Summer was always a busy time in the tourist town of Russell, despite its isolated location at the tip of a peninsula, barely accessible except by ferry, bang in the middle of the Bay of Islands and a good three and a half hours’ drive north of Auckland. If summer was busy, a Saturday night in mid-January was the busiest, and Reka Harata was rushed off her feet. She wiped down a table that a hovering group hurried to occupy, then turned to the next, held down solidly by a group of American tourists. “Care for another?” she asked them. “Well, let’s see,” a sixtyish man with a belly said. “We’ve got noplace to go but back to the hotel, and plenty of sports on TV. I think I’m getting the hang of this rugby thing. I could watch this all night. What do you all think?” he asked his companions. “Another beer sound good to everyone?” “Oh, I don’t know,” his wife dithered.
