Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  So, with a high deg­ree of ef­fi­ci­ency and bril­li­an­ce, Cha­se Pres­cott en­gi­ne­ered his own mur­der. He didn't ca­re abo­ut the mi­sery it wo­uld ca­use tho­se

  left be­hind as sus­pects. He wan­ted sus­pects. He •wan­ted the hunt for a mur­de­rer to con­ti­nue. It had to be mur­der, and Cha­se didn't ca­re what it cost eit­her his fa­mily or his as­so­ci­ates so long as Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons, the one thing he had lo­ved on this earth, sur­vi­ved.

  Now I knew.

  What co­uld I do?

  What sho­uld I do?

  If I ma­de this cla­im, I had not a shred of evi­den­ce to back it up.

  Knowledge of a man's cha­rac­ter isn't eno­ugh in a co­urt of lav/.

  The in­su­ran­ce com­pany wo­uld be de­lig­h­ted and wo­uld re­sist the cla­im.

  But it ca­me down to no pro­of.

  Still, wasn't it my duty to press to see that the truth ca­me out?

  An ide­alist wo­uld cho­ose truth.

  A re­alist wo­uld ga­uge whet­her the re­ve­la­ti­on wo­uld ha­ve any prac­ti­cal ef­fect.

  A le­af flut­te­red down on­to my lap. I brus­hed it away from Emily's pho­tog­raph.

  My lo­vely da­ug­h­ter. They say da­ug­h­ters are so of­ten the ima­ge of the­ir fat­hers. The slen­der, ele­gant, fi­ne-bo­ned fa­ce, the glossy ebony ha­ir, a mir­ror ima­ge of Cha­se Pres­cott as a yo­ung man.

  I'd de­ci­ded be­fo­re she was born that she wo­uld not grow up with a fat­her who ca­red not­hing for what was right.

  And she had not. She'd ado­red Ric­hard and ad­mi­red him, and, li­ke him, grown to be an ho­no­rab­le per­son.

  It was the right de­ci­si­on then.

  It was the right de­ci­si­on now.

  Any mot­her wo­uld un­der­s­tand.,

  The world might di­sag­ree, de­em my cho­ice rep­re­hen­sib­le.

  But, for now and fo­re­ver, I was de­ter­mi­ned.

  The world had its story, and I wo­uld let it be. Tre­vor was gu­ilty of mur­der, that was cer­ta­in. And tho­ugh he hadn't mur­de­red Cha­se, he had be­en a col­la­bo­ra­tor in Cha­se's de­ath. So I wo­uld let it be. Let Ro­ger re­mem­ber his fat­her with ho­nor; let Mi­ran­da ide­ali­ze the man she'd lo­ved too much; let Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons ta­ke on the bat­tles aga­inst gre­ed and pol­lu­ti­on and so­ci­al des­pa­ir; let Emily re­ma­in firm in her de­vo­ti­on to Ric­hard, the fat­her she'd known.

  And let me bury the ghost of a de­ad lo­ver. For-

  ever.

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  5/15/2009