Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I to­ok ti­me to vi­sit the gal­lery and was im­p­res­sed by the col­lec­ti­on of Ame­ri­can pas­to­ral art.

  But the ho­use was only a part of my qu­est. I step­ped out on­to the front porch. Struck on­ce aga­in by the fur­na­ce-hot he­at, I wal­ked slowly thro­ugh the frag­rant gar­dens to the pi­er. Just past the bo­at­ho­use I ca­me upon a lo­ne fi­gu­re, le­aning on the ra­iling, sta­ring out at the so­und. He didn't turn at the so­und of my fo­ot­s­teps.

  I ca­me up be­si­de him. He was cer­ta­inly a spec­ta­cu­larly han­d­so­me yo­ung man des­pi­te the per­pe­tu­al scowl on his fa­ce.

  "Where wo­uld you rat­her be, Has­kell? Out on the wa­ter?"

  That ca­ught his at­ten­ti­on. Cha­se's step­son tur­ned to­ward me. No mid-cen­tury ma­ti­nee idol had ever lo­oked bet­ter. With his thick ches­t­nut ha­ir, de­ep-set eyes with long dark las­hes, smo­oth oli­ve skin, firm chin, and sen­su­al lips, he su­rely cut a wi­de swath among the la­di­es.

  His lo­ok was half-sur­p­ri­sed, half-skep­ti­cal. "How did you know?"

  "There's so­met­hing abo­ut a man who lo­ves wa­ter." I lo­oked be­yond him, out to the so­und, re­mem­be­ring lan­gu­id se­as I'd sha­red with Ric­hard. It's easy to tell when a man lo­ves the sea. The­re's so­met­hing abo­ut the lift of the­ir he­ads when they lo­ok out on the wa­ter, so­met­hing abo­ut the way they stand. "And," I ad­ded mo­re pro­sa­ical­ly, "you ha­ve a tan that you've

  acquired over a pe­ri­od of ye­ars and you're we­aring bo­aters."

  He glan­ced down at his sho­es. A fa­int smi­le tug­ged at tho­se sen­su­al lips.

  "You spend a lot of ti­me on the wa­ter."

  That bro­ught back his scowl. "Except when I'm at the fuc­king of­fi­ce." His dark eyes slid to­ward me. "Sorry," he sa­id stiffly.

  I felt a wrench of my he­art at his yo­uth. It has be­en a go­od many ye­ars sin­ce an­yo­ne apo­lo­gi­zed to me abo­ut lan­gu­age.

  "If you don't li­ke the of­fi­ce, why do you go?" I le­aned aga­inst the ra­iling, lis­te­ning to the wa­ter suc­king at the pi­lings be­ne­ath us.

  "Because he ma­kes me." His an­ger to­ward Cha­se crac­k­led thro­ugh his vo­ice. "What bu­si­ness is it of his? It's my mo­ney. It sho­uld be my mo­ney. Why did my mom put him in char­ge? Ever­y­t­hing I do, he has to ap­pro­ve. He wo­uldn't let me ha­ve a penny if I didn't do things his way. And I'm run­ning out of ti­me."

  Time. Has­kell co­uldn't be a day over twen­ty-fi­ve. If that. Old? Ah, the per­s­pec­ti­ve of yo­uth. I kept my amu­se­ment out of my reply. "Too ojd? Too old for what?"

  His dark eyes flas­hed. "To ra­ce."

  I un­der­s­to­od. "Po­wer­bo­at?"

  The tran­s­for­ma­ti­on of his fa­ce told it all. The sul­len­ness and re­sen­t­ment we­re go­ne. His eyes glo­wed, li­ke tho­se of a big cat. He was fully ali­ve, eager, ex­ci­ted.

  I lo­oked at him in­tently now, with no amu­se­ment and with sharp in­te­rest. Spe­ed is an ad­dic­ti­on. Rac-

  ing ta­kes ex­qu­isi­te ti­ming and a cer­ta­in kind of mad­ness-and blin­d­ness to the con­se­qu­en­ces.

  "Chase won't let you ra­ce?" Why sho­uld Cha­se ca­re?

  Haskell tur­ned back to sta­re out at the so­und, his fa­ce on­ce aga­in he­avy with an­ger. "He says we­ekend ra­cing's go­od eno­ugh. He won't let me ha­ve the mo­ney to buy a su­per­bo­at. If I had that kind of bo­at, I co­uld go on the cir­cu­it." Eyes bril­li­ant with an­ger tur­ned on me. "I co­uld win the Gold Cup. I know I co­uld."

  I sa­id not­hing.

  "I co­uld." It was al­most a sho­ut. Then he tur­ned and wal­ked swiftly away.

  I lo­oked af­ter him. Wat­c­hed him stri­de, han­d­so­me he­ad down, hands jam­med in his poc­kets, thro­ugh the lush gar­dens and in­to the big ho­use.

  I pus­hed away from the ra­iling and be­gan to walk back to­ward sho­re. I wo­uld ha­ve to talk to Cha­se abo­ut Has­kell. The­re is not­hing so dan­ge­ro­us as thwar­ting dre­ams.

  Faintly I he­ard the che­ery plink of mu­sic waf­ting from the po­ol. It was ni­ce to re­turn to lig­h­t­he­ar­ted-ness. And I had, from this van­ta­ge po­int on the pi­er, the spec­ta­cu­lar vi­ew I'd so­ught of the ho­use and its gar­dens. Lights glo­wed in al­most every win­dow. I re­ac­hed the steps, hur­ri­ed down to the oy­s­ter-shell path, and he­aded for the po­ol. The lu­mi­na­ri­as still sho­ne brightly and the sac­cha­ri­ne mu­sic pla­yed on, but the po­ol was de­ser­ted now. Pro­bably the swim­mers had go­ne to bat­he and chan­ge for din­ner. The pa­le gre­en wa­ter ref­lec­ted the spill of lights. The­re we­re a do­zen or so whi­te-web­bed deck cha­irs and

  lounges. Thick whi­te to­wels we­re crum­p­led on se­ve­ral. Step­ping-sto­nes led to the ca­ba­na. A ne­arby wo­oden hot tub was con­ve­ni­ent both to the po­ol and to Cha­se and Mi­ran­da's la­nai.

  I fol­lo­wed anot­her oy­s­ter-shell path, this one he­ading due so­uth, pas­sed the front of the ho­use, and re­ac­hed a wi­de shell path that mar­ked the pe­ri­me­ter of the cul­ti­va­ted pro­perty. I tur­ned east. The shells crun­c­hed un­der­fo­ot, and I smel­led the winy scent of the mo­ti­on­less cypress sen­ti­nels al­ways on my right.

  Two big bu­il­dings sat abo­ut a hun­d­red yards be­hind the ma­in ho­use, both thickly scre­ened by pit-tos­po­rum bus­hes. I gu­es­sed that the two-story stuc­co pro­vi­ded qu­ar­ters for the ser­vants. The squ­are, sin­g­le-story, ce­ment-block bu­il­ding with two over­he­ad ga­ra­ge-st­y­le do­ors had to be the sto­ra­ge fa­ci­lity. I tri­ed a si­de do­or. It wasn't loc­ked. But, on an is­land with con­t­rol­led ac­cess, why wo­uld it be? I step­ped in­si­de and he­ard the hum of a ge­ne­ra­tor. The air was scen­ted with ga­so­li­ne. Of co­ur­se, he­re was the supply of elec­t­ri­city for the is­land. I flip­ped a switch. Bright over­he­ad lights be­amed down on a col­lec­ti­on of lawn and gar­den mac­hi­nery: a trac­tor, a ri­ding lawn mo­wer, ed­gers, blo­wers. The­re we­re se­ve­ral ro­oms: one a walk-in fre­ezer, anot­her stoc­ked with lawn and gar­den sup­pli­es, anot­her a mi­ni-wa­re­ho­use for fo­od­s­tuf­fs. All we­re su­perbly sup­pli­ed and me­ti­cu­lo­usly cle­an.

  I ca­me back out in­to the twi­light. Be­hind the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding I fo­und a ne­at lan­d­fill and an in­ci­ne­ra­tor. A wisp of smo­ke cur­led out of the in­ci­ne­ra­tor chim­ney. A lu­xu­ri­ant herb gar­den flo­uris­hed bet­we­en the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding and the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters. The

  pittosporum and ba­na­na shrubs pro­vi­ded a lo­vely and aro­ma­tic scre­en bet­we­en the ser­vi­ce bu­il­dings and the ma­in ho­use. A wed­ge of pi­nes se­pa­ra­ted the ser­vi­ce bu­il­dings from two clay ten­nis co­urts. The­se, too, re­ma­ined pri­va­te, with a gro­ve of we­eping wil­lows bet­we­en the co­urts and a small cin­der jog­ging track. Ever­y­t­hing had be­en ca­re­ful­ly de­sig­ned so that it was pos­sib­le to enj­oy any as­pect of the is­land in al­most to­tal sec­lu­si­on.

  Chase's va­ca­ti­on ret­re­at had all the ap­pur­te­nan­ces of the most ele­gant spa. But the springy grass and sandy so­il co­uldn't be dis­gu­ised and, on­ce I pas­sed the cypress bor­der, I fa­ced the harsh re­ality of De­ad Man's Is­land: waxy-le­aved li­ve oaks, crac­k­ling-frond pal­met­tos, prickly slash pi­nes; sea myrtle, yuc­ca and bay­ber­ry, ya­upon, win­ged su­mac, and Her­cu­les'-club; cin­na­mon ferns, ebony sple­en­wort, and re­sur­rec­ti­on ferns; cor­d­g­rass, sea oxe­ye da­isy, and cat­ta­ils.

  There was only one bre­ak in that exu­be­rant fe­cun­dity, anot­her oy­s­ter-shell track plun­ging in­to the un­ta­med ma­ri­ti­me fo­rest. I to­ok only a few steps, then knew this ex­p­lo­ra­ti­on wo­uld ha­ve to wa­it for day­light. Be­ne­ath the ca­nopy of tre­es, i
t was al­re­ady dark, a dar­k­ness that had ne­ver known elec­t­ric lights. Le­aves rus­t­led, so­met­hing se­emed to slip be­ne­ath the bus­hes. I smel­led rot­ting plants, pi­ne re­sin, dank wa­ter, in­sec­ti­ci­des. Des­pi­te the lat­ter, the whi­ne of in­sects ro­se abo­ve the crac­k­ling of twigs.

  I swat­ted a mos­qu­ito and tur­ned to go, then stop­ped short and lo­oked in­to the wary, in­tel­li­gent eyes of a cro­uc­hing rac­co­on. The mas­ked fa­ce ap-

  peared amu­sed, but I knew that was only an an­t­h­ro­po­mor­p­hic re­ac­ti­on on my part.

  But I car­ri­ed with me a me­mory of that sle­ek, sar­do­nic, un­ca­ring fa­ce as I ret­ra­ced my steps. I used the en­t­ran­ce, al­so un­loc­ked, at the end of the so­uth wing and ran lightly up the sta­irs to the se­cond flo­or. I had sa­tis­fi­ed the itch but only sup­plan­ted it with a dif­fe­rent, less easily as­su­aged dis­com­fort.

  As I step­ped in­to my pink ro­om, I was trying to dis­pel the sen­se of ali­ena­ti­on and me­na­ce my walk had gi­ven me. I was so pre­oc­cu­pi­ed that I al­most pas­sed by the desk wit­ho­ut no­ti­cing.

  I sup­po­se if I hadn't be­en in so many hun­d­reds of stran­ge ro­oms in past ye­ars, so­me­ti­mes in co­un­t­ri­es whe­re the press is of­ten per­ce­ived as an enemy, I might not ha­ve no­ti­ced. But I ha­ve be­en in tho­se ro­oms… and I did no­ti­ce.

  My pur­se, which I had thro­ugh ha­bit alig­ned so exactly, was not whe­re I had left it. Oh, it was only a mat­ter of less than an inch. But pur­ses do not mo­ve them­sel­ves, no mat­ter how in­fi­ni­te­si­mal the dis­tan­ce.

  Someone- either ca­re­less or hur­ri­ed-had pic­ked it up and, no do­ubt, rif­led thro­ugh it.

  I did so myself. Not­hing was go­ne.

  I chec­ked the dres­ser. The fi­les we­re the­re. They we­re not in the sa­me or­der.

  Ah, that was ca­re­less,

  Or, as­su­ming a cle­ver ad­ver­sary, it might ha­ve be­en qu­ite de­li­be­ra­te.

  The ove­rall ef­fect was the sa­me. I wasn't af­ra­id. But I was dam­ned alert. The equ­ati­on had chan­ged. So­me­one was much too in­te­res­ted in me. But the­re

  was not­hing in this ro­om or among my things to re­ve­al the truth abo­ut me. Thank God.

  Dinner was ex­qu­isi­te: be­ef to­ur­ne­dos, as­pa­ra­gus and car­rots, fresh ras­p­ber­ri­es for des­sert, Ca­li­for­nia Char­don­nay. The ser­vi­ce was flaw­less. En­ri­que mo­ved on cat fe­et, al­ways at the right pla­ce at the right ti­me. The sur­ro­un­dings co­uldn't ha­ve be­en mo­re char­ming. Not even the Wa­ter­ford crystal co­uld match the glis­ten of the par­qu­et de Ver­sa­il­les flo­ors. But the con­ver­sa­ti­ons we­re ten­se and unil­lu­mi­na­ting. Ro­ger Pres­cott pro­vi­ded the only flash of vi­gor to­ward the me­al's end when he pas­si­ona­tely, des­pi­te Cha­se's grim di­sap­pro­val, per­sis­ted in de­ba­ting his fat­her abo­ut the tra­gedy of the ho­me­less.

  "You know why they're out the­re, tho­usands of them-it's be­ca­use go­ver­n­ment stop­ped fun­ding men­tal hos­pi­tals. We the pe­op­le mag­na­ni­mo­usly ga­ve the men­tal­ly ill the­ir fre­edom. Jesus, how gre­at to be free to walk the stre­ets, frig­h­te­ned and hel­p­less with no pla­ce to go and no­body to gi­ve a damn. Jesus, that was ge­ne­ro­us, wasn't it?" Ro­ger dow­ned his se­cond glass of wi­ne, all in one gulp. "We're not tal­king abo­ut bums, Dad. We're tal­king abo­ut pe­op­le who are too sick to work. And the ones who are on the stre­ets be­ca­use of al­co­hol and drug prob­lems, they're sick, too, but so­ci­ety do­esn't want to tre­at them. And now we ha­ve the New Po­or, the pe­op­le who used to ha­ve jobs, go­od so­lid mem­bers of the mid­dle class who ha­ve be­en dis­car­ded by a bu­si­ness system trying to re­co­ver from the ra­va­ges of Re­aga­no­mics. Ever­y­w­he­re you turn go­ver­n­ment's cut­ting ser­vi­ces, less

  money for drug tre­at­ment, less mo­ney for the men­tal­ly ill. Is it any won­der cri­me in­c­re­ases? Why don't you co­ver that story?"

  Chase gla­red at his son. "If you want a so­ap­box, Ro­ger, earn it. Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons co­vers what I want co­ve­red be­ca­use it be­longs to me. It's as sim­p­le as that. I ear­ned my way in this world. That's the Ame­ri­can way. Ta­ke the pro­ce­eds from yo­ur la­test bo­ok and buy yo­ur­self a new­s­pa­per."

  Roger's plump che­eks fla­med.

  I won­de­red if his bo­ok had be­en self-pub­lis­hed. Or was the dig me­rely that it hadn't ma­de mo­ney?

  Lyle Sted­man bro­ke in. "We do co­ver the ho­me-less is­sue, Ro­ger. From all si­des. In­c­lu­ding the truth that pe­op­le can't ex­pect jobs if they ha­ve no skills and if they aren't wil­ling to le­arn any. And if you've stu­di­ed any his­tory, you know Joh­n­son's Gre­at So­ci­ety didn't work. So don't co­me at us with a lot of re-tre­aded ide­as." The new­s­pa­per­man's eyes we­re cold and bo­red.

  "That's half an an­s­wer," Ro­ger re­tor­ted an­g­rily. "Of co­ur­se it didn't work. Be­ca­use all the mo­ney went in­to that stu­pid war. As for yo­ur co­ve­ra­ge, it sucks. You carry wi­re news. That's only the tip of the ice­berg. You're gre­at on mur­ders and so­ci­ety ra­pe and bu­si­ness, oh, God, yes, let's co­ver bu­si­ness. But bu­si­ness isn't so much fun an­y­mo­re, is it? IBM's la­ying off. GM's la­ying off. You pick up the pa­per, and it's a new gi­ant scrap­ping pe­op­le and li­ves every day."

  A frown fur­ro­wed Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent's per­fect fa­ce. The ac­t­ress had cho­sen a rich flo­ral silk che­mi­se. "Even in ti­mes of eco­no­mic woe, pe­op­le must ha­ve

  art. All it will ta­ke to re­vi­ve Bro­ad­way is one go­od show, one re­al­ly go­od show. Cha­se, dar­ling, af­ter din­ner, we must ha­ve a mo­ment, just the two of us, to talk abo­ut the fu­tu­re. You've al­ways be­en wil­ling to gam­b­le. I knew when you as­ked me to co­me he­re this we­ekend that so­met­hing won­der­ful was go­ing to hap­pen." She lif­ted her he­ad. Her up­s­wept pla­ti­num ha­ir glis­te­ned.

  "I only gam­b­le on a su­re thing, Va­le­rie." Cha­se's cold vo­ice was dis­mis­si­ve. "You ha­ven't be­en in a hit in six ye­ars."

  The ac­t­ress's hand tig­h­te­ned on the stem of her crystal wi­neg­lass. Now her be­a­uti­ful fa­ce had the empty lo­ok of a car-crash dummy.

  I sur­ve­yed my fel­low gu­ests with in­te­rest du­ring the­se ex­c­han­ges. I had no il­lu­si­ons that I co­uld "dow­se" gu­ilt for Cha­se, but I was be­gin­ning to ha­ve a fe­el for the­se pe­op­le and I wan­ted to match the­se jud­g­ments aga­inst my ta­ke of the wo­uld-be mur­de­rer.

  Burton An­d­rews was a to­ady, qu­ick to of­fer an ad­mi­ring la­ugh at Cha­se's smal­lest qu­ip, eager to trum­pet ag­re­ement with the boss's opi­ni­ons. But dis­li­ke flic­ke­red in his eyes when Cha­se wasn't lo­oking in his di­rec­ti­on.

  Valerie St. Vin­cent was self-ab­sor­bed to the po­int of nar­cis­sism. The ac­t­ress des­pe­ra­tely hun­ge­red for lo­ve and ad­mi­ra­ti­on and pra­ise. Why had Cha­se tur­ned on her so bru­tal­ly? She still had a lo­ok of shock, her lips so com­p­res­sed that tiny whi­te pat­c­hes mar­ked the cor­ners of her mo­uth.

  Lyle Sted­man sip­ped his wi­ne and smi­led grimly. "You'd bet­ter be dam­ned glad so­me­body's co­ve­ring

  business, Ro­ger. It may not be the best system, but you show me one that works bet­ter."

  Miranda Pres­cott sat at the end of the tab­le op­po­si­te her hus­band. She was lo­vely to­night in a tur­qu­o­ise silk sa­rong. An or­c­hid was tuc­ked in her softly cur­ling black ha­ir. But the eyes abo­ve her so­ci­al smi­le lo­oked an­xi­o­us, and they con­s­tantly so­ught her hus­band.

  Chase se­emed una­wa­re of her scru­tiny.

  He se­emed, in fact, even mo­re fe­ve­rish than when we'd met
ear­li­er in his study. His con­ver­sa­ti­on erup­ted in stac­ca­to bursts and he jum­ped res­t­les­sly from to­pic to to­pic: the new chur­ch-sta­te re­la­ti­ons in Me­xi­co, the con­cern over sta­bi­lity in the Rus­si­an na­ti­ons, the con­ti­nu­ing un­rest in the Bal­kans. He ate lit­tle. But the mo­und of stubs in the as­h­t­ray grew fast.

  Trevor Dun­na­way sat bet­we­en Mi­ran­da and Has­kell Lee, who was on my left. I co­uldn't see the law­yer very well, but I he­ard him. It wo­uld be dif­fi­cult not to he­ar Tre­vor Dun­na­way. His smo­oth, gol­den vo­ice rol­led on and on, che­er­ful­ly des­c­ri­bing the la­test ad­di­ti­on to his col­lec­ti­on of trom­pe 1'oe­il, an eig­h­te­en­th-cen­tury French oil that ab­so­lu­tely, he ex­c­la­imed, lo­oked li­ke a bas-re­li­ef scul­p­tu­re.

  I cer­ta­inly ga­ve Dun­na­way go­od marks for his ef­forts to be an en­ter­ta­ining gu­est at a less than rol­lic­king so­ci­al oc­ca­si­on. But, mo­re than that, I fo­und myself mo­re in­te­res­ted in the han­d­so­me law­yer than I had be­en be­fo­re. Tho­se who enj­oy the art that at­tempts to lo­ok so­met­hing ot­her than what it is must ha­ve, at the very le­ast, a wry sen­se of hu­mor. I lo­oked for­ward to tal­king to him in mo­re depth.