Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "I gu­ess that's right." It was a grud­ging as­sent.

  He knew it was right.

  Any rich man's will can pro­vi­de a mo­ti­ve for mur­der if the­re is a le­ga­tee gre­edy ^eno­ugh to tra­de a hu­man li­fe for mo­ney or po­wer. Cha­se's will was no dif­fe­rent. Un­der it, every per­son on the is­land-in­c­lu­ding myself-might ha­ve go­od and suf­fi­ci­ent re­ason from the po­li­ce's po­int of vi­ew to com­mit mur­der. And Cha­se's sta­te­ment to the con­t­rary, no­ne of us co­uld pro­ve we we­re una­wa­re of its pro­vi­si­ons or, at the very le­ast, una­wa­re of the li­ke­li­ho­od of re­ce­iving so­me kind of be­qu­est. Es­pe­ci­al­ly the fa­mily mem­bers.

  Chase had cer­ta­inly put me in the so­up-if any-

  thing hap­pe­ned to him-along with all the ot­her le­ga­te­es.

  Now was as go­od a ti­me as any to bring that up.

  "I wish to be re­mo­ved from yo­ur will, Cha­se. Im­me­di­ately."

  The stub­born re­sol­ve in his fa­ce an­s­we­red me.

  "No." His an­s­wer co­uldn't ha­ve be­en sim­p­ler or less equ­ivo­cal.

  I tri­ed to ke­ep my tem­per. "I don't want yo­ur damn mo­ney."

  "I know that. But I shall de­ci­de who re­ce­ives a part of my es­ta­te -a part of me, Hen­rie O. I ha­ve that right."

  I didn't want to talk abo­ut rights.

  Chase knew that.

  He re­gar­ded me ste­adily. "Hen­rie O, now, af­ter all the­se ye­ars, I want an an­s­wer. Why did you run away?"

  I didn't want to lo­ok back. It re­ope­ned wo­unds that I had tho­ught long sin­ce he­aled.

  "Whenever I see an In­di­an sum­mer day, Hen­rie O, I think of you and what you to­ok away from me." The­re wasn't so much an­ger as gre­at sad­ness in his vo­ice.

  I clas­ped my hands to­get­her and sta­red down at them, but I was se­e­ing the of­fi­ce, jam­med with desks, typew­ri­ters, a te­let­y­pe. We had wor­ked for a news bu­re­au for a mid­wes­tern da­ily, and we had co­ve­red Ca­pi­tol Hill. It had be­en the most ex­ci­ting, de­man­ding, ex­hi­la­ra­ting, pas­si­ona­te ye­ar of my li­fe, and the most he­ar­t­b­re­aking.

  "The Ho­use Un-Ame­ri­can Ac­ti­vi­ti­es Com­mit­tee. That col­le­ge pro­fes­sor from Con­nec­ti­cut. A Holly-

  wood ac­tor cla­imed he was a Com­mu­nist. It was the he­ight of the wit­ch-hunt. Be­fo­re McCarthy to­ok on the ar­my-and lost. The pro­fes­sor's wi­fe ca­me in." I co­uld see her as if it we­re yes­ter­day, a wo­man in her early thir­ti­es with an­xi­o­us eyes and a sha­king vo­ice. "She beg­ged you not to run the story, sa­id it wo­uld ru­in her hus­band. He was up for te­nu­re. She sa­id he'd only go­ne to a co­up­le of me­etings when he was in col­le­ge, that it didn't amo­unt to an­y­t­hing. But you wo­uldn't lis­ten."

  I lo­oked at Cha­se, at his in­tel­li­gent, de­ter­mi­ned, puz­zled fa­ce.

  He didn't re­mem­ber.

  But I'd ne­ver for­got­ten.

  "Agnes Mo­ran, Cha­se. Her hus­band was Tho­mas Mo­ran."

  The na­me kin­d­led no re­cog­ni­ti­on.

  "She was ter­ribly up­set." How paltry the words we­re. Even now-mo­re than forty ye­ars la­ter - I re­mem­be­red so vi­vidly the des­pe­ra­te fe­ar in her eyes, the slight, mu­si­cal vo­ice ra­va­ged by ur­gency. "She'd fo­und out that you we­re go­ing to bre­ak a story on her hus­band. She beg­ged me to help per­su­ade you not to do it. She sa­id his ca­re­er wo­uld Jbe ru­ined. She swo­re that he'd ne­ver do­ne an­y­t­hing to hurt his co­untry. I as­ked you to talk to Mo­ran, get his si­de of it."

  Chase squ­in­ted, then smac­ked his fist aga­inst his palm. "Oh, ye­ah, Mo­ran. He was one of tho­se saps that got mi­xed up with the Reds when he was in col­le­ge. Hell, I had let­ters he'd writ­ten to so­me Rus­si­an of­fi­ci­al. I don't re­mem­ber the de­ta­ils now, but he was so glo­wing abo­ut the new world or­der, that kind of thing. Oh, God, that was hot stuff then. That was

  the se­ri­es I did that first ca­ught Eli­za­beth's dad's at­ten­ti­on. That se­ri­es set me up."

  The se­ri­es had re­sul­ted in a sub­po­ena to Tho­mas Mo­ran. That had got­ten lots of he­ad­li­nes. His col­le­ge had re­fu­sed him te­nu­re. The day Mo­ran was to an­s­wer the sub­po­ena, he had dri­ven to Ar­lin­g­ton Na­ti­onal Ce­me­tery and the Tomb of the Un­k­nown Sol­di­er and put a bul­let in his bra­in.

  Chase didn't re­mem­ber that part of it.

  When I re­min­ded him, he me­rely lo­oked sur­p­ri­sed.

  "I co­ve­red the fu­ne­ral." The map­les had bla­zed li­ke fi­re, the oaks had be­en as bril­li­ant as dol­lops of gold. "His wi­dow saw me. She pul­led away from the fa­mily, and she told me that you and I had kil­led him. She sa­id she ho­ped we we­re sa­tis­fi­ed to see a go­od man des­t­ro­yed for no re­ason."

  "I wro­te a story. The facts we­re true." The­re wasn't an iota of reg­ret in Cha­se's vo­ice.

  "Moran was ser­ved up li­ke a fat­ted calf to sa­tisfy the pa­ra­no­ia fan­ned by the ma­le­vo­lent se­na­tor from Wis­con­sin." Even af­ter all this ti­me I was angry, angry at the war­ping of fre­edom, the mind-jac­ke­ting the McCarthy ye­ars had be­gun.

  Chase shrug­ged. "Mo­ran sho­uld ha­ve had the guts to de­fend him­self."

  "But you didn't ca­re whet­her he was in­no­cent," I con­ti­nu­ed ste­adily. "All you ca­red abo­ut was a big story-no mat­ter what it did to him or to his fa­mily."

  "Big sto­ri­es." He smi­led fa­intly, and his eyes chal­len­ged me. "That's my bu­si­ness, Hen­rie O. I tho­ught it was yo­urs."

  Big sto­ri­es. Yes, I'd had mo­re than a few. And so

  had my hus­band, Ric­hard. But ne­it­her of us had ever -kno­win­g­ly-bro­ken a story for our own ad­van­ce­ment or bro­ken a story when we knew the of­fi­ci­al at­tack was po­li­ti­cal­ly mo­ti­va­ted. Yes, we had had to co­ver tho­se kinds of sto­ri­es when they be­ca­me news, but we had ne­ver ori­gi­na­ted them. I had no Wil­lie Hor­ton sto­ri­es on my con­s­ci­en­ce.

  I'd left the ce­me­tery that long-ago mor­ning and go­ne to my apar­t­ment and pac­ked. I had ma­de up my mind. I co­uldn't lo­ve a man who sac­ri­fi­ced hu­man li­ves for his own ad­van­ce­ment.

  Chase sig­hed. "I sup­po­se I sho­uld ha­ve known. You've al­ways had a qu­ixo­tic stre­ak, Hen­ri­et­ta. But I tho­ug­ht-hell, I tho­ught you'd be­en se­e­ing Ric­hard, de­ci­ded he was the man for you. And I wasn't go­ing to co­me af­ter you-if that's the way you felt."

  I sho­ok my he­ad. "No. That's not what hap­pe­ned. I went back to Kan­sas, to my mot­her's sis­ter. Ric­hard fol­lo­wed me. He trac­ked me down-and he as­ked me to marry him."

  I had be­en ho­nest Math Ric­hard when he ca­me. He had still wan­ted to marry me. I had sa­id yes, and it had be­en the best de­ci­si­on I'd ever ma­de.

  "I cal­led and cal­led yo­ur apar­f­ment." Cha­se sat up stra­ight and le­aned to­ward me, his eyes bla­zing. "Fi­nal­ly I knew you we­re go­ne and not co­ming back. Not­hing's ever hurt me that much."

  He was so clo­se to me, clo­se eno­ugh to re­ach out and to­uch. He still ra­di­ated that ani­mal energy, that high, in­ten­se en­t­hu­si­asm for li­fe and suc­cess and po­wer. He was still ex­t­ra­or­di­na­rily han­d­so­me with his high-brid­ged no­se and de­ep-set eyes and full lips and firm chin.

  Different in­de­ed from my equ­ab­le, ste­ady, ho­no­rab­le hus­band, Ric­hard. Ric­hard's fa­ce had be­en bro­ad and open. He had had red­dish-brown ha­ir and ha­zel eyes and a cro­oked grin. And he had be­en a lo­ving hus­band and fat­her.

  Chase slum­ped back in his cha­ir. "You ne­ver knew it, but I kept track of you thro­ugh the ye­ars, you and Ric­hard and Emily."

  I didn't an­s­wer.

  "T
he three of you ma­de qu­ite a te­am."

  "Yes. Yes, we did."

  I had ma­de a cho­ice ye­ars ago.

  I sto­od and so did Cha­se.

  We lo­oked at each ot­her wit­ho­ut pre­ten­se.

  "I ca­me he­re, Cha­se. I will do my best for you. But that is all I will do."

  He wal­ked with me to his study do­or.

  As I star­ted to le­ave, he re­ac­hed out, ca­ught my hand. "I wish," he sa­id softly, "that I had be­en Ric­hard."

  I ma­na­ged a smi­le tho­ugh I felt clo­se to te­ars. "Oh, Cha­se, it wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en the right kind of li­fe for you. Ric­hard and I ne­ver had a di­me. Ric­hard and I ne­ver ow­ned a new­s­pa­per or a te­le­vi­si­on sta­ti­on. We had a lot of la­ug­h­ter, but we scrim­ped from pay­day to pay­day."

  "You had fun."

  "Yes. But then, be ho­nest, Cha­se. So did you."

  He grin­ned at that. "By God, so I did. And I bu­ilt an em­pi­re. An em­pi­re, Hen­rie O." It was al­most as if a trum­pet so­un­ded be­hind his words.

  I slept fit­ful­ly, ima­ges of past and pre­sent in­ter­t­wi­ned: the agony in my he­art as I'd pac­ked so long ago and ca­ught a tra­in to Kan­sas City; Ric­hard's fa­ce when he fo­und me the next we­ek; Emily as a new­born, so tiny and de­li­ca­te and dark; the many, many ye­ars and many, many jo­ur­neys. I was in an air­p­la­ne, a pro­pel­ler-dri­ven twin en­gi­ne, and it buc­ke­ted and ban­ged its way thro­ugh the sky. Ra­in stre­amed aga­inst the win­dows, and the­re was an odd, harsh thum­ping so­und -

  I ca­me awa­ke ab­ruptly. So­mew­he­re a shut­ter ban­ged in the wind, and ra­in splas­hed ste­adily aga­inst the win­dows.

  I twis­ted and tur­ned, "wis­hing for the thick, black, com­for­ting cur­ta­in of sle­ep but mi­se­rably awa­re that it wo­uld be ho­urs be­fo­re sle­ep wo­uld re­turn.

  Finally I ga­ve up and snap­ped on the lamp next to the bed. Three-thirty. With a sigh I got up and went to the al­co­ve. I ma­de so­me de­caf­fe­ina­ted tea and fo­und a fresh, small lo­af of pum­p­kin bre­ad. At le­ast I wo­uld al­ways re­mem­ber De­ad Man's Is­land for its exem­p­lary hos­pi­ta­lity.

  I got a pad from my pur­se. I'm fond of To Do lists.

  To Do

  1. Ob­ta­in ex­ten­si­ve bac­k­g­ro­und In­for­ma­ti­on on Betty.

  2. Se­arch for evi­den­ce of in­s­ta­bi­lity in Mi­ran­da's past. Drugs?

  3. Why wasn't T. Dun­na­way among tho­se C.P. had in­ves­ti­ga­ted re the Le­aks to the una­ut­ho­ri­zed bi­og­rap­her?

  4. Is Bur­ton An­d­rew­s­re­al­ly the wimp ot­her men jud­ge him to be?

  5. Talk to Ro­ger aga­in. Who wo­uld 'ha­ve bet­ter re­ason to be bit­ter abo­ut Cha­fe's -

  Explosions shat­te­red the night.

  First a se­ri­es of ra­pid, harsh cracks in qu­ick suc­ces­si­on, then an enor­mo­us, con­cus­si­ve burst of so­und. That hor­ren­do­us bo­om rat­tled the win­dows, as­sa­ul­ted the ear­d­rums, a hu­ge, te­aring, ro­aring, mind-num­bing de­to­na­ti­on.

  By the ti­me I re­ac­hed the win­dow and flung asi­de the shut­ters, the bla­ze was far be­yond an­yo­ne's con­t­rol. Not the fi­nest fi­re-fig­h­ting equ­ip­ment in the land co­uld ha­ve sa­ved the Mi­ran­da B., cap­tu­red in a ro­und and glo­wing ball of fla­me. The lo­vely yacht writ­hed, blac­ke­ning in her in­cen­di­ary pri­son as ton­gu­es of fi­re fed by di­esel fu­el spar­ked high in the night sky and swiftly spre­ad from the shat­te­red bo­at­ho­use to the pi­er. As I wat­c­hed, the ske­le­tal fra­me of the bo­at col­lap­sed in­ward.

  The ra­in fell. Not an es­pe­ci­al­ly strong ra­in, just ste­ady and wet and dis­pi­ri­ting. This wasn't the ra­in that wo­uld co­me with the hur­ri­ca­ne but the pro­duct of the pe­rip­he­ral clo­uds as­so­ci­ated with that storm. Even so, it was damp and un­p­le­asant on the bre­ak­fast pa­tio. But we all sto­od the­re, most in var­ying sta­tes of nig­h­t­ti­me di­sar­ray, and wat­c­hed our me­ans of es­ca­pe from the is­land di­sin­teg­ra­te wit­hin the cur­ling, qu­ive­ring, de­vo­uring fla­mes.

  We wa­ited in si­len­ce and grim fo­re­bo­ding as

  Chase and En­ri­que ca­me up the path, re­tur­ning from the­ir fru­it­less jo­ur­ney to the steps of the pi­er. That was as ne­ar as they co­uld go to the bla­ze. In the glow from a gar­den light Cha­se's fa­ce was ri­gid with an­ger. En­ri­que's dark eyes flic­ke­red une­asily.

  Miranda, chil­d­li­ke in a short pink and whi­te cot­ton nig­h­tie, dar­ted out in the ra­in and ca­ught Cha­se's arm. Her vo­ice was thin and high. "Cha­se, Cha­se, I'm so frig­h­te­ned. What hap­pe­ned to our bo­at?"

  Her hus­band put his arm aro­und her, pul­led her with him to­ward the porch. "Co­me out of the ra­in, my de­ar." His to­ne was gen­t­le. When they step­ped be­ne­ath the ro­of, he lo­oked at the rest of us, his fa­ce harsh.

  Valerie's ex­qu­isi­te silk neg­li­gee was in odd con­t­rast to her hag­gard and wit­c­h­li­ke fa­ce.

  Roger's blond ha­ir stuck out in tufts on his he­ad, and his fa­ce was swol­len with sle­ep. He had the rum­p­led lo­ok of a teddy be­ar.

  The thick mat of dark ha­ir on Has­kell's chest glis­te­ned in the light. We­aring only red-pla­id bo­xer shorts, he sto­od with his hands on his hips, sta­ring out at the fla­mes, his ar­ro­gant fa­ce som­ber.

  Lyle's has­tily ti­ed se­er­suc­ker ro­be bun­c­hed une­venly aro­und his wa­ist. He, too, was ba­re­fo­ot and ba­re­leg­ged. His dark red ha­ir lay sle­ekly on his skull. His mo­uth was clo­sed in a tight li­ne.

  In wrin­k­led kha­ki slacks and a cre­ased knit shirt, Tre­vor sto­od with his arms tightly fol­ded ac­ross his chest, his mo­uth tur­ned down in a he­avy frown.

  Burton clung to one of the porch pil­lars, his fa­ce as­hen. He was the only man on the porch in a pa­ir of pa­j­amas, pa­le blue cot­ton shorts and top.

  I was dres­sed. I can dress in se­conds, and my wal­king shorts and a shirt we­re at hand. Ten­nis sho­es to­ok but a mo­ment, and I smo­ot­hed my ha­ir up in a bun and pin­ned it as I ran dow­n­s­ta­irs.

  Betty and Ro­sa­lia, both in long cot­ton gowns, wa­ited just in­si­de the French do­ors, not com­for­tab­le with jo­ining us, too frig­h­te­ned not to stay ne­ar.

  "I can't be­li­eve…" Cha­se be­gan vi­olently. Then, as Mi­ran­da shi­ve­red in his em­b­ra­ce, he to­ok a rag­ged bre­ath. "The­re's no po­int in stan­ding out he­re get­ting wet. Let's go in­si­de."

  He led the way to the li­ving ro­om.

  We tro­oped si­lently af­ter him.

  Chase led Mi­ran­da to a co­uch, then tur­ned to fa­ce us. "One of you is a god­dam­ned fo­ol."

  That lo­ose­ned ton­gu­es.

  "It's yo­ur bo­at," Va­le­rie snap­ped. "Who el­se wo­uld know how to blow it up?"

  Roger tur­ned on her. "Don't be an idi­ot. Why wo­uld Dad do that? It's nuts!"

  "Why did he in­vi­te us he­re to start with?" The ac­t­ress's vo­ice ro­se, dan­ge­ro­usly ne­ar hyste­ria. "Talk abo­ut nuts - "

  "Shut up, both of you." Lyle's vo­ice was ugly. "So­met­hing damn crazy's go­ing on, all right, and we've got to fi­gu­re it out."

  "But no­body wo­uld des­t­roy the bo­at de­li­be­ra­tely. Wo­uld they? Wo­uld they?" Mi­ran­da's frig­h­te­ned eyes so­ught Cha­se.

  I de­ci­ded to toss in an ob­ser­va­ti­on. "Dyna­mi­te."

  That was all I sa­id, but the qu­i­et it evo­ked was in­s­tan­ta­ne­o­us.

  Every eye tur­ned to­ward me. Even Cha­se's.

  "Dynamite. Three sticks, I'd say. Tho­se ex­p­lo­si­ons ig­ni­ted the fu­el."

  "Christ, that id what it so­un­ded li­ke." Lyle lo­oked at me sharply. "Who the hell he­re wo­uld ha­ve dyna­mi­te?"

/>   If the­re was an an­s­wer, no­ne of us knew it.

  "That's not the po­int." Has­kell stro­de to the cen­ter of the ro­om. "It do­esn't mat­ter-not now-who blew it up or why. But we've got to get the hell off this pla­ce."

  Miranda smo­ot­hed her flimsy nig­h­t­gown down clo­ser to her kne­es. "We ha­ve plenty of fo­od, and we tho­ught ever­yo­ne was sta­ying un­til next Thur­s­day an­y­way. So… I know it isn't ple­asant… the way things ha­ve tur­ned out, but it will be all right…"

  She and Has­kell we­re so clo­se in age, but his fa­ce was old when he lo­oked down at her. The­re was pity and af­fec­ti­on and a des­pe­ra­te sad­ness in his ga­ze. "Randy," he sa­id gently, "the storm. The­re's a big storm co­ming. A hur­ri­ca­ne. And it will wash right over this is­land."