Death Message

Chapter One

On a Tuesday, in the Winter of El Niño, a freakish storm swept over a small, uninhabited atoll south of Vanua Levu in the Fiji Islands. On that hapless February night, death washed ashore and rested silently on the bleached white sand at the easternmost end of the remote island. Adrift for countless millenniums, the tiny vessel would reluctantly surrender its deadly secrets.

Maggie and Brad Montana dropped anchor about one hundred yards offshore. A soft, warm, and inviting breeze silently rustled Maggie and Brad's hair as they made ready for what promised to be a most wondrous day of sun, sailing, and exploration on the deserted little isle. The gently rolling sea would make it easy to reach the beach on the small, motored raft strapped to the foredeck of their thirty-foot rented sailboat. El Niño's wrath notwithstanding – other than the frightful storm that blew through the region the previous day – the weather was spectacular.

By eleven a.m., the Montanas were skimming the warm sugar sand through their toes as they languidly strolled along the abandoned strip of beach. Palm fronds fluttered atop the thin, arched trunks that encroached nearly to the water, sending silent, dancing shadows on the sand. They played contently for a while by scavenging for unusual seashells and other prizes discarded by the sea.

This was the only vacation the Montanas had taken in years. Struggling associate professors from a small college in America's heartland, they could barely afford food and rent, much less vacations, but they'd been frugal. Over the past five years, they'd sacrificed even the smallest of extravagances and saved every cent they could for this week.

The Montanas trundled along, hand-in-hand, both lost in their private daydreams. Suddenly, Maggie was startled into conscious awareness by a blinding flash of intense bright light. Less than thirty feet in front of them, a small, pearl-black object rested at the water's edge. Maggie winced in the midday sunlight as the highly polished surface glistened even more brightly as thin sheets of seawater rhythmically rinsed over its surface.

"Brad, what do you suppose that is?" Maggie asked, pointing down the beach at the spectacle.

Startled by the break in the silence, Brad snapped out of his self-induced fantasy and looked up.

Both stood silently for a few moments, staring at the thing.

"I don't know," Brad finally replied.

"Well, let's get it. Hurry, before it washes away!" Maggie shrieked in excitement as she released Brad's hand and sprinted along the shoreline toward her discovery.

Brad wasn't as interested in the find as he was in the firm bounce of Maggie's sensuous derrière.

Maggie was slowly circling the object when Brad, still fantasizing, arrived. They then gazed down at their discovery nestled at their feet. The intriguing little geometric was a perfect, symmetrically shaped cone, gently rounded at the top and also around the base. The cone was no more than twelve inches high and perhaps ten inches wide at the bottom. To Maggie, it was a mysterious treasure regurgitated by the sea.

Brad recoiled from it–it was something forbidding, ominous, evil. He didn't understand why, but he sensed a cold tide of darkness rising from the cone. So profound was this primal feeling, it terrified him; he reflexively stepped back from it. Nothing had ever affected him this way. Despite the warmth on this tropical day, Brad's muscles involuntarily jerked as a shiver ran the length of his spine, dissected the back of his neck, and radiated out over both shoulders and down his arms. He twitched again from the chill. He shook his head, surprised by this physical reaction. For a moment, he even felt faint, but the feeling passed quickly.

"Maggie, come on, let's go. Leave it alone," he commanded, clutching the crook of her elbow, as much to steady himself as to keep his wife away from what he saw as a distinct hazard.

"Brad!" Maggie squealed, pulling away from Brad's grip. "That hurts."

"Sorry," Brad said sheepishly.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Brad mumbled, not thinking clearly, trying desperately to control the fear threatening to devour him; his usual aplomb shattered.

"Why should we leave it alone?" Maggie asked, not sensing the threat Brad was.

"Uh, well," he stalled, searching for a reasonable response, "because it's not ours? Someone might be looking for it. Maybe the owners are on the island and left it here, thinking they were alone." As much as he wanted to distance himself from this object, he couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Oh, come on. Who'd leave anything by the water where it could drift out to sea? No one's here," Maggie scolded, hoping he was wrong. It was, after all, her discovery. "We skirted the island before we anchored; there weren't any other boats." Brad didn't respond; he just continued to study the object. "Sweetheart, what's the matter?" she asked, noticing goosebumps on his arm. Maggie rubbed her palm comfortingly over his darkly tanned skin. "Honey," she started, then their eyes met, and Maggie Montana saw fear in her husband's deep blue, always warm, always loving eyes, that she had never seen before. Anxiety washed over her, and she abruptly began rubbing her arms, seeking warmth. "Honey, what's wrong...?"

"I have a bad feeling about this, Maggie," he interrupted. "I don't know why I just do." Brad paused, lost in his terror, "It just doesn't feel right. There's something wrong, really wrong about this thing. Come on, let's get out of here. Let's get out of here, now."

Maggie stepped back from her husband, trying to figure out what his problem was. Although troubled, Maggie wasn't about to let go of her prize. "You're being silly. Look," Maggie implored, as she glanced up and down the beach, "we're here alone. This probably drifted ashore during the storm last night. Maybe someone's looking for it, maybe not, but it wouldn't be right to leave it here. A wave could easily take it back out to sea. Let's take it back to the hotel–maybe we can locate the owner."

Brad was still very uneasy. The dread hadn't left him, but it was gradually subsiding. He thought of how foolish his reaction must look to Maggie. In retrospect, it was also beginning to seem pretty foolish to him. It's just a container of some sort. Perhaps Maggie is right; it probably washed ashore during the storm. Someone is likely looking for it.

"All right, Maggie, you win. We'll take it back, but we will try to find the owner, okay?" Who knows, there might just be a reward. With some lingering apprehension, Brad finally capitulated.

"Thanks, sweetie, you're my hero!" Maggie smiled, and threw her arms around him, squeezing hard.

"Okay, okay," Brad said. "Enough. I've never seen you like this. You'd think you won the lottery."

Maggie stepped back, looked at the container, then at Brad, then almost hypnotically back at the glistening cone, and muttered, "Maybe we have, just maybe we have."