Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  run be­si­de a la­go­on. A tawny red doe and her two half-grown fawns, fe­as­ting on the le­aves of a swe­et myrtle bush, tur­ned star­t­led eyes to­ward me. I slam­med on my bra­kes, and they bol­ted in­to the pi­ne-wo­ods.

  I ca­me to the end of the la­ne, li­te­ral­ly, abo­ut two hun­d­red yards far­t­her on. And this cu­ri­o­us od­y­s­sey tur­ned cu­ri­o­user in­de­ed. The we­at­he­red Low Co­untry shack on pi­lings was to be ex­pec­ted, as was the nar­row plan­ked pi­er ex­ten­ding in­to the salt marsh and out to the li­me-gre­en wa­ter of the so­und. But the row of cars par­ked at the end of the la­ne lo­oked as out of pla­ce in this re­mo­te mar­s­h­land as tin­sel stars tac­ked to an ever­g­re­en. A blue BMW, a Ford van, a rust-spot­ted Plymo­uth, a cre­am Mer­ce­des se­dan, a black Por­s­c­he, a yel­low clas­sic MG, a red Ma­se­ra­ti, and a jade Jagu­ar. So much for "Buy Ame­ri­can" among the­se dri­vers.

  There was not a so­ul to be se­en. No one ne­ar the cars. No one on the pi­er. No one on the sag­ging porch of the ho­use. Not a li­ving per­son ot­her than me mo­ved in that he­avy hot air. But my in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons had be­en pre­ci­se. This was as far as I wo­uld go by auto­mo­bi­le. Pas­sa­ge ac­ross the wa­tes wo­uld co­me next.

  I rol­led up the win­dows and loc­ked the car, ret­ri­eved my bags from the trunk, and wal­ked to­ward the pi­er. Swir­ling clo­uds of no-see-ums at­tac­ked my ba­re fa­ce and arms, and I knew the­re wo­uld so­on be prickly red welts.

  I dug in­to my car­ry-on bag for so­me skin lo­ti­on tc. dis­co­ura­ge the fren­zi­ed in­sects, slap­ped it on my arms, then pa­ced up and down the nar­row pi­er. Swe­at tric­k­led down my fa­ce. A stiff bre­eze stir­red

  my ha­ir, but the air was so op­pres­si­ve that it only ma­de me mo­re un­com­for­tab­le. Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes pas­sed. Then I he­ard, fa­intly, the pop-pop-pop of an out­bo­ard mo­tor. I wa­ited at the end of the pi­er, shi­el­ding my eyes from the la­te-af­ter­no­on sun and lo­oked out ac­ross the whi­te­cap­ped so­und.

  The mo­tor­bo­at ro­de low in the wa­ter and its pa­int job had se­en bet­ter days, but the stocky black man at the stern han­d­led it with ca­su­al com­pe­ten­ce. As the bo­at knoc­ked up aga­inst the pi­er, he ti­ed up, then step­ped out of the bo­at and clim­bed the lad­der. The ric­kety pi­er qu­ive­red as he scram­b­led up to stand be­si­de me.

  "Miz Col­lins?" He was a mus­cu­lar man who lo­oked li­ke he wor­ked out­do­ors, his T-shirt tight aga­inst a mus­cu­lar chest, his dun­ga­re­es fa­ded and sta­ined.

  I nod­ded.

  Without anot­her word, his he­avy fa­ce som­ber and un­f­ri­endly, he pic­ked up my bags. He tuc­ked both un­der one arm and des­cen­ded the lad­der.

  I lo­oked af­ter him tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly as he sto­wed the lug­ga­ge. He knew my na­me. That me­ant he had to be the per­son in­s­t­ruc­ted to con­vey me to the is­land. But I didn't li­ke his scar­cely ve­iled hos­ti­lity, and I didn't much li­ke the en­ti­re ap­pe­aran­ce of this ven­tu­re, the ex­pen­si­ve cars hap­ha­zardly par­ked in this iso­la­ted, god­for­sa­ken wil­der­ness, the slap­dash pro­vi­si­on for the tran­s­fe­ren­ce of gu­ests. It cre­ated an aura that didn't re­ek of wel­co­me.

  What kind of gat­he­ring was in prog­ress? What the hell was Cha­se up to?

  The bo­at­man lo­oked up at me. I co­uld see the

  sweat be­ading his fa­ce, the wet­ness of his shirt aga­inst his skin. "Miz Col­lins?" His de­ep vo­ice was im­pa­ti­ent.

  "Who are you?" I as­ked ab­ruptly.

  I tho­ught at first that he wasn't go­ing to an­s­wer. Fi­nal­ly, sul­lenly, he sa­id, "Frank Hud­son. I work for Mr. Pres­cott - when he co­mes 'ro­und. I'm sup­po­sed to ta­ke you over to the is­land."

  Hudson. That was the na­me in my pac­ket of in­for­ma­ti­on. I star­ted down the lad­der.

  He ma­de no mo­ve to of­fer a hel­ping hand. I didn't ne­ed help, and, in fact, I re­sent the auto­ma­tic as­sum­p­ti­on that ever­yo­ne past fifty re­qu­ires as­sis­tan­ce in physi­cal ef­forts, but I was a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sed no­net­he­less. I re­ac­hed the bot­tom rung and step­ped on­to the bo­at.

  As I set­tled in­to the bac­k­se­at, he cast off.

  "Whom do the cars be­long to?" I lo­oked back at the ar­ray of ex­pen­si­ve ve­hic­les.

  "The ot­hers."

  "What ot­hers?" He might not want to talk, but that didn't dis­co­ura­ge me in the slig­h­test. I've be­en as­king qu­es­ti­ons for most of my li­fe­ti­me.

  "The pe­op­le go­ing over to the is­land. You're the last."

  I felt a flic­ker of ir­ri­ta­ti­on. I'd as­ked Cha­se, of co­ur­se, why he ne­eded help, and he'd sa­id only that I wo­uld find out. He sa­id he wan­ted me be­ca­use I had an in­s­tinct for truth. What kind of truth was he se­eking? And why he­re, so far from the sop­his­ti­ca­ted world whe­re he mo­ved with so much po­wer? I knew so­met­hing abo­ut his li­fe, of co­ur­se. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en hard not to: twi­ce cho­sen Ti­me Man of the Ye­ar,

  the su­bj­ect of co­un­t­less ad­mi­ring ar­tic­les in For­tu­ne and the Wall Stre­et Jo­ur­nal. I knew he ow­ned a num­ber of ho­mes: an old one-a mo­nu­ment to ra­pa­ci­o­us ag­gran­di­ze­ment-in New­port, a cot­ta­ge in Car­mel, an es­ta­te in At­lan­ta, a brow­n­s­to­ne in New York, a flat in Lon­don. I'd ne­ver re­ad abo­ut an is­land ho­me. But, for all I knew, this was so­me kind of ex­c­lu­si­ve re­sort. That wo­uld be very much li­ke Cha­se.

  I lo­oked ac­ross the so­und. I tho­ught per­haps I saw a gre­en smud­ge of land aga­inst the ho­ri­zon, low and lumpy.

  I sha­ded my eyes. "How far is it?" " 'Bo­ut six mi­les." "You can only get the­re by bo­at?" "Ye­ah."

  I lo­oked at Frank Hud­son's back. His sho­ul­ders we­re hun­c­hed. The­re was no sen­se of ho­li­day ple­asu­re he­re. I wis­hed I co­uld see his fa­ce. Why was he angry?

  The bo­at pic­ked up spe­ed, span­ked ac­ross the whi­te­caps. I ra­ised my vo­ice to be he­ard over the en­gi­ne. "So the­re are no cars on the is­land?"

  Hudson eased up on the throt­tle and lo­oked bri­efly, con­tem­p­tu­o­usly, back at me. "No cars. No pho­nes. No TV. Not­hing."

  "Is ever­y­t­hing bro­ught in by bo­at? Pe­op­le, sup­pli­es, new­s­pa­pers?"

  "Or it don't co­me." He pul­led down on the bill of His cap, sha­ding his hos­ti­le eyes.

  "Who li­ves the­re?" I shif­ted a lit­tle in my se­at. The Na­ugah­y­de up­hol­s­tery was pat­c­hed and a lit­tle lumpy. But the bo­at was well ca­red for, cle­an and tidy.

  "Nobody. Not now." The de­ep vo­ice so­un­ded an­g­ri­er. "I don't call co­min' a few we­eks at a ti­me li­vin' the­re. 'Co­ur­se he can do what he wants, can't he? He owns the is­land, every inch of it. That's what he sa­id when he bo­ught it and star­ted to bu­ild. Sa­id he co­uld do what he wan­ted, whe­re he wan­ted."

  I knew the­re we­re many small, pri­va­tely ow­ned is­lands off the co­ast, most of them ser­ving as hun­ting pre­ser­ves. I lo­oked ac­ross the wa­ter with gro­wing in­te­rest. A pri­va­te is­land. With only Cha­se and his cho­sen gu­ests.

  Hudson sho­ved the throt­tle for­ward; the en­gi­ne ro­se to a ro­ar.

  The sun slid be­hind a he­avy bank of clo­uds. It was still hot, August, Low Co­untry hot, but now the day had tur­ned gray and omi­no­us, the clo­uds ed­ged by crim­son. In the he­avy, mo­is­tu­re-la­den air the throb of the mo­tor­bo­at so­un­ded li­ke the buzz of an angry wasp.

  Then I saw the is­land, dark and vi­vidly gre­en, low aga­inst the murky ho­ri­zon. An iso­la­ted patch of land with no link to the ma­in­land and the­re­fo­re no con­nec­ti­on with the spraw­ling, po­wer­ful em­pi­re of Cha­se Pres­cott, me­dia mag­na­te.
/>
  This was a Cha­se Pres­cott I didn't know. What had hap­pe­ned to ma­ke the in­for­ma­ti­on mo­gul of Ame­ri­ca le­ave be­hind all the trap­pings of po­wer? Cha­se se­eking res­pi­te? That was at odds with ever­y­t­hing I re­mem­be­red. No mat­ter how much he enj­oyed dra­ma, Cha­se su­rely wasn't re­cal­ling the rec­lu­si­ve, ner­ve-rid­den dec­li­ne of Joseph Pu­lit­zer, who had spent his fi­nal ye­ars in a to­wer with fo­ot-thick walls

  where he still suf­fe­red acu­te pa­in from the smal­lest of no­ises.

  As we grew ne­arer, the bo­at bo­un­cing on the short, choppy wa­ves, I co­uld see the rip­ple of spar-ti­na grass. The ti­de was co­ming in. Den­se and im­pe­net­rab­le un­der­g­rowth cho­ked the to­we­ring pi­nes. The­re was no sight of a ho­use or a dock. The is­land must ha­ve ap­pe­ared just the sa­me-fe­cund, wild, for­bid­ding-to a party of se­ven­te­en­th-cen­tury Spa­nish ad­ven­tu­rers or to a bri­gan­ti­ne fil­led with pi­ra­tes.

  Abruptly, as if re­ading my mind, Frank Hud­son slo­wed his bo­at. "The ho­use is at the ot­her end of the is­land. You can't see it from he­re."

  The mo­tor­bo­at tur­ned so­uth. Ac­ross the glis­te­ning, thick spar­ti­na grass of the marsh, I saw the low-lying land, the snar­led ten­d­rils of vi­nes and ferns and bus­hes, a top­pled pi­ne, its trunk gas­hed by lig­h­t­ning. It wasn't hos­pi­tab­le. In no way did it evo­ke the ima­ge of a So­uth Sea is­land, whe­re li­fe is easy and lan­gu­oro­us. "Did Mr. Pres­cott ha­ve the ho­use bu­ilt or was it the­re when he bo­ught the is­land?" "Bu­ilt it."

  "I wo­uld ima­gi­ne tha­tjb­ro­ught in qu­ite a bit of mo­ney to the lo­cal eco­nomy." I tri­ed to en­vi­si­on the many, many bar­ges it wo­uld ta­ke to ha­ul in ever­y­t­hing ne­eded for the kind of ho­use Cha­se wo­uld want. Bar­ges and wor­k­men.

  ' Ye­ah." But the an­s­wer was a harsh so­und in his thro­at.

  "Do you li­ve on the is­land?" Hud­son's hands, lar­ge, work-worn hands, tig­h­te­ned on the whe­el. "Not an­y­mo­re. Not sin­ce Mr. Pres­cott to­ok it."

  "Did he ma­ke you mo­ve?" Now I un­der­s­to­od that an­ger. "Didn't he ha­ve to pay for yo­ur prop-

  erty?

  Explosive ra­ge bur­ned in the dark eyes that lo­oked back at me. "Whi­te men al­ways ha­ve pa­pers. The pa­pers sa­id the is­land be­lon­ged to so­me pe­op­le up north. They ca­me down to hunt a co­up­le of ti­mes a ye­ar. It didn't mat­ter how long we'd li­ved the­re. They to­re our ho­uses down and ma­de us mo­ve to the ma­in­land. Us and the Wil­let­ts and the Browns and the Jorys. Oh, he ga­ve us so­me mo­ney-for re­lo­ca­ti­on" -the word was sa­va­ge-"but it ain't the sa­me. It'll ne­ver be the sa­me."

  It was ab­ruptly co­oler be­ne­ath the dar­ke­ned sky. The skin on my ba­re arms pric­k­led.

  "Does the is­land ha­ve a na­me?" I as­ked.

  The wa­ves slap­ped aga­inst the hull. Blac­k­birds ca­wed. Hud­son's he­avy sho­ul­ders sho­ok. I re­ali­zed he was la­ug­hing. "Oh, yes'm. It has a na­me. Mr. Pres­cott don't li­ke it. He calls it Pres­cott Is­land. But that's not the re­al na­me."

  "What is it?" I grab­bed a ra­iling as the bo­at pic­ked up spe­ed.

  "Dead Man's Is­land." His de­ep vo­ice re­so­un­ded with sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  I sta­red at the den­se, for­bid­ding tan­g­le of growth.

  Dead Man's Is­land. The­re had to be a re­ason.

  "Why?"

  Hudson, too, was wat­c­hing the is­land sli­de by. "Ever­y­body still talks abo­ut it-and it was al­most a hun­d­red ye­ars ago. The big storm. The big­gest one ever. Af­ter it was over, they co­me to the is­land to see how it went he­re. You know what they fo­und"-eyes

  darker than co­al se­ar­c­hed mi­ne - "when they co­me over? Not a li­ving so­ul. Ever­y­body drow­ned. Every last one of them. The bo­di­es -swol­len and smelly- they was snag­ged in the tre­es and ca­ught in the brush. Up the­re on the high gro­und, the gro­und whe­re Mr. Pres­cott bu­ilt his ho­use. Be­fo­re that storm this was For­tu­ne Is­land. But from that day to this ain't no­body cal­led it not­hing but De­ad Man's Is­land."

  I shi­ve­red. From the sud­den bre­eze, of co­ur­se.

  But in my he­art I knew bet­ter. My Irish mot­her wo­uld ha­ve sa­id a go­ose had wal­ked ac­ross my gra­ve.

  2

  Opulence.

  That was my im­me­di­ate jud­g­ment. The mas­si­ve pa­le yel­low ho­use do­mi­na­ted the rid­ge. It was in the Ge­or­gi­an co­lo­ni­al style, the two-story cen­t­ral seg­ment ba­lan­ced by two-story wings on eit­her si­de. Co­lon­na­ded por­c­hes ex­ten­ded from every por­ti­on. Scar­let bo­uga­in­vil­lea cas­ca­ded over walls and bal­co­ni­es. But the eye was ca­ught and held by bed af­ter cur­ving bed of ro­ses, ro­ses so vi­vid, so gor­ge­o­us the eye was daz­zled: crim­son and ro­se, pink and ver­mi­li­on, but­ter yel­low and whi­te, prim­ro­se and pa­lest ivory, ma­uve and de­ep co­ral. A cen­t­ral fo­un­ta­in, bor­de­red by pink mar­b­le, flung a shi­ning co­lumn of wa­ter skyward. Dark gre­en cypress bor­de­red the flo­wer beds.

  This ho­use and its gar­dens we­re a spec­ta­cu­lar ac­hi­eve­ment, a pa­e­an to hu­man in­ge­nu­ity and de­ter­mi­na­ti­on.

  But it was al­so an aber­ra­ti­on.

  Elegance had no pla­ce on this wild and un­ta­med is­land. The Ge­or­gi­an ho­use and its fa­iry-ta­le gar­dens we­re at war with the lu­xu­ri­ant vi­nes and un­c­hec­ked shrub­bery and en­c­ro­ac­hing we­eds, the un­s­top­pab­le, un­con­t­rol­lab­le fe­cun­dity of sub­t­ro­pi­cal land.

  The ho­use was light and bright and airy.

  Behind it lo­omed the dar­k­ness of the vi­ne-cho­ked ma­ri­ti­me fo­rest.

  As the mo­tor­bo­at en­te­red the small har­bor, a slen­der, small-bo­ned man in crisp kha­kis and a short-sle­eved sport shirt bus­t­led out on­to the pi­er. This, of co­ur­se, was a sub­s­tan­ti­al pi­er, so new the wo­od was hardly we­at­he­red. Mid­way jut­ted a co­ve­red bo­at-ho­use.

  Hudson held the bo­at ste­ady as I clim­bed up the lad­der to the dock.

  The yo­ung man on the pi­er be­amed a wel­co­ming smi­le, but it was as auto­ma­tic and me­anin­g­less as a show­girl's cur­ved lips. "Mrs. Col­lins, how lo­vely to see you. Mr. Pres­cott as­ked me to wel­co­me you to Pres­cott Is­land. I'm his per­so­nal sec­re­tary, Bur­ton An­d­rews."

  Burton An­d­rews had a bo­yish bu­ild and a yo­ut­h­ful man­ner, but fa­ce-to-fa­ce I co­uld see the fa­int po­uc­hes un­der his eyes and the fi­ne li­nes on his fo­re­he­ad. His dis­con­ten­ted air bet­ra­yed that not­hing ever qu­ite li­ved up to his ex­pec­ta­ti­ons.

  He to­ok my bags, or­de­red Hud­son with, I tho­ught, un­ne­ces­sary con­des­cen­si­on, to be su­re to re­turn the fol­lo­wing we­ek - "Mr. Pres­cott sa­id the gu­ests will all be sta­ying for a we­ek. Now, that's Thur­s­day next, do you un­der­s­tand?"-then chat-

  tered as he led the way as­ko­re past the bo­at­ho­use and the ca­bin cru­iser doc­ked in­si­de. "That's the Mi­ran­da B., just back from her ye­arly over­ha­ul in Mi­ami. A gor­ge­o­us bo­at. Ma­ho­gany trim thro­ug­ho­ut. I'm su­re Mr. Pres­cott will ta­ke ever­yo­ne for a spin so­me­ti­me this we­ek. It has a crew of three, but Mr. Pres­cott's gi­ven them a ho­li­day. He usu­al­ly do­es that when he's in re­si­den­ce on the is­land. He li­kes to ha­ve as few pe­op­le he­re as pos­sib­le. To be in­ti­me, you know. That's why Hud­son's brin­ging over the gu­ests. Of co­ur­se, ar­ri­ving in Hud­son's old out­bo­ard isn't ne­arly as ple­asant as tra­ve­ling on the Mi­ran­da B."

  Behind us the pop-pop of Hud­son's bo­at fa­ded. We re­ac­hed the end of the pi­er.

  "Mind yo­ur step now, Mrs. Col­lins. It's six steps down - "

  Did
the fo­ol think I co­uldn't co­unt?

  "- and the oy­s­ter shells can be a lit­tle tricky, humpy, vo­us sa­vez."

  I didn't bot­her to an­s­wer. I len­g­t­he­ned my stri­de. How did Cha­se put up with this nat­te­ring idi­ot?

  As we wal­ked, Bur­ton An­d­rews kept up a swift stre­am of com­ment in his flat mid­wes­tern - Iowa, per­haps-ac­cent, pep­pe­red with bad French. "The ma­in ho­use is eight tho­usand squ­are fe­et. Every com­fort ima­gi­nab­le, bi­en sur. Be­hind it the­re are se­pa­ra­te qu­ar­ters for the ser­vants and a hu­ge sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding that ho­uses our own gas-po­we­red ge­ne­ra­tor, ex­t­ra fo­od­s­tuf­fs, gar­den mac­hi­nery, and sup­pli­es. It even has a res­ta­urant-si­ze fre­ezer ro­om. We ne­ver lack for an­y­t­hing he­re on the is­land. Mr. Pres­cott ex­pects ex­cel­len­ce, and he wants all who stay on Pres­cott Is­land-"