Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  This is, ac­tu­al­ly, so­und in­ter­vi­ewing tec­h­ni­que. Stay the hell away from the sen­si­ti­ve qu­es­ti­ons un­til you've di­sar­med yo­ur su­bj­ect. It's al­so a go­od way to fin­ger a li­ar. Fe­ed qu­es­ti­ons that ha­ve no bi­te-whe­re we­re you born, whe­re did you grow up, whe­re did you go to scho­ol, what was yo­ur col­le­ge ma­j­or, etc. - then when ever­y­t­hing's easy and smo­oth, slip in a qu­es­ti­on that mat­ters. It's as­to­nis­hing what you'll le­arn. If you watch eyes and hands, you'll ne­ver ne­ed a lie de­tec­tor.

  Of co­ur­se, that kind of in­ter­vi­ewing al­so has a se­con­dary ef­fect. It turns con­tacts in­to re­al pe­op­le for

  the in­ter­vi­ewer. I le­ar­ned abo­ut Bur­ton's ol­der sis­ter, who had ra­ised him af­ter his mot­her di­ed. (The qu­ick blin­king back of te­ars when he told abo­ut her fu­ne­ral last May.) He col­lec­ted stamps and ra­ised tro­pi­cal fish. ("They ha­ve «io much per­so­na­lity, judt Li­ke pe­op­le.") The stress of tem­ping. ("God, you ne­ver know what will hap­pen, and they al­ways bla­me the temp!")

  I ope­ned my pur­se, rat­her os­ten­ta­ti­o­usly drop­ped my pen and no­te­pad in­si­de, and set­tled back in a re­la­xed fas­hi­on. ("The, bet­ter to eat you, my de­ar.") "What's it li­ke, wor­king for Cha­se Pres­cott?"

  He smi­led fal­sely. "Oh, it's fas­ci­na­ting. Al­ways so­met­hing new and dif­fe­rent. Mr. Pres­cott is bril­li­ant. He's al­ways two steps ahe­ad of ever­yo­ne."

  Poor lit­tle guy. It was easy to ima­gi­ne what kind of hell it co­uld be to try to sa­tisfy the de­mands of a man who tho­ught him­self to be very spe­ci­al in­de­ed.

  I wa­ited. Most pe­op­le can't stand si­len­ce.

  Burton shif­ted res­t­les­sly in Cha­se's big cha­ir. "Pe­op­le who don't un­der­s­tand him think he's bad-tem­pe­red. It isn't that at all." Ca­uti­o­us pa­le eyes blin­ked ner­vo­usly. "He's im­pa­ti­ent. You see, his mind works so qu­ickly, and he ex­pects ever­yo­ne to be as smart as he is."

  Actually, I didn't re­call that of*C­ha­se. Rat­her, I felt Cha­se pri­ded him­self on be­ing smar­ter than an­yo­ne aro­und him. Not, re­al­ly, an at­trac­ti­ve qu­ality on his part.

  "Are you as smart as Mr. Pres­cott?" This wasn't, of co­ur­se, a fa­ir qu­es­ti­on. But ske­we­ring thro­ugh de­fen­ses isn't a pretty exer­ci­se.

  He flus­hed. "Are you ma­king fun of me, Mrs. Col­lins?"

  No.

  "If I was as smart as Mr. Pres­cott, I wo­uldn't be a sec­re­tary. I do the best I can."

  "I sus­pect Cha­se is mo­re for­tu­na­te than he knows to ha­ve a sec­re­tary li­ke you." I sho­uld ha­ve be­en as­ha­med of myself.

  He lo­oked at me wa­rily, unac­cus­to­med to pra­ise.

  "In fact, I'll ma­ke it a po­int to tell Cha­se how out­s­tan­ding I think you are. He can trust you -which is cer­ta­inly mo­re than can be sa­id of so­me of the ot­her pe­op­le in this ho­use."

  I had him eating out of the palm of my hand. His sus­pi­ci­ons tum­b­led over each ot­her.

  "Listen, Mrs. Col­lins, I know it's Ro­ger who spil­led that aw­ful stuff abo­ut the fa­mily to the wri­ter… He tri­es to pre­tend he li­kes his fat­her, but it's a lie, a lie… Ro­ger lo­at­hes him, I know he do­es… Ne­ver ma­de any mo­ney on his own. Why, he just ba­rely ma­kes a li­ving… Mi­ran­da's be­en ac­ting funny the last few we­eks… I see her up at night wal­king aro­und… Lyle Sted­man thinks he's al­re­ady as big a de­al as Mr. Pres­cott just be­ca­use he's be­en pic­ked to be CEO. I think that's ma­king Mr. Pres­cott kind of mad… But­ter won't melt in that law­yer's mo­uth. I don't trust him. I tri­ed to tell Mr. Pres­cott on­ce, but he wo­uldn't lis­ten… That snotty Has­kell Lee tre­ats me li­ke I'm dirt. Asks me to get him things, li­ke I'm so­me kind of ser­vant… I might as well not exist as far as Mrs. St. Vin­cent's con­cer­ned. But she'd bet­ter watch how she acts…"

  There was a lot of ve­nom and re­sen­t­ment sto­red be­hind Bur­ton's ob­se­qu­i­o­us fa­ca­de. When he fi­nal­ly

  ran down, I in­qu­ired mildly, "Who sho­uld I talk to next? Who do you think will be the most ho­nest and open abo­ut Mr. Pres­cott?"

  The sec­re­tary's an­s­wer sur­p­ri­sed me.

  I sup­po­se so­me­day, sho­uld I ever ma­ke it to Eden, I'll find it much li­ke the sa­ni­ti­zed, con­t­rol­led gar­den of lu­xury that Cha­se had cre­ated on Pres­cott Is­land, with flo­we­ring shrubs and sea-soft air and tiny poc­kets of pri­vacy at every hand.

  As I wal­ked up the shell path, I wel­co­med the sha­de from the wil­lows that fen­ced off the jog­ging track from both the back gar­dens and the ho­use. It was only mid­mor­ning, but the hot air flo­wed over me li­ke mel­ted ca­ra­mel.

  As be­fit­ted an earthly pa­ra­di­se, the­re we­re se­ve­ral com­for­tab­le web­bed gar­den cha­irs be­ne­ath the sha­de of an ar­bor be­si­de the track. I to­ok a se­at and wat­c­hed Lyle Sted­man jog. Le­an and mus­cu­lar, he had the easy gra­ce of an ac­com­p­lis­hed at­h­le­te. His red ha­ir was plas­te­red limply to his skull. Un­s­mi­ling, bre­at­hing harshly, Lyle lo­oked to­ugh, ab­sor­bed, wit­h­d­rawn. He slo­wed to a walk* still mo­ving briskly.

  His dos­si­er re­ve­aled a yo­ung man in a hurry. Lyle Sted­man star­ted po­or, the only son of a di­vor­ced sec­re­tary. He le­ar­ned early that he was go­od at sports. It be­ca­me his tic­ket to col­le­ge, a track scho­lar­s­hip to the Uni­ver­sity of Mis­sis­sip­pi. He was the ho­use ma­na­ger in his fra­ter­nity. He al­so pla­yed po­ker. Bet­we­en the fra­ter­nity job, his scho­lar­s­hip, and cards, Sted­man put to­get­her eno­ugh of a nest egg to pay his way to the Mid­dle East. The­re he bad­ge­red every news bu-

  reau for a job un­til he lan­ded one, star­ting off as a strin­ger. Three ye­ars la­ter Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons hi­red him full ti­me. When the Gulf War be­gan, Lyle's sto­ri­es ca­ught the at­ten­ti­on of Cha­se him­self. Cha­se bro­ught the yo­ung jo­ur­na­list back to the At­lan­ta of­fi­ce. Lyle Sted­man out­hus­t­led his pe­ers, and six months ago-at the ten­der age of twen­ty-se­ven - he was na­med Cha­se's he­ir ap­pa­rent.

  I ima­gi­ned he'd ma­de ene­mi­es in his scram­b­le to suc­ce­ed. I do­ub­ted that he ga­ve a damn.

  Lyle's stri­de chec­ked. He he­si­ta­ted, then ca­me to­ward me, his ex­p­res­si­on im­pas­si­ve. He pic­ked up a to­wel from a ne­arby cha­ir, wi­ped off his fa­ce, then drop­ped in­to the cha­ir ac­ross from me. In­tel­li­gent gre­en eyes chal­len­ged me. He wa­ited for me to spe­ak.

  I re­ac­hed up and bro­ke off a spray of ho­ney­suc­k­le. This ti­me I didn't try the de­ar-old-lady-wri­ter-coz­ying-up-to-the-su­bj­ect. Lyle Sted­man was a far cry from Bur­ton An­d­rews. "Ha­ving fun?" A So­uth Ca­ro­li­na-si­ze wasp buz­zed a lit­tle too ne­ar.

  "You're the hot­s­hot re­por­ter. You tell me."

  "Sure. Abo­ut as much fun as a ro­ot ca­nal." I wo­uld ha­ve gu­es­sed his last va­ca­ti­on had be­en in juni­or high scho­ol.

  He did la­ugh at that. "Okay. Tru­ce. The boss says you're wri­ting his li­fe. Why?"

  "Money, of co­ur­se." This is the kind of an­s­wer that usu­al­ly em­bar­ras­ses the as­ker eno­ugh to shut down fur­t­her qu­es­ti­ons on the su­bj­ect.

  Not Lyle Sted­man. He lif­ted one thick red eyeb­row. "I know who you are. You've won every award the­re is. Co­ve­red the world. Then suc­ces­sful­ly ma­de

  the switch to big-ti­me fic­ti­on. You don't ne­ed mo­ney."

  I tri­ed eva­si­ve ac­ti­on. "But Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons do­es ne­ed mo­ney. In a bad way. Want to tell me abo­ut it?"

  "If the boss he­ard that, he'd can you on the spot." Lyle le­aned back in his cha­ir and re­gar­ded me shrewdly. "I don't get this.
The party li­ne at the of­fi­ce is: Ever­y­t­hing's swell, don't ask stu­pid qu­es­ti­ons, the mo­ney will co­me in, Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons fo­re­ver with a drum roll and a trum­pet tat­too in the bac­k­g­ro­und. So what gi­ves?"

  I crus­hed the ho­ney­suc­k­le in my hand, sa­vo­ring the swe­et, thick sum­mer­ti­me smell. "Do you think the mo­ney's not co­ming in?"

  "Goddamn. You've eit­her got mo­re guts than an­y­body I've ever met or you play it the way it li­es. But in ca­se you're car­rying tid­bits back to Cha­se, no, I don't think he's de­lu­si­onal. If the boss says the mo­ney's co­ming in, it will co­me. So I'm tel­ling ever­y­body to co­ol it. I'm tel­ling ever­y­body to con­cen­t­ra­te on the job. Le­ave the high fi­nan­ce to the boss. It won't be the first ti­me he's wor­ked a mi­rac­le."

  Lyle was trying to con­vin­ce him­self, not me. But it ga­ve me a ni­ce ope­ning, and I po­un­ced on it. I le­ar­ned a lot mo­re that I didn't know abo­ut Cha­se. Lyle got in­to the spi­rit of it, and I so­on saw that this in­tel­li­gent, im­pa­ti­ent, am­bi­ti­o­us yo­ung man was one of tho­se ra­re cre­atu­res-a dis­pas­si­ona­te ob­ser­ver. He was qu­ick, yes, to say when he tho­ught Cha­se was at fa­ult-the ce­leb­ra­ted una­ut­ho­ri­zed-bi­og­raphy li­bel ca­se, for exam­p­le-but just as qu­ick to ex­tol vir­tu­es,

  painting a vi­vid pic­tu­re of a man fa­na­ti­cal­ly de­vo­ted to the com­pany he had bu­ilt from not­hing, an im­pa­ti­ent, qu­ick-tem­pe­red man with an uner­ring eye for what po­pu­lar tas­te cra­ved and a fi­er­ce de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to be the first to sa­tisfy that hun­ger.

  "That, in sum, is why he's ric­her than Cro­esus." The he­ir ap­pa­rent hun­c­hed for­ward in his cha­ir, his vo­ice ad­mi­ring. I co­uld re­ad the rest of his tho­ught. One of the­se days, he, too, was go­ing to be just as rich. When it was his turn. "Ye­ah, the boss was one of the first to get the idea that the sim­p­le li­fe was back in style. He star­ted new sec­ti­ons in every pa­per and a seg­ment in the mor­ning talk shows abo­ut back-to-ba­sics, down with con­s­pi­cu­o­us con­sum­p­ti­on. Pe­op­le lo­ved it. The let­ters po­ured in. Now ever­y­body's on the ban­d­wa­gon."

  "The sim­p­le li­fe."

  He flas­hed a sur­p­ri­singly char­ming grin. "Just be­ca­use it's in his new­s­pa­pers do­esn't me­an he'tf ta­ken a vow of aus­te­rity. He­re we are on Pres­cott Is­land, in a lit­tle grass shack for his bud­di­es. But why the hell not?"

  "So why did he ask you he­re this we­ekend?" My fin­gers felt sticky from the ho­ney­suc­k­le.

  His smi­le slid away. "You he­ard the man at din­ner last night. He knows I'll lay it out stra­ight. I do, you know. He's fi­red me twi­ce, but he al­ways hi­res me back. I'm the only son of a bitch Cha­se knows who do­esn't stand at at­ten­ti­on when he co­mes in­to the ro­om."

  "But you'd rat­her be in At­lan­ta." I wa­ved away a wasp, tos­sed the crus­hed ho­ney­suc­k­le on­to the grass.

  "God, yes." He twir­led the to­wel in­to a ta­ut li­ne and snap­ped it twi­ce. "Jesus, this is bo­ring. No of­fen­se. But I want to be in the new­s­ro­om. I want to know what's go­ing on. And this god­dam­ned is­land - we're out he­re li­ke it's a cen­tury ago. What's wrong with him? May­be he's get­ting old." He sho­ok his he­ad. "No, that's not it. But, for God's sa­ke, an­y­t­hing co­uld hap­pen in Rus­sia. The damn Lib­yans co­uld knock down anot­her pla­ne. Hell, we don't know what's hap­pe­ning! For a damn we­ek! And tho­se in­te­rest pay­ments co­me due in Oc­to­ber. What's that? Fi­ve we­eks? And he­re we sit twid­dling our thumbs on this god­for­sa­ken is­land. So he says ever­y­t­hing's okay-why do­esn't he tell us what's go­ing onl The ru­mors out in the in­dustry are bad." He le­aned back, vi­sibly trying to re­lax. "But I'm not in char­ge."

  "When you are…"

  "When I am? Lady, I'm go­ing to bi­te and scratch and go­uge and fight and so­me­day Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons will be the big­gest me­dia out­fit in the world. In the who­le dam­ned world."

  I knew as I lo­oked at his glit­te­ring gre­en eyes that the day he to­ok over co­uldn't pos­sibly co­me, as far as he was con­cer­ned, so­on eno­ugh.

  Caesar sa­id it best: "Yond Ca­j­j­i­ud had a le­an and hungry lo­ok …"

  I was on my way to the ten­nis co­urts, ho­ping to find Mi­ran­da, when I to­ok a de­to­ur.

  The ac­rid, un­mis­ta­kab­le scent of bur­ning drew me to the in­ci­ne­ra­tor. I to­uc­hed the con­c­re­te blocks

  lightly. They we­re still warm, tho­ugh no smo­ke twi­ned from the vents.

  It was the first ho­me in­ci­ne­ra­tor I'd be­en aro­und in forty ye­ars. Be­li­eve it or not, ho­me in­ci­ne­ra­tors we­re a gi­ven in So­ut­hern Ca­li­for­nia not so long ago. A small sho­vel hung from a ho­ok on one si­de, along with glo­ves. I slip­ped on the glo­ves and ope­ned the do­or. I used the sho­vel to ex­p­lo­re.

  Books are hard to burn, as Na­zis and ot­hers of the­ir ilk ha­ve dis­co­ve­red thro­ugh the ye­ars.

  This bo­ok was blac­ke­ned and smol­de­ring. Still, it was far from des­t­ro­yed. I held in my hand the mis­sing copy of The Man Who Pic­kj Pre­si­dent*). I ca­re­ful­ly sprin­k­led it with so­me sandy dirt, to ex­tin­gu­ish even a lin­ge­ring spark. Then I went to the tro­ub­le to empty out all the as­hes to see if the­re was an­y­t­hing el­se not cus­to­ma­rily con­sig­ned to in­ci­ne­ra­tors.

  All I got for my tro­ub­le was an ash in my right eye and a sme­ar of car­bon on my wal­king shorts.

  I to­ok the char­red bo­ok back to my ro­om. The­re I wrap­ped it in a qu­art-si­ze plas­tic bag (I carry them when tra­ve­ling for so­iled clot­hing) and tuc­ked it in the mid­dle of the fol­der stack.

  I brus­hed away most of the cin­der sme­ar on my shorts and hur­ri­ed back out­si­de, my go­al aga­in the ten­nis co­urts.

  Why try to burn Cha­se's bi­og­raphy?

  Obviously, I co­uld easily ob­ta­in a copy when back on the ma­in­land. And, in fact, thanks to Bur­ton An­d­rews, I'd ha­ve the bo­ok in hand by Mon­day af­ter­no­on.

  Panic.

  Whatever I'd sen­sed la­te last night when I cal­led out and no one an­s­we­red, it cer­ta­inly hadn't be­en pa­nic. No, ta­king that bo­ok to the in­ci­ne­ra­tor was not the po­int of ex­tin­gu­is­hing the lights.

  I tur­ned up the path to the ten­nis co­urts, brus­hing back so­me low-lying we­eping wil­low fronds. But when I re­ac­hed the co­urts, I was di­sap­po­in­ted not to see Cha­se's yo­ung wi­fe. Tre­vor Dun­na­way was zip­ping up his rac­ket. He lo­oked ir­ri­ta­ted.

  "Where's Mi­ran­da?"

  "Decided she'd had eno­ugh. Qu­it in the mid­dle of the set." He must ha­ve re­ali­zed he so­un­ded pet­tish. He ma­na­ged a smi­le and ges­tu­red to­ward a la­vish wet bar be­ne­ath a ca­nopy. "It is­dam­ned hot. Jo­in me in a drink? Got ice out he­re and ever­y­t­hing. Whis­key, be­er, so­da."

  "Love to." Tre­vor was on my in­ter­vi­ew list, of co­ur­se. Sin­ce he was a bird in hand, I'd de­fer my se­arch for Mi­ran­da.

  I to­ok pla­in sel­t­zer. Tre­vor un­cap­ped a bot­tle of Dos Equ­is XXs. "Go­od and cold," he sa­id ap­pro­vingly. He pul­led two di­rec­tor's cha­irs de­eper in­to the sha­de for us. As we set­tled back, he lo­oked to­ward the co­urts. "God, it's fun to play* on clay. But they ta­ke a lot of work." With ele­gant ti­ming, the co­urt sprin­k­lers ca­me on at that mo­ment. The aro­ma­tic smell of wa­ter hit­ting dry so­il drif­ted to us. "Auto­ma­tic, see," he ex­p­la­ined ad­mi­ringly. "Kind of an elec­t­ric eye in re­ver­se. As long as so­me­one's pla­ying, the wa­ter stays off. When the­re isn't any mo­ve­ment for a set pe­ri­od, the sprin­k­lers co­me on for a whi­le and pretty so­on the co­urt's per­fect for the next ga­me.

&
nbsp; Isn't that a hell of a de­al?" He til­ted the dark brown bot­tle and drank gre­edily.

  He was cer­ta­inly at ho­me in this re­sort set­ting. As if to the ma­nor born. But he hadn't be­en. Tre­vor was that stran­ge hybrid, a mid­dle-class ori­gin but an up­per-mid­dle-class bac­k­g­ro­und. Both pa­rents we­re scho­ol­te­ac­hers who im­mig­ra­ted to the U.S. from En­g­land. Tre­vor was an only child. They ga­ve him every ad­van­ta­ge. Pri­va­te scho­ols. Mu­sic les­sons. Go­od clot­hes. But the mo­ney only stret­c­hed so far. He co­uldn't af­ford ski­ing over spring bre­ak or ja­unts to Euro­pe or the ex­pen­si­ve sum­mer camps that ca­ter to the rich. But Tre­vor bril­li­antly par­la­yed go­od lo­oks and charm and an un­de­ni­ab­le Bri­tish ac­cent, so ap­pre­ci­ated by up­per-mid­dle-class Ame­ri­cans, in­to in­vi­ta­ti­ons to ac­com­pany his clas­sma­tes' fa­mi­li­es on va­ca­ti­ons: snor­ke­ling in Gre­ece, pyra­mid clim­bing in Me­xi­co, sal­mon fis­hing in Alas­ka. And now, as a cor­po­ra­te at­tor­ney, he enj­oyed a top in­co­me and, as al­ways, ex­cel­led at eli­ci­ting in­vi­ta­ti­ons to the man­si­ons and es­ta­tes of the we­althy.