Firefly Island

by Lisa Wingate

  We’d gone back and forth until Daniel had finally agreed to call my cell if there was any sign of Mason leaving the hospital. In the meantime, Al had arranged the boat and gathered flashlights, a pocket camera, and dark clothes.

  Now, here we were, the boat thrashing side to side, cutting through the waves, water splashing against the bow as it rose over a swell, then crashed down again, then rose, and fell, and rose.

  “Hang on, girls,” Burt advised, and I squeezed the side rail even tighter, the cool metal bending my fingernails backward. “It’s gonna get rough once we clear the point.”

  Going to get rough? My stomach turned over. I felt like I was ready to lose my supper already. That kind of thing didn’t happen to Nancy Drew. It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so serious.

  As we cleared the little cedar-clad point that hid the abandoned dock, the swells kicked up and the boat’s engine revved, rivets and joints crackling in the full-on wind and waves. Spray splashed over me, and the back of the boat dipped so low that the water was just below my fingertips, glistening dark and full of churned-up debris. I watched something float by beneath the surface—a piece of cloth. A scarf, or part of a swimsuit, maybe. It slid through the glow of the lights, slipping by like a shadow, seeming to stretch and contract in the water, taking on life.

  I thought of my dream and the Scripture in Grandma Louisa’s Bible. The warning.

  I held on. Closed my eyes. Tried to stay calm.

  The boat’s lurching ebbed as we moved closer to the island, the craggy cliffs and thick cedars of Firefly slowly blocking the wind until there was none. The waters nearer the shore were eerily still when Nester cut the engine. Burt moved to the front of the boat, silently piloting us in with an electric motor so that our entrance was almost soundless, even the gravel only scratching dully on the hull as we beached.

  Al took off her life vest and made her way toward the bow as Nester caught an overhanging cedar and pulled us in alongside a tangle of logs and debris.

  “All right, nobody had oughta see us here,” he whispered, leaning close. “Burt and me’ll hole up here by the cedars. Lake patrol comes by, we’ll just pretend like we was out night fishin’ and had to pull up outta the weather a minute. Better step out on the right and climb across them downed logs, see? Don’t wanna leave footprints to tip em’ off.”

  Burt grunted as he maneuvered over the boat railing and stepped into the mud. “Heaven’s sake, Nester, you ought to get a job in Hollywood. Not likely to be a lake patrol tonight, and the footprints will be gone by morning. Those clouds are fixin’ to cut loose a toad strangler. It’s that storm we oughta be worried about. You girls hurry on and do what you’ve gotta do. We’d better be heading back across that point in thirty minutes, not much more. The weather’s coming faster than you think, and from what Al said, I’m guessing we don’t want them to find us sitting here on the shores of Firefly Island in the mornin’.”

  “We’d go with ya, but we’d probably just be in yer way,” Nester added. “Besides, last time we sneaked out here coon huntin’, some woman saw our lights and thought it was a ghost or a UFO. She called the sheriff, and Burt and I about ended up in jail. We get caught trespassin’ again, we’re dead meat. Don’t even know what yer lookin’ for, anyway.”

  “Neither do we,” Al grumbled, and she started for the woods, clicking her flashlight on as she reached the blackness under the canopy of oaks and elms.

  “We’ll hurry,” I promised, then tossed off my life vest and trotted after her. Nester was more dead-on than he realized. None of us had any idea what we were looking for. I only knew that there was something. Something I was supposed to find on Firefly Island.

  Wind rustled in the live oaks overhead, bending the branches as we made our way through the woods. Al walked uphill ahead of me, moving with an uncanny confidence. There was no path to follow, yet she seemed to know exactly where to go, deftly weaving her way around tangles of briars and nests of roots hidden in the darkness of the forest floor.

  Ahead, the undergrowth of brambles and seedlings fluttered and swayed, parting in a gust of wind, then closing like a curtain. The glimmer of a security light shone through the leaves in the distance, then vanished. I stopped a moment, trying to get my bearings, waiting for the light to come into view once more. The cabin was farther from the edge of the island than I’d thought… .

  When I looked down again, Al’s flashlight was gone. A fist of apprehension caught my throat. The woods closed in around me, the rustling becoming more than just the breeze passing by. Was someone … or something there? Behind me? Beside me?

  Beyond my flashlight beam, it was interminably dark, the moon blotted out by the building storm. Something skittered across the forest carpet. I swiveled without moving my feet. A shiver raised gooseflesh on my skin. I thought of all the things that could happen in the woods on an inky-black night like this.

  The wind quieted, and I strained into the darkness. Ahead, a boot skidded on wet rock, sending a pebble bouncing downward. I hurried toward the sound, keeping my flashlight low. Within a few dozen steps, I’d crested a hill. Al was traveling down the other side into a canyon, her light held close to her body so that the beam illuminated only the ground beneath her feet. At the bottom of the hill, she stopped, circled her light to hurry me along, then continued on.

  I didn’t catch up until Al stopped at the edge of the clearing, where a single security light illuminated the cabin. It was nothing fancy—just a small cedar-shingled shack with old plate-glass windows and a tin roof. All one room, from the look of it. The lights were on inside, but threadbare white curtains hung over the windows, blocking the view. The porch, other than the portion near the door, was littered with debris. Amid a clutter of fallen leaves, a rocking chair with a broken arm moved gently in the wind, swaying back and forth as if someone were sitting in it. I imagined that I could see her there—the woman from the photos in Jack’s little house. The wind caught her hair, lifted it, and swirled it away from her face as she gazed off into the trees.

  I blinked, and she was gone.

  On the porch, the remains of an easel leaned haphazardly against the wall, the wood gray from the weather, one of the legs broken. That was hers. It had to be. Just as in the house behind ours, this place had been left unchanged since she died. It remained frozen in time, waiting.

  Why would someone like Mason want to stay here? He must have been desperate for privacy so that he could conduct his business, whatever it was, right under his father’s nose. The fact that Jack had allowed him to use this cabin, a place shared with no one else for so many years, only proved how deep, genuine, and desperate Jack’s love for Mason really was—how much he wanted this reconciliation with his son. Why else would he offer up a home he’d protected for so long?

  “Looks pretty quiet,” Al whispered. “Let’s go see what we can figure out from the windows. You check the one on that side. Be careful. Keep quiet.” She motioned to the far end of the cabin, and we pressed through the brush, the tentacles of wild grapevine tugging at our clothes.

  On the far side of the cabin, a single window radiated dim light, drawing a faint circle in the murky air. I crept toward it, then leaned over slowly and peered through the gap in the curtains. The interior of the cabin was small—bed on one side along the wall, tiny kitchen on the other, a wicker sofa with faded cushions and a rocker in between, white wicker end tables and a little dining set that matched. The chairs were covered with lacy floral seat cushions in shades of yellow and green, the colors faded now. At one time, the house had been decorated to a woman’s taste—rustic and earthy. Cute. A studio where an artist might work in quiet and natural light. During the day with the curtains open, the room would have been bright and beautiful. There were canvases everywhere, in all stages of completion. Studies of flowers, deer, bald eagles on the wing, a little boy with his knobby legs curled under him, playing with a tiny toy pickup truck. I recognized it. It was parked beside Nick’s bed now.


  This was her place. Her haven. Her private island. Peaceful, like the paintings.

  I turned away before I could delve more deeply. If Mason really was using Firefly Island in some sort of plot against Jack, she would hate it. She would hate every bit of it.

  A steely determination filled me, carried me around the cabin, onto the porch, to the door.

  “Hold on a minute.” Al circled the opposite corner and jumped agilely onto the porch, not bothering with the steps. “Let’s be careful, here.”

  “I don’t want to be careful. I want to know what’s going on.” Anger and righteous indignation made me bold where I had been fearful, confident where I had been unsure. I’d seen something under the table, just before turning away from the window. A file box. It looked new.

  I was about to find out what was in it.

  The old floorboards creaked and complained as Al and I entered the cabin, my tennis shoes moving quietly, Al’s boot soles landing with dull thuds.

  “Over there,” I whispered, pointing to the dining table. Paper—some sort of map?—had been spread out across the wicker tabletop. It dangled over the edges, fluttering in the breeze of a clattering window air-conditioner with a missing plastic grill.

  Al and I crossed the room and stood over the table, studying the contents together.

  “What is it?” Mason apparently hadn’t been very careful about hiding it. Of course, he had no way of knowing anyone would come to the island.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not for around here. This property is up in far Northeast Texas, near the state line.” Al pointed to the blue ink words at the edge of the map, then traced a long, straight set of lines, obviously a road. “Look at the county names. This is for some kind of development. A plot map. What’s this area marked off in the center, do you think? No plots are mapped off there.”

  I studied it a moment. “Water, I’ll bet. It looks like they’re going to build a lake.” One thing about my dad—he believed in taking free business-related vacations whenever they were offered, and he dragged the entire family along. Countless times I’d sat trying to wait politely while developers seeking advice, political favors, or investors attempted to work their sales magic on my father, wooing him with mock-ups of lakes, green spaces, and golf courses surrounded by high-end lots and mini ranches. Dad had done pretty well by joining some of those investment groups. Others, he had shunned. Some of those eventually became the stuff of legendary lawsuits involving politicians in office and all manner of shady deals.

  Al traced a finger along the jagged shore of the paper lake. “All right, so he’s meeting here with someone, and they’re working out a property development with a lake involved, up in the northeastern corner of the state. Why all the cloak-and-dagger treatment?”

  “That’s the real question, isn’t it? My dad’s had some pretty wild stuff pitched at him in relation to property deals, though. You’d be surprised what goes on.” I reached under the table for the file box. “Let’s see if there’s anything in here.” The plot map crinkled as I set the box on the table and worked the lid free. The container was filled with mock-ups of advertisements and brochures for an upscale development offering lakefront lots and other posh amenities—equestrian trails, club houses, a floating restaurant, parks, and community centers.

  “Kingdom Ridge.” Al unfolded one of the brochures, squinting at the text. “‘You really can have it all.’” Rolling her eyes at the cheesy slogan, she tossed the brochure back in the box. “Just what we need. More perfectly good land chopped up and filled with cookie-cutter houses.” She tapped a finger to the price point listed on the ad mock-up I was holding. “Starting in the half mil range. Not the stuff of the common man.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. But the question is, why would this bring Mason here? Look at the dates on these ad dummies. Some of these are slated to run later this year. With all this on his plate, and his political career and a potential senate run, why does Mason come to the ranch and decide to reunite with his dad after fifteen years? There has to be a connection.”

  Something tapped on the window, and I jerked upright, dropping the brochure in the box. Beside me, Al was cucumber calm, seeming not the least bit worried about being caught here.

  “Storm’s kicking up in the trees.” She nodded toward the window. “We need to finish and get back to the boat.”

  “All right, you look through that side of the cabin, and I’ll look through this side. See if there’s anything else.” I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for … but something. Anything to explain what Mason was up to and in what way it involved his father. Maybe Mason had some sort of similar plans for the ranch? Maybe he wanted Jack out of the way so that he and his partners could make West Ranch their next big project—divide it up for vacation homes and ranchettes?

  But if he already had a big project going, why start eyeing the ranch now? Mason seemed like an intelligent man. He was calculated and smooth. Not the type to spin more plates than he could deal with at any one time.

  Maybe he needed money for his project? Maybe he was hoping to get Jack out of the way and inherit? Maybe he’d been trying to convince Jack to invest, and when Jack wouldn’t, he thought he’d go for the inheritance, instead?

  An estate like Jack’s could take time to settle, though.

  What was Mason looking for here? What?

  If the cabin had any more clues to offer, they were well hidden. While we searched, branches slapped the windows and scratched along the tin roof, the high, whining sound mixing with the wail of the wind. On the porch, the rocking chair swayed wildly, the motion erratic and angry.

  My phone rang, and even Al jumped. “Turn that thing off,” she snapped.

  “Daniel’s watching at the hospital.” I slid the phone from my pocket, looked at the screen, and answered the call. Daniel.

  “You need to get out of there, if you’re still on Firefly.” His voice was breathless and frantic. “Mason left the hospital. He was down the hall, talking to someone on his cell phone, and then the next thing I knew, his car was pulling out of the parking lot, and he was in a hurry. Maybe he knows someone’s in the cabin. If that’s where he’s headed, you don’t have much time to get back across the causeway.”

  “He couldn’t possibly know we’re here.” Could he? Unlike Jack’s other properties, Firefly Island had no alarm, no surveillance system. Did it? What if the men in the houseboat were watching the cabin? What if they could see movement in here? What if they were on their way to the cabin right now?

  Potentially, Mason had already attempted murder more than once, and perhaps been successful. The fact that no one could prove it didn’t mean it wasn’t true—or that he’d hesitate to make Al and me disappear.

  “Don’t go back to the ranch house tonight.” Daniel’s ominous undercurrent circled me like a cold draft. “Go to Al’s place, instead. Better yet, go to Keren’s or a hotel. I just want you somewhere safe. I’m going to get in to see Jack while Mason’s gone. If I keep my head down, I don’t think they’ll even notice it’s me and not Mason. Jack’s been awake for a while, it turns out. Mason has been lying to me. He doesn’t want me in there.”

  “Be careful, Daniel.” My heart lurched, the fist of fear squeezing tight. What in the world had we involved ourselves in?

  “It’s you I’m worried about,” he said softly. “Just get somewhere safe, okay? I never should have let you go to that island.”

  My heartstrings pulled and tugged. When all of this was over, and Daniel and I were together again, I would never, ever complain about the petty little challenges of an ordinary day. Dirty closets and roach powder in kitchen cabinets hardly seemed an issue anymore.

  “I love you, Mal. Get out of there now.”

  “We’re already gone.” A quick once-over to make certain everything was back in place, and Al and I hurried out the door. Outside, the mist drove sideways now, wet leaves and twigs falling and sticking in my hair as we hurried into the brush cover. At ever
y turn, I thought I heard people following us—behind each tree, around each bend. Each flash of lightning illuminated strange shapes among the trees.

  A crack overhead sounded like a gunshot as we scrambled up the side of the canyon. I dropped my flashlight, and it clattered down the trail behind me, lay there shining a half circle over the damp leaves.

  Al switched off her lamp, squatted, and pulled me down beside her as the sound reverberated through the trees and a flash of lightning crossed the sky. “Let’s go!” she yelled, and we groped blindly in the darkness until we’d topped the hill and started down the other side. Branches tugged at my clothes and whipped my skin, but I didn’t care. Below on the shore, a light shone through the trees.

  Please, please, I prayed. Let that be the Docksiders, not someone else. What if the men from the houseboat had found them already? Who were those men, and what might they be willing to do to keep things quiet?

  A loon’s call trilled through the night as we came closer, and I caught a breath. Burt and Nester were waiting. We were almost there.

  My sweat shirt was plastered wet and cold against my skin, and the rain had started in earnest by the time we climbed into the boat. A shiver rattled through my bones, and I tried not to think about the crossing. The storm had come in harder and faster than expected. We were far from home free, but we had to get off Firefly Island.

  Burt tossed a tarp our way as he started the engine. “Hang on, girls. Get your life vests on, and you might want to cover up with that. This is gonna get a bit dicey.” He pulled his slicker tighter around his face.