by Lanyon, Josh
“It looks like the doorway to a tomb.” It did too.
“Nice,” Finn growled.
“Well, you know. One tries,” Paul said breezily, but his voice sounded as nervous as Finn felt. It helped a little knowing he wasn’t the only one struggling. Paul added in that strained tone, “This place isn’t haunted or anything, is it?”
“It didn’t use to be.”
“Nice one yourself!”
They moved slowly to the door of the tower and looked upward. Light from a window midway up the turret cast a perfect square on the opposite wall. In the blue light filtered from the windows in the lamp room, the narrow spiral of iron staircase looked like the interior of some exotic conical seashell.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Paul inquired, shining his flashlight at the cobwebbed lowest step.
“I think safe is another one of those relative terms.” Finn directed his own beam around the circular room. “We used to play in here when we were kids. It felt different then. Not so…empty.”
“How tall is it?”
“The entire tower is about eighty feet, but that includes the lamp.”
Paul shone his light in Finn’s direction. “Not that I wouldn’t like to see the prices of your work appreciate, but I’d hate them to skyrocket because of a fatal accident. I think you should stay down here while I go up.”
No way was he staying down here with only this watery blue light to hold the darkness at bay. “You can go first,” Finn said. “I’ll take my time.”
“I’m not sure what we’re looking for at this point.”
Finn wasn’t sure what to make of this about face. Paul had pushed him to question Con, but now he seemed to be leery of the idea of investigating further. Was he maybe a little freaked inside the creepy old structure? Finn couldn’t blame him for that.
“I don’t know. That’s why we’re looking.”
Paul started up the staircase. The metal steps rang hollowly beneath his feet. He stopped.
“I’m not sure what the point of this is,” he said, a little testily. “It’s not like his body is going to be up there.” In the silence that followed his words, he said, “I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.”
“It’s all right if you don’t want to go up,” Finn said. He was moving very slowly, very cautiously up the staircase, holding tight to the metal banister with his free hand and his cane with the other.
“You’re going to break your neck, and your housekeeper is going to send me to bed without supper.”
Finn stopped. “Paul, you don’t have to go up, but I do. I don’t know why, but I feel like I do. This was the last place anyone saw Fitch alive.”
But had it been Fitch in the light tower that morning? Con was not sure. Finn shrugged that thought away.
“Oh, fuck!” Paul said and turned, marching up the staircase. It clanged noisily in the wake of his steps.
“Wow!” Finn heard him say after a time.
His own progress was tedious and painful. Soaked in sweat by the time he made it to the top, it wasn’t until he was tottering on the last step that he began to consider how difficult the trip down was going to be in the fast-encroaching dusk.
“That doesn’t look too promising,” Paul said as Finn stepped out onto the circular landing. He nodded out to sea, where the sky was turning an ominous black and green. Witch lights seemed to flash and flicker in the roiling clouds.
“There’s a storm moving in,” Finn said.
“Duh. I recognize it from the movie. The one with gorgeous George Clooney and Marky Mark.”
Finn snickered, wiped his perspiring face on his sleeve. It had been a long time since he’d experienced an island gale. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea. It usually meant power outages and being completely cut off from the mainland for hours, if not days. “It may pass us by,” he said without much hope.
“I have to admit,” Paul said after a pause. “It’s quite a view.”
In accord, they stared down at the gray-green surf churning over the rocks far below them.
Paul said finally, “If…someone fell, he’d have gone straight into the drink.”
“It depends on the time of day and year,” Finn said. “In the morning, at that time of year, the tide was probably out. He’d hit the rocks.”
“Lovely.” Paul heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there’s no way Fitch jumped. And there are much easier ways of killing someone than dragging them up seventy-three stairs and pushing them off a balcony.
“He climbed up to look for something that morning—there was something he wanted to see on the island. I’m wondering what it was.” Finn slowly traversed the metal platform staring out over water, rocks, hills, treetops, hills, and more rocks and water.
“See anything?” Paul asked when he rejoined him.
Finn shook his head. They stood in silence, watching the storm rolling toward them over the choppy water.
“I think we should go down before that hits,” Paul said. “This tower must act like a lightning rod in a storm.”
Finn nodded.
Paul pushed away from the side, crossed the platform, and started down the stairs, his feet clanging on the metal rungs. Finn started to turn away, stopped. The railing around the platform was painted a dull brick color. It was weathered and chipped in places. Where Paul had been standing, there were several long, narrow marks where the paint had scraped away. The marks curved over the top of the railing and continued down the other side—dropping away to nothing.
Finn counted the scratches in the paint. There were ten of them.
Chapter Seven
Wednesday evenings for as long as Finn could remember, Barnaby Purdon came to The Birches for dinner and checkers with Uncle Thomas.
Barnaby had been a teacher on the mainland, and before his retirement he made the trip back and forth from the island every weekday. Finn and Fitch had been homeschooled, but Barnaby had overseen their education as much as anyone could be said to have overseen it, and Finn had always liked the pale, twitchy but enthusiastic young man Barnaby had been. Barnaby had a way of pointing out the gossipy, interesting bits of academia, so Finn and Fitch hadn’t only studied geometry, they had learned about Harappan mathematics, and the I Ching, and Plato.
No longer young, and no longer twitchy, Barnaby was still enthusiastic, and he greeted Finn warmly that evening. “How’s that brother of yours?” he inquired as Uncle Thomas handed whiskey sours—another part of the Wednesday evening tradition—all around.
Barnaby was smiling quizzically. Gazing into his pale face, Finn abruptly remembered that here was another person Fitch had not cared for. He had called Barnaby the White Rabbit and mocked him in secret—and sometimes openly. Finn had always tried to ignore it, tune it out, but Con’s words of the afternoon resonated even though Finn had tried to deny them.
“I haven’t seen him in three years,” Finn answered and took a cocktail glass from the tray.
Barnaby raised his white eyebrows. His blond hair had turned silver now, and that reminded Finn of Miss Minton. That was something he really didn’t want to remember: the way Fitch had mocked Barnaby about Miss Minton being in love with him.
As little as Finn wanted to admit it, Con had been right. Fitch’s sense of humor could be cruel sometimes. He had been cruel about Miss Minton and Barnaby, and if there had been the tentative beginnings of something between them, it had shriveled by being exposed to merciless light too early on.
“Out of the country, is he?” Barnaby asked. “He always did have itchy feet.”
“They have powder for that,” Paul chimed in. “In Fitch’s case, I’d have recommended rat poison.”
Barnaby looked surprised, and Uncle Thomas coughed. Paul met Finn’s glare innocently.
Finn said, “To tell you the truth, I’ve been trying to find out what happened to him. No one seems to have seen him since he supposedly left the island three years ago.”
“Supposedly?” Barnaby repeated.
“Finn,” Uncle Thomas said uncomfortably and then stopped.
As though speaking to the at-home viewers, Paul said airily, “He’s very stubborn. Once he gets something into his head, it’s impossible to shake him loose. He’s convinced that Fitch is dead. That he was murdered.”
Into the shocked silence that followed Paul’s words came the sound of smashing glass from the dining room. They all turned as Martha appeared white-faced in the doorway.
“What are you saying?” she asked. Her eyes were enormous in her stricken face.
“Why did you have to put it like that?” Finn asked Paul, moving to Martha.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Uncle Thomas demanded, looking from face to face.
“It’s not true,” Martha said to Finn, but she sounded like she was begging for reassurance, not really denying it.
“I don’t know,” Finn said. “I mean, I’m not sure. There’s no proof that Fitch ever left the island. And no one ever saw him again after that day.”
“What day?” Barnaby asked, sounding bewildered.
“The day Finn found Conway Twitty and Fitch fucking in the lighthouse,” Paul said.
“That’s about enough of that,” Uncle Thomas said in a tone Finn had rarely heard. “I won’t have that kind of talk in this house.”
Paul laughed. “You do know your nephew is gay, right?”
“That’s Finn’s business. I’m not going to—”
“This is totally off the track,” Finn interrupted. “The point is that Fitch disappeared three years ago and hasn’t been seen since. I think something happened to him that day.”
“You think he’s dead,” Paul corrected.
Three horrified faces turned his way. Finn said, “I do. Yes.”
Martha faltered, “But if…if there had been some accident…”
“I don’t think it was an accident. Someone packed his things to make it look like he left on his own. That couldn’t happen accidentally.”
“But that’s…that’s crazy,” Uncle Thomas said. Barnaby glanced at him but said nothing.
“I knew it,” Martha moaned. “I always felt something was wrong, him leaving like that and Finn the next day. I knew when Finn said he hadn’t seen him…”
“No.” Uncle Thomas spoke firmly. “No. It’s impossible. Ridiculous. No one would do such a thing. And if it were true…where are his things? Where is the…the body?”
Martha moaned again. Rain shushed softly against the windows.
“No one’s looked for them,” Paul said. “No one’s looked for him. If someone started looking…”
“Have you called the police yet?” Barnaby asked calmly into the stunned silence.
Finn shook his head, gazing at his uncle. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“C-call the police?” Uncle Thomas was practically stuttering. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet. Call the police based on…on what? This is Fitch we’re talking about, is it not? He’s just as likely to be deliberately playing some hoax on us.”
“For three years?” Martha cried. “He wouldn’t. Not for three years.”
“Martha’s right,” Finn said. “I think three years negates the possibility of this being a hoax.”
“Although I don’t put anything beyond him,” Paul said casually, moving to take a layered cream cheese biscuit off the tray on the credenza.
Uncle Thomas put his glass down. “Finn, I don’t believe you’ve thought this all the way through. Do you have any idea how truly unpleasant a police investigation would be? It would be in the papers, you understand? They would ask questions of all of us, and they wouldn’t stop until they had all the details of that day—the whole story of what happened between you and Con and Fitch.”
Not for the first time, it occurred to Finn to wonder how, if Fitch had never returned to The Birches, everyone at the house seemed to know what had taken place that morning at the lighthouse? He blurted, “How do you know about that?”
Uncle Thomas looked at Martha, and Martha, oddly enough, was the one who answered. “Mr. Carlyle came to the house to find you the next afternoon. It wasn’t hard to put together what must have happened. Fitch was… Well, he had his funny ways. No mistake.”
“Fitch was jealous of you,” Paul said. “He was jealous of you, and he was jealous of you, if you get what I mean.”
“Huh?”
“He competed with you, competed with you for attention from people like Con. From everyone, I imagine. But he also wanted you all to himself. He was jealous of time and attention you gave others, right?”
Finn stared at them bewilderedly. This was very much what Con had said, but Finn had never seen any of this in his relationship with his twin. He wanted to tell them that they were all wrong, but he was too much of a realist to believe that everyone else could see it the same way and still be mistaken.
Martha said uncomfortably, “Mr. Carlyle was… Well…”
“Con was distraught,” Uncle Tom said crisply. “I don’t see what’s to be gained by digging all this up now.”
“I think Tom’s right,” Barnaby said quietly. “Best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I don’t understand.”
Paul said, “They want you to shut up about it. They want you to forget about Fitch.”
Finn stared at the ring of faces watching him with varying degrees of wariness. He said to Martha, “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe we can—we should—just forget this? Forget that Fitch has been murdered?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” she faltered. “He might have left the island. Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean he didn’t leave of his own free will. And if the police start digging…and the papers…it’s going to be…bad. Bad for all of us.”
“Murder is bad for all of us,” Finn said.
“It’s not merely you and your reputation at stake,” Uncle Thomas said flatly. “There’s my own name and reputation—this family’s name and reputation. There’s Con’s name and reputation. A thing like this could ruin us all.”
Finn opened his mouth to make an impatient reply, but Barnaby said, “Have you thought about the fact that you’ll be under suspicion as well?”
“Me?”
“If I understand correctly, there was some falling out between you, Fitch, and Conlan Carlyle. That means that you and Carlyle will be the prime suspects.”
“Do you have an alibi for that day?” Paul inquired sweetly.
Finn stared at him.
“You’re talking about disrupting a lot of lives…and we don’t even know for sure that Fitch isn’t perfectly well and merrily raising hell in some other corner of the world.” Uncle Thomas picked up his drink and sipped it. With an air of having said the final word, he said, “Martha, is dinner about ready?”
Martha made a visible effort to pull herself together. With a guilty look at Finn, she nodded to her employer and left the room.
“I don’t believe this,” Finn said at last.
Barnaby smiled uncomfortably at him—offering that same sort of silent half apology Martha had—before handing his glass to Thomas for a refill.
Finn opened his mouth. He closed it. Clearly, if he was going to proceed, it was going to be against the will of everyone at The Birches—with the exception of Paul, who moved to his side and said under his breath, “Don’t worry. We’ll find proof.”
Dinner was a strange affair. The food, as always, was excellent. Roast beef and Martha’s shrimp-stuffed triple-baked potatoes. Barnaby and Uncle Thomas chatted pleasantly about politics and general island business, directing comments to Finn and Paul, but not pausing long enough for either of the younger men to really join in the conversation—let alone redirect it. On the surface, everything seemed normal. The conversation in the parlor might never have occurred, but as casual as Uncle Thomas and Barnaby seemed, Finn was conscious of being carefully and deliberately corralled.
/> The discussion regarding Fitch was clearly over.
It was unbelievable, and yet…it was a perfect example of how life on Seal Island had always been…isolated and self-contained. It was as though they none of them realized how unrealistic—otherworldly—their attitude was. In fact, scooping the creamy, steaming-hot filling out of the potato shell, Finn couldn’t help wondering if maybe he was the one missing the point. Maybe he should leave well enough alone.
Not only did he dread the idea of being the focus of a police investigation—what the hell kind of an alibi did he have for that day? He’d spent it sitting on top of a mountain staring at the ocean and trying not to think. He was horrified at the idea of dragging Con into the limelight. Nothing could have convinced him of Con’s innocence as effectively as his hurt fury at the lighthouse that afternoon.
He remembered only too clearly how fiercely protective of his privacy Con had always been.
In fact, every time he thought of Con, his stomach knotted with anxiety. It had been much easier when he was confident in his unyielding anger and rancor. But Con’s remorse, his continued displays of affection and caring, were wearing Finn down. Equally wearing were the times when Con seemed to indicate that he was moving on or losing interest in pursuing anything with Finn. When it came to Con, Finn was a mess of contradictory feelings—the bottom line being that whether he could sort them out yet or not, he did still have feelings for Con. Con was making it hard to ignore those feelings. And now Finn had weakened his own position of utter inviolate righteousness by doing something fairly unforgivable…like accusing Con of murder.
’Cause nothing put a damper on romance like suspicions of homicide.
But Fitch…as angry and hurt and unforgiving as Finn had believed himself…he couldn’t bear not knowing what had happened to Fitch. Nor could he bear the idea that someone had killed Fitch and was going to be allowed to get away with it. Perhaps that was ironic, given how certain he had been that he could never forgive his twin—but knowing that now there truly would be no chance for reconciliation had changed everything.
