 Part 1 Casting the Horoscope
25 Years Ago
Thirty-one-year-old Joanna Halloran stared uncertainly out the open bedroom window of her beach house, perched on a rocky bluff facing the Atlantic Ocean. The storm crawled toward her from across the sea, like a dark eerie fog. Erratic bursts of wet wind punched at the curtains, scattering her long ash blond hair, and bullying the gulls as they strained against it, losing strength and altitude.
Restless, Joanna lit a cigarette. She raked strands of hair from her clear almond eyes, as she watched the waves roll in and pound the beach. What was once a sizzling July afternoon was suddenly plunged into an astonishing gray and purple darkness, reminding her of a bruise, as if the world had received a violent punch from Mother Nature.
When the first sound of thunder rattled heaven and earth, she wondered if soldiers heard such sounds in battle. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud in jagged veins, startling her. She stepped back from the window, mesmerized, recalling that for the Vikings, lightning was produced by Thor, as he rode his chariot across the clouds, striking an anvil with his hammer.
As the first drops of slashing rain struck the window, she paced, feeling a stiffness in her right foot that often came after she walked too much or stood for too long. It had been a birth defect, a deformity that many childhood operations had failed to correct, and so she had a slight limp.
She drifted back to the window, preoccupied. Everything had a sharpened edge to it: the wind, the sea, her thoughts and emotions. She felt a strange kind of agitation, as if the end and the beginning of a cycle of life were about to collide.
As a professional astrologer, she knew that change was coming and that it would probably come from the sea. Neptune, the ruler of the sea—the ruler of confusion and deception—was in aspect. Uranus, the ruler of unexpected events and erratic change, was aspecting her Sun and Moon. Mars, the ruler of force and impulsiveness, and Venus, representing love and pleasure, were dynamically aspected. Some “thing,” some event, was poised to strike.
She leaned toward the beaded up window, touching its cool glass with the tips of her fingers, as if to reach out and initiate an act of change. She wanted it—and she feared it.
In the distance she heard the drone of an airplane engine. It chilled her. Frightened her. Who would be flying in this storm?
Thirty three-year-old Robert Zachary Harrison should have waited out the storm in Connecticut, before flying to Block Island. But his fiancée, Connie, was waiting. They had been planning this weekend for over two months, to iron out the final details of their wedding, which was only a month away.
He took off at a little after 2pm, certain he’d beat the storm. He pointed his blue and white single-engine plane east, toward the sea. Once airborne, he encountered gray stringy clouds and bumpy skies. He stared uneasily as he drifted over a red lighthouse, heading out to sea. He adjusted the throttle and eased back on the controls. The plane ascended, gliding high above white caps. A burst of wind jolted it and it jerked and veered.
He flew into the darkening afternoon feeling that he had total control of the airplane—until he was about 70 miles from Block Island. Then the sky turned ugly. Muscular gusts rammed him, shuttering the craft. He fought the turbulence, humming an improvised tune to help calm his nerves, a technique he’d learned as a fighter pilot in Vietnam.
His throat went dry, his neck and forehead dampened. As a driving rain beat against the windows, his hands tightened on the controls. His air speed became erratic. The altimeter, which measured height, showed a steady loss of altitude. Robert felt that pit-of-the stomach sensation of freefall as the plane plunged and rose, straining against the updrafts and downdrafts.
A wall of wind punched him so hard that it jarred his eyeballs. The engine sputtered and coughed, teetering on the edge of a stall—and if it stalled—the plane would drop from the sky. Robert frantically reached for his radio to call out his position and request the location of the nearest airport to land. He issued a mayday call just as a gut wrenching gust slapped him. It tossed the plane, like a toy, toward the raging sea.
Robert slammed the throttle forward, fighting for control, teeth clinched, temples pounding. At the last feverish moment, he yanked back hard on the yoke. The plane caught an updraft and the engine growled to life, rising, struggling for height. Robert had just caught a grateful breath, when, to his horror, another wind shear pitched him into a sharp dive. His teeth clamped his lip in terror. He struggled for altitude, bracing for impact. As the hard angry sea rushed up at him, he cursed it, refusing defeat. He wrestled the controls.
The airplane skipped across the top of the water, like a flat stone across a lake. Robert braced for impact. A towering wave licked at him like the angry tongue of a sea monster. It caught him. Robert covered his face with his arms, as a powerful jolt pitched him forward, shattering glass, punching the air from his lungs in a desperate scream. A shock spray of cold water exploded across his body as the plane unraveled angrily around him.
Miraculously, he was tossed into the hostile, churning sea, struggling for breath, hands slapping at dark choppy water. He yelled, reaching for any debris to cling to, and sank beneath a huge curling wave.
As the storm was sliding off to the west, Joanna approached the face of the cliff and gingerly descended the steep wooden stairs to the broad damp beach below. She wandered toward the edge of the water, binoculars about her neck. She wore brown khakis, rolled up above her ankles, and a loose fitting yellow polo shirt. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. A white canvas beach bag, swung over her left shoulder, held flip-flops and a towel, just in case she decided to go for a swim.
She roamed the beach in the windy, unstable afternoon, shading her eyes as she viewed the expanse of sea. It was after 4 o’clock and the beach was deserted. The waves were breaking heavy on the shore. It was one of her favorite times to walk the beach—just after a storm. She drifted to the edge of the tide as waves splashed and foamed around her ankles. The water was cool and refreshing and helped to ease some of the aching in her right foot. She strolled with her hands locked behind her back, squinting into the gray moving sky. She watched the raw surf curve and break across the beach, observing sandpipers skitter along the edge of the foam, pecking for food.
She lifted the binoculars to her eyes and scanned the horizon, looking at white caps and distant sails. Smoky white and purple wisps of clouds hugged the horizon. She picked at the shells and toed the sand, exploring the stringy seaweed, driftwood and plastic trash, all pushed to shore by the storm. Again she pointed her binoculars toward the sea. She spotted something bobbing in the waves.
She jolted erect, adjusting the focus. At first she thought it was a kayak. She moved toward the water, straining her eyes. Was it some kind of raft? The current was drawing it toward the shore.
Her eyes shifted, and then focused. She saw a body—a person—clinging to a piece of something, floating in toward the beach. It drifted toward a large swell, was seized by the current and then tossed helplessly, bobbing and twisting in a surging wave. It was a man! He was desperately holding on.
Joanna dropped her bag and binoculars, darted into the water, plunged into the cold surf and swam toward him. Coming up for air, she saw him clinging to a piece of debris, wearing an orange life preserver.
As she closed in, another wave struck, smashing down on top of them, spinning him away from her. She dropped under the wave, came up, recovered and relaxed, feeling her shirt swimming around her. She allowed the current to do the work; to carry her in the same direction as the man. Drawing near, she kicked and swam, using all her strength to reach him, before the next charging waves impacted. One threatened, gathering rolling strength, rumbling toward them like thunder. The man reached for her weakly, arms flailing, his pallid face stretched in agony.
“Help me…,” he called.
With her outstretched hand, she reached and snagged him by the collar of his shirt. She yanked him toward her.
The wave struck. Joanna wrapped him with her arms as it pounded them, shoving them carelessly toward the beach.
Together, they thrashed toward shore, gasping. Catching her breath, Joanna struggled to her feet, stumbling for balance across the rocky bottom. Anchoring herself, she helped the man to find his footing. She wrapped an arm around his waist and led him up the beach to safety.
Drained, he wavered, and then dropped to his knees, exhausted. Joanna helped him shed the life preserver. She stood over him, chest heaving, flinging stringy wet hair and water from her eyes. She stared down at a strongly built man, in his 30s, wearing a ripped blue shirt and torn khakis. His pale warrior face showed nicks and cuts. The determined chin had a swollen white gash. His short black hair was caked with grease, and he shivered.
She anxiously searched the long expanse of beach, but no one was close.
“I’ll go get help,” Joanna said, still panting. He struggled to speak. “Wait…”
She paused in mid stride. “I’ll be right back.” The man coughed and spit water. “No…No…don’t leave…”
She hurried to her bag, yanked out her beach towel and returned to him, wrapping it around his trembling shoulders.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“No…look… I need to lie here… just for…a …minute.” He toppled over and rolled onto his back, his eyes pinched shut.
“Are you in pain?” Joanna asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll be okay…okay….” He lay still.
Conflict and hesitation came over her face. Her damp clothes clung to her and she trembled. The sun reappeared and flecked the sea golden. It bathed and warmed them just enough to briefly revive him. His eyes opened.
“My house is just up those stairs,” Joanna said, pointing to the wooden stairs that climbed the cliff. “Can you make it?”
“I…I think… so.”
“Is anything broken?”
“No…I don’t think so. Let’s…try….for it.”
She crouched, took his left arm and helped lift him to his feet. He groaned and winced as they staggered across the sand to the foot of the stairs. He paused, winded. “Damn! My left leg’s giving out on me.”
“Put your left arm around my shoulder. I’ll help you up,” Joanna said.
They ascended the first flight—about 10 stairs—and then rested on the level platform before continuing up the final 20. Joanna’s own foot throbbed and she took the opportunity to arch and stretch it.
They progressed in slow, agonizing steps. At the crest, Robert paused again. “You’re strong,” he said, grimacing.
Joanna shouldered him on until they reached the house and mounted the few stairs to the wraparound deck. She eased him down into a cushioned white wicker chair. He slackened and let out a long sibilant sigh.
“I’ll call a doctor,” Joanna said, starting for the door.
He shook his head. “No… I’m okay…” he said, weakly. “I’ll be alright…”
Joanna stood concerned and anxious, seeking answers. “You should go to the hospital…”
“No! Hell, no. I’ll be fine…” He softened. “Really…”
Joanna swallowed hard. “Were there others?”
“No…no… just me. Can you get me to a bed or couch? And…water…please.”
Joanna rushed inside, poured a glass of spring water and took it to him. He drank half, slowly. His chaotic eyes stared ahead, at nothing. He trembled. His hands began to shake. The glass fell from his grasp and shattered. He looked up at her pitifully.
Continues... |
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