He stared down at the table, but I knew that wasn’t what he saw.
“The door wouldn’t move because Patty Kay was bunched up on the floor behind it. I got down on my knees. I lifted up her head—” His voice cracked. His fingers sought his blood-encrusted shirt—“and her face … there was blood—” He buried his face in his hands.
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
His hands fell away. His head jerked toward me. “How’d you know—”
“You’re here. You ran. Why?”
“Because—” His eyes flickered away.
I leaned forward.
“The siren. I heard a siren. Coming closer and closer. I knew it was coming there.”
“Why did you run?” I insisted.
His fingers plucked at the bloodied sleeve. “I don’t know.” There was just a trace of sullenness in his voice. “God, wouldn’t you? Come home, find your wife bloody and dead. Hear the cops coming. Why? Why were they coming? And they always blame the husband. Pick up a newspaper, any newspaper. You read about it almost every day. You know that.”
I knew it better than he imagined.
But with good reason.
So often, so very often, death wears a familiar face.
Of course, those statistics are changing. We live now in a drive-by shooting society. More and more often death is a stranger. That’s why the homicide solve rates have plummeted.
“They’ll put me in jail.” Fear lifted his voice.
“They certainly will if they pick you up as a fugitive, Craig. You must go back.”
Like a bereft child, he looked at me. “What am I going to tell them?”
“Whatever your lawyer advises you to tell them.”
“Lawyer?”
“Don’t you have a lawyer?”
He shrugged. “Not me. Patty Kay does. Mr. Fairlee.”
I felt like a kindergarten instructor. “Call him.”
Craig massaged his temple. “He doesn’t like me.”
I waited.
“He—he thought Patty Kay and I got married too quick.” He didn’t look at me.
Something interesting there. Why shouldn’t Patty Kay’s lawyer like him?
“You must know other lawyers.”
Craig’s head jerked up. “Oh, yeah, sure. One of the guys I play poker with. I’ll call him.” He looked around the room.
“I’ve got a cellular phone in my car. I’ll get it.”
When I came back into the cabin with the phone, he took it obediently.
He held the handset tightly, punched in the numbers. “Desmond, this is Craig. Listen—” He broke off, his eyes widening.
When he spoke again, his voice shook. “No, no, I haven’t seen the news. No. Oh, God … no, no, I didn’t do it, I tell you. I didn’t kill her. I don’t know what happened. I found her this afternoon, and”—he swallowed and nodded—“yeah, yeah, I want to come home but”—he shuddered—“no, no, I didn’t run away. I—I was supposed to—I came to see my aunt. She has a cabin near Monteagle. I was upset, I didn’t know what to do. So I thought I’d talk to my aunt.”
He carefully did not look my way.
I watched him with a good deal of interest. Quite a nifty little liar under pressure.
“… in the morning at your office? Yeah, I can be there by nine. You’ll talk to the police for me?”
I could imagine the lawyer’s call: “My client is quite willing to cooperate with the authorities … in shock from the brutal slaying of his beloved wife … fled the scene of such horror to seek family support … surely that’s an understandable human reaction, nothing sinister at all … will be willing to talk with the police at my office at …”
Unaware, of course, that Patty Kay’s husband’s clothing was bloodstained, and dealing with an obviously affluent member of the community and without eyewitnesses, the police would be patient.
When he ended the connection, my visitor reluctantly turned to face me.
“Your aunt?” I asked quizzically.
His eyes slid away. “Sorry.” Then he visited me with a rueful, studiously charming glance. No doubt it had worked for him for a long time. Now it was habitual. Only with women, of course. “Aunt Margaret’s all the family I have. I wish you were my aunt too,” he said in a rush.
It was designed to evoke sympathy.
It didn’t.
But Margaret is my friend. There was no way she could help her nephew now.
I could.
He took a deep breath, started to push back his chair. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “thank you for helping me. I’ll go now. There’s a motel—”
“That’s all right. You can sleep on the couch.”
He accepted. Which didn’t surprise me.
And stood by while I made his bed. Which didn’t surprise me either.
As I turned to go to the bedroom, he said, “Listen, thanks for everything, Mrs….” He didn’t remember my name. But then, he had plenty on his mind.
“Mrs. Collins. My friends call me Henrie O.”
“Henrie O. That’s nice. Good night, Henrie O.” This time I did close the door to the bedroom behind me. I also wedged a straight chair beneath the knob. I may sometimes be a soft touch.
I’m not a damned fool.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
DEAD MAN’S ISLAND
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Carolyn G. Hart.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93–3107.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56937-0
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Copyright
Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 Page 27
