Dark Destiny

by Edward S. Aarons

  The darkness betrayed him. He glimpsed a fleeting shadow, arm uplifted and then something crashed down on his head and pain exploded inside him. He went reeling aside as a shoulder slammed him out of the way. The hard barrel of a gun raked across the side of his face. He tried to grab at the twisting figure and his fingers caught on dark cloth, clung for a moment and then slipped free. A curse grated in the black air. Sam tried to grab for the gun the other held, but the figure opposing him merged with the shadows, twisting away as elusively as a figment of his imagination. He picked himself up, head ringing and lunged for the door. The beach looked pale and gray in the night, the ocean luminescent. The other man was waiting for him again beside the door and then the gun came down once more and he fell forward into the sand in front of the sail loft.

  16

  The wind and the sea talked to him. They told him to get up, to get out of there. Sam got his hands under him and pushed himself to a kneeling position. The beach tilted sickeningly and there seemed to be no stability to the earth. He touched his head, but the blow had been a glancing one, not strong enough to do any damage but effective in preventing him from following out his chase. Whoever had been in the sail loft with Lundy had gotten away cleanly. There was nothing to see anywhere except the ghostly, abandoned ruins of the boatyard.

  Slowly he got up and went back into the loft. His senses felt numb. His fingers were clumsy as he groped for a match. The tiny flame was like a miniature bomb in the vast, windy darkness. It went out before he located the figure that had fallen from the high gallery above. He struck another match, fingers trembling and this time he spotted the thick white hair of Harry Lundy and the man's body, sprawled grotesquely, face down, near the foot of the stairs.

  Sam knelt beside the body. Blood oozed from the back of Lundy's head and the man's face had been all but dissolved by the bullet as it came out the other side of his skull. Sam stood very still. For the second time, he had returned to Isla Honda and found death waiting for him. He wondered if it could be a coincidence. He felt an impulse to run and then remembered where his panic had taken him the last time. The fat man lay with one arm outflung, fingers clawing the concrete floor. He wore a pair of khaki shorts that clung wetly to his heavy buttocks and that was all. The match went out and Sam trembled. Every instinct cried out to him to get out of here before it was too late. He stood where he was. After a moment he struck another match and knelt again beside the dead boatman.

  The bullet had killed Harry instantly. His eyes were open, staring blankly in death, surprise stamped on his heavy, jowly features. His white hair was plastered over his forehead in thick strands. Sam straightened again. Lundy, like Bill Somerset, had been killed only a few moments before his arrival at Isla Honda, almost as if it had been planned that way. Again he had to fight down an impulse to run, but a slow, growing anger took precedence over his panic. Lundy had known something, like Bill Somerset, but what it was could never be told now. Someone had beaten him to the game again and the riddle of Charley's death was as remote as before. Then, once more, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps outside the sail loft.

  Instantly he blew out the match and moved toward the door. His hands searched for a weapon, found a heavy piece of angle iron against the wall and weight it in his fingers. He heard nothing more from outside. In the silence he was again aware of the murmuring surf and the whimpering wind. He waited for what seemed an eternity. Then the footsteps continued their approach.

  The sounds were light and uncertain and in the moment before they reached the door he frowned and hesitated. It was as well that he did. The person who paused, outlined against the grayness outside before slipping inside, was Mona Somerset.

  Sam clapped a hand over her mouth and grabbed at the object in her right hand. It was a small, ivory-handled pistol. The girl's body tensed then convulsed in terrified rebellion against his grip. He almost lost her. For several moments they fought in silent fury, but the outcome was inevitable. He wrenched the gun from her fingers, then abruptly held her away from him. She tripped, fell against the stair railing and sat down on the stairs, her face dim and terrified in the semi-darkness.

  "Take it easy," he panted. "It's Sam. I won't hurt you."

  Her breath caught in her throat. "Sam?"

  She huddled against the wall. "Please. What are you doing here?" she whispered. "Why did you come back to Isla Honda?"

  He weighed the gun in his hand, snapped the loaded magazine out of it, snapped it in again and then thumbed the safety on.

  "I came to see Harry Lundy," he said grimly.

  "Harry? Why?"

  He was not prepared for her aggressiveness. He saw that she wore a cream-colored skirt and a pale orange blouse. Her face was white, frightened, but she leaned forward and then stood up before him.

  "Why did you want to see Harry?" she repeated.

  "I thought he could help me," Sam said quietly "What are you doing here, with this gun?"

  "I followed him. He was acting very strangely all night, as if he were afraid of something. He had a terrible quarrel with Ashton. He said someone was going to kill him, but I couldn't hear all of it and it didn't make much sense. When I saw him leave the house, I followed."

  "Did you see anyone else?"

  "No. But I heard a shot in here and someone came running out and then it was quiet so I came in. I didn't see who it was, though. Is Lundy-dead?"

  "Yes," he nodded.

  She looked at him. He thought she seemed confused. Her hand touched her face in a gesture of bewilderment. "Sam, this is the second time it's happened and you're here. There must be some explanation."

  "I didn't do it. I followed Lundy just as you did. The other fellow got away from me."

  Her voice changed again. "Sam, we must trust each other. This isn't any good. It's too dangerous to stay here."

  "Do you think I did it?" he asked, a challenge in him.

  "No. No, I don't, but-"

  "Who was at the house when you left?"

  "Just Ashton and the houseboy. They were both upset over Lundy's behavior, but you can't tell about Ashton; he always keeps himself under such perfect control."

  "All right," he said. "Let's go back there."

  He took her arm and for the merest instant he felt her reluctance and then she preceded him to the door. The wind took her dark hair and blew it in thick strands across her cheeks as they stepped outside. She leaned against him and he felt her tremble; he held her tighter and urged her to the path that crossed the island. He felt no danger of anyone interfering with them. He led the way surely and quickly through the dark underbrush and ten minutes later they emerged once again at the garage driveway under the shelter of the hedges that edged the lawns of Isla Honda. Here Mona paused, disregarding his impatience. The wind whimpered in the trees and Mona stared up at the dark apartment over the garage and then at the silent, yellow windows of the big house.

  "I was always afraid of Lundy," she whispered. "Ever since I married Bill, Lundy was always there, always staring at me. He seemed to enjoy his self-appointed role of watchdog."

  "Maybe Ashton assigned him to that," Sam suggested.

  "No, I don't think so. Lundy was independent. He was rarely given orders. He did his work as he chose and sometimes he was scarcely respectful even to Ashton, let alone Bill or me. I never understood it and I became afraid of him. When I asked Ashton to discharge him one day after Lundy was particularly insolent, Ashton said it was impossible, he couldn't do it."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No. And I became more frightened of Lundy than ever before." Mona turned her face upward to him, her eyes wide and worried. "Why was he killed, Sam? Who did it?"

  "I wish I knew. I almost had him, but it wasn't good enough."

  "Surely you have some idea why it was done though?"

  "Lundy knew too much. He used what he knew, but lately I guess he pushed his luck too far. He was after money like everyone else. He was the real lord and master of Isla Hond
a if you get right down to it. He pampered Ashton, catered to his every whim. Lundy knew what he was doing though. The more Ashton depended on him, the more Lundy ran the show. But he was killed tonight for the same reason Bill was killed. He knew something about Isla Honda, about Charley and the embezzlement." Sam held the trembling girl by the shoulders. "Is anyone else in the house except Ashton and George?"

  "No. The housekeeping couple are away in Miami. Ashton told them to take a couple of days off."

  "Are you sure no one else has been about?"

  She shook her head, her dark hair flying in the wind. "I didn't see anyone. But it couldn't have been Ashton, could it? He's crippled and you would have known when you caught him for a moment in the sail loft-"

  "That's right," he said.

  "But who else could it have been? George, the houseboy?"

  He looked at her. She shrank a little away from him. "Sam, it wasn't me!"

  "Who betrayed me when I met you on the beach yesterday?"

  "Sam, you can't think-"

  "I'm not thinking anything. I just want facts. Are you sure no one overhead that phone call Benny made to you?"

  "I'm not sure, no. How could I tell?"

  "How long did it take you to reach that beach near Cap'n Joe's, where I met you?"

  "Not more than ten minutes. Why?"

  "Did you start out immediately after Benny called?"

  "As soon as I could. I wanted to be sure no one followed me. The police had been here all night, you know, and I was desperately anxious to see you and tell you what had happened and about the things I did."

  He frowned into the dark, wind-swept night. Now he felt unsure of everything, as if the whole web of evidence he had built up in his mind had been swept away by the wind that scoured the keys tonight. He realized he was still holding the gun he had taken from Mona and he thrust it abruptly into his pocket. Several large drops of cold rain fell around them and it seemed as if the darkness abruptly became several folds deeper.

  Mona clung to him. "Sam, I'm afraid. What are you going to do?"

  "I've got to see Ashton."

  "But suppose he's called the police?"

  "I'll have to take a chance on that." He spoke rapidly now through the slow pattering of the rain. He told her where he had hidden the boat he had borrowed from Benny Suarez. "It's in a safe place. You can find it easily if you're careful. Have you a flashlight?"

  "There are several in the garage."

  "Get one and follow the path through the mangroves. You can't miss it. When you find the boat, get aboard it and stay there and wait for me."

  "I can't do that," she said. "I won't leave you."

  "It will be better," he insisted.

  She hesitated and he had to urge her physically back to the garage. He realized that her nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point by everything that had happened to her within the last forty-eight hours. It was almost too much to expect her to retain the control she had exhibited up to now. He spoke to her calmly, forcing himself to take it easy, to make his words unhurried. She didn't seem to be listening. She looked up at his face, searching his eyes, as if she were thinking of something entirely different.

  "Sam, I'm no good," she said suddenly. "Don't waste your efforts on me."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You know all about me. Why bother with me? You've got Ellen Terhune-she's in love with you, I've been told-and you're better off if you go back to her. Don't bother about me any more."

  "I want to," he said. "You're important to me, Mona."

  "As evidence?" she asked wryly.

  "As a human being," he said. "As a woman."

  He thrust the flashlight he had taken from the garage into her hand and then pushed her toward the beach. "Hurry. There isn't much time."

  "I'll wait for you," Sam," she said.

  The rain came down with thickening strength. In a moment they were drenched, standing on the path to the beach. Mona turned and walked away, swallowed up in the darkness, her flashlight a meager wink of light in the anger of the night.

  He turned back toward the main house and walked up the path that crossed the lawn with a long, determined stride. He was halfway there when he heard the high, womanish scream that came from the squat, rambling Spanish building ahead of him.

  17

  He broke into a run. The scream seemed to go on and on, a wild ululation woven in a pattern that went through and under the tearing sound of the rain. He didn't know if it came from a man's throat or a woman's; he couldn't be sure. He ran harder, digging his toes into the sandy path, then darting to the right under the shelter of the buttressed Romanesque arcade that connected the garage and studio with the main house. The scream ended. The rain rattled on the tiled roof above him. Ahead was a heavy door, with antique wrought-iron hinges and a studding of old-fashioned nail heads. Sam brought himself up short, struggling to control his breath so he could listen. There was nothing to hear except the sound of the rain and the sudden gush of an overflow in one of the drainage pipes from the roof. He looked back toward the beach, but there was no trace of Mona. He hoped she had gone on toward the boat without hearing the sound.

  The heavy door was unlocked. He stepped through into the wide, cool dimness of the old-fashioned kitchen, his feet soundless on the Belgian bricks of the floor. Metal glimmered, shining nickel on the big, antique stove. He paused again. No sound except the rattle of rain on the windows.

  Footsteps suddenly clattered down the stone stairs deeper in the labyrinth of the house. Panicky steps, in hurried and frantic flight from some horror up above. Sam could not identify them. They reached the bottom of the staircase and turned this way, soles scraping the floor, slipping and driving on again toward the kitchen exit. He heard a labored, desperate breath and flattened against the dark wall beside the swinging door that opened into the hallway. It burst inward an instant later and a dark figure came catapulting across the floor. Sam moved quickly, efficiently. His leg thrust out, caught the other's ankle and the running figure spilled headlong across the tiles and crashed into the big oaken table, bringing up short with a choked whimper of terror. Sam dived at the man.

  It was George, the houseboy.

  "Let me-go!"

  The lanky man's face was convulsed by terror. His straw-colored hair was disheveled, his eyes wide dark holes that reflected his fear as he fought against Sam's weight. His fist caught the side of Sam's head and made his ear ring and then Sam had his flailing arms pinned to his side; he dragged the sobbing, shuddering figure upright, slamming him against the kitchen wall.

  "Relax," he said harshly. "What are you running from?"

  The houseboy wore a trenchcoat and he had been carrying a small canvas bag that had spilled from his grip when Sam tackled him. His eyes, close-set and bright with fear, darted this way and that while he struggled to catch his breath. Sam watched recognition dawn in them, followed by more fear and then sudden guile.

  "What's going on here?" Sam asked.

  "You ought to know." George's voice sobbed a moment then strengthened. "How come you're back? And take your hands off me!"

  "Was it you who screamed?"

  George shook his head. "It was Ashton. He's nuts."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Screwy, crazy. He came at me like a lunatic and I figured he was gonna kill me. It didn't work out like I figured, none of it. So I hit him."

  "Because you killed Lundy?"

  George trembled. "Is he dead?"

  "Did you do it?" Sam asked.

  "Listen. Wait a minute. I don't know anything about that. He had a fight with Ashton, sayin' somebody was trying to kill him, but I don't know anything about it. I swear it! I didn't touch Lundy! I been here all the time. When Lundy went out of here, talkin' crazy about the chances he's been taking, I got scared and started to pull out. I packed my bag and Ashton came in and saw me and scared me so I hit him."

  "What have you got in the bag?"

  "Nothin
g."

  "Pick it up. Open it," Sam ordered.

  George tried bravado. "Why should I? What's in it belongs to me. I'm quittin', is all. I didn't bargain for no killings." His thin body worked under Sam's grip, trying to push away from the kitchen wall. Sam bunched the necktie under George's chin and squeezed a little. He felt a deep, abiding rage that couldn't be stopped now. George's long nose quivered and his eyes had a queer, unnatural shine. "Let me go!"

  Sam swung him around and slammed him into a chair. George started to rise, then shrank back, his breath gasping. He ran a finger under his nose, sniffled and touched his throat gingerly.

  "Damn it! I tell you I don't know anything about it!"

  "We'll see," Sam said.

  He opened the canvas bag carefully, watching the thin man. His fingers found a few articles of linen and clothing then metal; he traced out the shape of candlesticks, a silver plate and then a small roll of currency. The contents of the bag made a certain amount of sense. In his panicky flight, George had put his thieving hands on whatever was nearest him. Sam shoved the bag aside with his foot.

  "What was all this about you and Ashton?"

  "He caught me packin' and tried to stop me."

  "Was he upset about the way Lundy talked?"

  "I wouldn't know. He acted crazy though."

  "Why did you scream?"

  "He came at me like a crazy man," George whispered. "He said he'd kill me. I got scared and lost my nerve. I never run up against anybody like him before. He ain't for me, I tell you." George shuddered. His face was a thin white slash in the darkness; his mouth worked loosely. "So I had to hit him," he gasped.