The Finder by Will Ferguson

Author:Will Ferguson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2020-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

INTER-ISLANDER

THOMAS RAFFERTY WAS MOMENTARILY LOST at sea. An overcast sky had vanquished the coastline behind the ferry, even as a fog of rain had dissolved the one ahead of them. They had entered the tumult of Cook Strait, a fraught channel—chasm really—that separated the South Island from the North. This was a notoriously moody stretch of water, one marked by competing currents and embryonic whirlpools, and the Inter-Islander fought its way through, indomitable, plowing headlong into each incoming crest.

Onboard, rising and falling on waves of nausea, Rafferty stood on the deck, trying to fix his gaze on the horizon as a means of battling seasickness, a trick that worked only when there was a horizon to fix on. And still the dead man’s hand was reaching out for him from under the fallen wall. A strange end, and apt, perhaps, considering the havoc that same small man had wielded in Africa all those years ago.

Rafferty was crossing over himself, after a fashion, going from the South Island to the North. These were the two main pieces of New Zealand’s map, the world’s easiest jigsaw. Most of New Zealand’s Maori lived on the warmer North Island, and the artifacts at the Christchurch Gallery had been on loan from—he had noted the name of the town—Hell’s Gate in Rotorua. If she was still in New Zealand, that was where she would probably be. She has something of mine. They wouldn’t give out a number or a contact, but they didn’t need to. He already had his destination: Hell’s Gate.

A horizon, disappearing. A sea, berating itself. The Inter-Islander lifted up, dropped down, with Rafferty alone on deck, rolling with the motion, trying not to get swept off. Here lies Thomas Rafferty, born: Winterset, Iowa. Died at sea, lost between islands, body never to be recovered. He was at the age where you begin to consider the end of your obituary and how it might read.

The sea surged, washed across the deck, soaking his boots, and, with the last line of his obituary imminent, he retreated through heavy sliding doors. The interior was sickly green and rocking drunkenly; it reminded Rafferty of a hospital ship in World War I, after the defeat at Gallipoli, perhaps. The sliding doors rolled back and forth. A sour smell, stomachs churning, the sound of retching from the toilets.

On the cafeteria TV, compulsive images of the earthquake were playing, sound off and all the more horrific for it. Endless loops of falling buildings, masked rescuers. Smoke rising above the city. Lost at sea, yet tethered still by satellite signals, Rafferty opened his laptop not expecting to find a lifeline, was pleasantly surprised when he did. The usual backlog of messages were waiting: the angry emails of editors, irate and imploring. “Are you still in Christchurch?” “Where ARE you?”

He scrolled through his list of editorial contacts. Travel Ho! magazine, “a forum for smart, successful, retired people!” (also known as “advertising bait”), had various themed issues lined up six months in advance.

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