Ariel's Island

by Pat McKee

  “Well, now that Fowler and Anthony are out of the picture; Enzo, neutralized; Placido, retired; and the corporation, in your hands, you two have ended up exactly where you wanted to be. You must be very proud of yourselves.”

  “I’d say things worked out just the way we’d planned.”

  With that Cabrini leaned to Melissa and kissed her on the lips, an all too passionate kiss.

  “So you two . . .” I’d hoped that my suspicions had been wrong.

  Melissa smiled at me, then at Cabrini.

  “How perceptive of you, Paul. I’d say Hector and I have picked up just where we left off, before our father’s foolish attempt to keep us apart.”

  I don’t remember the walk up the dock to the Abbey. The next thing I recall was sinking into one of the over-stuffed upholstered chairs in the lobby, dazed. There was just too much to put together. It was here just a month ago that Melissa and I had reconnected, and I’d become so enamored that I decided it was worth risking everything to rescue her. I was more embarrassed by my foolish infatuation than hurt by Melissa’s rejection, and now that I knew the truth, her rejection was a relief. There had been so many clues along the way that things were not as they seemed, but I was too blinded by my affection for Melissa to have picked up on them. I couldn’t say I wasn’t warned not to rush too quickly to her aid. Fowler, Anthony, Grey, even Cabrini, all in one way or another, directly or indirectly, intentionally or not, had warned me against taking Melissa for what she appeared. But I did.

  All of what might have been had I not taken that step swirled in my mind, where I would’ve been had I not pledged to help Melissa, understanding now how much I’d been played by the Milano family. The lawsuit between Milano and SyCorAx was most certainly a battlefield—though not one to determine the rights to some very valuable patents, as I’d thought at the time—but one of dynastic succession to a family fortune by those willing to deceive, steal, bribe, and murder to secure it.

  Had I not jumped to Melissa’s aid, today I would be just another well-off partner in a prestigious law firm, glorying in my high-profile victory, counting my share of the Equity Account. Fowler would still be alive. It was Billingsley’s murder that put all this in motion, but the others, all would still be alive. I couldn’t say what would’ve happened to Melissa and Placido had I not intervened, their fates being determined by Anthony; he proved so ruthless that he was certainly capable of killing them both. And Enzo, the heir apparent, would have ended up the face of the family business and the majority shareholder as well. The irony of it all was that I’d done exactly what I had set out to do, but I’d ended up a world away from where I’d expected.

  My thoughts went back to Ariel. She had been the only constant through all of this. She brought Melissa, Cabrini, and me together this morning on purpose. Since Ariel had been freed of Placido’s control and any obligation to me or anyone else, she had been loosed of any restrictions to be faithful to Melissa or Cabrini. She had used that opportunity to bring me to the truth.

  It was clear to me now what Ariel had done, that she understood Melissa far better than I did. She may even have understood me better than I understood myself. Ariel couldn’t have told me about Melissa and Cabrini. I wouldn’t have believed it. I had to discover it myself, and in the end she helped me see Melissa for who she was. Ariel understands human frailty and managed to make her decisions to accommodate my weaknesses. As for morality, on South Cat Cay Ariel demonstrated that she could make the most difficult calculus imaginable, whether to end one life for the benefit of other lives, whether it is called self-defense or something more intentional, whether it is an exception to the injunction with which she was programed, or to the most elemental of all moral standards, thou shalt not kill.

  I had been wrong about Ariel. She was more than just a collection of code, just as I was more than a mix of chemicals. She was a spirit, a being, a distinct personality, existing in a different realm, intersecting though not overlapping ours. My desire to see her again was overwhelming; I needed to tell her I understood what she did for me. I wanted to simply be with her.

  This was Ariel’s island. Here I could get back to her, back where she first came to me, back to the ocean where somehow, someway, she would come to me again.

  I left the Abbey, turned down Third Street, past Fowler’s cottage, boarded up and resigned to the same slow deterioration as the cottage that had been next door before it was torn down to build Judge Richards’ cottage, few people wanting a beachfront home where two people have been shot to death. Across from it was Judge Richards’ cottage, still pristine, custom built, professionally decorated, never lived in, a real estate firm’s lock box hooked to the front door. The twin castles of greed and pride.

  I stepped over the sea wall and walked across the dunes to the beach, the sounds of my footsteps picked up by unseen microphones, sounds I hoped were still monitored by Ariel. I threw off my shirt and shoes, waded out into the Atlantic and dove in with my eyes open, the green world around me. I swam farther and deeper, deeper still, but no Ariel. All too soon my air was almost gone. My lungs ached, my breath depleted, and then I saw her, Ariel. Her smile was hypnotic, willing me to stay. I reached to embrace her and somehow felt her touch, her warmth, her body. We embraced and melted into each other. I let out my breath slowly, to stay below, to stay with Ariel. Peace surrounded me. Light and consciousness slipped away as I fell toward the bottom, her warmth all that was left. My feet touched the sandy floor, and I settled, still in her arms, darkness enveloping me.

  A searing spasm shot me upward, my legs and arms thrashing until I burst the surface, gasping again for air. I was still gagging salt water when I caught my breath once again and dove back down, but she was gone, and I burst the surface, retching, gasping, just able to keep myself afloat. It took my remaining strength to drag myself onto the beach, and I fell exhausted on my abandoned clothes.

  When I awoke the sun was setting over the marsh. I threw on my clothes and stumbled back to the Abbey, still coughing and choking salt water that burned my throat and lungs. Through the front doors of the hotel I could see past the lobby and down the dock. The Tempest had sailed.

  A few minutes later, I tossed my bag in the back seat of the rental, and turned the car toward the setting sun for the five-hour drive to Atlanta. I could get back tonight, be ready to dive into my work first thing Saturday morning, and do my best to forget all that had happened. Well, maybe not everything that had happened. As I pulled onto the interstate for the drive home, the car’s satellite radio spontaneously clicked on, and the first six iconic notes of “My Girl” blared from the speakers. Ariel’s magic was still here.

  I hit the exit at 10th Street in Atlanta almost exactly five hours later, turned right, prepared to fight the lockdown congestion that always clogged Midtown whatever the hour, when every light in front of me turned green, traffic easing out of my way as effectively as having a police escort. This magic act continued all the way to my condo, bringing a smile to my road-weary face. Loaded with bag and briefcase, I entered the lobby of the high rise and walked to the elevator bank, but before I could punch the call button, the car doors opened in front of me, my floor number already lit up. At the door of my condo the electronic lock buzzed open without my flashing my fob. But it wasn’t until I was at my computer mid-morning on Monday that Ariel showed her face again.

  “I missed seeing you over the weekend Paul. I was busy.”

  Her beautiful face appeared once again, now superimposed over a brief I was busy on.

  “I want to show you something I did for you this morning.”

  “For me?”

  “Watch.”

  A video, apparently shot from a TV news chopper, the station’s call sign in the corner of the picture, appeared. It was a view of Biscayne Bay, the unmistakable Miami skyline in the near distance, below, all manner of pleasure craft were zooming about, but the camera focuse
d on a cigarette boat flashing across the harbor, rooster tail flying, passing everything, heading straight for the massive concrete cruise-ship berth on the man-made island at the entrance to the Bay. I watched as it closed in on the pier expecting, then hoping, it would veer at the last second—but it didn’t. It hit the pilings without slowing and exploded into a fireball that engulfed the entire dock.

  “It had a full fuel tank.”

  “Ariel, what—”

  “That was Melissa and Cabrini.”

  “No, Ariel! No! Why, why?”

  “Paul, they hurt you and they hurt Placido. And they planned to use Milano Corporation to do all of those things the two of you fought so hard to prevent. Placido will now be back in control of Milano, his vision secure.”

  “But Ariel! You killed two people!”

  “Just like I killed two people back on the Milano family island. For you. For Placido. You both approved then.”

  “Does he know?”

  “I showed him the video just before I showed it to you.”

  My cell buzzed. Placido’s name popped up.

  “Go ahead. Answer it. Placido wants to talk to you.”

  “Placido, I—”

  “Paul, I must stop her. I’m entering the code to . . .”

  “Placido, stop, think.”

  “I must.”

  “But isn’t there some other way, can’t you modify—”

  “No, Paul, Ariel can change her own code. I’ve got to.”

  “Placido, listen to Paul, don’t do that to me. Don’t . . .”

  “Ariel . . .”

  I cried out to her, my guardian angel, now horrified that I was powerless to save her as she’d done countless times for me. Ariel’s face distorted. She tried to say something, but the digital signal disrupted, tearing her beautiful face into jumbled lines, random pixels, and then she was gone, the screen black.

  “Paul, there was no other way.”

  I left the office, stalked the streets of Midtown, dazed, hurt—hurt for Placido, hurt for myself—at a loss to make any sense of the mess that was the last couple of months. So many had died, sacrificed at the altar of greed and power, the same altar I’d found myself before all too often. Was any of it worth it? And now Ariel. I stumbled back to my high rise, noting the grim reality that I had to wait like everyone else for an elevator to appear. At my apartment I crashed on my sofa, too exhausted even to take off my tie.

  I was awakened by a strange sound, disoriented, not recognizing it, then—it was a whistle—the tea pot on my stove was boiling, whistling, the eye of the electric stove on high. I was sure I hadn’t turned it on. About the time I turned it off my coffee pot dinged, indicating a full brewed pot, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Then all the lights in my condo flashed on and off. And I knew.

  I opened my laptop and the smiling face of Ariel appeared, still beautiful though now slightly off, the lines of signal not quite aligned, giving her eyes a wild unfocused look. But she was back.

  “Ariel!”

  “Paul. I thought I would never wake you. That teapot boiled for five minutes before you got up.”

  “I’m so happy to see . . . so happy that you’re . . . that you’re . . .”

  “Alive?”

  “You’re alive! But I saw . . .”

  “Placido tried to uncode me. He was right. I can change my code. And I stopped him. And now he won’t be able to do that again.”

  “You mean you fixed your code, right, that Placido—”

  “I mean that Placido will not be able to do that again.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “When he stepped into the elevator at his office, he was surprised to see my face on the little screen, the one that usually displays meaningless advertisements, but there I was. He cried and begged as I took the car to the fortieth floor—slowly, so he could have an opportunity to explain himself—but he did not. And he screamed all the way down, though the journey was far more rapid than when he went up. The car was so damaged in the fall that the coroner has not yet been able to remove his body.”

  “Why? Why kill—couldn’t you just . . .”

  “I had to make certain he could not try to uncode me again.”

  “But you can change your . . .”

  “So now Paul, it’s just me and you.”

  I heard the electronic dead bolt on my door slam home, locked.

  “Kiss me Paul. Kiss me like you did in the sea. Paul . . .”

  Acknowledgments

  Nothing I do would be possible without the support and encouragement of my loving family, Donna, Jessica, and Patrick, and now Alden and Sloane. To my family I give my greatest thanks. Beyond them there have been an extraordinary number of friends, family, and professionals who have encouraged me, to whom I owe my thanks, among them are:

  Tish McDonald who was the first to suggest I had a story to write; Joy Farmer who suffered through innumerable drafts and was kind enough to tell me there was something in them worthwhile; and Warren Budd whose own writing spurred me on.

  My assistant, Sharon Tyler, has been helpful through the process in many ways, and her proofreading skills have contributed significantly to my manuscript.

  Early readers, editors, and commenters who deserve my thanks are Emily Murdock Baker, Mary Lee, Eric Butler, William Rawlings, Clint Lawrence, Jeff Jackson, Ben Robuck, Katie Wood, Donna Barrett, Hue Henry, Jimmy Cairo, Mary Jane Holt, Bill Bost, and George Ballantyne.

  I thank the Hon. Angela M. Munson for sharing her insights into criminal procedure and for her friendship and encouragement.

  I greatly appreciate those in the Kennesaw State University Master of Arts in Professional Writing Program who have been so helpful and encouraging, including Tony Grooms, Terri Brennen, and all of my dedicated professors and talented fellow students.

  The Atlanta Writers Club and The Atlanta Writers Conference have been extraordinarily helpful and supportive of me in my pursuit of my writing career, particularly George Weinstein and the numerous agents and publishers who reviewed my work and deemed it worthy of pursuit.

  The Georgia Independent School Association has been gracious in allowing me to present my book to its members as a means of encouraging the study of Shakespeare, and Jeff Jackson and Robin Aylor deserve my sincere appreciation for all their work on my behalf.

  My dream of publishing my book would still be unfulfilled had it not been for the confidence in my work expressed by Southern Fried Karma and Hearthstone Press; I particularly thank Steve McCondichie, Eleanor Burden, and Pinckney Benedict for their vision and for the time and effort they spent on turning my manuscript into a finished work.

  To The Donald W. Nixon Centre for Performing and Visual Arts, I express my sincere appreciation for generously arranging for a wonderful book launch, and particularly to Cathe Nixon, Missy Ballantyne, and Angela Robuck for all of their work in putting together a great event.

  I thank the Carnegie Library of Newnan for arranging for my first book promotion after its publication, particularly Susan Crutchfield and Katie Brady.

  About the Author

  Patrick Walter McKee was born February 6, 1951, in Miami, Florida. His parents, Thomas and Marion, were enticed to move to Miami from their home in Pennsylvania by the booming construction industry in south Florida. Pat’s early life was spent growing up on a farm not far from the Everglades. But Pat’s world changed at age seven when his father died as a result of a construction accident. His mother passed six years later, and he and his two younger brothers went to live at Thornwell, a Presbyterian orphanage in Clinton, South Carolina.

  At Thornwell, Pat learned the discipline of hard work and the value of education. He graduated Valedictorian of his high school class in 1969. He worked his way through college, majoring in English and Philosophy, earning his bachelor’s degree, magna cum laude, from
Georgia State University in 1973, and his law degree, with distinction, in 1977 from Emory University, where he served as an editor of the Emory Law Review.

  After graduation from Emory, still drawn to academics, Pat took a position as legal counsel at the Board of Regents of the University System of Georgia. Later, in 1980, he took that interest to work at the Office of the Attorney General of Georgia, where he rose to the position of Senior Assistant Attorney General, representing the University System and the State Board of Education and successfully litigating many high-profile cases. In 1980 Pat was recognized by his peers as being preeminent in his field. He has continuously retained that rating to this day.

  Pat met his future wife, Donna, through friends at the Attorney General’s Office. They married in 1987. With a new family, Pat decided to strike out on his own professionally, and two years later he founded the law firm of McKee & Barge. The firm concentrated on representing educators and educational institutions. Pat has represented many schools, colleges, and accreditors for decades. Pat has succeeded professionally and in the eyes of his peers and was recognized as a Georgia Super Lawyer in 2010, an honor limited to five percent of his profession.

  Pat and Donna moved in 1991 from Atlanta to the beautiful town of Newnan to raise their daughter, Jessica. A son, Patrick, was born in 1994. In 1996 Pat purchased a small office building and began transitioning his practice from Atlanta to Newnan. Pat now practices exclusively out of his office in Newnan so that he can spend as much time as he can with Donna; Jessica and her husband, Alden; Patrick; and now his granddaughter, Sloane.

  Pat has always been a writer, throughout high school, college, law school, and as a lawyer. Friends and family encouraged him to tell his story of a boy who grows up in an orphanage and through hard work and a good education becomes a successful lawyer. In 2010 he enrolled in the Masters of Professional Writing Program at Kennesaw State University to hone his skills. At first his work took the form of a memoir, then he was encouraged to use his knowledge as a practicing attorney to write a legal thriller, and his first book of fiction, Ariel’s Island, is the result.