Island of Bones

by P J Parrish

  He sat up, grabbing at his throat, gagging and gulping in air. He saw the rifle and grabbed it with a shaking hand. It took a few seconds for him to realize that Emilio had not moved. He was lying face down, draped over the roots. Frank grabbed him and rolled him over. Emilio’s eyes were open.

  No...

  Frank touched Emilio’s throat. He felt nothing.

  “No,” he said, his fingers groping for a pulse. “Oh, God, no.”

  He pulled Emilio’s limp body off the mangrove roots, laying it down in the mud, and pressed his ear to the chest. Nothing. With a cry, Frank leaned back and flung the rifle into the water.

  “Emilio?”

  Someone was calling from beyond the trees, a woman. He knew her voice immediately.

  Frank looked up. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled up the incline through the trees. When the woman saw him, she stopped in the path.

  “Emilio?”

  Frank came forward. It was almost dark now and he couldn’t see her. Just her small black form and the white aureole of her hair. Tiny...she was so tiny.

  He went closer so he could see her. Her face had been stored in his mind for decades, put there by his heart for safekeeping, to be taken out only when his loneliness overwhelmed him. Her face was there, in the archive of memory, with all the other images and experiences of this place. But he could see now that his memory had been unreliable. She was different. Her skin, once so smooth and white, was now yellowed and crinkled like old parchment. Her eyes, which once had the dark shine of onyx, were now cloudy. She was old.

  He felt something tear, deep inside his chest.

  “Mama,” he said softly.

  She took a step back, putting a hand on her chest.

  “It’s me, Mama,” he said “it’s Frank. Francisco.”

  She wavered slightly and he stepped forward, ready to catch her if she fell.

  “Francisco,” she whispered. “Francisco.” She lifted her hands, cupping his face.

  “How? Why are you —-” She stopped. “So many years. I can’t believe you came back.”

  Her hands were warm against his cheeks and Frank closed his eyes. Her touch, that had not changed. It was exactly as he remembered it.

  “How did you get here?” she asked softly.

  “I jumped...” He took her hands in his and looked down into her face. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. He pulled her into his arms. He could feel her shoulder blades, sharp as knives, through her dress. She was so fragile, as if she would shatter into a million pieces if he held her too long or too hard. He lowered his head to hers, and breathed in her scent —- not the lavender soap he remembered but something dusty and dry. His throat constricted and he squeezed his eyes shut against it.

  She pulled away to look up at him. “The police are looking for you. They will come here.”

  Frank shook his head. “They won’t come. They don’t know about this place. They don’t know who I really am.” He hesitated. “Mama, I have nowhere else to go.”

  “But the others...your brother won’t allow it”

  Frank stepped back and took her small shoulders in his hands. “Emilio is dead.”

  Her eyes widened. “Dead?”

  “It was an accident,” Frank said. “I didn’t mean to do it. We were fighting, and —-”

  She eased from his grip and covered her face with her hands. Frank hung his head, rubbing his face. Emilio had been right. He shouldn’t have come back. Kincaid or someone would eventually trace him here. The police would come. And they would find out about the girls and what they did here, what they had been doing here for decades.

  “Francisco.”

  Frank looked at his mother.

  “Where is he? Where is your brother?”

  Frank looked down toward the mangroves. She followed his gaze and started toward the water, but he put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “Then I will go.”

  Her fingers curled around his forearm. “Go? Where?”

  “Back. If I turn myself in, they’ll leave you alone. If I don’t go back, they’ll come here.”

  “No,” she said. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again. You will stay here now.”

  Frank shook his head. “No, Mama, there’s no way that can happen now.”

  Her grip on his arm tightened. He was surprised by her strength.

  “There is a way,” she said. “I know a way you can stay and they will not come here looking for you. Frater tuus mortuus est. Voluntas dei est. Nunc ille locum tuum sumet et tu suum sumes.”

  Frank stared at his mother, too stunned to answer.

  “Francisco, do you understand?” she asked.

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “Tell me you understand,” she said firmly.

  “Sic intellego,” he whispered.

  She touched his face.

  “What about the others?” he asked.

  “They will do as I say. They always have.”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t —-”

  Her hands came up to his cheek and he felt their dry caress. “I know. Everything will be all right. You are home now.”

  Frank reached up and took his mother’s hands from his face. He covered her small hands with his own, holding them for a moment, then turned away.

  He looked down into the dark mangroves. He could just make out the white of his brother’s shirt. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want to do what he knew he had to.

  Your brother is dead. It is God’s will. You must take his place and he must take yours.

  He looked back at his mother. “Go back to the house, Mama,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  He started down toward the mangroves. It was quiet, just the sound of the water lapping against the roots. There was nothing to break the darkness, not one light not one boat, no sign that there was another world somewhere out there.

  He knelt in the mud and began to unbutton his brother’s shirt. When he had undressed him, he took off his own red shirt and shorts, putting them on his brother. Mustering the last of his strength, he slowly dragged the body back into the water.

  He started wading out, away from shore, guiding the body in front of him. When the water was chest-high, he stopped. He brought up his hand and slipped off his gold wedding band. He put it on his brother’s left hand.

  Lightning flashed behind the billowing banks of thunderheads, but there was no thunder. There was no noise at all except for the lapping of the water and the pounding in his temples. The currents were swirling around him. He let go, and his brother’s body began to drift away.

  “Ave atque vale, Frank Woods,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 27

  Louis slammed the screen door to his cottage, ripping off his shirt as he headed to the kitchen. He threw the shirt in a corner and yanked open the refrigerator. No fucking beer.

  His eyes lasered up to the bottle of Remy Martin that Roberta had forced on him after the storm. He pulled it down, and took off the cap.

  “Louis?”

  Damn it. It was Pierre. What the hell did he want?

  Louis walked to the living room, looking at Pierre through the screen.

  “What?”

  “The Kozol family in number eight, they say they were robbed this afternoon. Someone went in and stole their boom boxer.”

  Louis lifted the bottle to his lips and took a drink.

  “You were not here to stop them,” Pierre said.

  “No, I guess I wasn’t,” Louis said.

  “You playing flic again?” Pierre asked, using the slang for “cop.”

  Louis gave a bitter snort. “Yeah, a fucking flic, that’s me all right.”

  “Tiens! And they pay you enough to live here on your own?”

  Louis lowered the bottle. “No, they don’t.”

  “
You should remember that next time you sit on your porch here to see the sunset, Louis.”

  Pierre disappeared into the shadows. Louis looked down at the bottle in his hand. He went back to the kitchen, recapped the brandy and put it away. He leaned against the counter and rubbed his face, his mind rewinding the scene on the boat again. Frank moving to the rail. His head bobbing in the water, then slowly sinking, along with the case and his reputation.

  Now what?

  Louis went to the television, and flipped it on, tuning it to the news. He caught the middle of a talk show, and glanced at his watch. He had ten minutes before the news.

  He showered, pulled on a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt, and went back to the television, a Dr Pepper in hand. It was the lead story.

  Landeta was at the marina, back-dropped by the bay and a few boats that were still searching. Landeta’s head was red, burned by the afternoon sun, and his shirt held dark circles of sweat. The gold detective shield hanging on his pocket sent off a sharp glint in the setting sun.

  Landeta was recounting the afternoon’s events, pointing out at Pine Island Sound. Heather Fox was barking out questions, thrusting the mike in Landeta’s face. He didn’t have many answers.

  “Why did Woods go out to the island?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Why did he jump overboard?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Do you believe him to be the killer of Shelly Umber?”

  “We just wanted to talk to him.”

  “Who was with Woods on the boat?”

  Landeta stared right into the camera. “A private investigator named Louis Kincaid.”

  “Is Kincaid working in an official capacity with the Fort Myers police?”

  Landeta drew in a breath. “Not anymore.”

  The camera switched to a view of the sound. Louis watched the police and coast guard patrol boats, hoping to see Frank’s body being hauled on board. Heather Fox was talking about the search and how many agencies were involved.

  “So far, no body has been found,” she said. “And with police unwilling to speculate on Frank Woods’s mental state, some sources are saying that Woods’s jump off the ferry was simply an escape attempt.” She gestured back at the sound. “Apparently, a successful one. This is Heather Fox, live on Captiva Island for WINK-News."

  His phone rang and he reached for it, then hesitated. Damn, who was this? Another reporter? He let it ring, but then realized it could be Chief Horton. He picked it up.

  “You killed him!” she screamed.

  Louis sat forward. “Diane —-”

  “Why didn’t you stop him? I told you he would do this! I told you!”

  He moved the phone farther from his ear.

  “I paid you to protect him!”

  “I’ll give your damn money back.”

  Silence. He could hear her crying now.

  Louis dropped onto the sofa. Jesus, here he was pissed off because he had lost a suspect again. Diane had lost a father. His eyes went to the TV. Frank’s picture was displayed behind the anchorman’s head. Louis muted the sound.

  “Diane, listen to me,” he said. “They haven’t found his body. He could have...”

  She was sobbing now. She knew he was lying. She knew just as well as he did that Frank Woods wanted to die.

  “Diane, I’m sorry.” It sounded weak, almost pathetic. It was all he had to offer her.

  “Diane, if a person really wants to kill himself, no one can stop him,” Louis said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. He wondered if she had put the phone down and walked away.

  “Diane? You still there?”

  Silence. Then, “Yes” in a whisper.

  “Diane, I still want to know if he killed those women.”

  “Why? What difference does it make now?”

  “Reputation,” Louis said. “Getting it back. That’s worth something.”

  “You don’t really care whether he did it. It’s your own damn reputation you care about.”

  Louis put his head in his hand, holding his temper. “It’s not that I’ve looked stupid before.”

  She gave a short, bitter laugh.

  “Diane —-”

  “What the hell do you want from me? What else can I possibly give you?” She was crying again.

  “Your mother’s maiden name.”

  She made a strange sound. He couldn’t figure out whether it was a laugh or a sob.

  “Screw you, Louis Kincaid,” she said. “You’ve killed my father. I’m not letting you near my mother.”

  She hung up.

  CHAPTER 28

  He flipped to his back and closed his eyes again, hoping this time sleep would come. He lay in the darkness of his bedroom, stripped down to his shorts, listening to the rattle of Pierre’s fan.

  Every once in a while, he could feel the breeze off the gulf wash over his bare skin, bringing temporary relief from the heat.

  It was hopeless. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness.

  What time was it? Had he slept at all? Was it the brandy keeping him awake or this damn case? Or was it the burning embarrassment of stupidity?

  The soft light of dawn started to rise in the window.

  He hadn’t become a cop for the attention...few did. But the last few years had brought some headlines and accomplishments. He still didn’t like reporters or the spotlight, but he was proud of what he had done. He liked having the reputation as a dogged, smart investigator whom the cops trusted. It meant something. Until yesterday.

  Forget it, Louis. It’s not the first time you fucked up. Go back to sleep.

  He closed his eyes just as the phone rang. Something told him the call was about Frank, but he wasn’t sure why anyone would be calling to tell him anything about Woods. It was probably just Pierre wanting him to quiet down some drunken tourist.

  He grabbed it without rolling over.

  “Yeah?”

  “Louis?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Strickland. Officer Strickland.”

  Louis sat up. “What happened?”

  “He’s washed up. Woods is in the water just off Monkey Island. I’m heading out now to pick up Landeta.”

  Louis rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Strickland, why are you calling me? Didn’t you see the news?”

  “I heard what Landeta said, but I also know he’s a moron. And when we got back to the station, the chief took him behind closed doors and Landeta’s head was red as a frickin’ beet when he walked out of there. He was pissed.”

  Louis was quiet.

  “Look,” Strickland said. “I just thought maybe you weren’t so ready to give up, that’s all. I gotta git.” He hesitated. “You won’t tell the chief I called you, will you?”

  “No. Thanks for the tip.”

  Down at the Fort Myers yacht basin, Louis caught a ride from the mainland with a couple of crime scene techs he had worked with before, guys who knew who he was and what had happened but didn’t seem to care.

  The sun was still low in the eastern sky but the tide was high by the time they got to the island. No wading in this time. Louis stepped off the boat and headed up the small rise toward the yellow crime scene tape. A couple of uniforms stood talking, and two fishermen were pointing toward the water.

  He was surprised to spot Heather Fox standing a little ways off, working to set up a remote with her cameraman. She was wearing worn jeans and bright yellow rubber boots like a kid might own, but above the waist she looked picture-perfect right down to a white silk blouse and lacquered hair.

  On the other side of the tape was Chief Horton. He stood, legs wide, hands on hips, looking down at the water. Out in knee-deep water, Landeta and two other men stood in a tight knot. The photographer moved and Louis caught a glimpse of bright red that he recognized as Frank’s shirt.

  With a glance back at the uniforms, Louis ducked under the tape and went up behind Horton.

  He
could see Frank’s body now, the red shirt billowing like a flag in the pale shallow water. Frank was curled against the tree roots, as if he were being rocked asleep by the gently rippling current He looked almost peaceful lying there, nothing like Shelly Umber had looked, twisted and tortured in her mangrove cage.

  “He couldn’t swim,” Louis said.

  Horton’s head swiveled back to him.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Kincaid?”

  Louis couldn’t think of an answer. And from the expression on Horton’s face, he wasn’t even sure he needed one. In fact Horton looked almost glad to see him.

  “Frank’s daughter, Diane, told me he couldn’t swim.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before now?”

  “I just remembered it”

  Horton looked back at the body. “Suicide?”

  “Diane thinks so.”

  Horton’s eyes came back to Louis. “You don’t?”

  Louis didn’t answer. He was looking around at the mangroves, at the proximity of the other islands.

  “Strange,” Louis said.

  “What is?”

  “Frank ending up close to where Shelley Umber did.”

  “Maybe he planned it that way.” Horton let out a tired sigh of frustration. “Sick fuck.”

  The crime techs were finished. The body was lifted into a bag. Landeta was still standing in the water, pulling off his gloves as he talked to the other Fort Myers detectives. Horton was watching them both closely.

  “How’d you find out about this, Louis?” Horton asked.

  “I have friends.”

  “In my department?” When Louis didn’t answer, Horton added, “Friends who don’t think we can handle this without you?”

  “Friends who think Landeta’s lost it.”

  Horton drew in a slow breath. He looked at the other cops, the crime tech guys, and finally at Heather Fox. He ducked under the tape and started away, nodding at Louis to follow. The sun was high in the heat-hazed sky now, baking the mucky earth and unleashing all the primordial smells. Horton finally paused under the thin shade of a strangler fig tree.

  “I didn’t think it was that obvious,” he said.