine skin. His fingers grazed over
the rough scar tissue on the shoulder blade. "Never told me how you got
this," he commented vaguely. 

"Africa." 

Amused, Doyle chuckled. "Africa, again, hah? Busy boy, weren't you? While
I was still sniff' glue and nickin' hub caps, you were already playin'
commando in the jungle." 

Bodie stiffened. "What do you want to know, Doyle? If that was where I
learned to suck cock? You're right, it was. Learned a lot of things there,
didn't I? Most of them ugly." 

Cursing himself, Doyle refused to let Bodie pull away. "Don't. Don't run
from me again, dammit. I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that." 

Bodie looked down at him, face hard. "Didn't you?" 

Doyle touched the other's cheek fleetingly. "Bodie, do you remember what I
said to you at the falls? That was something I did mean. I love you. How
do you want me to prove it to you?" 

The long lashes wavered, then closed. Bodie let out a deep breath. "You
don't have to prove anything, Ray. Not ever. Something else I learned in
the jungle--make damn sure you can trust the bloke who guards your back.
I've been trusting you for a very long time, mate. Guess I let that slip
my mind lately, haven't I?" 

Doyle, remembering the harsh impression of puckered skin against his
fingertips, wondered how Bodie had ever brought himself to trust anyone
again. 

Feeling the hardness pressing against his thigh, Doyle belatedly realised
Bodie had still to attain release. Perhaps there was a way to prove how he
felt, whether Bodie needed proof or not. Doyle suddenly wanted to offer
tangible evidence of his own faith in Bodie. 

"Bodie," he whispered, "will you do something for me?" 

The blue eyes opened, huge and bright, reflecting the flames. 

"Fuck me." 

Bodie licked his lips nervously, his gaze searching Doyle's face. "I told
you you didn't need to--" 

"Don't you want to?" Doyle cut in silkily, arching up to brush the hard
flesh. Bodie's breath caught at the sensation, at the siren look in the
green/gold eyes, fire dancing in their depths. 

"I don't want to hurt you," he said hoarsely. 

"So I'll yell if it hurts," Doyle said lightly. "And we'll think of
something else to do. Deal?" 

With a groan, Bodie took Doyle's face in his hands and kissed him
hungrily, settling his body carefully down on the bare line of Doyle's
body. 

Doyle had expected to be a bit scared at this point, nervous at the least,
but to his amazement, he could feel an electric twinge of response in his
own cock--something he thought would have been impossible so soon after
that last incredible session. Still, the weight of Bodie bearing down on
him, the tongue exploring his mouth as the strong hands explored his body,
resurrected the arousal with amazing speed. 

He felt very safe, and very desired. 

Even in his painfully delayed excitement, Bodie was tender in his taking,
careful to bring the smaller man up to his own level of burning. He was
too conscious of the callous initiation of the boy he had once been. Doyle
was not a boy, but there was in him some inviolable touch of innocence,
that stubborn belief of the basic good in people. It was a belief they
could never share, but that Bodie had no wish to further disillusion.
There was plenty of that in their job without adding to it. So, with an
almost inhuman effort, he held back the flood of passion, the compelling
urgency to swiftly take what was so boldly offered. 

Doyle, caught in his own wash of sensation, was oblivious to the moral
struggle, accepting the gentle, tantalising lovemaking as expected from
his Bodie, never considering it might be otherwise. 

Doyle gasped as he felt the first sharp edge of pain as Bodie entered him,
somehow surprised by it. Intellectually, he had known it would hurt, but
neither his body nor his emotions believed it. 

Bodie stopped, nuzzling his neck and cheek. "Okay?" he asked breathlessly,
fingers clenching bruisingly into Doyle's arms, wondering if he would find
the strength to quit if Doyle said no. 

Doyle laughed, albeit a little shakily. "Go on. It's downhill from here,
isn't it?" 

Unable to hold back any longer, Bodie thrust again. Doyle bit his lip
against the piercing pressure, but found it gradually eased as his body
accommodated itself to the invasion. Quicker than he would have dreamed,
he was moving with Bodie, countering each thrust, begging for more. His
own fingers digging into the muscular shoulders, head thrown back in the
delight/pain of the act. 

Bodie's mouth found his, smothering his demand for Bodie to go
harder...faster.... Then he felt--actually felt--Bodie go off inside him;
a new warmth that triggered his own explosion. 

They lay together panting, melded together by Doyle's stickiness. 

Bodie, rather stunned and shaken by how good it was, contrary to popular
belief, to actually get what one had wanted after all, licked Doyle's ear
gratefully. "Next time...your turn...." It was all he could manage at the
moment, but he wanted Doyle to know, to be sure. 

Doyle was so totally and so wonderfully spent he found the suggestion
amusing. "Not just at the moment, thanks," he replied breathlessly. "Take
a rain-check, though." 

"Did I hurt you?" Bodie asked, needing the reassurance. 

"Yes, at first," Doyle replied honestly. "Expected it to, didn't I? Havin'
a cock shoved up your arse can be a new experience for some of us." Seeing
Bodie's crestfallen expression, he took his head in his hands and shook
it. "Don't be daft! I'm very adaptable, or hadn't you noticed? It was
fantastic, mate." 

Bodie sighed and put his head back down on Doyle's shoulder. "I never
expected any of this, y'know. Not really. Had some wet dreams about it,
but--" 

"Did you?" Doyle interjected with interest. 

Bodie grinned. "Shut up, you." He sobered. "Are you sure it's all right,
Ray? That it's what you want?" 

"Actually, I'd rather have Brigitte Bardot and a million pounds, but I
suppose I can settle." 

Bodie raised up on an elbow to look at him. "You're very high, aren't
you?" 

"As a kite, mate," Doyle said happily. "And the only drug around is you." 

Their eyes held for a long time, reading the intense feeling in the other
and returning it in good measure. 

"Fire's burning down," Bodie commented. "Need to add some wood." 

Doyle yawned, "Be my guest. You've worn me out." He watched as Bodie got
up to add some more branches to the dying fire. "Anybody tell you you're
bloody gorgeous?" he enquired sleepily. 

Bodie turned wide, mock-surprised eyes upon him. "No! Really? I've only
been tellin' you that for years. Blind bugger." 

Doyle chuckled. "Shouldn't the 'bugger' part be turned around?" 

Tossing another chunk of wood in the fire, Bodie sat down on the blanket
beside him. "I told you; it'll be mutual. We'll both be buggers. I'll just
be a beautiful one." 

Impulsively, Doyle hugged him. "You are, you know," he said fiercely. 

Bodie stroked the tangled curls. "So're you, Angelfish. Remember who
wanted whom first." 

"Whom?" Doyle chortled. "Your public school education is showin' mate." 

"Don't care what I show with you," Bodie murmured, burying his face in the
riotous hair. "Speaking of showing...I didn't get a good look at your
appendix scar. How is it? I mean, how're you?" 

"I'm okay." 

Bodie pulled back to face him. "You couldn't have been out of the hospital
long. You shouldn't be here at all, should you?" 

"Are you sorry?" Doyle countered. 

Bodie kissed him. "Truthfully, yes and no. This isn't a good place to be,
Ray." 

"So what are we..." he tried to stifle a yawn, but failed, "...going to do
about it?" 

Smiling benevolently, Bodie pushed him back down on the blanket and
covered him up. "You, Raymond, are going to sleep. We'll talk about it in
the morning." 

"But how much do you remember now?" Doyle protested. "Earlier, you seemed
to know--" 

Bodie put his hand over Doyle's mouth. "Shhh. I hardly know what I said
before. I'm still trying to get it all straight myself, and it's making
less and less sense. We're both too tired to think about it now, anyway.
Do you have your gun?" 

"Yes, it's tucked in my shirt." 

Bodie fetched it and checked it in the firelight, clicking it shut when he
was satisfied. He tucked it under the edge of the blanket within easy
reach. Doyle tried to follow his actions, to contribute something
intelligent to their predicament, but his eyes kept falling shut. 

Still, he couldn't quite fall asleep until Bodie lay down again beside him
and he could pillow his head on the broad shoulder. 

******

*APRIL 30 *

Bodie awoke to the music of birds and a wet snort against his breastbone.
Looking down, he found Ray Doyle wrapped securely against his chest,
snuffling occasionally. Bodie touched the flow of tangled curls fondly. 

*My God,* he thought, *Ray loves me.* 

His next thought, none the less vital for being second, was that he was
starving. 

Moving the draped form cautiously from his chest, Bodie found the sack and
located the stale bread. He finished his half rapidly and carefully put
aside the rest for Doyle, although the skinny sod probably wouldn't touch
it. Bodie contemplated the stream for a moment, then glanced back at his
sleeping partner. It was barely dawn, Doyle hated early rising, and as
worn out as the poor golly was, it could be an hour or so before he
stirred. 

With that in mind, Bodie set to work. 

Ninety minutes later, when Doyle finally groaned and stretched to relieve
a kink in his back, Bodie was cooking a trout over the fire he'd built in
the ashes of the one the night before. 

Doyle blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Wha's that?" he croaked, giving a long
sniff. 

Bodie grinned, finding the tousled hair and screwed-up face adorable.
*Have it bad, old son,* he told himself sternly. 

"'S prime rib with fins. Fancy some?" 

Doyle sat up blearily. "Where'd you get it?" 

"They had a sale at Marks & Sparks. Where'd'ya think? The stream." 

"But how?" 

"Speared it, didn't I," Bodie said brightly. "Borrowed your pocket knife
and tied it to a stick--just like in the scout manuals." 

Doyle regarded it doubtfully. "It's awfully small, isn't it?" 

"Well, I like that! Next time, I'll lie abed while you drag in the wild
game for the tent, quemo sabe." 

"Didn't take much draggin' to bring that in, I'd wager." But the gamin
grin indicated that Doyle was finally wide awake. 

"Well, you didn't see the one that got away," Bodie grumbled. "Here, have
a try. Mind the bones." 

Doyle accepted his portion eagerly, mouth watering from a day of
abstinence. He wolfed it down, ignoring Bodie's quick admonition that it
was hot. 

He ate it too rapidly to be sure if it was really good or not, but lied
cheerfully, "It's wonderful. Have any lemon on you?" 

Bodie glared at him. "Don't look a gift fish in the mouth, old son." He
grinned. "Come to think of it, wonder how Angelfish tartar would taste?" 

The green eyes gleamed back wickedly. "Thought you found out last night." 

"I did. Found out it was my favourite dish." 

"Bodie, come here, please." 

Bodie knelt facing him. "I'm here." 

"Are you all right now?" Doyle asked seriously. 

Taking a deep breath, Bodie closed his eyes. "I think so," he answered
flatly, knowing Doyle meant the drugs. "As much as I can be sure." 

"And last night?" 

The blue eyes opened. "You must know it wouldn't clear off that quickly. I
think I was mostly clear; but I probably wasn't." 

"Do you know why I'm asking?" 

"You want to know how much I remember. I'm not sure, Ray. Not all of it.
Maybe not most of it." He cupped the searching face in the palm of his
hands. "Enough, though, Ray. Please god, it's enough." 

Doyle's hands covered Bodie's, brought them down and kissed the palms. "As
long as you remember what's important. That you can't run away from me
anymore." 

They held each other in a bruising grip then that threatened to flow over
into something else. Bodie, however, pulled back. "We've got to get out of
here, Ray." 

Unwilling to give up the sweet feeling, Doyle protested, "We will. We're
together now; we don't have to worry about--" 

"Shhh!" 

Doyle froze. "What is it?" 

"I don't know. Nothing maybe." 

Doyle glanced around the circle of trees, trusting in Bodie's second sense
in such circumstances. Doyle was a city boy; he was out of his element and
knew it. 

"Get dressed," Bodie ordered tersely, reaching for the gun and checking it
yet again. 

Finding his jeans and tugging them on, Doyle asked, "You really think
they're serious about keeping you here? Serious enough to need the
shooter?" 

"What do you think?" Bodie returned, scuffing out the remains of the fire.


"I'm not sure what I think. Haven't been since I got here." Doyle pulled
on his tee shirt. "That's the whole problem isn't it? Half the time I
think I'm imagining things. Maybe I am." 

Bodie stared at him. "Didn't you read the diary?" 

"It's not proof of anything, Bodie." 

"Christ, Doyle, don't you know what he was so afraid of? What he figured
he'd done to offend them so damn much?" 

"No. How can I know? He didn't say. Why are you so sure? Did you break the
same taboo?" 

Bodie laughed shortly. "Oh no, just the opposite, I'd say. I've probably
done a damn fine job for the sons of bitches." 

The helpless fury in his partner's voice puzzled Doyle. Bodie had been
drugged, that was certain. But what else? What gave birth to such
bitterness? 

A voice from the trees responded to Bodie's comment. "Oh you have indeed,
Mister Bodie." 

They both spun around, Bodie ready with the gun. All around them in a
half-circle of the trees, were animals--animals with the bodies of men.
Stags, hares, horses, oxen, wolves, bulls.... 

Dealing with the shock in his usual manner, Bodie said flippantly to
Doyle, "Well, Dr. Doolittle, what do'y reckon this is about, then?" 

Some of the men removed their masks and stepped out farther into the
clearing. One man, who hadn't been wearing a mask at all spoke again,
"Flashing the gun is a bit excessive, isn't it, Bodie?" 

"Let me blow your head off, Summerisle, and I'll give it serious
consideration later." 

"How long have you been here?" Doyle demanded. 

"Long enough. Very touching scene. Male bonding, I believe is the popular
term for it. Sharing danger, excitement, thrills--" 

"What do you want?" Doyle cut him off angrily. 

"Do forgive me. I didn't mean to tread on...shall we say...delicate
ground. As for what I want, I'm afraid we're not quite finished with your
friend. Tomorrow is May Day, and tonight is a particularly important
ceremony. He is the star attraction, as usual, and it's far too late to
find another. I'm sure you'll understand." 

"I understand you're all raving mad!" Doyle shouted. 

"No, they're not, Ray," Bodie said quietly. "It'd be a hell of a lot
easier if they were." 

"Ah, so you'll come with us," Summerisle said smoothly. 

Bodie smiled grimly. "Not on a bet. Go to hell, you bastard." 

"Are you going to shoot us all?" Summerisle asked with curiosity. 

"Not enough bullets for that," Bodie said cheerfully. "But how about if I
start with you?" 

"I would predict you would both be torn apart in approximately five
minutes. There are ten men here with me and fifty more a very short
distance away. One shot would bring them. Now, do be sensible." 

Bodie and Doyle stepped closer together, not risking a glance in the
other's direction--not needing to. "No," Bodie said clearly. "I repeat--go
to hell." 

"I'm disappointed in you, Bodie. You sounded so knowledgeable before, you
must realise we have no hell." 

"I'll be more than happy to introduce you to it," Bodie retorted grimly,
levelling the gun at the Lord. 

A second later, Doyle went down. Startled, Bodie dropped down on a knee
beside him, keeping careful aim on Summerisle. "Ray...Ray!" 

There was a cut on the corner of Doyle's temple, bleeding sluggishly. 

"A stone can be as powerful as a bullet, Bodie," Summerisle commented
softly. "Some of my people are excellent marksmen with slings, as you can
see. But if you insist on more modern firearms, there are at least four
shotguns levelled at your friend at the moment. You can shoot me,
certainly, but there wouldn't be much left of your...lover...ten seconds
later. Drop your gun, Bodie." 

Bodie glanced down at the still, pale figure, his free hand resting on his
chest, only partly comforted by its steady rise and fall. Ray was still
alive, by luck. Somehow he had to keep him that way. 

Bodie dropped the gun and stood, facing Summerisle. "All right, what do
you want?" 

"That's better." Summerisle reached in his coat and withdrew a hypodermic
needle with a flourish. "A bit direct and not at all as poetic or romantic
as our previous efforts, but you and dear Ray have obviously figured out
the methods of our poor scheme, if not the reasons. Clumsy persuasion, but
adequate to our needs." 

At the sight of the needle, Bodie stepped back. "No. No more, damn you." 

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist. You are too dangerous to run free for the
time remaining until May Day. Both of you are. While you may not be able
to find a way off the island, I give you both credit enough to realise
that you could be an extremely disruptive, if not fatal, influence on my
people. I don't choose to take that chance. Pull up your sleeve, Bodie." 

"No...no!" 

"You have no choice, I'm afraid. We still need you. Just for a short
while." 

Sensing a movement behind him, Bodie spun around to see a man with a knife
at Doyle's unconscious throat. Bodie started forward, only to be brought
up short by the man's warning gaze and a tiny trickle of blood running
down to the collar of Doyle's tee shirt. 

Bodie turned to Summerisle. "Don't hurt him!" 

The Lord snapped at his man, "Farrow, be careful. That's enough." 

Farrow seemed reluctant to leave off, and Summerisle's elegant rage was
suddenly directed at him. "I said that's enough." He didn't raise his
voice, but the man lifted the blade reluctantly. 

Summerisle let out a tiny breath, seeming almost as relieved as Bodie. 

"Very well. Now, roll up your sleeve, Bodie." 

Bodie glanced back at his partner, a crumpled form with a knife an inch
from his throat, then back at Summerisle. 

"Promise me you won't hurt him? Swear it." 

"You'd believe me?" Summerisle said in mild surprise. 

"I'd have to, wouldn't I? But you've no reason to lie. You can kill him
and take me anyway, can't you?" 

"That's very true. And you're right. My word is good. My people will not
harm him. He's important to me as well." 

Bodie's head jerked up at that. "What?" 

Summerisle approached with the hypo, measuring it out with a careful eye.
"Now your arm, if I may." 

Suddenly terrified, Bodie froze. "Don't. Why are you doing this?" 

"We are doing this because we must. You are doing it to prevent harm
coming to your friend." A competent hand took his arm and shoved up the
sleeve past the elbow. Bodie closed his eyes, hoping Doyle would
understand his surrender. 

"You swear, Ray will be all right," he said bleakly. "You swear it?" 

"How could we hurt one of our own?" Summerisle responded cryptically,
inserting the needle in the vein. 

Bodie didn't even wince, eyes holding his partner. "Let him go," Bodie
pleaded. "Just let him go." 

Summerisle stepped back and tossed the empty hypo into the grass. "Ah, but
I didn't promise that, did I?" 

Confused, Bodie looked up. "But you said--" 

"I said my men wouldn't hurt him. Nor will they. He is very precious to
me. You are for the island, dear Bodie. Ray is mine." 

"No!" Bodie jumped forward, trying for the Lord's throat, but arms grabbed
and held him fast, arms stronger than his own. 

"Oak, Cedar--take him. You others, help them. Broom, Fallow, bring Doyle
back home." 

"Damn you, no!" Bodie struggled, kicking away one captor, nearly freeing
himself of another, but there were always more to come in their place, and
his fury was fading, draining away as the drug seeped through his
bloodstream. "Please, don't do this...." 

Summerisle ignored him, pausing to stroke the unconscious Doyle's cheek.
"You have the horses near, Broom?" 

"Yes, milord." 

"Be gentle with him. Have the doctor see to his head wound. It doesn't
look dangerous, but head injuries can be tricky." 

"Yes, milord." 

"I'll kill you!" Bodie vowed as he was dragged down. "You bastard, I'll
kill you." 

Summerisle finally favoured him with his attention. "I somehow doubt that,
my handsome friend. But I do you the honour of accepting your reasoning.
He is worth dying for, is he not?" 

******

Doyle's head ached abominably. He felt as if he'd been kicked by a
mule--not that he'd known all that many mules. Groaning, he tried to sit
up, only to have a gentle hand push him back down on the bed. 

The girl at his bedside was unfamiliar. Both pretty and unassuming, she
smiled at him shyly. "Please, sir, don't stir yoursel'. You've had quite a
shock, haven't you?" 

"Who are you?" he asked weakly. 

"I'm Rowan. I found you outside the village and the Lord says I was to
look after you." 

He looked around hazily, fighting the pain in his temple. "Where am I?" 

"His Lordship's manor, sir. We brought you back stone cold, puir thing." 

"What...what happened?" 

"You took a horse from his Lordship's stables this mornin', sir. Old
Harry, he's a mean one, no doubt. Threw you right and proper, he did.
You've been out for hours." 

Doyle put his hand to his head, wincing as he encountered the tender
bruise on his temple. 

"It's past suppertime, sir. You've been out so long, perhaps you'd like a
bit of soup?" 

Despite the ache in his head, the hollow in his stomach made itself felt.
"Yes, please." 

She propped up the pillows behind his back and offered him a bowl and
spoon. He ate hungrily for a few minutes, mind only now beginning to
adjust to the situation. 

He handed her back the bowl thoughtfully. "Where's Bodie?" he asked
suddenly. 

"Bodie?" 

"Yes, dammit! Bodie. Where--" 

"Would you like some cider?" 

"No! I want--" he broke off, lowering his voice to a level acceptable to
his roaring head. "I want to see Bodie." 

"Ah, I see you're finally awake." Summerisle entered the room abruptly.
"How are you feeling?" 

"Where's Bodie?" Doyle demanded. 

"Why, where should he be? At the inn, I suppose." 

Doyle sat up farther in the bed. "Don't play games with me. I want to see
him. Now!" 

Summerisle patted the girl on the shoulder. "Thank you, Rowan. You've been
very helpful. You can go join the ceremony now." He sat down on the chair
Rowan vacated. "You've had a nasty accident, Ray. I wish you had asked
someone to help you choose the horses you wished to borrow. Some of them
are rather difficult to handle." 

"I said, don't play games," Doyle snarled. "I don't have amnesia, if
that's what you're hoping for. It's coming back very clearly now." 

"What is?" 

"You followed us." 

"Of course, we did. I was worried for your safety. You are unfamiliar with
the terrain. It can be dangerous. Especially on horseback." 

"You wanted Bodie back. Why? Now you talk about some ceremony. Is he part
of it? Is that why you drugged him? Is this what you needed him for?" 

Summerisle poured some golden liquid into a glass. "Here. You must be
thirsty. Have some cider. It's very good." 

"No. Where's Bodie?" 

Summerisle's dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "Drink, Ray. Do you want to
see your Bodie? Then, drink." 

Doyle hesitated, but his head still hurt too much to think clearly. He
took the glass and drank, discovering how thirsty he really was. He
drained it. 

"Very good, Ray. Wasn't that easy?" 

Doyle put his hand to his head again, feeling dizzy. The headache was
fading, but in its place was dangerous euphoria. He tried to remember the
glade, the men, Bodie pulling his gun...the rest of it was dim and then
nothing. 

"What time is it?" he mumbled. 

"Late, quite late. You've slept the day away, I'm afraid. I was somewhat
worried, actually. Afraid of a concussion. But Dr. Hawthorne [missing
text] little to be concerned about. It seems you [missing text] what with
one thing and another. A recent operation to remove your appendix, I
understand? Poor lad. Still, the incision has healed admirably." His hand
moved down Doyle's chest to his stomach. 

Doyle jerked away. "Where's Bodie? I've had enough, Summerisle. I wasn't
thrown by a horse, and this is not a game. I don't know what happened to
me, but I do know you have my partner. Now tell me where he is!" 

Summerisle regarded him with amusement. "Yes, I suppose the charade is
over. You want to see your Bodie? Very well, I will take you to him now.
Your clothes are here." 

Doyle pulled them on hastily, mindful of Summerisle's heated gaze. He
paused, steadying himself against the bedpost, the headache nearly
vanished, but something else becoming apparent. "You did it again, didn't
you? Drugged me. God, what a fool." 

"If it's any comfort, most of the drug was in the soup, not the cider. I
couldn't be sure you'd still be hazy enough to accept a drink from me.
Never mind, your headache is better, is it now?" 

Doyle glared at him. "You said you'd take me to Bodie." 

"Yes, indeed. And I promise I will explain everything. Come." 

Doyle followed him bleakly, wondering how he had been caught out again,
wondering how he and Bodie could have handled the entire job so badly.
They'd been taught over and over to expect the unexpected. But the island
of Summerisle hadn't been on anyone's mind. It was a nightmare in a gilded
frame; an insidious evil that twisted perceptions and preyed on trust.
Another knife in Bodie's vulnerable back. 

They didn't have far to go. Only to the circle of stones not distant from
the castle. A bonfire boomed in the centre, and torches lit the edges to
illuminate the sensual scene. It wasn't an orgy--the movements and
carriage of the participants were almost choreographed, graceful and
premeditated. Music filled the night air, lilting, seductive rhythms, lute
and guitar, calling seductively to the dark, almost seeming to draw in the
heavy smell of blossoms to join the rite. Offering it so openly to them,
for them, for the fertility of the fields and the people who tilled them. 

Summerisle pulled Doyle back against one of the stones. "We go no farther.
The circle is sacred to the woman. We can only watch out of sufferance. I
am their priest, and you..." he smiled down at Doyle, "...you can be the
'sorcerer's apprentice' for tonight. Watch and learn what we are about
here. See the reality from which we grow." 

All Doyle could see was Bodie. Naked and erect, he lay sprawled near the
centre of the circle, head pointed to the blazing fire. The women, equally
nude, dancing around him, singing with the music. 

"Take the flame inside you, burn and burn belong Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby strong. 

"Take the flame inside you, burn and burn belie Fire seed and fire feed
make the baby cry. 

"Take the flame inside you, burn and burn begin Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby king." 

Doyle watched as Bodie writhed before them, spurred on by the occasional
brush of a hand against him. 

"He's drugged," Doyle said hoarsely. 

"Of course. But hardly in any pain, as you can see. We need him, Ray. He
is vital to our survival." 

Doyle watched, outraged, as a girl stopped and straddled Bodie's prone
body, settling herself on his cock and moving sensuously against him.
Bodie's hips thrust up powerfully inside her. After a moment, she moved
regretfully off; and hands reached to hold him down, preventing him from
clinging to her. 

"It's a bit like Russian roulette," Summerisle said cheerfully. "They
mount him until the lucky girl receives his offering. He is a symbolic
image, a flesh and blood proxy for the god of fire, you see. Rather a good
one, you must agree." 

Doyle started to step forward, but Summerisle's fingers bit into his arm.
"Don't interfere, Ray. It would be deadly for both you and your Bodie." 

"Why? Why are you doing this?" 

"It's necessary," Summerisle answered flatly. "I wanted you to understand
that. We have a limited gene pool. As a scientist I recognised the danger
of that. For nearly one hundred years the inbreeding has continued. With
no outside blood, we could soon have grave problems. Already the number of
stillbirths and defectives are unacceptable. This is the only way to
counteract the trend." 

"You're mad! There must be a dozen ways better than this--" 

"You're wrong. Any other method would disrupt the beliefs my grandfather
cultivated here as carefully and lovingly as he did his apples. It must
all fit a pattern, an intricate and delicate weave of science and
religion. This satisfies both." 

Bodie's words came back to Doyle. "You're using him. He's nothing but a
stud bull to you." 

"Well, in a practical sense, that's true. But he is quite magnificent, you
must admit." 

"Stop it!" Doyle said viciously. "Let him go!" 

Summerisle jerked him back violently against the stone. "I warned you not
to interfere. You wanted to see him, to understand, so I've showed you." 

Doyle, feeling too lethargic to fight, leaned back against the rock and
closed his eyes wearily. "How long...how long have you been doing this?" 

"Nearly two weeks; since soon after he came. Rose was quick to point out
the advantages in his selection. She has quite an eye for breeding
material. I must admit, I had my doubts at first. He was quite difficult
to handle. I had to double the dose of drug. He has a very strong mind;
extremely stubborn." 

"Weren't you worried the drug would effect the...offspring?" Doyle asked
bitterly. 

"Oh no. A mere two weeks' exposure wouldn't damage the semen. And after
tonight, there's no problem." 

Doyle's eyes opened. "Why?" 

"It's the last night. Tomorrow is May Day," Summerisle answered, as if
that explained everything. 

Doyle looked back at Bodie as another woman offered herself to his
increasingly frantic embrace. "You said he gave you trouble?" 

"Oh yes, at first. The drug wasn't quite enough once he realised what was
happening. While he is easily aroused, tying him down during the
ceremony...well, it wasn't quite the effect we wanted, you see. So I was
forced to offer another incentive to ensure his cooperation." 

"Which was?" Doyle demanded hoarsely. 

"Castration. I reminded him that it was the customary action taken with a
useless stallion." 

Doyle, without thought, went for him. Summerisle staggered under the
attack of the smaller man, but Doyle was swiftly grabbed and pulled down
from behind. 

Summerisle gathered himself together, dusting off his immaculate ruffles.
"That's enough, Oak. I think Ray has made the point that he disapproves of
our methods." 

Jerking away from the giant who held him, Doyle stood. "You bastard! You'd
do that to a man?" 

"I don't know. I've never had to resort to it. The suggestion itself
seemed to be adequate. It certainly calmed your friend." 

"I don't doubt it! Drugged out of his skull, betrayed by all of you,
feeling he had no way out. And, yeh, I think you WOULD do it. I think
you'd get a perverted kick out of it!" 

"Perhaps I might," Summerisle said blandly. "However, the question didn't
arise. He did perform--as you see--and this is the last of it." 

"The last I heard, rape is still a crime--even on Summerisle. You're part
of Great Britain, the laws still hold true here." 

"Only if they are reported," Summerisle countered softly. "Do you think
Bodie will report it? Will you?" 

"Were you afraid that David Campbell would?" Doyle shot out coldly. "Is
that why you killed him?" 

A trick of the torchlight caused the Lord's black eyes to gleam with
menace. "Oh, no, that wasn't what happened to David. Not at all. He sealed
his own fate. That young man knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly
what toes he trod on. Unlike you, he pretended to love our life here, to
love our gods. He was studying us, yes, that was understood. We accepted
that. Our beliefs are no great secret to many people. But he wanted more
than that. Wanted to join our rites, participate in our ceremonies. Why
not? He seemed sincere, seemed to know the seriousness of their purpose.
So we used him, as we are using your Bodie--only with David's full
knowledge and eager consent. He was a healthy, strong boy; intelligent and
willing. He didn't seem to find it degrading or demeaning, but the honour
it truly is." 

"What happened?" Doyle asked, remembering the closely-held secret of the
notebooks, the thing that had terrified David Campbell. 

"He agreed to participate because he knew he was infertile," Summerisle
snapped out furiously, still raging at his own misjudgement. "He had
suffered a childhood disease...mumps...only the year before, rendering him
sterile. And yet, he offered his FERTILITY to our gods! An insult--a
blasphemy that could not be tolerated!" 

"And you killed him for it?" Doyle said slowly. "My god." 

"What other fate could possibly give restitution for the magnitude of his
crime?" Summerisle scowled thunderously. "David Campbell cheated us of the
crop of children we needed. But far more seriously, he spat on everything
we hold dear. To our very life. The penalties for such blasphemies have
always been severe, and the Wicker Man burns as hot as your Christian
hell." 

"And Bodie?" Doyle interjected shakily. "What if he's sterile as well?" 

"You think I'm a fool?" Summerisle snarled. "I tested him the first night.
He's fertile all right." He smiled wryly. "The sperm damn near jumped off
the slide." 

"So you don't have to kill him," Doyle put in quickly. "He hasn't insulted
anyone, right?" 

A sudden change in the beat of music drew their attention. The woman
straddling Bodie cried out in delight and Bodie heaved up beneath her,
face torn with a kind of ravaged ecstasy. 

The music stopped suddenly, one throbbing note filling the night,
holding...holding. 

Bodie dropped back on the ground and covered his face with his arm. 

The other women came to surround the lucky girl, patting and hugging her
as she moved from the limp form. They ignored Bodie. 

Doyle started to go to him, but Summerisle caught his arm. "No, not now.
He'll be taken care of." As Doyle started to protest, Summerisle tightened
his grip. "Unless you are difficult...then he will be taken care of in a
different way. Remember, we're finished with him now. Tomorrow is May
Day." 

Doyle hesitated, wanting more than anything to smash Summerisle's
confident expression. But the hulking man named Oak was standing only a
few feet away, and Doyle knew his own aggressive instincts were being
artificially muted by the drug. It was rather surprising that he still had
the compulsion to fight back at all. 

"Are you sure he'd want to talk to you now, anyway?" Summerisle put in
insidiously. 

That, if nothing else, quieted Doyle. Drugged or not, Bodie wouldn't be
able to handle facing him at this moment, knowing what had been done to
him, aware that Doyle must know as well. Better to leave it for the
moment. 

Hardly seeing, Doyle was led to the small carriage that magically waited.
He entered automatically, and within a couple of minutes they stopped
outside the house. 

Inside the entrance, a servant was waiting with a tray of wine and a
single glass. Summerisle filled it and dismissed the servant while Doyle
was studying the floor, trying to understand how this had happened to
them. 

"Drink this, Ray." 

Doyle looked up warily. Seeing the glass, he instinctively dashed it out
of the Lord's hands. The crystal shattered against the stone floor. 

"You shouldn't have done that, Ray," Summerisle remarked calmly. He rang a
bell and the servant returned in a moment. "Another glass, if you please.
You can clean this up later." 

"More drugs?" Doyle snarled, finding it hard to dredge up the energy for
anger. "I thought you'd already managed that." 

"Like your friend, Bodie, you have a stubborn will. Tonight, I want
acquiescence." 

"Better ring for another lackey then, if that's what you want," Doyle said
tiredly. 

"You will drink, Ray." Summerisle nodded at the servant and refilled the
goblet. "At this point, Bodie is expendable. Do you doubt that I could
arrange his disposal with a single gesture on my part?" 

Doyle stared at him. "You're not going to let us go anyway, are you? Not
now. Why should I give you any satisfaction?" 

"Because you can't be sure I won't let you go. Because you can be sure I
can punish your lover very painfully--even fatally for your stubbornness.
And because, if necessary, I can force you to drink this." Summerisle
shook his head at Doyle's obstinate expression. "I am an exceptionally
patient man. I have even been known to tolerate insolence for any number
of good reasons. But I do have my limits. Drink, Ray." 

Doyle took the glass, trying not to think of Bodie. It hardly seemed to
make a difference. He was already lost, falling in some great, dark pit.
At the bottom Summerisle would be waiting for him; he could only hope that
if he ever clawed his way out, Bodie would be waiting for him as well. 

He gulped down the wine and took a deep breath. "Will Bodie be all right
now?" 

"I'm sure he's tucked into bed, safe and sound," Summerisle assured him.
"Broom!" Summerisle called the servant from outside. "Take Mr. Doyle to
the conservatory." 

Doyle's knees nearly buckled as he tried to walk, but Broom caught him up
and steadied him. After a second, the dizziness passed as it had before,
but Doyle felt no particular urge to argue with the choice of direction or
what was waiting when he arrived at his destination. 

The conservatory was dim, lit mostly by moonlight and a few sputtering
candles. In the centre of the glass house was a padded bench, low and
wide, surrounded on three sides by a veritable riot of growing plants. 

"You can wait here, sir," Broom said tonelessly. He began to light the
other candelabras, and Doyle found himself turning aside at each new glow
of light. 

"Good night, sir," Broom muttered, bowing stiffly, and departing. 

For a moment, Doyle was alone. He searched out the door and found it
across the room, but it seemed so very far away--unreachable. Physically,
he knew he could probably get up and walk easily the few steps it would
take. But somehow, somewhere, he had lost the ability to make the
conscious decision to do so. 

He giggled suddenly. Christ, what a fiasco. Two tough agents caught
without a shot being fired. Falling into a sweet, cloying trap. Lost
before they recognised the need for battle. Oh, Cowley would surely love
this. 

If Cowley ever came to know of it. If anyone did. The island of Summerisle
covered its traps very well--and its victims. 

The giddy humour left as suddenly as it appeared. 

*Oh, Bodie, I came here to help you and I've made a right mess of it all.
I can't guard your back, sunshine. Not here; not anymore. The knife's in
both of us now.* 

******

Doyle's mind seemed clear enough, although it seemed to work more slowly
than usual, and he couldn't seem to convert his thoughts to action. For
the moment, he just tried to puzzle out everything he'd learned so far.
The one fact that bothered him most was David Campbell's fate in the
Wicker Man. Somehow he knew Summerisle didn't intend the Wicker Man to go
hungry this year either and Bodie seemed the most likely candidate. 

Summerisle was standing beside him for some time before Doyle even
noticed. 

"Pull off your clothes, Ray." 

"No." Doyle wasn't sure where that denial had come from. Consciously, he
was surprised that he could still offer even that much of a fight.
Absurdly pleased at how nicely his subconscious could behave at times,
Doyle smiled up at Summerisle. "You heard. Shove off." 

"Very well, I'll help you." 

This was something else again. He couldn't quite bring himself to actively
object to the stripping. He didn't like it; didn't assist, but couldn't
seem to coordinate body and mind to stop it. Naked, he sat passively in
the Lord's embrace. 

"Lay down, Ray." 

Now, that at least seemed logical. The bench was wide enough for a bed and
he felt limp and deliciously languorous; which didn't quite explain the
tingle along his nerves. Odd that-- feeling so alive and yet
so...unconnected. 

Summerisle took each narrow wrist in hand and tied it to the bar at the
end of the bench. 

Doyle felt distantly insulted by that. The bindings were absurdly loose.
He could probably free himself in half a minute. Of all the times he'd
been trussed up, this was the most ridiculous of all. What a joke. Did
Summerisle really think this would hold him? A good kick to that
aristocratic chin would put him out in a second and from there he could be
out the door and gone before anyone could say jackrabbit. 

Doyle didn't move, permitting his body to be arranged as Summerisle
wished. But he could have clearly explained to anyone who wanted to ask
him that escape was embarrassingly easy. Simple as pie. He'd use it in a
minute. Any minute now.... 

The minute passed, and another. He found it difficult to remember what he
had been concentrating so hard on. 

Summerisle's hands stroked down the bare body and Doyle reacted
instinctively, arching up to greet the delicate touch. 

"Ah, yes...so accepting. So eager." He pushed Doyle's legs off either side
of the bench, parting the thighs widely. Cupping the balls in his hand, he
murmured, "So full of life." 

Doyle squirmed in the grasp, some part of him rejecting the touch.
"Don't." 

"Still fighting? I doubt if that will last long." 

"Go to hell," Doyle said, the voice coming from some stubborn, angry
holdout in his mind. He was pleased at the viciousness of it, though
hardly capable of such venom if he'd had to think about it first. For once
in his life, despite all the trouble it had given him, he found himself
grateful for that nasty part of him that tended to growl first without
ever bothering to think. 

"It must be very crowded, this hell of yours," Summerisle commented with
amusement, "you are all so quick to condemn people to it." 

He stroked down Doyle's chest, rubbing his thumbs over the hardening
nipples. "Relax, enjoy...give way to sensation." 

There didn't seem to be much choice in the matter; his body was already
responding. Summerisle began humming some odd, melodic tune, while his
fingers traced patterns over the supine body. 

Doyle's eyes opened wider at a sudden cool wetness. Summerisle was using
his index finger as a brush to paint a red line from one side of Doyle's
chest to the other. Then he dipped his finger into another small pot
beside the bench and pressed down hard on each nipple, on the centre of
the breastbone and the middle of the forehead, leaving marks of gold
liquid to run off in starburst ripples. He continued with white, drawing a
ragged sun on Doyle's stomach with the navel as a core of red. 

"For tonight," Summerisle spoke softly, "you are Teague, son of Nuada, God
of the sun. For tonight I shall worship him through you. I shall draw
power from you, as every day we draw it from your Father. I shall drink of
your life force and take it into myself." 

The sincerely intoned words and the intense seriousness of Summerisle's
face, suddenly made Doyle want to laugh. It was simply all too bizarre to
be taken seriously. 

"You really are mad as a hatter, aren't you?" Doyle chuckled, then began
to laugh in earnest. Deep in the euphoria of the drug, conscious of the
tickle of the dripping paint, he suddenly found it difficult to take in
the danger of the situation. In fact, he found it more pathetic than
sinister. 

"You want to jack me off, is that it?" Doyle snickered, catching his
breath. "Give me a quick blow job? Be my guest. Never been sucked off by a
lord before." 

Summerisle froze, staring at him. Doyle expected anger, fury at the
derision, and steeled himself for the blow. But Summerisle's hand only
cupped his chin, tilting Doyle's face to the light. 

"Is that what you think I want?" he asked fondly. Then, to Doyle's
amazement, he threw back his head and roared in laughter. "Oh, my poor
Ray. I knew you were naive, but even you must see that is hardly
sufficient." 

Doyle's jaw tightened. *Okay, so you're going to be fucked,* he told
himself grimly, earlier humour vanishing as if it had never been.
*Obviously I can't fight it, but I'll be damned if I'll let it destroy
me.* 

Summerisle leaned close, eyes holding Doyle's like a snake charming a
bird. "You still don't understand, do you? You are sacrificing your life
force to me, my dear. I'm afraid that happens to entail taking your LIFE."


Doyle's breath caught in his throat, gut clenching with a numbing terror
that overrode even the drug. 

"Ah, I see you begin to comprehend." He pulled out a silver dagger from
the belt of his kilt. The candlelight glinted sharp off the deadly narrow
blade. "But as you are unfamiliar to the ritual, perhaps I should explain
it to you." His free hand encircled Doyle's cock, squeezing and pumping
it. To Doyle's horror, it twitched in independent response to the skilful
manipulation. 

"First, I shall give you--what you so charmingly called--a blow job," he
grimaced at the term, "but at the peak, as you pour out your virile
offering--" The blade lowered until the steel rested against Doyle's
testicles. "At that most powerful of moments, I will take a further
sacrifice. Oh, do not be concerned; your pain will not last long." The
knife blade moved back up so the point rested over Doyle's heart, barely
pricking the skin. 

Summerisle looked thoughtful. "I understand it is customary in some
cultures to actually consume the living heart--but I think I will have to
dispense with that particular aspect of the rite." He smiled charmingly.
"I'm primarily a vegetarian, you see. However, I imagine the cutting out
of the heart will suffice." 

Laying the knife to one side, he surveyed Doyle, quite pleased with
himself. "Do you know, I think I've really surprised you, haven't I? You
didn't expect this at all. Oh, don't feel too badly, poor boy; in your
world sacrifice has a very different meaning. Tell me, why should this be
so different than a bullet tearing into your body, or a terrorist's bomb
blasting you to bits? Death is the same either way, is it not? Yet you, in
your choice of work, accept that idea of sacrifice every day. It is only
THIS that frightens you. I imagine it will frighten your friend Bodie as
well when he meets the Wicker Man tomorrow." 

He smiled as Doyle's eyes widened. "Oh yes, he must be offered as well.
Not that we are afraid of what either you or Bodie could tell the outside
world, but because you both will do great honour to our gods. You, for our
great and benevolent God of the Sun, and Bodie for our gracious and
fertile Goddess of the Orchards. A perfect circle." 

He put his hand down flat on Doyle's chest. "You must be very excited;
your heart is beating very fast. Perhaps I didn't give you a sufficient
amount of the drug. If you struggle, this could be even messier than it
has to be." He hesitated, as if pondering whether it was worth
administering a further dose. Then he shrugged. "Let's begin and see how
it goes, shall we?" He smiled again. "You don't seem very amused anymore.
A pity; your face lights up so prettily when you smile." 

Doyle closed his eyes, too stunned to think clearly, still unable to move.
The terror was like a live thing clawing through him for escape, finding
no outlet in the useless muscles. 

Summerisle continued his monologue as he stroked the now trembling form.
"One thing I appreciated about you, religion here was strange to you, even
comical, but you were never righteously offended. Oh no, not a
sophisticated man of the world like yourself. Did I ever tell you about
the other visitor we had? No, of course I didn't. But you did know of him.
Sergeant Neil Howie. What a proper copper he was. Stiff shirt, brass
buttons and all. Neat as a show window manikin--about as yielding as one.
But he served our purpose well, did the Sergeant. As the virgin, King-like
fool, he brought life back to our orchards and fields. A fit sacrifice,
and a brave one. He had his own religion to give him strength, you see.
Shouting his praises to his god and singing his hymns as the flames
blossomed around him." 

Summerisle paused, hand once more stroking Doyle's cock, erect now under
his palm. 

"What will you have, I wonder, to keep you going in that final moment
before the end? What faith you have in your god is shaky, you've admitted
that; your friend is warm in the arms of the lovely Willow at the moment;
and no one will even know how you died. Just you and I will share that, my
Ray. You will give me your life, and I shall cherish it. You belong here,
you see. I knew that from the moment I saw you in the garden. And now you
can be a part of Summerisle forever...." 

Still stroking Doyle, moving his hand more quickly now, he reached for the
knife, face glowing, eyes shining almost red with blood lust. 

Panicked, Doyle bit down hard on his lip to keep from screaming out his
horror. Not that it could matter now...not that anything would ever matter
again-- 

"Milord! Milord!" 

Shocked and furious at the interruption, Summerisle tossed the dagger to
one side and stood. "How dare you come in here without my permission? What
can--" 

"I...I'm sorry, milord," Broom stuttered, glancing at Doyle and swallowing
visibly. "But I had to tell you." 

"Tell me what?" Summerisle thundered. 

"It's...it's Willow, sir. She's dead. And so's Beech--" 

"How? Why?" But before the man could answer, Summerisle's face cleared.
"Bodie. It was Bodie, wasn't it?" 

"Yes, milord. He strangled her, y'see." 

"Where is he now?" 

Broom looked nervous. "That's just it; we can't find him. We're searching
the village, but we found Beech near the boathouse." He paused. "We think
his neck was broke, milord." 

"Any boats missing?" 

"No, milord. They were all anchored offshore, like you ordered. And the
dinghies were pulled on land and chained. He's still here." 

In his frustration and fury, Summerisle struck out, dashing over a line of
clay pots with a crash. 

"How the hell did this happen?" he demanded. "He was supposed to be
drugged, watched!" 

"He was, sir. And Willow was with him. The Green Man was crowded tonight,
celebrating, you see." 

"Oh, yes, I see! Celebrating so much he was able to escape!" He shook his
head, making a conscious effort to calm himself. "I suppose I didn't give
him enough of a dose; I didn't take into account how long he had been
without it. Or perhaps he had managed to work up a degree of immunity." He
took a deep breath. "I'll have to see to this personally. I want him found
before he does any more damage." But as he started to leave, he hesitated,
glancing back at Doyle. "I don't want him left alone. Stay here--make sure
he remains secure. I'll be back shortly." 

As soon as the Lord left, Broom began pacing nervously, awkwardly holding
the shotgun he carried, glancing uneasily at Doyle and at the dark expanse
of the conservatory not illuminated by the candles. 

Doyle was still in a state of shock, too numb to fully take in everything
that had just been said, too busy accepting the simple fact that he was
still alive. The fear wouldn't die easily, but now he felt more sick at
his stomach than terror- stricken. He took a few deep breaths trying to
bring himself under control. He still, however, felt vaguely disconnected
to his body, unable to do much more than tremble. 

The minutes passed and Broom stopped pacing to sit down on a stone bench
near the door, resting his chin in his hands and the gun across his lap,
looking morose. 

Doyle's mouth felt dry and he wondered if he dared ask for some water.
Instead, he looked around the enclosure, finding he could turn his head if
he didn't think about it too much. The moon was hidden in a roll of
clouds, and the blackness of the night sky through the glass roof was
oppressive. All around him were the careful fruits of Summerisle's
painstaking research-- small trees, bushes, vines; a veritable jungle of
plant life. The room smelled damp and heavy with rich soil. Doyle's senses
seemed magnified and he could almost hear the water droplets falling from
the leaves. 

Then he heard something else. A quiet rustling and a barely audible thump.


Broom raised his head as well, listening intently, but when the sound was
not repeated, he slumped down again. 

Doyle, however, sensed something different in the air; a subliminal
electrical charge that brought his heart to his throat. 

*Bodie.* 

Almost automatically, he glanced over the floor by the wall of plants to
where Summerisle had dropped the knife. 

It was gone. 

Eyes wide, Doyle tried to steady his breathing, afraid to draw any
attention to this side of the room before Bodie was ready to move. It had
to be Bodie, he told himself comfortingly, it just had to be. 

Time crept by and Doyle's hope was beginning to tatter. He started to
wonder if he had been mistaken about the knife after all, if desperation
and the drug were playing tricks on his mind. 

But then there was a crash near the far wall. Broom jumped up, levelling
the gun in the direction of the noise. He inched towards it slowly, but
when he got there he found nothing but a piece of brick and a shattered
glass jar. Before he could turn again, Bodie was on him from behind, an
arm locking around his throat and jerking it sideways so Summerisle's
fancy little dagger could neatly slice the artery below the ear. 

"Bodie...." Doyle's voice was hoarse, but he found enough will to pull
against the bonds that held his wrists. 

The other man was beside him in an instant, cutting through the leather
strips and pulling him up into his arms to hold him in a crushing grip. 

Doyle choked off a sob against his shoulder. "Bodie...oh god...." 

"Shhh...hush now...." Bodie's vice-like embrace, if possible, tightened
even more. 

Doyle didn't care about the pressure on his ribs, he was only afraid Bodie
would let him go. 

After a few seconds, Bodie did just that. He pushed him back and grabbed
up Doyle's clothes. "Get dressed." 

Doyle discovered it was easier than expected, his coordination only a
little off. The drug drained the personal will, not the actual ability to
move. But as he started to pull on his tee shirt, he hesitated, looking
down at the streaked paint on his chest and reliving the horror of the
voice and hands. 

It was Bodie who found a cloth and wiped away the smear of paint as best
he could and tugged the tee shirt over the quivering figure. 

Doyle, recovering slowly from his shakes, looked again to Bodie for
guidance, feeling lost. 

Bodie returned to the dead man, picking up the shot gun and quickly
rifling the corpse's pockets for spare shells. "Let's go," he said
shortly. 

While not consciously thinking about it, Doyle anticipated Bodie would
take them out the way he'd come in. Instead, Bodie led him through the
door to the house. 

"Where--" 

"Shut up," Bodie snarled under his breath. He caught Doyle's eyes and
jerked his head upward. "The roof," he mouthed. 

Doyle stared at him for a second, startled by what he saw. Bodie's face
was all hard angles, muscles taut, eyes glittering dangerously. Bodie the
wolf, then, functioning on pure instinct now; still wounded but more
dangerous than ever. 

The house was huge and amazingly easy to traverse without being seen. They
weren't searching for them here yet, for one thing--hadn't yet discovered
Doyle was gone. They made their way almost silently up the servant's
stairs at the back of the house, Doyle following Bodie's lead, his own
instincts seeping back with the new wash of adrenaline. On the upper
floor, Bodie prowled the corridor until he found the entrance to the
attic. A few more minutes and they were on the roof, Bodie pulling up the
ladder and closing the trap door. A loose stone wedged it close. Taking
Doyle's arm, he led him cautiously through the darkness, the moon dancing
only briefly in and out of the clouds. Finding a place where the gabled
roof sloped together in a vee, Bodie stopped and slid down with his back
braced against it. Doyle sat down close beside him, beginning to shake
again with delayed reaction, wishing Bodie would hold him, or at least
talk to him. The animal silence was unnerving. 

"What now?" he asked finally. 

"We wait." 

"For what, Bodie?" He touched the tense arm, pleased that he was able to
make an independent gesture, as slight as it was. "For them to find us?" 

Bodie looked at him then, catching Doyle's defeated expression in the
fleeting moonlight. He put down the gun and pulled Doyle to him. "They
won't look for us here," he said gently, cheek against the rumpled curls.
"Not yet at least. They'll expect us to run away from the house, not stay
here. So, we'll wait for dawn." 

Feeling slightly better now, Doyle relaxed against the broad chest.
"Dawn?" 

"It's the best time to move, dawn and dusk. People's eyes play tricks on
them then--can't adapt quick enough to the change in the light. They'll
have more trouble spotting us. And they'll be tired and a bit careless
after searching half the night." 

It seemed logical. "Where will we go?" 

"Get as close to the sea as we can; find another place to hole up until
dusk. The mail boat is anchored offshore; a half mile, maybe less." He
looked down at Doyle. "Do you think you can swim that far?" 

"I don't know," Doyle said honestly. 

Bodie's arms tightened. "You have to, Ray," he said fiercely. "Do you hear
me? It's our only chance." 

"I'll try, Bodie." But he was shaking again and couldn't seem to stop,
remembering the insidious hands on his body, the silky, cultured voice
explaining exactly what horrors he intended, the gleam of the knife and
feel of cold steel.... 

"Ray, snap out of it! Ray, don't!" 

Doyle pressed his face against Bodie's shirt. "I'm sorry...can't help
it...oh, god, Bodie...he was going to...." 

"Don't think about it. It's over now. I won't let him touch you again, I
swear." His voice was grim and determined. "They won't touch either of us
again." 

Bodie kissed him then with a primitive and animal passion that Doyle was
happy enough to accept after the malevolent caresses earlier. If Bodie's
embrace was on the edge of being brutal, it was clean and pure, because
Doyle knew the source of it. 

After a long moment, Bodie's mouth gentled and his tongue licked
penitently at the corner of Doyle's mouth before lifting his head. 

"I was afraid for you," he whispered. "Afraid I'd be too late to help
you...." 

Perversely wishing Bodie had continued what he'd started, Doyle pressed
closer. 

"I heard them talking, down in the inn," Bodie continued darkly. "Laying
there on that bitch's bed, zonked out of my mind, I heard them. Laughing,
singing. And then I heard your name. When I tried to get up...she pushed
me down and she was laughing too. Told me not to worry about you anymore,
that the Lord had plans for you--" Bodie's arm tightened painfully around
the smaller man. 

"He won't touch you again," Bodie vowed fiercely. 

******

*MAY 1 *

Doyle woke as Bodie shifted his position. It was still dark and for a
second Doyle had no idea where he was. 

"S'okay," Bodie said quietly. "Stay here while I take a quick look around.
It'll be dawn soon and we can leave." 

The darker shadow that was Bodie, melted away into the blackness, leaving
Doyle to struggle with what was going on. It was nearly dawn, he must've
slept for four or five hours, but he still felt tired and his brain was
fuzzy. 

It came back slowly, what had happened to Bodie; to him. As always, the
drug fogged the memory, running the past few hours through a kind of
sieve, with much of it leaking away even as he tried to catch it. But
there was enough left to build hatred on, and it burned inside him like
acid. 

Doyle found he could move as he wished now; that part of the drug seemed
to have lost its effect. Bracing himself against the slope of the roof, he
stood. There was the vaguest tinge of pink in the sky now, not enough to
be deemed light, but just the hint of the coming dawn. 

Bodie returned, still carrying the shotgun. "Okay, we can get down at the
back. There's a drain-pipe down the lower roof of the kitchens. If we
follow the gutter, there'll be more pipe at the end of that roof. Come
on." 

"Bodie," Doyle said suddenly. "Give me the gun." 

"What?" Bodie turned on him questioningly. 

"I don't want to leave." 

"We have to, Ray! And we've got to go now so we can get to the edge of the
woods before full light--" 

"Not until I kill him." 

Bodie stared at him in the softly growing light. Ray Doyle was not a
cold-blooded killer. Oh, he could kill very efficiently--but not like
that. Never like that. 

There was an executioner looking out of Ray Doyle's eyes now. 

Bodie's own eyes closed for a second, feeling sick. *Damn them,* he cursed
silently, damn them to hell. Of all the things Summerisle had done to both
of them, this was perhaps the worst evil of all. 

He opened his eyes and looked straight at Doyle. "We're leaving now, Ray.
Do you understand me? Right now." 

Doyle shook his head. "I have to kill him, don't you see?" 

"Fine. Good luck to you." Bodie turned and made his way across the roof.
For a long, heartsinking time, he was deathly afraid Ray wouldn't follow.
That Ray could somehow manage to kill Summerisle, Bodie had no doubt. With
the drugs out of his system and a single-minded purpose, Doyle could be
ruthless. But it would be a blessing when the others caught him and took
their revenge, as they assuredly would. Because the Ray Doyle he knew
would already be dead inside. 

As Bodie reached the edge of the roof, he hesitated, afraid to look back.
There was the whisper of rubber-soled shoes behind him, and some hurt,
hidden corner of Bodie's heart was freed again. 

They climbed down the pipe and made their way across the lower roof
through the grey, hazy light. It took only a short time to find the rest
of the path downward and they sprinted in turns from hedge to hedge until
they reached the woods. Once, they caught sight of three men with lanterns
still lit, pacing over the grounds towards the orchards. But at that dim
hour of the morning, they hadn't yet realised that the glow of their lamps
kept them from seeing anything beyond the narrow circle of artificial
light. 

Once in the woods, Bodie and Doyle moved quicker, Bodie still leading, but
Doyle keeping pace a step behind him. The sun was beginning to shine
openly through the breaks in the trees by the time Bodie called a halt. 

"This is far enough for now. There's a cove right over the rise; the
packet boat is anchored there." He smiled cynically. "Or it was last night
when I checked. Of course, they could have moved it by now." 

"Please, I can't stand it when you're optimistic," Doyle growled. "So, now
we just stand here all day, or find a convenient bush to cower in?" 

Bodie grinned, relieved to see a hint of his old, sarky partner back
again. "Neither. We go up." 

"Up?" 

Bodie indicated a huge oak tree. 

Doyle surveyed it with little pleasure before turning back to his mate.
"You want us to sit up in a bloody tree all day, is that it?" 

Bodie struck a pose. "I think that I shall never see, a thing so lovely as
a tree." 

"You must be joking. We'll fall out." 

"A little monkey like you? Nah. Besides, it's an amazing fact that people
searching for fugitives seldom tend to look up trees. Dunno why." 

"Probably give'm credit for more sense," Doyle muttered sourly, but
followed Bodie agreeably. 

"Okay, give me a leg up," Bodie directed. "I think I can reach that lower
branch." 

"Give you a boot up," Doyle grumbled, obediently clasping his hands
together. "Monkey? You're the one's...oomp...been in Africa, mate, not
me." 

Bodie grinned down at him from the branch. He wrapped his legs around it
securely and reached down his arm. "Toss me up the gun first." When Doyle
obliged, Bodie wedged it in a crook of another branch and reached down.
"Jump, twinkle- toes." 

Bodie caught his wrist and after a few sweaty seconds managed to get his
partner up beside him. Doyle clung to the branch and avoided looking down.
He hated heights. 

"Come on," Bodie urged. 

"What? Farther?" 

"Ever upward, son. Pretend you're social climbing." 

Shortly thereafter, high up in the concealing leaves they settled down in
a place where three branches split off the main trunk, close enough to
make it feasible to sit close together, feet braced against the opposite
branches, backs against the wide main trunk. 

"There now, comfy, isn't it?" Bodie said brightly. 

"Well, I imagine YOU feel right at home. But I've got a twig practically
sticking up me backside." 

Bodie brought out the knife, intending to take care of the problem by
trimming it off, but caught the expression in Doyle's eyes at the sight of
the silver dagger. 

"What is it, Ray?" 

Doyle's eyes met his bleakly. "You didn't see...you don't know?" 

"About last night?" 

"Yes. You didn't see Summerisle?" 

Bodie wanted to drop this now, didn't want to talk about it. Couldn't bear
the grey look in Ray's eyes. But Doyle was waiting for an answer. "That
butler bloke was the only one there when I got there." 

"And me." Doyle swallowed painfully. "Do you know what he was going to
do?" 

Bodie, wishing Doyle would stop, praying he would just let it go for now,
answered roughly, "I've a pretty good idea." 

"Do you?" Doyle persisted, tearing at his own inner wounds viciously in
the mad hope that the fear would go away if he prodded it enough. 

"He was going to rape you," Bodie said bluntly, afraid to permit too much
of his own hatred to show when he was trying so hard to control Doyle's.
"You wouldn't have liked it, but you'd've survived. And obviously, it
didn't happen, so just let go for now, okay?" 

Doyle laughed harshly. "Oh, no, mate. I wouldn't have survived at all.
That's just it. He was going to use that shiny dagger to cut my heart
out--probably to bury it in his fuckin' orchard." 

"Oh my God." Stunned, Bodie stared at him, seeing only what might have
been if he had been a little later. 

"He's a nutter, Bodie. He believes all this crap, y'see. He killed the
police sergeant to help his bloody apple trees. And he murdered David
Campbell because he insulted their gods by being sterile." 

"Ray--" 

"There's more. I think they were going to kill you today. Burn you up
alive in their 'Wicker Man.' Human sacrifice, that's what this place is
all about. No wonder it took us so long to find out--how could any sane
person expect something like this? But it's happening, Bodie." 

Bodie didn't respond, taking a moment to absorb everything Doyle threw at
him so quickly. 

Bitter, Doyle demanded, "Why did you stop me, Bodie? Why didn't you let me
kill him?" 

Bodie clutched Doyle's shoulder hard. "Don't you think I want to kill him,
too!" he snarled. "But getting out of here alive is more important right
now." 

"I'm not so sure," Doyle retorted blackly. "He needs to be killed, Bodie.
And I want to do it myself--" 

"And I can't let you, dammit!" 

"What?" Doyle's face lifted in confusion. "What do you mean...you can't
let me?" 

Bodie released him and sat back, wondering how he could explain something
that he felt mostly deep in his gut rather than in his mind. "You're not
the type," he finally mumbled inadequately. 

"And you are? Is that what you're saying?" 

"Yes," Bodie hissed. "If you want to put it like that. It's way too late
to start worrying about my soul; but you've still got yours, Ray. I can't
watch you destroy it." 

Doyle was silent for a moment, studying his partner's face intently. 

"Doesn't matter either way," Bodie said dismissively. "You don't see me
running off tryin' it either, do you? I'll think about that once we get
out of this damn place." 

Doyle reached out to touch his face, making Bodie look at him. "You don't
really mean what you said, do you? Is that how you see yourself?" 

Bodie, again, had trouble finding the words. "If...if you killed him like
that...in cold blood...it would change you, Ray. I need you to be the way
you are. I think you're my conscience, y'see. And if you throw it away,
then I'll have nothing left at all." 

Doyle's eyes filled with sudden tears. "Oh, Bodie, that's not true at
all." 

But Bodie only shook his head and looked away again, fighting back his own
rising emotions. Now wasn't the time for any of this. And hardly the
place. 

Doyle took a deep breath. "All right, you win. I won't blow the bastard's
brains out, much as I'd like to. We'll do it right, report everything to
the authorities. They won't believe us, of course. Who would? Who besides
the Cow, that is. But once we've got him onto it, he won't let it go.
He'll get the bastard for us, no matter how long it takes." He looked
straight and hard at his partner. "So I won't kill him. But get something
clear right now, mate. You've got to promise the same. I mean it, Bodie.
No coming back here once we get away and trying to do it yourself--no
matter what happens. Even if I don't make it out. No revenge." 

Bodie's head shot up. "I can't promise that. It's not the same for me--" 

"Of course it is, dammit. Exactly the same. Swear to me, Bodie." 

Their gaze held for a long time, before Bodie finally took Doyle's hand.
"I swear." With a sad, crooked smile he added wistfully, "Tryin' to save
my soul, Doyle?" 

"Don't have to," Doyle answered softly. "It's been right there all along."


The sun was still some distance above the swell of the ocean when they
made their way down the rough cliff to the cove. While they had planned to
wait for dusk before moving, thirst drove them down early, and neither
felt they could afford to waste more of their depleted energy in waiting
longer. Neither of them had eaten much in the last two days, and the night
on the roof and the day in the bough of a tree had brought little actual
rest to either of them. 

Bodie, who had not slept the night before, was looking particularly drawn
and exhausted; the circles under his eyes very dark against his pale skin.
He had napped a little in the tree, but the precarious position and
unpleasant dreams hadn't improved his condition. 

When they reached the rocks, they both breathed a sigh of relief at the
sight of the small boat anchored far out in the cove. From this vantage
point, they could just see the line of the wharf and the village beyond.
Nothing was stirring anywhere. 

"Where is everyone?" Doyle wondered aloud. 

Bodie shrugged, busy trying to judge the distance to that boat. It looked
farther away than he'd anticipated. On an ordinary day, Bodie thought he
could have reached it without too much trouble, but considering the shape
they were both in, his confidence was wavering. And Doyle had never been a
particularly strong swimmer. 

"Do you think you can make it?" he asked quietly. 

Doyle eyed the expanse of waves, more worried about Bodie than himself at
the moment, although he knew it would never do to mention it. Right now,
he was probably in marginally better condition than his partner, in spite
of everything. He had had a good deal more sleep for one thing, while
Bodie had been running on adrenaline for nearly 36 hours. 

"Ray, can you make it?" Bodie repeated harshly. 

Doyle smiled ruefully. "Rather than sit any longer in that bloody tree,
I'd swim the Channel, mate." 

"Forget the Channel, just concentrate on staying afloat. You didn't bring
your waterwings." 

Doyle shook his head mournfully. "There, I knew there was something I
forgot to pack." 

"Pity, I could've used 'em as well. Here goes nothing, mate." He tugged
off his shirt and shoes purposefully. 

"I thought we were waiting for sunset?" 

Bodie shook his head. "No point. We're more likely to get caught here than
once we're in the water. The mail boat is the only one on the island with
a motor, and the fools have chained all their dinghies up. It'll take 'em
time to get them loose and into the water. With luck, time enough for us
to make it out there and start up the engine. No way they can stop us
then." 

"Unless there's someone on the boat ready to knock us in the head as soon
as we come alongside," Doyle offered grimly. 

"I don't think there is. Haven't seen anybody. And this is May Day,
remember? Like Christmas to these bastards. Everybody had a holiday." 

"Maybe the motor won't start," Doyle continued gloomily. 

"Why shouldn't it? You're always tellin' me you're good with engines,
aren't you?" 

"How about if it's out of petrol," he finished his pessimistic list with
glum satisfaction. 

"Eh, what is this? Mutiny already?" 

"No, no," Doyle assured him airily. "Ready and eager, Captain Bligh. You
DID say my other choice was the tree, didn't you?" 

Bodie ruffled the curls and kissed him swiftly. "Come on then." He left
the shotgun with a regretful pat, as Doyle stripped off his running shoes,
and with another careful look for observers, they entered the water. 

They swam steadily, matching the other stroke for stroke. The effort went
on for what seemed like hours, although it was probably no more than
twenty or thirty minutes, before Doyle began to lag behind. 

Bodie stopped and treaded water while he caught up. 

"You okay?" 

Doyle halted beside him, coughing a little. "Dumb question." 

"We're over half-way, now. I can hold you up a bit, if you want." 

The smaller man pushed him away. "Don't be stupid. I'm okay." He began
swimming again and Bodie fell in beside him. 

Ten more minutes and Doyle was forced to slow, swallowing another mouthful
of seawater. Bodie caught his arm and steadied him until he got his wind
back. 

"Oh, by the way," Bodie said before they started off on the last leg, the
boat still seeming very far away to both of them, "if I yell 'shark'--" 

Doyle's head jerked up, barely missing a faceful of wave. "What?!" 

"I'm just kidding." 

"Damn you," Doyle cursed weakly, but felt better for the exchange, as
Bodie had meant him to. If his partner could still make black-humour
jokes, things couldn't be quite as desperate as he thought. They were
going to make it. Not much farther now. Already he could almost read the
name on the side of the boat. 

Abruptly, Bodie gave a muffled cry and went under. Panicked, Doyle treaded
water and searched for him frantically. 

"Bodie! Bo--" 

The head came up, sputtering and choking painfully. Doyle caught hold of
him, nearly getting pulled down himself as Bodie fought to keep his face
out of the water. 

"What is it? What's wrong?!" Doyle demanded, buoying the other man up as
best he could. 

"Cramp..." Bodie gasped. "Be okay...in a minute...." His face twisted
again as the pain tore at him. 

"Just relax, mate." Making up his mind, Doyle took him in the rescue hold
and started swimming towards the boat, grimly ignoring his own exhaustion.
Bodie knew better than to struggle in this position and risk making it
harder on his partner. 

Somehow, Doyle was never quite sure how, they made it to the boat and
Doyle managed to grab hold of the collapsible ladder and pull it down. 

Once onboard, they dropped limply on the deck, chests heaving, and Bodie
still trying to rid himself of the cramp in his calf muscle. When Doyle
got his breath back, he tried to help massage it out, but Bodie pushed him
off. 

"Forget that! Get the motor going. Has anyone seen us?" 

Doyle levered himself up to stand. "Not that I can tell. Hold on a
minute." Staggering into the cabin, he returned with a pair of binoculars.
"Nothing's stirring." He pulled the glasses away and looked down at his
partner with puzzlement. "The whole village looks deserted. Where could
they be?" 

"Who gives a damn?" Bodie countered wearily. "Let's get the fuck out of
here." 

Within a few minutes Doyle had the engine running and the anchor lifted.
Bodie was able to limp to the wheel to steer the boat out of the cove and
around the curve of the island, back towards the mainland. 

"How are we doing for petrol?" Bodie shouted over the engine noise. 

"No problem," Doyle grinned. "Looks like I was wrong on all counts." 

"So what's new?" 

Bodie throttled down the motor and cut it off abruptly. In the sudden
silence they could hear the joyous chorus of voices carried clearly by the
wind over the water. 

Summer is acumin'in Loudly sing Cuckoo Grow the seed and blows the mead
And springs the wood anew.... 

"So that's where they all are," Doyle said softly. 

They didn't have to worry about being seen, even if there had been a
danger of Summerisle having another motorboat. The line of people
stretching along the cliff had their backs to the sea, their attention
wholeheartedly focused on the immense figure in front of them. 

"What the hell is it?" Bodie asked hoarsely. 

"The Wicker Man," Doyle breathed, feeling sick. 

The coarsely woven image rose at least fifty feet in the air, crudely
shaped in the from of a man, its arms and legs made up of cages where
birds fluttered madly against the bars, and calves and lambs cried
pitifully in terror, their bleating voices discordant amidst the happy
music of Summerisle. Fire flickered brightly at the base, rising swift and
greasy up the legs of the figure. 

And in the large cage shaping its stomach, there seemed to be something
else. 

Doyle grabbed Bodie's arm. 

They stood there frozen, helpless, as the line of villagers on the cliff
swayed and sang their song of rebirth. 

And as the flames reached the centre of the figure, spreading out in a
glorious fury, a single scream reached their ears, carrying with a
horrifying crystal clarity, a scream of very human agony and terror. 

Within minutes, the Wicker Man was consumed and crumpled in upon itself in
a shower of sparks. 

"Oh my god," Doyle whispered, turning his face into Bodie's shoulder. 

Bodie stared at blazing ruins on the cliff and desperately wanted to
vomit. But he knew it wouldn't help, that it would take more than that to
purge the sickness he felt. 

Doyle's head lifted and their eyes held for a long, despairing moment,
both of them realising the truth. 

David Campbell hadn't been dead at all. 

Until now. 

-- THE END --

 *Originally published in *In the Public Interest*, Sunshine Press, 1985*

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