Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I knoc­ked at the do­or ac­ross the hall. Aga­in no

  answer. I ope­ned it. Ex­cept for the un­ma­de bed, this ro­om was im­ma­cu­la­te. Betty wo­uldn't ha­ve had to do much cle­aning he­re. When I chec­ked the clo­set, I knew it was Bur­ton's ro­om. The clot­hes han­ging the­re we­re too small and too inex­pen­si­ve to be­long to any of the ot­her men. I to­ok a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes to prowl thro­ugh his things, lo­oking in the ob­vi­o­us pla­ces. I lif­ted up the ap­pa­rent bot­tom li­ning of his lar­ge su­it­ca­se and saw a lu­rid ma­ga­zi­ne co­ver fe­atu­ring a blin­d­fol­ded, na­ked wo­man, her back blo­odi­ed with welts, her hands cha­ined. So much for Bur­ton's bo­yish ap­pe­aran­ce. I won­de­red what Cha­se's res­pon­se wo­uld ha­ve be­en had he re­ali­zed his sec­re­tary's pre­oc­cu­pa­ti­on with bru­tal, ex­p­lo­iti­ve sex. Dis­tas­te? Di­sin­te­rest? But if Bur­ton's ugly lit­tle hobby hadn't af­fec­ted Cha­se per­so­nal­ly, he wo­uldn't ha­ve ca­red, wo­uld he?

  He hadn't ca­red abo­ut Ro­sa­lia.

  I mo­ved qu­ickly, mo­re to put that tho­ught be­hind me than with any ex­pec­ta­ti­on of le­ar­ning much. Bur­ton's chec­k­bo­ok re­ve­aled a ba­lan­ce of two hun­d­red and thir­ty-six dol­lars and eight cents. But a sec­ret in­co­me-say for the ju­icy tid­bits pro­vi­ded the aut­hor of Cha­se's una­ut­ho­ri­zed bi­og­rap­hy-wo­uld cer­ta­inly not be ref­lec­ted in the sec­re­tary's ever­y­day bank ac­co­unt. Bur­ton wasn't a fo­ol, and he knew all abo­ut Cha­se's ef­forts to dis­co­ver the so­ur­ce's iden­tity.

  Burton, de­fen­si­ve, un­con­fi­dent, sul­len. Had the lit­tle man al­re­ady ta­ken re­fu­ge in the mu­sic ro­om?

  I do­ub­ted it.

  If Bur­ton didn't li­ke wo­men-and I was cer­ta­in of that now - he wo­uld avo­id as long as pos­sib­le be-

  ing at clo­se qu­ar­ters with an over­po­we­ring per­so­na­lity li­ke Va­le­rie's.

  But he might want com­pany. May­be he'd go­ne down to the kit­c­hen. The day I ar­ri­ved flas­hed in­to my mind. I re­mem­be­red the con­tempt with which Bur­ton had tre­ated Frank Hud­son, who had bro­ught me ac­ross the so­und. No, the sec­re­tary saw him­self as abo­ve the staff. Not qu­ite a gu­est, but cer­ta­inly bet­ter than a ho­use em­p­lo­yee. No, he wo­uldn't be in the kit­c­hen.

  When I ope­ned the do­or of Cha­se's study, Bur­ton was at the desk, sho­ving fol­ders in­to a co­up­le of bri­ef-

  cases.

  "What are you do­ing?" I sup­po­se the sur­p­ri­se was evi­dent in my vo­ice. I wo­uldn't ha­ve ex­pec­ted Bur­ton to be thin­king abo­ut his job.

  The glan­ce he ga­ve me was hard to de­cip­her, a com­bi­na­ti­on of dis­com­fort and smarmy self-as­su­ran­ce. His fa­ce was un­s­ha­ven. He held up a fol­der for me to see. "I tho­ught I sho­uld get the pa­pers. Abo­ut the re­fi­nan­cing. Ro­ger will ne­ed them."

  Why didn't I be­li­eve him?

  I wal­ked over to the desk. As he ope­ned fol­ders, flip­ped thro­ugh the pa­pers, I co­uld see fi­gu­res and let­ters, so it all ma­de sen­se. But the­re was so­met­hing abo­ut his ex­p­res­si­on - it re­min­ded me of Ric­hard Ni­xon res­pon­ding to Wa­ter­ga­te.

  "Exemplary of you. Con­ti­nu­ing to gi­ve yo­ur best ef­fort for yo­ur la­te em­p­lo­yer, des­pi­te the dif­fi­cult con­di­ti­ons. He­ro­ism un­der fi­re, so to spe­ak."

  "I tho­ught I sho­uld," he snap­ped, his vo­ice re­edy with in­dig­na­ti­on.

  "Fine. Exem­p­lary, as I sa­id. But whi­le you're

  working, let's talk for a mi­nu­te." I to­ok one of the easy cha­irs by the desk. "You've be­en he­re to the is­land with Cha­se and Mi­ran­da a num­ber of ti­mes, right?"

  He hef­ted a yel­low fol­der, chec­ked the tab, eyed the al­most-full bri­ef­ca­se, sho­ok his he­ad, re­tur­ned it to the desk, and se­lec­ted anot­her. "Yes." He cram­med this fi­le in­to the se­cond bri­ef­ca­se.

  "Tell me abo­ut Cha­se's sche­du­le." The ex­qu­isi­te com­fort of the cha­ir only em­p­ha­si­zed the we­ari­ness of my body.

  He ga­ve me a blank lo­ok. "What dif­fe­ren­ce do­es it ma­ke now?"

  "A lot. I ta­ke it he had a re­gu­lar sche­du­le he­re. Or didn't he?" I mo­ved to the ed­ge of the se­at. The depths of this cha­ir we­re too tem­p­ting. I wan­ted to sink back, let it all go, but my jo­ur­ney wasn't fi­nis­hed.

  The sec­re­tary po­ked and prod­ded at the fol­ders. "Yes, he did. Every mor­ning he got up at six-thirty, swam for half an ho­ur, then… then he re­la­xed in the hot tub for ten mi­nu­tes or so. He got out and to­we­led off and ca­me to the pa­tio. He al­ways had gra­no­la and yo­gurt for bre­ak­fast. Af­ter a sho­wer and dres­sing he'd go to the po­int-if the we­at­her was ni­ce -and pa­int un­til lun­c­h­ti­me. In the af­ter­no­ons he'd work for a whi­le, then he and Mrs. Pres­cott wo­uld go out in the Mi­ran­da B."

  I fin­ge­red the smo­oth li­nen of the cha­ir arm. "So you co­uld co­unt on Cha­se be­ing in that hot tub every mor­ning abo­ut se­ven o'clock?"

  Burton's he­ad jer­ked up. "What do you me­an / co­uld co­unt on it? Lis­ten, I didn't ha­ve any re­ason to

  murder Mr. Pres­cott. I'm not go­ing to be bla­med for-"

  "Burton, co­ol it." I didn't bot­her to hi­de my ir­ri­ta­ti­on.

  He bro­ke off, his che­eks flus­hed.

  "I didn't me­an you in par­ti­cu­lar." I kept it brisk and im­per­so­nal. "I me­ant an­yo­ne who'd ever vi­si­ted this is­land-in­c­lu­ding you-wo­uld know that Cha­se wo­uld be in that tub at se­ven a.m."

  "Yeah." His glan­ce slid sul­lenly away from me.

  "Okay. Who of the pe­op­le he­re this we­ekend ha­ve be­en on this is­land be­fo­re?"

  He didn't ha­ve to think abo­ut it. "Why, ever­yo­ne -except you."

  Everyone. Has­kell, too.

  "Did an­yo­ne el­se ever get in the hot tub?"

  Burton tri­ed to pull the se­cond bri­ef­ca­se shut, but it ga­ped open at le­ast an inch. "I didn't pay any at­ten­ti­on. I think Ro­ger did a co­up­le of ti­mes."

  "In the mor­nings? With his dad?"

  Burton sho­ok his he­ad. "I don't think so. No­body el­se was in­to exer­ci­se first thing in the mor­ning. Ex­cept Mr. Sted­man. But he jogs. I don't think he ever ca­me to the po­ol early. Has­kell used the po­ol the most. In the af­ter­no­ons."

  I wo­uld check with ever­yo­ne, of co­ur­se. But only Cha­se used the hot tub first thing in the mor­ning. So an­yo­ne co­uld ha­ve crept out la­te at night af­ter ever­yo­ne el­se was in bed, plug­ged in the ha­ir dryer, and felt con­fi­dent Cha­se wo­uld be the vic­tim.

  But if ever­y­t­hing was in pla­ce on Thur­s­day night, why had the mur­de­rer wa­ited un­til Fri­day night to plug in the ha­ir dryer?

  Why in­s­te­ad had the mur­de­rer tri­ed to sho­ot Cha­se on Fri­day mor­ning?

  Why, why, why?

  "The gun­s­hots." I sa­id it alo­ud, my vo­ice ve­xed.

  Burton's body ten­sed.

  I knew as cle­arly as if it had be­en bran­ded on his fo­re­he­ad that Bur­ton knew so­met­hing abo­ut the sho­oting.

  "Okay, Bur­ton, what did you see?" If it was not the vo­ice of jud­g­ment, it was clo­se eno­ugh.

  He grip­ped the ed­ge of the open bri­ef­ca­se. "I told you. I al­re­ady told you. I wro­te it all down, and I told you. Why are you al­ways ri­ding me?"

  I got up, wal­ked to the desk, put my palms on it, and le­aned to­ward him. "Bur­ton, if you saw who shot at Cha­se, you'd bet­ter tell me be­fo­re the kil­ler co­mes af­ter you."

  Burton yan­ked with all his strength, the bri­ef­ca­se clo­sed, and he fa­ced me with a de­fi­ant smirk. An amu­sed smirk. "You think you're so smart." He didn't try to hi­de the so­ul-de­ep h
os­ti­lity in his vo­ice. "You know the an­s­wer to ever­y­t­hing. Well, you're not as smart as you think you are. I've al­re­ady told you - I didn't see an­y­body sho­ot at Cha­se." He grab­bed the two bri­ef­ca­ses and hur­ri­ed aro­und the desk. He ope­ned the do­or. I had one last glim­p­se of his ta­un­ting eyes.

  They re­min­ded me of the eyes of a lit­tle boy on a scho­ol­g­ro­und, stic­king out his ton­gue at the ha­ted te­ac­her.

  However, I know the truth when I he­ar it. Bur­ton had not se­en the gun­man.

  But he knew mo­re than he was tel­ling abo­ut that at­tack on Cha­se.

  If he hadn't se­en the per­son sho­oting at Cha­se, what co­uld it ha­ve be­en? A so­und? A smell?

  I wo­uld ha­ve to check my no­tes, but, as I re­cal­led, he was one of the first to ar­ri­ve on the sce­ne.

  What did he know?

  And how co­uld I -

  The lights went out.

  The study was plun­ged in­to a som­ber dim­ness. The storm how­led. I tho­ught for a mo­ment that it had wor­se­ned, then I re­ali­zed that for the first ti­me I was me­rely he­aring it wit­ho­ut the mas­king bac­k­g­ro­und hum of the air-con­di­ti­oning.

  I wal­ked ac­ross the ro­om, pul­led asi­de the he­avy vel­vet dra­pes.

  The ra­in un­du­la­ted aga­inst the win­dow­pa­ne, ma­king it as clo­udy as an in­c­hes-thick she­et of plas­tic. I pres­sed my fa­ce aga­inst the co­ol glass and lo­oked and lo­oked. It was li­ke vi­ewing the world thro­ugh thick-len­sed glas­ses, not­hing qu­ite in fo­cus, but I co­uld ma­ke out eno­ugh to know that the mi­nu­tes we­re run­ning out. The gar­dens we­re go­ne. No tra­ce re­ma­ined. Whe­re the­re had be­en ro­ses and aza­le­as and vi­ne-la­den ar­bors, now the­re was only an oily gray swir­ling mass of wa­ter puc­ke­red by the fren­zi­ed, wind-dri­ven ra­in. Ita­li­an cypress, up­ro­oted by the wash of wa­ves, bob­bed in the wa­ter, along with deck cha­irs and jag­ged chunks of wo­od from the splin­te­red bu­il­dings that had sto­od on the lo­wer-lying land be­hind the ma­in ho­use.

  The ro­ar of the wind so­un­ded li­ke lost so­uls crying for san­c­tu­ary.

  A squ­are, lan­tern-st­y­le flas­h­light res­ted on the pi­ano, spre­ading a co­ne of light over Va­le­rie. The ac­t­ress sta­red at the ivory keys. Her fin­gers de­li­ca­tely to­uc­hed them and the no­tes we­re a tiny ghostly me­lody scar­cely audib­le over the storm, mo­re ima­gi­ned than he­ard. Brahms Lul­laby. I won­de­red what un­t­ro­ub­led me­mo­ri­es it evo­ked, what so­la­ce it pro­vi­ded. In the dim il­lu­mi­na­ti­on her ele­gant bo­ne struc­tu­re and un­b­le­mis­hed skin lo­oked yo­ung. I ca­ught for an in­s­tant a glim­p­se of how lo­vely she'd on­ce be­en.

  I glan­ced aro­und the mu­sic ro­om. En­ri­que hun­c­hed by a bo­ar­ded-up win­dow, his he­ad coc­ked, lis­te­ning, lis­te­ning. Ro­sa­lia and Betty sat aga­inst the wall in the cor­ner ne­arest that win­dow. Ro­sa­lia held a ro­sary in her hands. Her eyes we­re clo­sed; her lips mo­ved so­un­d­les­sly. Betty's arms and he­ad res­ted on her bent kne­es. But whe­re we­re the ot­hers, Ro­ger and Tre­vor and Lyle and Bur­ton and Mi­ran­da? Cer­ta­inly it was ti­me and past ti­me for ever­yo­ne to se­ek re­fu­ge he­re.

  "Damn!"

  I swung aro­und.

  Lyle Sted­man swo­re aga­in. "Damn it to hell!" He grap­pled aw­k­wardly, hal­f­way thro­ugh the do­or, with a she­eted mat­tress. One end of the mat­tress ca­ught a bron­ze stand. The stand top­pled over. A Chi­ne­se dra­gon va­se cras­hed no­isily to the flo­or.

  Valerie's fin­gers ne­ver fal­te­red on the key­bo­ard. Ro­sa­lia jum­ped to her fe­et. Betty lif­ted her he­ad to watch, but En­ri­que, his he­ad bent, con­ti­nu­ed to lis­ten.

  "Let's try to get the damn thing on its si­de." Ro­ger's flus­hed fa­ce ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way.

  The men sho­ved and he­aved and the mat­tress qu­ive­red and slid, then flop­ped he­avily on­to the par­qu­et flo­oring, knoc­king a ma­ga­zi­ne stand over.

  Lyle mo­ved qu­ickly, sho­ving a cha­ir and a si­de tab­le out of the way. "Co­me on, Ro­ger, let's start a stack he­re."

  Roger bent and pic­ked up his end. Lyle grab­bed the front, and the two men ma­ne­uve­red the mat­tress up aga­inst the wall.

  Lyle grun­ted, "Okay. Co­me on," and he­aded back out in­to the hall.

  "Lyle, what are you do­ing?" I cal­led af­ter him.

  He pa­used in the do­or­way. "Whis­t­ling 'Di­xie/ Mrs. Col­lins." His raw­bo­ned fa­ce lo­oked ga­unt but com­po­sed. "I've he­ard the damn things flo­at. So what the hell, why not?"

  Betty pres­sed her hands aga­inst her lips and sta­red in mu­te mi­sery at the mat­tress.

  So Lyle and Ro­ger hadn't gi­ven up. Well, ne­it­her had I. "Enri­que, we ne­ed to ro­und ever­yo­ne up. Find Tre­vor and Bur­ton, tell them to co­me he­re." I pic­ked up a flas­h­light from the se­ve­ral col­lec­ted on the cof­fee tab­le. "I'll go down for Mrs. Pres­cott."

  Enrique lo­oked to­ward me. His fa­ce had a gre­enish swe­aty lo­ok.

  The wind scre­amed and ro­ared and thun­de­red now, lo­uder than a tho­usand fre­ight tra­ins, a sky full of bom­bers, a kil­ler ava­lan­c­he.

  "No." It was all En­ri­que sa­id. He tur­ned back to the win­dow, re­ac­hed up, held tight to the two-by-fo­urs but­tres­sing the she­et of plywo­od.

  I didn't ha­ve ti­me to de­al with him. I knew he co­uld not be bul­li­ed, not li­ke Bur­ton. Both we­re hos­ti­le to wo­men but in such dif­fe­rent ways. En­ri­que was dan­ge­ro­us. If I had a we­apon - I felt a jolt as the re­ali­za­ti­on struck me. Oh, Christ, a we­apon! How co­uld I ha­ve for­got­ten?

  Betty strug­gled to her fe­et. "I'll go, ma'am."

  But I was al­re­ady run­ning. I didn't even bot­her to an­s­wer.

  I was mid­way down the ma­in sta­ir­ca­se when the ho­use shud­de­red, a slow, wren­c­hing, grin­ding re­ver­be­ra­ti­on.

  I co­uld fe­el it in the so­les of my fe­et. The sta­ir tre­ads trem­b­led. The wall to my left can­ted away from me. The now use­less chan­de­li­er that hung over the ma­in en­t­r­y­way swung, back and forth, back and forth. The ob­long crystals struck one anot­her over and over, a cas­ca­de of so­und, win­d­c­hi­mes go­ne mad.

  "Miranda?" I sto­od mid­way down the sta­ir­ca­se, clut­c­hing the le­aning ba­nis­ter, and sho­uted.

  Where was she? God, she was so yo­ung. And this mor­ning she'd be­en so dis­t­ra­ught. This was wrong. De­ad wrong. She sho­uld long ago ha­ve be­en up­s­ta­irs in the se­cu­red area. Mi­ran­da and the we­apon I'd stu­pidly for­got­ten.

  I swit­c­hed on the flas­h­light and hur­ri­ed down the le­aning sta­ir­ca­se, fran­tic with worry. Why hadn't I tho­ught of her so­oner? Cha­se wo­uld ha­ve wan­ted her pro­tec­ted. Obr God, let Mi­ran­da be all right.

  I held the light out in front of me, chest high. Its thin be­am scar­cely pe­net­ra­ted the glo­om. I col­li­ded with a knee-high jar­di­ni­ere that had slid to the mid­dle of the fo­yer. I win­ced and tur­ned to my right, swe­ep-

  ing the co­ne of light along the flo­or. God, it was dark. I wis­hed I'd as­ked Ro­ger or Lyle to co­me with me. But I co­uldn't ta­ke the ti­me to go back now.

  I re­fu­sed to think abo­ut ti­me, and how lit­tle ti­me might be left.

  I plun­ged down the hal­lway, cal­ling her na­me. "Mi­ran­da! Mi­ran­da!" My fo­re­bo­ding grew. Why didn't she an­s­wer? But per­haps she didn't he­ar me. The wa­il of the storm was an as­sa­ult on the mind and he­art, an unen­ding, al­most unen­du­rab­le, gut-de­ep howl.

  I half- limped, half-ran down the hall.

  The do­or to Cha­se and Mi­ran­da's su­ite was clo­sed.