Mitch gave him his Buck rigging knife, and Lindy gave the Pomare princess a scarf, prompting a wet-eyed scene. Lindy gave another scarf to Tiare, who stuffed it into her bra impassively and did not even nod goodbye. But as they bounced away from the hospital toward the beach in the gendarme’s jeep, Lindy turned to wave, and was shocked to see Tiare crying in the nurse’s arms.

It was wonderful to be home aboard, where she belonged, among her own things. It was cooler, too, in the cockpit at evening, and the no-nos did not like to travel over water. For the first time in a week she was free of them, although the intolerable itching would stay with them both for days and Mitch’s back was scarred for life.

Mitch cooked dinner. When they finished, sitting topside, he picked his teeth, staring at the purple hills above them. The musky smell of burning copra drifted across the bay. The big American Columbia had left, but there were two more plastic boats to take its place. One had its putt-putt generator building power for its electric stove, almost drowning out a ukelele strumming from a fare near the beach. The Australian’s battered cutter was gone: Mitch said he had left today, single-handing it for Tahiti.

“You haven’t told me why you thanked Jean-Paul,” she reminded him.

He seemed embarrassed. “Yeah ... Well, he tried to get word to the doctor to come back, when the gendarme couldn’t.”

“How did he do that?”

Jean-Paul, he said, had hiked eight miles to a little village on Comptroller Bay. He had gone to a native psychic who had a brother on Ua Huka island. “And then,” Mitch said uncomfortably, “they sent out a message.”

A dog barked ashore. The generator stopped, leaving the bay silent for the throb of the uke. A flat Polynesian chant hung on the smoky air. She felt a shiver run along her arms.

“A message? How?”

“Christ, I don’t know. Just thought long-distance, I guess.” The shiver reached her stomach, the ghost-story thrill she always felt when she heard something spooky. “And the brother got it? And told Dr. Clary?”

“Clary was on his way back. He says if it did get through, he missed it.”

“Does he believe in that?”

“He’s ... well, skeptical.”

“But Jean-Paul does,” she murmured.

He jerked his head toward the mountains embracing the Bay. “Well, he hiked eight miles across that ridge to place the call.”

She was restless, scared, and fascinated. She asked him what he believed. “I mean, you fell all over him, thanking him.”

Mitch looked embarrassed. “So he’s superstitious! He still hiked eight miles in the heat. I do believe,” he added, looking into her eyes, “he was awful damned concerned.”