Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Out of the cor­ner of my eye I saw Lyle Sted­man's self-as­su­red mo­uth cro­ok in dis­da­in.

  Everything abo­ut Tre­vor Dun­na­way spel­led suc­cess. From the con­fi­dent tilt of his he­ad to his ca­re­ful­ly ma­ni­cu­red na­ils and ex­pen­si­ve and per­fectly fit­ted sports clot­hes, Dun­na­way w.as de­fi­ni­tely a Mon­day's child. The at­tor­ney's fe­atu­res we­re re­gu­lar and strong, his ha­ir thick and blond. His blue eyes we­re go­od-hu­mo­red and his mo­uth cur­ved easily in­to a ge­ne­ro­us smi­le. "Mrs. Col­lins, this is a re­al tre­at. I re­ad yo­ur last bo­ok, Ca­sab­lanca Co­ur­se. It's what we cal­led a rip­ping go­od re­ad when I was a boy." A fa­int rem­nant of a Bri­tish ac­cent was over­la­id by many ye­ars in Ame­ri­ca. "You've cer­ta­inly se­en a lot of the world, ha­ven't you?"

  I am not im­mu­ne to charm, and Dun­na­way didn't lay it on too thick, but I won­de­red, be­hind my mo­dest smi­le, whet­her this yo­ung man auto­ma­ti­cal­ly flat­te­red ever­yo­ne he met, or whet­her this was a spe­ci­al ef­fort for me. And, if so, why?

  "Enough to qu­es­ti­on most ve­ri­ti­es, Mr. Dun­na­way." I tur­ned away and smi­led at my hos­tess, "The­se sco­nes are de­li­ci­o­us." Which, of co­ur­se, re­sul­ted in the of­fer of mo­re. I do ha­ve a we­ak­ness for sco­nes and tea san­d­wic­hes. My pla­te rep­le­nis­hed, I smi­led a gre­at de­al, sip­ped the hot Da­rj­e­eling from the Ca­po di Mon­te cup, ma­de an oc­ca­si­onal com­ment, and stu­di­ed my fel­low so­j­o­ur­ners.

  Valerie St. Vin­cent ex­hi­bi­ted a re­gal charm for the be­ne­fit of Lyle Sted­man, and he po­li­tely dis­cus­sed New York the­ater with her. But his eyes pro­bed every fa­ce in turn, se­eking an an­s­wer for a qu­es­ti­on I didn't know. Mi­ran­da lis­te­ned, with an oc­ca­si­onal hor­ri­fi­ed ex­c­la­ma­ti­on, to Ro­ger Pres­cott's im­pas­si­oned in­dic­t­ment of me­di­cal ex­pe­ri­men­ta­ti­on on ani­mals and the cru­el­ti­es in­vol­ved. "So you think cats and dogs run away from ho­me? Let me tell you what re­al­ly hap­pens, Mi­ran­da." Tre­vor Dun­na­way lightly re­ga­led me with his re­cent tri­bu­la­ti­ons du­ring a po­lo match. "So that was the end of it for my se­cond hor­se. I mo­un­ted the third and was just out on the fi­eld when the cinch slip­ped and…"It was do­ne with a ru­eful smi­le and a gre­at de­al of mo­desty. Of co­ur­se.

  Nothing es­pe­ci­al­ly ri­ve­ting abo­ut any of it. It was ple­asant, un­dis­tin­gu­is­hed so­ci­al in­ter­co­ur­se, no­tab­le only be­ca­use of whe­re we we­re. Gu­ests at a mul­ti­mil­li­ona­ire's sec­lu­ded ret­re­at. We we­re an in­t­ri­gu­ing as-

  sortment: an ac­t­ress, a step­son, a son, an em­p­lo­yee, a law­yer. A jo­ur­na­list tur­ned no­ve­list.

  But it co­uldn't be as aim­less as it ap­pe­ared. In so­me fas­hi­on the­se par­ti­cu­lar pe­op­le met a cer­ta­in cri­te­ri­on.

  I won­de­red if Cha­se was go­ing to tell me what that was.

  Or whet­her I sho­uld ha­ve to find out for myself.

  On that tho­ught, known only to me, of co­ur­se, I ex­cu­sed myself, pro­fes­sing much ple­asu­re with both the tea and the com­pany. I had bu­si­ness to ta­ke ca­re of be­fo­re I met Cha­se.

  I had no dif­fi­culty fol­lo­wing Mi­ran­da's di­rec­ti­ons. The tra­ver­ti­ne mar­b­le sta­ir­ca­se in the fo­yer led to the se­cond flo­or. A mar­b­le-top­ped Lo­u­is XVI-st­y­le si­de tab­le sat on the lan­ding. Fi­rec­rac­ker plants fla­med in jade pots. The hal­lway was wi­de and spa­ci­o­us, the walls a co­ol le­mon with crisp whi­te mol­dings.

  My ro­om was in the so­uth wing, the last bed­ro­om on the right. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en a per­fect ro­om for a vi­si­ting te­ena­ger. Pink walls, pa­le pink shut­ters (open to pro­vi­de a slat­ted but glo­ri­o­us vi­ew of the so­und), pink bed­ding (ro­ses aga­in, clim­bing a trel­lis). Whi­te wic­ker fur­ni­tu­re af­for­ded a bit of con­t­rast. But sur­p­ri­singly the pink didn't cloy; it was light and de­li­ca­te, as fa­int as the first wash of sun­ri­se.

  My em­p­ti­ed su­it­ca­se was in the clo­set, my clot­hes we­re hung, my lin­ge­rie was ne­atly fol­ded in the la­ven­der-scen­ted dra­wers of a wic­ker dres­ser.

  But, I was ple­ased to no­te, my car­ry-on bag sat on the desk, uno­pe­ned.

  A su­perbly tra­ined ma­id had at­ten­ded to my be­lon­gings.

  I clo­sed the do­or and went di­rectly to my car­ry-on bag. I ne­ver tra­vel wit­ho­ut the to­ols of my tra­de: a lap­top com­pu­ter, a tiny sta­te-of-the-art re­cor­der, and, of co­ur­se, my la­test ad­di­ti­on.

  Opening the bag, I lif­ted out the car­rying ca­se of the cel­lu­lar te­lep­ho­ne and un­zip­ped it. Ta­king the pho­ne, I step­ped out on a now sha­dowy bal­cony to ma­ke the call.

  That was my first in­ti­ma­ti­on of just how te­nu­o­us was our con­nec­ti­on to the ma­in­land. It rang, but fa­intly. Still, I felt a sur­ge of tri­umph when La­vi­nia an­s­we­red on the first ring.

  Lavinia is an old and de­ar fri­end. She lo­oks li­ke a Betty Croc­ker ad from the fif­ti­es. Many too-slick mo­ney de­alers, to the­ir chag­rin, ha­ve be­en fo­oled by the gin­g­ham dres­ses and swe­et ro­se­bud mo­uth. La­vi­nia was on­ce a top fi­nan­ci­al co­lum­nist for a New York new­s­pa­per, and she has a mind li­ke a Sony mic­roc­hip.

  "I got right to work yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on as so­on as I got yo­ur mes­sa­ge. And let me tell you, Hen­rie O, you…"

  Her vo­ice fa­ded.

  That set the pat­tern. We we­re ba­rely wit­hin a tran­s­mis­si­on area. Snat­c­hes of in­for­ma­ti­on. Fa­de­away. In­for­ma­ti­on. Fa­de­away.

  But when I hung up I knew a go­od de­al mo­re than when I star­ted. What I'd le­ar­ned was dam­ned in­te­res­ting. Now I won­de­red just what my fun­c­ti­on was to be. Per­haps the ot­her gu­ests didn't mat­ter. Per­haps Cha­se wan­ted me he­re to study do­cu­ments.

  Though if that was the ca­se, he wo­uld ha­ve be­en smar­ter to in­vi­te so­me­one with La­vi­nia's skills. In any event, La­vi­nia's in­for­ma­ti­on put a who­le new fa­ce on my mis­si­on. But La­vi­nia's par­ting, half-he­ard ad­vi­ce ga­ve me even mo­re fo­od for tho­ught: "Ke­ep a clo­se. .. hur­ri­cane ne­aring Cu­ba.. . Lis­ten to wea… ke­ep out… tro­ub­le …"

  Then the con­nec­ti­on di­ed.

  At six mi­nu­tes af­ter fi­ve I knoc­ked on the do­or to Cha­se's study, tur­ned the brass han­d­le, and ope­ned the do­or.

  He was cros­sing the ro­om to me­et me. He still mo­ved with that com­man­ding gra­ce, the easy, con­fi­dent, pre­da­tory swag­ger of a pan­t­her-be­a­uti­ful, dark, fas­ci­na­ting, and in­fi­ni­tely dan­ge­ro­us. The kind of man to whom wo­men lo­se the­ir he­arts.

  On one le­vel, it was a dis­tur­bing en­co­un­ter.

  On anot­her, it was the most na­tu­ral event in the world.

  Chase Pres­cott. Forty ye­ars la­ter. So much had not chan­ged. The aura of po­wer, of gre­edy de­si­re, of iron-hard de­ter­mi­na­ti­on. It was the­re in his eyes, in his still darkly han­d­so­me fa­ce. Oh, ti­me had to­uc­hed him. The han­d­so­me fa­ce was li­ned, al­most ga­unt. He was much thin­ner than I re­mem­be­red. His glossy black ha­ir was thre­aded with whi­te, his on­ce smo­oth, yo­ut­h­ful skin li­ned, the eager fi­re in his eyes tran­s­mu­ted to icy re­sol­ve.

  "Henrie O." And it was the fa­mi­li­ar de­ep, com­pel­ling vo­ice.

  He to­ok my hands in his, a strong, warm, vib­rant grip. We lo­oked at each ot­her.

  I knew what he saw. A slen­der, in­ten­se wo­man who­se fi­re for li­fe has not be­en qu­en­c­hed, a wo­man who still lo­ves to la­ugh but who knows the world is bat­hed in te­ars.

  "You ca­me," he sa­id simply.

  "Yes." I kept my vo
­ice easy. I didn't want to ad­mit how dif­fi­cult this jo­ur­ney had be­en;

  "Because - "

  I cut him off. "Let's not lo­ok back, Cha­se."

  A qu­ick frown drew his brows down, then it was go­ne, li­ke a clo­ud slip­ping by a sum­mer sun. He drop­ped my hands. "All right. If that's the way you want it."

  "It's the way it has to be."

  I was pre­pa­red to turn on my he­el and le­ave.

  He knew it. "But you ca­me. God­dam­mit, you ca­me." He po­un­ded a fist in­to his open palm. A grin of tri­umph cur­ved his mo­bi­le mo­uth, and it was oh, so fa­mi­li­ar, the old, rec­k­less, da­re­de­vil Cha­se, on top of the world. "I fe­el li­ke the­re's no way I can lo­se, Hen­rie. Not now. Not with you he­re." He to­ok my el­bow and pro­pel­led me to a cha­ir ne­ar the fi­rep­la­ce. He re­ma­ined stan­ding. Yan­king a pack of ci­ga­ret­tes from his poc­ket, he pul­led one free, stuck it in his mo­uth, lit it.

  So he still smo­ked. All of us smo­ked when we we­re yo­ung. Tho­se we­re the ye­ars when Lucky Gre­en went to war, and smo­king was com­mon and qu­ite ac­cep­tab­le. I ma­na­ged to qu­it thir­ty-so­me ye­ars ago. It was the most dif­fi­cult thing I'd ever do­ne. I

  was sorry to see that he hadn't. I he­ard al­most im­me­di­ately that rattly smo­ker's co­ugh.

  Dark sha­dows mar­ked the hol­lows be­ne­ath his eyes. But most wor­ri­so­me of all was the fe­ve­rish qu­ic­k­ness of his mo­ve­ments. That fran­tic ed­ge con­t­ras­ted sharply with the som­no­lent ric­h­ness of his study: cypress pa­ne­ling, flo­or-to-ce­iling bo­ok­s­hel­ves on three walls, an­ti­que French par­qu­et flo­oring, a Ge­or­gi­an man­tel over the fi­rep­la­ce, Ge­or­gi­an tab­les and ar­m­c­ha­irs, Im­p­res­si­onist dra­wings, and a jewel-li­ke col­lec­ti­on of ni­ne­te­en­th-cen­tury mu­sic bo­xes.

  He pa­ced in front of the fi­rep­la­ce, then im­pa­ti­ently tos­sed the ci­ga­ret­te on­to un­lit logs pi­led on the he­arth and tur­ned to­ward me.

  "Henrie - "

  "Chase, you ha­ve eig­h­ty-th­ree mil­li­on in in­te­rest on lo­ans due in thir­ty-fi­ve days. If you can't me­et that pay­ment, it will throw yo­ur en­ti­re em­pi­re-hol­ding com­pa­ni­es, con­g­lo­me­ra­tes, and all-in­to ban­k­ruptcy. The word in New York and Lon­don is the­re's no way you can co­me up with the mo­ney." La­vi­nia had fo­und out a lot in less than a day.

  His fa­ce fro­ze in shock. Then an­ger crac­k­led in his eyes with the sa­me vi­olen­ce as fi­re lic­king at the ed­ge of a fo­rest. "So that's the word that's out. Lis­ten, Hen­rie O, I'm go­ing to be­at the bas­tards. You can co­unt on that. God, it ma­kes me mad, the way they'll suck up to yo­ur fa­ce and shar­pen the­ir kni­ves be­hind yo­ur back. But they're go­ing to eat the­ir words. Pres-cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons isn't go­ing down. I'll die first. I've ne­ver fa­iled - and I won't fa­il now."

  There was no mis­ta­king the to­tal con­vic­ti­on in his

  words. This was a Cha­se I knew well, sin­g­le-min­ded, rut­h­less, ab­so­lu­tely cer­ta­in of suc­cess.

  "No, Hen­rie O, I'd gi­ve an­y­t­hing if that was the prob­lem. Mo­ney, hell, I can al­ways get mo­ney. I've got new fi­nan­cing in the wings. That's go­ing to be all right." With a wa­ve of his hand he in­di­ca­ted that eig­h­ty-th­ree mil­li­on dol­lars of debt wasn't worth tal­king abo­ut. "That's no prob­lem-if I li­ve long eno­ugh to swing it."

  "Live long eno­ugh? Cha­se, are you ill?" That co­uld ex­p­la­in the thin­ness, the ha­un­ted lo­ok in his eyes, the qu­ick mo­od swings.

  He ma­na­ged a tight grin, but the­re was hurt in his eyes, hurt and an un­wil­lin­g­ness to be­li­eve, and a wil­d­ness. "No. I'm fi­ne. Ever­y­t­hing wo­uld be per­fect - I'd be on top of the world, the fi­nan­ci­al crunch be­hind me or so­on to be, rich be­yond most men's dre­ams, bles­sed with a be­a­uti­ful wi­fe, re­ady to ex­pand my em­pi­re" - he le­aned to­ward me - "the next fron­ti­er will be the ul­ti­ma­te uti­li­za­ti­on of ho­me com­pu­ters for news de­li­very, in­for­ma­ti­on ret­ri­eval, bo­oks, pur­c­ha­sing, ban­king, you na­me it. It can be do­ne, and I'm go­ing to be the­re, Hen­rie O, I pro­mi­se you…" He pa­used. The ex­ci­te­ment se­eped out of his fa­ce. "… un­less so­me­one, so­me­one he­re on my is­land, kills me first."

  3

  Chase pa­ced and tal­ked,

  smoking one ci­ga­ret­te af­ter anot­her. It was as if a dam burst; a tor­rent of words and fe­ars and pas­si­ona­te co­nj­ec­tu­res buf­fe­ted me.

  Finally, he slum­ped ex­ha­us­ted in a club cha­ir and sta­red at me with des­pe­ra­te eyes. "You know a lot abo­ut mur­der."

  Yes, I know a lot abo­ut mur­der.

  Murderers will of­ten uri­na­te in­vo­lun­ta­rily af­ter com­mit­ting the cri­me.

  Murder ma­kes a kil­ler hungry. Check the fast-fo­od out­lets clo­se to the sce­ne of a cri­me.

  Two to six ho­urs af­ter de­ath ri­gor mor­tis be­gins, star­ting with the he­ad and spre­ading down the who­le body.

  If the po­si­ti­on of a body is chan­ged af­ter de­ath, it will af­fect pos­t­mor­tem li­vi­dity.

  Toothlike pro­j­ec­ti­ons from a blo­od­s­ta­in will in­di­ca­te the blo­od fell from a mo­ving body and will show the di­rec­ti­on of mo­ve­ment.

  I co­uld con­ti­nue. But this know­led­ge was use­less in trying to pre­vent a cri­me.

  I sup­po­se it was a com­bi­na­ti­on of fe­ar and ina­de­qu­acy that ma­de me snap at him. "For Christ's sa­ke, Cha­se, why didn't you call the po­li­ce?"

  But I knew the an­s­wer to that. What go­od wo­uld it ha­ve do­ne? Cal­ling the po­li­ce in the in­s­tan­ce he'd des­c­ri­bed wo­uld ha­ve be­en abo­ut as ef­fec­ti­ve as a bat­te­red wi­fe get­ting a co­urt or­der for­bid­ding ha­ras­sment. The­re are a lot of de­ath sta­tis­tics ti­ed to the lat­ter.

  "All right, all right." I ope­ned my pur­se, grab­bed my no­te­pad. "Let me see if I'm cle­ar on the ti­ming. And the pe­op­le."

  He bo­un­ded up from his cha­ir. "You're go­ing to help."

  "If I can, if I can. I'm not a sor­ce­rer."

  "You're the smar­test god­damn re­por­ter I ever knew." He was on­ce aga­in Cha­se-in-char­ge, Cha­se-on-top-of-the-he­ap.

  I won't say the tri­bu­te didn't ple­ase me. But what Cha­se wan­ted was a far cry from what I did best, fer­re­ting out fac­ts-go­uging them out, if ne­ed be - and pur­ve­ying in­for­ma­ti­on as cle­arly, cle­anly, and justly as I co­uld.

  I sa­id as much.

  And the old Cha­se ex­hor­ted me. "But that is exactly what I want." He was pa­cing and ges­tu­ring aga­in, lig­h­ting one ci­ga­ret­te from the rem­nant of anot­her, just as he had when I was a yo­ung re­por­ter and

  he was an in­ten­se, hard-dri­ving bu­re­au chi­ef. Tho­se days - I wren­c­hed my mind back to the pre­sent; I don't li­ke the me­lan­c­holy ac­he of re­mem­b­ran­ce.

  Chase grip­ped my arm, his hand warm aga­inst my skin. "Think of it as a story, Hen­rie O, the way you al­ways ha­ve. Dig out the truth. That's what I want: the truth." His hand slip­ped away. His fa­ce was sud­denly tight and grim. "Then I will de­al with it."

  "Deal with it? How?" I was still sor­ting out the im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of what he'd told me and what he wan­ted; I hadn't gi­ven a se­cond's tho­ught to what might be do­ne if I fi­gu­red out who the cul­p­rit was.

  He drop­ped on­to the so­fa and now he was re­la­xed, one arm flung ca­su­al­ly along the back. He ga­ve me an im­pish grin. "It will be fun." But the grin ab­ruptly til­ted si­de­ways and di­sap­pe­ared.

  I un­der­s­to­od. Just how much fun wo­uld it be to dis­co­ver who it was, among pe­op­le whom you knew in­ti­ma­tely, who ac­ti­vely, ma­le­vo­lently, ste­al­t­hil
y wan­ted you de­ad?

  "Sort of fun," he amen­ded wryly. He re­ac­hed for anot­her ci­ga­ret­te but didn't light it. "Also sim­p­le and fo­ol­p­ro­of. If you co­me up with the na*me, all I ha­ve to do is gi­ve a se­aled en­ve­lo­pe con­ta­ining that in­for­ma­ti­on to my law­yer and to the exe­cu­tor of my es­ta­te - an en­ve­lo­pe to be ope­ned in the event of my de­ath by any ot­her than na­tu­ral me­ans. Then I in­form the per­son na­med in that let­ter."

  "Hard che­ese for them if so­me­one el­se sho­uld do you in," I po­in­ted out.

  He pul­led out his gold ci­ga­ret­te lig­h­ter and

  touched the fla­me to the tip of the ci­ga­ret­te. "To­ugh." His vo­ice was co­ol.

  I co­uld see his po­int. Why be overly so­li­ci­to­us of a per­son who wants you de­ad?