Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  When the storm re­su­med… But I wasn't go­ing to think abo­ut that now.

  I drop­ped down on one knee, next to Ro­sa­lia. "Any chan­ge?"

  "Mrs. Pres­cott ma­kes a lit­tle so­und every now and then and so­me­ti­mes she mo­ves a lit­tle. But Mr. An­d­rews, no, no, he do­es not­hing. But I think he is still bre­at­hing." Her hand to­uc­hed Bur­ton's sho­ul­der pro­tec­ti­vely. "The­re is no shel­ter ^ere. Not­hing to pro­tect them." Her eyes sta­red som­berly out at the oce­an. Ro­sa­lia had grown up in Cu­ba. She knew abo­ut hur­ri­ca­nes, and she un­der­s­to­od that our storm wasn't over.

  I slowly ro­se. My ar­t­h­ri­tic knee ac­hed.

  We lo­oked at each ot­her, and we both un­der­s­to­od.

  She to­uc­hed her ro­sary. "I will pray," she sa­id.

  I sta­yed for a mo­ment mo­re. Mi­ran­da lay on her

  back, a still, be­a­uti­ful sle­eping prin­cess un­to­uc­hed by her de­vas­ta­ted sur­ro­un­dings. I wis­hed I'd tal­ked mo­re to her this mor­ning be­fo­re she*-or so­me­one el­se-had po­ured out the con­tents of that plas­tic vi­al. Was Mi­ran­da simply one mo­re vic­tim? Or was she a mur­de­ress es­ca­ping the con­se­qu­en­ces of her ac­ti­ons? Her bre­at­hing se­emed a lit­tle less la­bo­red, but that might not me­an much. Had she suf­fe­red li­ver da­ma­ge? Bra­in da­ma­ge? What we­re the con­se­qu­en­ces of this long de­lay in tre­at­ment?

  As for Bur­ton -I felt qu­e­asy when I lo­oked at his wo­und. It was crus­ting. Hard, black dri­ed blo­od prot­ru­ded from the swol­len mass be­hind his ear. Blo­od had se­eped down to gla­ze the col­lar of his bla­zer, ma­king it dark and shiny and ri­gid. His skin had an ugly blu­ish tin­ge. The only im­p­ro­ve­ment was that at so­me po­int when he was be­ing mo­ved, his te­eth had co­me free from that po­or wo­un­ded ton­gue. His mo­uth was still open, blo­od sta­ined its cor­ners, but his ton­gue was mer­ci­ful­ly ret­rac­ted.

  I bent clo­se to that open mo­uth, ig­no­red the swe­et-sic­kish smell of blo­od, and fi­nal­ly, fi­nal­ly felt the ti­ni­est flut­ter of bre­ath.

  I drew back, to­uc­hed his skin. Clammy.

  I re­ac­hed out, pat­ted Ro­sa­lia's thin sho­ul­der. "Thank you for ta­king ca­re of him. Will you stay with him?"

  "Yes, Airs. Col­lins. Betty and I will. As long as we can." She glan­ced to the east.

  I lo­oked past Ro­sa­lia at Betty. She wasn't clo­se eno­ugh to harm Bur­ton. I'd li­ke to think she wo­uldn't. But I still didn't ha­ve any an­s­wers. Any an­s­wers at all.

  As I sto­od, the fa­ti­gue was­hed over me. It wo­uld be so easy to drop down be­si­de Va­le­rie and clo­se my eyes, let the warmth of the sun­light to­uch me with fin­gers of li­fe and let my mind drift, ta­king me­mo­ri­es and tho­ughts as they ca­me.

  But an­ger flic­ke­red be­ne­ath ex­ha­us­ti­on.

  I sup­po­se I've al­ways be­en angry. That's what dri­ves most wri­ters, the hot, ste­ady, con­su­ming fla­me of an­ger aga­inst inj­us­ti­ce and dis­ho­nesty and ex­p­lo­ita­ti­on; aga­inst sham and ar­ti­fi­ce and gre­ed; aga­inst ar­ro­gan­ce and bru­ta­lity and de­ce­it­ful­ness; aga­inst bet­ra­yal and in­dif­fe­ren­ce and cru­elty.

  I wo­uld not gi­ve up.

  At the le­ast, the very le­ast, I wan­ted to con­f­ront the per­son who had wil­lful­ly and wan­tonly ta­ken Cha­se's li­fe, gra­vely inj­ured Bur­ton, and bro­ught yo­ung, fra­il Mi­ran­da to des­pa­ir.

  I glan­ced aga­in at her pa­le, un­res­pon­si­ve fa­ce. It co­uld be the fa­ce of a mur­de­ress. I knew that.

  Then, un­wil­lingly, I lo­oked to the east.

  The sky was dar­ke­ning, thic­ke­ning. I co­uldn't yet see the rib­bed wall of the storm, but it was co­ming.

  The only so­unds we­re the scra­pe of the men's sho­es as they pat­rol­led the si­des of et­he bu­il­ding, the gur­g­le and shush of wa­ter ed­dying aro­und us, the be­wil­de­red cry of a di­so­ri­en­ted gull.

  It was ti­me - I ho­ped I had the ti­me-to go back, to re­mem­ber, to think.

  It be­gan with a dog bo­un­ding ac­ross the ro­om to snatch a po­iso­ned candy.

  That sum­mer we­ekend, every per­son on this ro­of, ot­her than myself, had had ac­cess to Cha­se's study in his New York brow­n­s­to­ne.

  Lyle Sted­man ab­ruptly stop­ped his pat­rol and sta­red out to sea, his hawk-st­rong fa­ce som­ber. He was a man who­se ap­pe­aran­ce im­me­di­ately cap­tu­red at­ten­ti­on: the sle­ek cop­per ha­ir, bold no­se, firm mo­uth, and blunt chin. No one wo­uld lo­ok at Lyle and ex­pect to pre­va­il-wha­te­ver the strug­gle-wit­ho­ut a hard, long, and vi­ci­o­us fight. He was a man sub­li­mely con­vin­ced of his own worth, sup­re­mely cer­ta­in of his suc­cess. An am­bi­ti­o­us man, a man who in­ten­ded one day to he­ad Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons. As I wat­c­hed, Lyle's fa­ce tig­h­te­ned in an angry frown. He re­ac­hed down, sco­oped up a brick, and he­aved it as far as he co­uld.

  It sank in­to the swir­ling wa­ter.

  Lyle's hands bal­led in­to fists. He fa­ced a for­ce he co­uldn't de­fe­at, and his thwar­ted fury was pal­pab­le. It wo­uld ta­ke very lit­tle to ig­ni­te him.

  Roger Pres­cott wat­c­hed the frag­ment of brick di­sap­pe­ar, too, his usu­al­ly ge­ni­al fa­ce empty of ever­y­t­hing but we­ari­ness-and re­sig­na­ti­on. Ro­ger to­ok a step to­ward Lyle, then stop­ped, as if in re­cog­ni­ti­on that he was po­wer­less to help. Go­od-hu­mo­red, kindly, ho­pe­ful Ro­ger, a man pas­si­ona­te in his be­li­efs. We­re ide­als mo­re im­por­tant to him than pe­op­le? He saw the po­wer for go­od that his fat­her's em­pi­re co­uld pro­vi­de. Had he suc­cum­bed to the old si­ren song of the ends jus­tif­ying the me­ans?

  Roger tur­ned sud­denly, lo­oked stra­ight at me. He had sen­sed my eyes upon him. He lo­oked li­ke a teddy be­ar that had be­en left out in the ra­in, his blond ha­ir scraggly, his clot­hes wrin­k­led. He for­ced a smi­le. "Li­ke Ro­bin­son Cru­soe, aren't we?" He didn't wa­it for an an­s­wer but be­gan his walk along the ed­ge of

  the ro­of aga­in. Per­haps he knew the­re wasn't a go­od an­s­wer.

  The so­unds we­re the sa­me: the scuff of the men's sho­es, the swish and gur­g­le of wa­ter, the oc­ca­si­onal fran­tic call of a gull. But no one spo­ke.

  Trevor still cro­uc­hed ne­ar the shat­te­red chim­ney, wor­king on his mo­und of bro­ken bricks. His eyes fol­lo­wed his hands as they re­ac­hed out and ret­ri­eved the pi­eces of chim­ney. His en­ti­re be­ing was fo­cu­sed on the task, the bet­ter to ex­c­lu­de the ter­rif­ying re­ality of his sur­ro­un­dings. It was hard to re­call the po­lis­hed, con­fi­dent, han­d­so­me man I'd met on my ar­ri­val with this frig­h­te­ned, di­mi­nis­hed cre­atu­re.

  I wal­ked ac­ross the ro­of.

  "How's it go­ing, Tre­vor?" I he­ard the rat­tle and scra­pe as he re­ac­hed for anot­her brick.

  He didn't lo­ok up; his eyes ne­ver left the brick in his hand. "Fi­ne, fi­ne."

  If ever so­me­one was vul­ne­rab­le to as­sa­ult, it was this man. If he knew an­y­t­hing at all, this was the ti­me to find out. How much had he be­en in Cha­se's con­fi­den­ce? He'd known abo­ut the in­su­ran­ce po­licy, the po­licy that wo­uld ma­ke all the dif­fe­ren­ce for Lyle Sted­man and for Ro­ger. Cha­se had tri­ed to ke­ep that from me.

  Had Cha­se kept an­y­t­hing el­se from me?

  But I must fe­el my way ca­re­ful­ly. "Tre­vor, you owe yo­ur lo­yalty to the li­ving. Not to the de­ad."

  Reluctantly his eyes slid from the brick in his hand to my fa­ce. His lo­ok twis­ted my he­art; it was a lo­ok of des­pa­ir mi­xed with fe­ar and hor­ror.

  "Trevor, tell me, did Cha­se ha­ve any idea at all

  who wan­ted to kill him
? Did he tell you an­y­t­hing that wo­uld help us?"

  I wasn't pre­pa­red for his res­pon­se*

  "Chase." Tre­vor's vo­ice sho­ok. "I wish I'd ne­ver co­me to this god­dam­ned is­land. Ne­ver. Ne­ver. Ne­ver." His bre­at­hing was jerky. "You work for so­me­body, and they call the shots. Right? But it was stu­pid, stu­pid from start to fi­nish. And now lo­ok what's hap­pe­ned to us. We're go­ing to die-all be­ca­use of Cha­se."

  I wo­uldn't ha­ve cal­led Cha­se's plan stu­pid. Ac­tu­al­ly, it was qu­ite in ke­eping with his cha­rac­ter: da­ring, ar­ro­gant, sec­re­ti­ve, de­ter­mi­ned. Fo­olish, yes. Ob­vi­o­usly, it was en­te­ring the li­on's den to in­vi­te a mur­de­rer to try aga­in. That's what this ca­re­ful­ly en­gi­ne­ered gat­he­ring on the is­land ca­me down to. Cha­se had re­fu­sed, as he had re­fu­sed all of his li­fe, to do it the easy way, the or­di­nary way. Lo­oking back it was easy to say, yes, Cha­se sho­uld ha­ve cal­led the po­li­ce abo­ut the po­iso­ned candy. And the­re was no do­ubt but that he sho­uld ha­ve con­tac­ted the po­li­ce af­ter the sho­oting epi­so­de.

  But Cha­se wo­uld-at all cos­ts-ha­ve his own way.

  And cost him it had.

  Trevor's vo­ice drop­ped. "I didn't want to co­me. I didn't want to. And now we're go­ing to die, and it's all Cha­se's fa­ult."

  So Tre­vor had known all along the pur­po­se of this gat­he­ring-and now he wo­uld ha­ve for­fe­ited all his pos­ses­si­ons to ha­ve ma­de a dif­fe­rent de­ci­si­on.

  But I didn't sup­po­se he'd ever be­en ab­le to re­sist Cha­se.

  I didn't fa­ult him.

  I, too, hadn't re­sis­ted Cha­se.

  I lo­oked down at the law­yer for a mo­ment mo­re and on­ce aga­in he was se­ar­c­hing for pi­eces of brick, scrab­bling ac­ross the gra­ve­led ro­of, pic­king them up, ad­ding them to his mo­und.

  I do­ub­ted if he even re­mem­be­red the re­ason for this stoc­k­pi­le. But it didn't mat­ter. It was his fo­cus, his re­ality, and it pro­tec­ted him from what was to co­me.

  The eas­tern ho­ri­zon was dar­ke­ning by the mi­nu­te. Too so­on the wall clo­ud wo­uld cur­ve clo­ser to us and we wo­uld see the bunchy la­yers of blac­k­ness clim­bing to he­aven.

  Trevor wo­uldn't lo­ok that way.

  Valerie St. Vin­cent wasn't lo­oking eit­her. She still res­ted aga­inst the rem­nant of the chim­ney. A ble­ak smi­le to­uc­hed her mo­uth. Her eyes we­re clo­sed. I won­de­red what frag­ment of me­mory to­uc­hed her. Did she re­call a tri­um­p­hant sce­ne upon the sta­ge that she lo­ved, when she and an audi­en­ce had the over­po­we­ring, in­c­re­dib­le sen­se of fu­si­on that can oc­cur only in dra­ma? She was a wo­man who wo­uld wit­her away wit­ho­ut a cre­ati­ve go­al. Cha­se had pro­mi­sed to con­si­der bac­king her play af­ter din­ner on our se­cond night. She hadn't had that pro­mi­se when the candy was po­iso­ned or the gun fi­red on the is­land. But she was on very go­od terms with Ro­ger. Did she fe­el con­fi­dent that Ro­ger wo­uld fund her? Con­fi­dent eno­ugh to com­mit mur­der? Res­ting, her fa­ce up­tur­ned to the sun for warmth, Va­le­rie's un­s­tu­di­ed clas­sic be­a­uty was as per­fect as a mar­b­le scul­p­tu­re of

  Minerva and, li­ke the co­ol, milky sto­ne, not qu­ite hu­man.

  A muf­fled cry, and a sharp crack so­un­ded.

  I whir­led to­ward the so­uth.

  Enrique lif­ted his arm. The blunt bo­ard whip­ped down, po­un­ding the writ­hing body of a wa­ter moc­ca­sin. En­ri­que's tan, poc­ked fa­ce was ut­terly ab­sor­bed. The bul­ge aro­und his mid­dle, be­ne­ath his shirt, was qu­ite evi­dent when he lif­ted his arm.

  I had a the­ory. I al­most cros­sed the ro­of to con­f­ront him. I put my hand in­si­de the patch poc­ket of my slacks and grip­ped the butt of the gun. I sto­od that way for a long mo­ment, then slowly the ten­si­on eased out of my sho­ul­ders. No. Not now. La­ter-if la­ter ca­me - I wo­uld see to him.

  He kept on stri­king the pulpy he­ad long af­ter the sna­ke was de­ad. Al­t­ho­ugh not a tall man, En­ri­que had a po­wer­ful physi­que, mus­cu­lar arms, bro­ad sho­ul­ders, thin hips, and strong legs. I tho­ught of Has­kell's Chris­t­mas Eve me­mory. I felt su­re En­ri­que ca­red no mo­re abo­ut the two men he'd shot that night than he did abo­ut the sna­ke he'd just kil­led. He dis­pat­c­hed vic­tims with fe­ro­ci­o­us com­pe­ten­ce.

  I lo­oked to­ward Ro­sa­lia, still gu­ar­ding our wo­un­ded.

  She wat­c­hed her hus­band. Her fa­ce was ex­p­res­si­on­less.

  I wal­ked clo­ser. "Ro­sa­lia, I've be­en me­aning to ask you, what do you and En­ri­que in­tend to do with the mo­ney Mr. Pres­cott left you in his will?"

  "The mo­ney?" Her eyes sta­red up at me, then slid past me, stop­ped. She drew her bre­ath in^s­harply. "I

  don't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut mo­ney, Mrs. Col­lins. All of that my hus­band se­es to."

  I knew En­ri­que sto­od clo­se be­hind me. He must ha­ve mo­ved qu­ickly and cat-fo­otedly, for I he­ard no so­und.

  I tur­ned to me­et his dark and hos­ti­le sta­re. He still held the sta­ined bo­ard in his right hand. I sa­id in­sis­tently, "Qu­ite a lot of mo­ney."

  Enrique sho­ok his he­ad. "I know not­hing abo­ut mo­ney from Mr. Pres­Cott's will." His eyes mo­ved down to his wi­fe. Ro­sa­lia drew in on her­self, se­emed to grow smal­ler as we wat­c­hed.

  "That's a lie." Betty lo­oked up de­fi­antly. "I've he­ard them tal­king abo­ut it. He sa­id it wo­uld be mo­ney for the dog ra­ces."

  Enrique bol­ted for­ward, the bo­ard up­ra­ised.

  Betty be­gan to scram­b­le bac­k­ward.

  "No." It wasn't a sho­ut, but it was lo­ud eno­ugh. "If you to­uch her, En­ri­que, you're a de­ad man." The gun in my hand felt go­od. I don't li­ke guns. If you draw a gun, you ha­ve to be pre­pa­red to use it. I was. I didn't li­ke the way it ma­de me fe­el in­si­de, but still I was glad-glad-to ha­ve it in my hand and to fa­ce him down.,

  Roger and Lyle star­ted ac­ross the ro­of.

  I held up my left hand. "It's all right. He's go­ing to do just as he's told."

  Enrique had be­aten and bru­ta­li­zed wo­men for so long, he co­uldn't be­li­eve the equ­ati­on had chan­ged. But, fi­nal­ly, slowly, he lo­we­red his arm, his eyes full of fury, his mo­uth twis­ted with ra­ge, his skin an ugly saf­fron. Then his eyes flic­ke­red to­ward Ro­ger. "A mi­sun­der­s­tan­ding, Mr. Pres­cott. That is all it is." He

  moved lit­hely back to­ward the ed­ge of the ro­of. He did gi­ve one bac­k­ward glan­ce, and I knew I had a mor­tal enemy.

  Roger hur­ri­ed up. "What's go­ing on?"

  "A di­sag­re­ement," I sa­id easily. "But not a mi­sun­der­s­tan­ding. En­ri­que knew yo­ur fat­her left him mo­ney in the will. He li­ed abo­ut it."

  Roger lo­oked down at Ro­sa­lia.

  "And the­re's no go­od yo­ur as­king Ro­sa­lia. He abu­ses her. She's af­ra­id to tell the truth." I stuck the gun back in my poc­ket.

  Roger's hor­ri­fi­ed ga­ze swung back to me.

  "I'm su­re."

  Roger knelt down be­si­de the mat­tress. "Ro­sa­lia, when we get to sho­re, I'll ta­ke ca­re of you."

  Tears wel­led in the ho­use­ke­eper's eyes.

  "I me­an that. Don't be frig­h­te­ned." His clot­hes we­re rum­p­led and his fa­ce pa­le, an odd fi­gu­re for a res­cu­er. I li­ked Ro­ger. But I al­so wat­c­hed him clo­sely. I didn't want an­yo­ne too ne­ar Bur­ton.

  Roger aw­k­wardly pat­ted Ro­sa­lia's sho­ul­der, then sto­od up and tur­ned to­ward me. The wind stir­red his blond ha­ir, tug­ged at his clot­hes. I was sud­denly awa­re that the wind was stron­ger, har­der, flat­ter. I lo­oked to the east.

  There was the wall clo­ud, hu­ge and black and cur­ved. Ro�
�ger ope­ned his mo­uth.

  I didn't want to talk now. "La­ter." I wan­ted to think. The­re wasn't much ti­me left. I was li­ke a ma­rat­ho­ner. It didn't mat­ter now so much what the end of the ra­ce wo­uld bring, I was con­tent me­rely to fi­nish.

  Rosalia, too, felt the fres­he­ning wind. She was on her kne­es, spre­ading anot­her blan­ket over Bur­ton.

  Burton.

  Abruptly I re­ali­zed that I had go­ne abo­ut ever­y­t­hing the wrong way.

  Because Bur­ton was the key.

  Yes, Bur­ton had be­en at­tac­ked be­ca­use his con­ti­nu­ed exis­ten­ce thre­ate­ned the mur­de­rer.