Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Or ca­re?" I tip­ped up the co­ol, wa­ter-be­aded bot­tle and wel­co­med the sharp tas­te.

  For on­ce he lo­oked at me wit­ho­ut moc­kery.

  "Naw. I don't…" He frow­ned, sho­ok his he­ad. "I don't li­ke an­y­body to die. I ha­te that. De­ath." He gul­ped mo­re be­er. "They ma­de me go to the fu­ne­ral ho­me. For my mom. She was… not­hing. Just flat and whi­te and… de­ad." His hand tig­h­te­ned on the bot­tle.

  "I'm sorry."

  Slowly his vi­se-tight grip on the bot­tle re­la­xed. He ga­ve me a cro­oked grin. "You're okay, re­al­ly. I

  mean, you so­und to­ugh, but you fe­el things, don't

  i" you?

  "More than I want to," I ad­mit­ted. I lo­oked at the po­ol and saw that the wind was high eno­ugh to rip­ple the cle­an blue wa­ter.

  "Yeah." His fa­ce crin­k­led in a per­p­le­xed frown. "It do­esn't do any go­od to pre­tend you don't ca­re, 'ca­use un­der­ne­ath it just hurts mo­re. But when I go fast, then I don't think abo­ut an­y­t­hing, I just fe­el go­od. Fas­ter and fas­ter and fas­ter. God, it was gre­at on that wa­ve. It was gre­at."

  I co­uld ha­ve told Has­kell that no mat­ter how fast he ran, he co­uldn't out­s­t­rip his fe­elings. But it's kin­der to let each ge­ne­ra­ti­on climb that mo­un­ta­in un­k­no­wing. If we knew at twerfty what we know at sixty, it wo­uld ma­ke the climb that much har­der and mo­re har­ro­wing.

  "Okay, so you don't want Cha­se de­ad, even if it me­ans the fas­test po­wer­bo­at mo­ney can buy." I wat­c­hed him ca­re­ful­ly. I'd swe­ar that just for an in­s­tant he tho­ught abo­ut a bo­at and what it co­uld me­an and how much he wo­uld lo­ve it, but al­most im­me­di­ately he pus­hed the tho­ught away, dis­mis­sed it. In­si­de, I felt a mo­ment of joy, but I kept my vo­ice

  matter- of-fact. "Help me out, Has­kell. You're smart. You no­ti­ce things. Who's tri­ed twi­ce to kill him?"

  He fi­nis­hed his be­er and strug­gled up, still fa­vo­ring his knee and sho­ul­der, to get anot­her from the wet bar. He to­ok his ti­me, un­cap­ped the bot­tle, then ca­uti­o­usly re­set­tled in his cha­ir. "I don't get it. No way do I get it. Lo­ok who's he­re-Va­le­rie? Well, I me­an, how crazy can you get? She might bre­ak a damn fin­ger­na­il."

  I la­ug­hed. It wcu) dif­fi­cult to pic­tu­re Va­le­rie slin­king thro­ugh the pi­ne­wo­ods, let­hal pis­tol in hand. I wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught she'd be too af­ra­id of sna­kes even to step in­to the wo­ods.

  "As for Mi­ran­da, Jesus, she wor­s­hips him." The­re was an odd no­te in Has­kell's vo­ice, not qu­ite je­alo­usy, not qu­ite dis­da­in.

  My smi­le slip­ped away. On­ce aga­in I ba­lan­ced it in my mind. Ado­ra­ti­on or ob­ses­si­on, which was it?

  Haskell tip­ped the bot­tle to his mo­uth and swal­lo­wed gre­edily, then con­ti­nu­ed ru­mi­na­ti­vely, al­most as if tal­king to him­self. "Ta­ke old Lyle. He's a true-blue shit. But mur­der? I me­an, he's got the in­si­de track, he's the fa­ir-ha­ired boy. Is he in that big a hurry? Not if he's as smart as ever­y­body says he is. And Ro­ger, he may thump his chest be­ca­use Cha­se sne­ers at his ble­eding-he­art sob stuff, but he's re­al­ly fond of his dad. Last Chris­t­mas Ro­ger sent off to Af­ri­ca-to Ken­ya-for this car­ved che­etah for Cha­se's wo­oden-ani­mal col­lec­ti­on. Ha­ve you ever se­en Cha­se's col­lec­ti­on? He's got it in his of­fi­ce in At­lan­ta. It's su­per-fan­tas­tic. Rhi­nos, elep­hants, zeb­ras, li­ons, an­te­lo­pe… An­y­way, the­re was this par­ti­cu­lar che­etah. It was a hell of a lot of tro­ub­le,

  took months. Ro­ger was so ex­ci­ted he al­most threw up when the damn thing ar­ri­ved. Ca­me by air. Scratch Ro­ger, I don't ca­re what an­y­body thinks. And who do­es that le­ave?"

  "Trevor. Bur­ton. En­ri­que, Ro­sa­lia, and Betty." I fi­nis­hed my be­er and wa­ited. I knew Tre­vor had an ali­bi that de­fi­ni­tely wasn't fa­ked, but I wan­ted Has-kell's opi­ni­on of him.

  "I don't li­ke Tre­vor." Has­kell put the be­er bot­tle on the flag­s­to­ne. "So damn char­ming." He ma­de it so­und li­ke a di­se­ase. "Li­ke a po­li­ti­ci­an. He's got that kind of smi­le, all shiny whi­te te­eth. I wo­uldn't trust him as far as I co­uld throw him. But why blow away this rich guy who thinks he's the gre­atest law­yer in the co­untry? That wo­uld be stu­pid. Right?"

  I nod­ded.

  "Well, old buddy Tre­vor may not be Abe Lin­coln, but he's not dumb. Oh, I gu­ess Ro­ger wo­uld pro­bably ke­ep him on, at le­ast for a whi­le, be­ca­use Tre­vor knows ever­y­t­hing abo­ut the bu­si­ness. But Tre­vor wo­uld just be tra­ding one boss for anot­her. What's the be­ne­fit?"

  I co­uldn't see one eit­her. And the­re was no per­cep­tib­le rift bet­we­en Cha­se and his fa­vo­ri­te law­yer.

  "As for Bur­ton, par­don me whi­le I pu­ke. He wo­uldn't ha­ve the guts to think abo­ut a mur­der. He's a drip." Has­kell spo­ke with the in­to­le­ran­ce of the yo­ung and strong for the we­ak and hap­less.

  "Our mur­de­rer ke­eps a very low pro­fi­le," I re­min­ded him. "Hi­ding po­ison in candy and sho­oting from be­hind a tree don't ar­gue lots of guts."

  He grun­ted. "Mo­re than Bur­ton's got."

  "I'd say En­ri­que has a full com­p­le­ment." I

  drained the last few drops from the bot­tle, con­si­de­red anot­her, de­ci­ded aga­inst it.

  "That's a dan­ge­ro­us du­de." The words might be tho­se of so­me­one yo­ung, but his to­ne wasn't. He spo­ke with ut­ter con­vic­ti­on.

  You don't ha­ve that kind of con­vic­ti­on wit­ho­ut know­led­ge.

  I put my bot­tle down on the si­de tab­le. "Co­me on, Has­kell, let's he­ar it."

  He shot me a tro­ub­led lo­ok, then shrug­ged. "Hell, what can it hurt? I was a lit­tle kid. Ni­ne, may­be. We we­re on a cru­ise down in the Ca­rib­be­an. Me and Mom and Cha­se. You know it can get to­ugh down the­re -drug run­ners de­ci­de they ne­ed a new bo­at, what the hell, stop so­me rich guy's yacht, bump ever­y­body off, sa­il on the­ir way. It hap­pens. It al­most hap­pe­ned to us. It was Chris­t­mas Eve."

  I co­uld tell that it still hurt him.

  "Christmas Eve. I wo­ke up to he­ar so­me­body sho­uting. It was a co­up­le of guys - I saw them in the lights from the sa­lo­on. Li­ke an­y­body down on the be­ach. Tan­ned. Blond. Be­ards. Kha­ki shorts. The kind of guys who might be on the bo­at next to yo­urs at the ma­ri­na. They both had thir­ty-eights po­in­ted at Cha­se. The big­ger one or­de­red him and Mom to walk to­ward the stern. An­y­way, all of a sud­den, pow, pow, and the­se guys do­ub­led up, li­ke in slow mo­ti­on. They had ho­led in the­ir chests." He shif­ted in his se­at, win­ced, and re­ac­hed down to mas­sa­ge his knee. "Enri­que step­ped out of the sha­dows. He lo­oked at Cha­se and they mo­ved to­get­her and pic­ked the guys up, one at a ti­me, and tos­sed them over­bo­ard. Li­ke they we­re

  garbage. The­re was blo­od ever­y­w­he­re. So En­ri­que ho­sed down the deck."

  No, I hadn't ove­res­ti­ma­ted En­ri­que.

  Haskell put it in per­s­pec­ti­ve. "Ye­ah, En­ri­que's a to­ugh du­de, but why kill Cha­se? Cha­se told me one ti­me he pays En­ri­que fifty thou a ye­ar be­ca­use he'll do an­y­t­hing Cha­se wants him to do."

  "And Ro­sa­lia do­es ever­y­t­hing En­ri­que tells her to do?"

  "Oh, ye­ah. He knocks her aro­und, I'm pretty su­re. I told Cha­se on­ce. He told me to mind my own bu­si­ness."

  I'd wan­ted facts. The­re was a fact.

  A harsh and ugly one.

  I wan­ted to pro­test, to say that Cha­se wo­uldn't ha­ve sa­id that, wo­uldn't ha­ve ig­no­red that kind of abu­se in his own ho­me. But I knew in my he­art that it was mo­re im­por­tant to Cha­se to ha­ve En­ri­que as a fi­er­cely lo­yal em­p­lo­yee than to pro­tect En
­ri­que's wi­fe.

  But I wasn't as yo­ung as Has­kell, and Cha­se wo­uld ha­ve to res­pond to me.

  Haskell lif­ted his he­ad, lis­te­ning, then sto­od and sha­ded his eyes to ga­ze out ac­ross* the so­und. "He­re co­mes the Mi­ran­da B."

  The sky was an angry red to the so­uth. Splas­hes of crim­son stre­aked the gun­me­tal-gray clo­uds.

  "… sa­ilor ta­ke war­ning."

  Haskell grab­bed his to­wel and got up.

  I sto­od, too. I knew I had only se­conds left and one mo­re qu­es­ti­on, an im­por­tant one, to ask.

  "Didn't I see you out back last night, Has­kell? La­te last night?"

  He lo­oked at me blankly. "Out back? Out back whe­re?"

  "Near the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters. You and per­haps Betty?"

  He didn't even ha­ve to spe­ak; his fa­ce ma­de his an­s­wer so pla­in: as­to­nis­h­ment was fol­lo­wed by a lo­ok of pu­re out­ra­ge. "Hey, what do you think I am? Do you me­an…" He sho­ok his he­ad in she­er dis­gust. "Lo­ok, I don't ha­ve to get sex li­ke that. No way. I've got plenty of girls. Plenty of them." And he stro­de away.

  I might as well not ha­ve bot­he­red ma­king up a wel­co­ming com­mit­tee of one out on the pi­er.

  Chase stal­ked by me, his fa­ce pur­p­le with fury. He did ma­na­ge a curt "I'll talk to you la­ter, Hen­rie O."

  I sto­od by the bo­at­ho­use, my hands on my hips, and I sup­po­se my ir­ri­ta­ti­on was evi­dent.

  Trevor Dun­na­way, his blond ha­ir awry from the wind, his fa­ce red from too much sun, drop­ped on­to the bo­ards and am­b­led we­arily to­ward me. He threw out his hands. "I'm in the dog­ho­use. You got a job for an ex-cor­po­ra­te co­un­sel?"

  "He's fi­red you?" The wind whip­ped my clot­hes aga­inst me.

  "Oh, no. Not qu­ite. He pro­bably will to­mor­row," Tre­vor sa­id glo­omily, jam­ming his hands in the poc­kets of his mad­ras shorts. "As you may or may not know abo­ut Cha­se, he do­esn't li­ke for the hi­red help to di­sag­ree af­ter he's gi­ven what he con­si­ders the fi­nal word."

  I fell in­to step with him. "I gat­her you lod­ged a dis­sent."

  "A co­up­le of them." He he­aved a sigh. "Li­ke the un­wis­dom in ke­eping re­cal­cit­rant ho­use­gu­ests in cap­ti­vity. I can just see the law­su­it Val will fi­le next we­ek. I po­in­ted that out. Didn't ma­ke me po­pu­lar. And I told him I in­ten­ded to fill you in on a cer­ta­in in­su­ran­ce po­licy. Cha­se and I ab­so­lu­tely di­sag­ree abo­ut how it co­uld fi­gu­re in all this. Ma­de him fu­ri­o­us. And to cap it off"-another he­avy sigh-"I in­sis­ted we ke­ep the ra­dio on, get the we­at­her re­ports. Now he's evenly di­vi­ded bet­we­en be­ing ro­yal­ly pis­sed off at me and at God. The­re's a hell of a storm co­ming out of the Ca­rib­be­an. Hur­ri­ca­ne watch is­su­ed at no­on. Hur­ri­ca­ne De­rek. Winds in ex­cess of eig­h­ty-two mph and bu­il­ding. Al­re­ady knoc­ked the stuf­fing out of Cu­ba. Wi­des­p­re­ad flo­oding. Lan­d­fall co­uld co­me as early as to­mor­row eve­ning. So­mew­he­re bet­we­en Mi­ami and Sa­van­nah."

  Savannah wasn't that far.

  So we wo­uld get he­avy ra­ins, at the very le­ast. And by to­mor­row night the surf stri­king the is­land co­uld wash right over tho­se be­a­uti­ful, un­s­po­iled du­nes. But that was to­mor­row nig­hj.

  I was mo­re con­cer­ned with to­night. "Let's go a lit­tle fas­ter, Tre­vor."

  He gro­aned but kept pa­ce.

  I didn't want to let Cha­se out of sight. We we­re even with the po­ol when Cha­se yan­ked open the French do­or to his qu­ar­ters. He lo­oked back and yel­led, "You're off duty, Dun­na­way. My wi­fe's he­re." And slam­med the do­or be­hind him.

  The law­yer sig­hed. "Ye­ah, Dun­na­way, yo­ur

  goose is co­oked." He re­ac­hed up to to­uch his fa­ce ten­derly. "Li­te­ral­ly and fi­gu­ra­ti­vely. Christ." He lo­oked we­arily aro­und, then po­in­ted to so­me cha­irs be­ne­ath an aw­ning. "I don't ne­ed anot­her dandy so­lar ray. Co­me on, if you'll get me so­met­hing cold to drink and mur­mur so­ot­hing re­as­su­ran­ces abo­ut the fu­tu­re of my gilt-ed­ged ca­re­er with Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons, I'll tell you all abo­ut Cha­se's will, damn him, and a par­ti­cu­lar in­su­ran­ce po­licy."

  At his di­rec­ti­on I fi­xed him a scotch and so­da, he­avy on the scotch. I han­ded him his drink.

  He grab­bed it, drank half. "You will put in a go­od word for me, won't you?" His vo­ice was for­lorn. He wasn't kid­ding.

  "Sure. I'll re­mind Cha­se that you know mo­re abo­ut his fi­nan­ci­al af­fa­irs than an­yo­ne ex­cept him and his ac­co­un­tants. He'd ke­ep a spra­ying skunk on his staff if it we­re to his ad­van­ta­ge." I drop­ped in­to a cha­ir, al­so in the sha­de. I'd had eno­ugh so­lar rays myself.

  Trevor win­ced. "The­re's so­met­hing abo­ut that ana­logy I don't li­ke. Ho­we­ver, to bu­si­ness, then I can crawl off ig­no­mi­ni­o­usly to my ro­om and hunt for so­met­hing to put on my fa­ce. It fe­els li­ke raw me­at."

  "Looks li­ke it, too." He was go­ing to be lucky if he didn't ha­ve so­me blis­ters.

  He tur­ned sun-red­de­ned eyes to­ward me. "All right. You want to know abo­ut the will. It's pretty stra­ig­h­t­for­ward. The en­ti­re es­ta­te is va­lu­ed at eight hun­d­red mil­li­on. Cha­se and Mi­ran­da ha­ve a pre­nup-ti­al ag­re­ement. She re­ce­ives ap­pro­xi­ma­tely twen­ty-fi­ve mil­li­on. Ro­ger re­ce­ives all the rest ex­cept for so­me mi­nor be­qu­ests: fifty tho­usand dol­lars each for

  Enrique, Ro­sa­lia, and Betty, and fi­ve hun­d­red tho­usand for an old fri­end - "

  I was af­ra­id I knew what was co­ming. I co­uld fe­el the mus­c­les in my fa­ce tig­h­te­ning.

  " - Henrietta O'Dw­yer Col­lins."

  Fury swept me. Cha­se co­uldn't do this to me. I wo­uld not per­mit it.

  "I see."

  There was a long and fa­irly aw­k­ward si­len­ce. Tre­vor ob­vi­o­usly he­si­ta­ted to spe­ak. And I didn't in­tend to dis­cuss this de­ve­lop­ment.

  "All right, Tre­vor. I'll ta­ke ca­re of that be­qu­est as so­on as I see Cha­se. But tell me the rest. What abo­ut Has­kell?" My words we­re clip­ped.

  Trevor was gra­te­ful to find ne­ut­ral gro­und. "He co­mes in­to con­t­rol of his mot­her's mo­ney. It's eno­ugh that he can tell Cha­se to ta­ke the of­fi­ce and sho­ve it."

  So the mo­ti­ves con­ti­nu­ed to pi­le up. A yo­ung wo­man with twen­ty-fi­ve mil­li­on co­uld lo­ok for­ward to a li­fe­ti­me of at­ten­ti­on and ple­asu­re. Ro­ger wo­uld con­t­rol the edi­to­ri­al out­put of a me­dia em­pi­re. Has­kell co­uld ha­ve his pick of the world's fas­test-and fi­nest-spe­ed­bo­ats. And tho­ugh small in com­pa­ri­son, the be­qu­ests to En­ri­que, Ro­sa­lia^ and Betty co­uld se­em im­men­se in­de­ed to them.

  "And then the­re's the in­su­ran­ce po­licy."

  I was lis­te­ning but still fu­ming-un­til Tre­vor's words fi­nal­ly re­gis­te­red and knoc­ked ever­y­t­hing el­se out of my mind. I sta­red at him, ag­hast. "Tre­vor, that's crazy! Talk abo­ut as­king for tro­ub­le!"

  He was de­fen­si­ve. "It wasn't the le­ast bit crazy at the ti­me. Lo­ok, the IRA put a pri­ce on Cha­se's he­ad -his Bri­tish pa­pers wa­ged all-out war aga­inst the

  IRA- and he'd just ex­ten­ded his lo­ans, bo­ught a ma­j­or new­s­pa­per in New York. This was -God, ti­me go­es fast! -this was mo­re than ten ye­ars ago. Clo­ser to twel­ve now. If an­y­t­hing'd hap­pe­ned to Cha­se then, Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons wo­uld ha­ve go­ne down fas­ter than the Ti­ta­nic. The po­licy re­as­su­red so­me damn ner­vo­us in­ves­tors."

  "Okay, let me see if I've got it stra­ight. This was a va­ri­ati­on on the old do­ub­le-in­dem­nity po­licy, but this par­ti­
cu­lar po­licy-"

  "Lloyd's." He drank de­eply.

  "- pays do­ub­le to the com­pany in the event Cha­se is mur­de­red. A cle­ar one hun­d­red mil­li­on, right?" I was sit­ting bolt up­right, which isn't easy in a po­ol cha­ir.

  He dow­ned the rest of his drink. "Right."

  I le­aned for­ward. "So the an­s­wer's sim­p­le. Can­cel that po­licy. Get back to the ma­in­land and a pho­ne and can­cel it to­mor­row."

  "Yeah. Well, you can talk to him. I've tal­ked till I don't gi­ve a damn." He spraw­led back in the cha­ir, a man who had en­du­red too much sea, sun, and Cha­se.