Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Haskell con­cen­t­ra­ted on his fo­od and ma­de no

  effort to talk to me or to Tre­vor. His was the ob­du­ra­te, scar­cely ve­iled ru­de­ness of a spo­iled child, still so ca­ught up in his own wants that he fa­ils to see ot­her hu­man be­ings as re­al. They we­re, at best, pur­ve­yors of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. They we­re, at worst, ob­s­tac­les.

  As for Ro­ger, his ro­und fa­ce still had a high flush and his vo­ice was qu­eru­lo­us. Cha­se's son had drunk too much, which ma­de me won­der how much he'd con­su­med be­fo­re co­ming to din­ner. Ro­ger was an emo­ti­onal man con­su­med by ca­uses. The world thinks highly of ca­use be­arers who suc­ce­ed, cal­ling them vi­si­ona­ri­es; tho­se who fa­il it dis­mis­ses as cra­zi­es. But the­re is one cer­ta­in truth abo­ut ze­alots: They are ne­ver bo­und by the ru­les the rest of us fol­low.

  Much as he ha­ted to ac­cept it, Cha­se be­li­eved that so­me­one now se­ated at his di­ning tab­le was a po­iso­ner.

  What did I know abo­ut our po­ten­ti­al mur­de­rer?

  Poisoning is a ste­althy cri­me. The kil­ler is sel­dom pre­sent at the fa­tal mo­ment. In my vi­ew, po­iso­ning ar­gu­es eit­her co­war­di­ce or enor­mo­us ca­uti­on.

  Valerie St. Vin­cent wo­uld be ca­uti­o­us, as wo­uld Cha­se's sec­re­tary and his law­yer. All three we­re ma­ni­pu­la­ti­ve, al­ways alert to im­p­ro­ve the­ir si­tu­ati­on, al­ways hi­ding the­ir de­si­res be­ne­ath ca­re­ful­ly pre­ser­ved fa­ca­des of be­a­uty or ami­abi­lity.

  Lyle Sted­man, on the ot­her hand, wo­uld be ca­re­ful but not ca­uti­o­us. I had tro­ub­le pic­tu­ring that com­ba­ti­ve man sli­ding the tip of a syrin­ge fil­led with cya­ni­de in­to a pi­ece of candy.

  I lo­oked down the tab­le.

  My glan­ce loc­ked for an in­s­tant with Mi­ran­da's.

  Her wor­ri­ed eyes pro­bed mi­ne, de­man­ding… de­man­ding what?

  I saw Mi­ran­da Pres­cott as ne­it­her ca­uti­o­us nor co­wardly. Emo­ti­ons flit­ted ac­ross her fa­ce so openly, many of them emo­ti­ons that sho­uld ha­ve be­en ali­en to her yo­uth and to her po­si­ti­on.

  For very dif­fe­rent re­asons, ne­it­her Has­kell nor Ro­ger wo­uld be ca­uti­o­us. Both we­re im­pul­si­ve, emo­ti­onal, pas­si­ona­te. Ne­it­her, I felt cer­ta­in, was a co­ward.

  But po­iso­ning re­qu­ires mo­re fo­ret­ho­ught and me­ti­cu­lo­us pre­pa­ra­ti­on than I wo­uld ex­pect of Has­kell.

  As for Ro­ger-Ro­ger wo­uld kill for a bet­ter go­od, but it wo­uld be an agony for him to do so.

  Tomorrow, to­mor­row I wo­uld…

  "My fri­ends." Cha­se's rich vo­ice held no tra­ce of irony. He pus­hed back his cha­ir and sto­od.

  The des­sert had be­en ser­ved and re­mo­ved and fresh cof­fee bro­ught. En­ri­que mo­ved so qu­i­etly that he se­emed all but in­vi­sib­le.

  "I ha­ve an an­no­un­ce­ment to ma­ke." Cha­se lo­oked at each of us in turn. "I've as­ked you to the is­land for a spe­ci­al re­ason."

  Roger re­ac­hed for his cof­fee oup. The so­und of chi­na rin­ging aga­inst chi­na se­emed stri­dent in the wa­iting qu­i­et.

  Every eye fo­cu­sed on Cha­se.

  It was a very cle­ar in­di­ca­ti­on of the po­wer he wi­el­ded in each and every li­fe in this ro­om.

  Too much po­wer.

  "I am very lucky to ha­ve per­su­aded one of the fi­nest wri­ters of our ti­me to ag­ree to work with me in pre­pa­ring a bi­og­raphy." He flas­hed me the in­ge­nu­o­us

  smile I'd fo­und so char­ming forty ye­ars be­fo­re. "Hen­ri­et­ta O'Dw­yer Col­lins." He pa­used; ever­yo­ne lo­oked at me.

  I ma­na­ged a frosty smi­le.

  Chase roc­ked back on his he­els, his fa­ce ge­ni­al, his to­ne ex­pan­si­ve. "We all know that each per­son is per­ce­ived dif­fe­rently by tho­se aro­und them. That's why you're he­re. Each of you knows me in a dif­fe­rent way. Yo­ur part in this is sim­p­le. Tell Hen­rie O what you know, how you fe­el. Be ho­nest. I want you to tell her exactly what you think of me-what yo­ur de­alings with me ha­ve be­en. Be­ca­use this is to be a frank bi­og­raphy. She won't ha­ve any tro­ub­le fin­ding pe­op­le who will tell her ni­ce things. I want the truth. Be­ca­use, you know, I'm not as­ha­med of a god­dam­ned thing I've ever do­ne."

  It was fit­ting that Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent enj­oyed the last word. She flung down her nap­kin, shot Cha­se a con­tem­p­tu­o­us glan­ce, and sa­id with her lo­vely ac­t­ress's dic­ti­on: "If you aren't, my de­ar Cha­se, you cer­ta­inly sho­uld be," then swung abo­ut to exit, her gol­den he­ad high and her sho­ul­ders flung back.

  A be­a­uti­ful­ly flung barb, a gor­ge­o­us de­par­tu­re.

  That's how I might ha­ve jud­ged it, ex­cept for the ef­fect on Mi­ran­da.

  Her eyes hu­ge and qu­es­ti­oning, Cha­se's yo­ung wi­fe sta­red af­ter the ac­t­ress. Then slowly, pa­in­ful­ly, her be­wil­de­red ga­ze tur­ned to­ward her hus­band.

  But Cha­se was una­wa­re of Mi­ran­da. In­s­te­ad, his fa­ce oddly smug, he wat­c­hed Va­le­rie stri­de away.

  4

  Chase was in high go­od hu­mor as he of­fe­red li­qu­e­urs to his gu­ests. He se­emed to­tal­ly una­wa­re of Mi­ran­da's pa­le fa­ce and si­len­ce. Va­le­rie did not jo­in the rest of us in the li­ving ro­om. I had no chan­ce to talk to him with any fre­edom. But to­mor­row wo­uld do well eno­ugh. I dec­li­ned a ga­me of brid­ge and, at abo­ut a qu­ar­ter to ten, bid ever­yo­ne go­od night.

  But I wasn't go­ing to bed.

  I was go­ing to think.

  I glan­ced at the fresh ca­ra­fe of wa­ter on my nig­h­t­s­tand.

  It co­uld so easily be po­iso­ned.

  So co­uld the gol­den box of ex­pen­si­ve cho­co­la­tes that res­ted ne­ar the ca­ra­fe.

  But I as­su­med Cha­se co­uld think of that, too.

  The ma­id - I must try to talk with Betty to­mor-

  row- had tur­ned down the sil­ken co­vers. A ma­uve card prop­ped on the pil­low con­ta­ined in­for­ma­ti­on in ele­gant cal­lig­raphy abo­ut ot­her ame­ni­ti­es ava­ilab­le in the ro­om: an al­co­ve con­ta­ined a cof­fee or tea ma­ker and a small ref­ri­ge­ra­tor plus a cup­bo­ard with snacks. I chec­ked the pink ref­ri­ge­ra­tor. A flu­ted crystal dish con­ta­ined cho­co­la­te mo­us­se la­ced with ras­p­ber­ry. The en­ti­cing des­sert was at on­ce both ple­asing and dis­con­cer­ting. It in­di­ca­ted how tho­ro­ughly had Cha­se in­ves­ti­ga­ted my li­kes and dis­li­kes. I shrug­ged, re­sis­ted the tem­p­ta­ti­on, and set­tled at the desk.

  I thum­bed thro­ugh the stack of fol­ders un­til I fo­und my own.

  I didn't want to re­ad it first be­ca­use of ego. I've long sin­ce sla­ked that hun­ger. But I had to find out what Cha­se knew abo­ut me and my li­fe.

  Nothing in the first few li­nes con­ve­yed the co­lor and sub­s­tan­ce and fe­el of my yo­uth. It me­rely re­por­ted that my fat­her was Do­ug­las O'Dw­yer, a fo­re­ign cor­res­pon­dent, and my mot­her, Eile­en Ca­me­ron, was a po­et.

  That was eno­ugh to trig­ger me­mory, of co­ur­se. Early me­mo­ri­es swir­led and blen­ded: the rum­b­le of ra­il­ro­ad whe­els, the thick smell of co­al, the lusty whis­t­le of a ste­am en­gi­ne. Mo­ve­ment, al­ways mo­ve­ment. I sup­po­se it was a slap­dash, un­cer­ta­in, un­s­t­ruc­tu­red gro­wing up, but I knew how to hag­gle in Ara­bic and sing ro­un­de­lays in French and re­ad a ra­il­way ti­me­tab­le be­fo­re I was ten.

  I al­so le­ar­ned abo­ut loss early when Mot­her went to a sa­ni­ta­ri­um for tu­ber­cu­lo­sis and ne­ver ca­me ho­me.

  I le­ar­ned to go to a dif­fe­rent scho­ol every few

  months and ke­ep a cle­an apar­t­ment for my fat­her a
nd me. The fi­le didn't men­ti­on the day I met a very yo­ung fo­re­ign cor­res­pon­dent, Ric­hard Cor­ley Col­lins.

  I le­ar­ned to run and hi­de when the Ger­mans go­ose-step­ped in­to Pa­ris. My fat­her was in the so­uth of Fran­ce, ca­ught up by the in­va­si­on. I ne­ver saw him aga­in.

  I wasn't yet se­ven­te­en when I ma­na­ged to get out of Fran­ce and in­to Spa­in. The fi­le ma­de it so­und easy. It wasn't. The Pyre­ne­es in win­ter cla­imed the li­ves of many re­fu­ge­es. I fo­und my way to Por­tu­gal and a fre­ig­h­ter ho­me to Ame­ri­ca.

  The dos­si­er ga­ve my next ad­dress as Law­ren­ce, Kan­sas. And it be­gan the long list of new­s­pa­pers I wor­ked for.

  Because what el­se in li­fe wo­uld I want to do?

  The clat­ter of a typew­ri­ter; the scent of mel­ted le­ad; the des­pe­ra­tely dif­fi­cult task of mas­te­ring words, ma­king them sing; the unen­ding chal­len­ge of se­eking truth, ba­lan­cing vi­ew­po­ints.

  Conventional wis­dom is right: The­re are two si­des to al­most every story. That po­ses the task for the ho­nest re­por­ter.

  Almost every story.

  I've ne­ver be­en im­p­res­sed that Hit­ler lo­ved lit­tle blond chil­d­ren.

  That isn't eno­ugh.

  But ge­ne­ral­ly it's hard to find whi­te or black hats. Vil­la­ins are sel­dom easy to spot. They know how to smi­le, too. Truth is har­der to grasp than an eel and al­ways as qu­ick to slip away.

  By the ti­me the war was over, I was well

  launched on the only ca­re­er I'd ever wan­ted. The dos­si­er sum­med it up in a dry, un­re­ve­aling list of new­s­pa­pers and pla­ce na­mes.

  It char­ted me to Was­hin­g­ton, D.C.

  I met Ric­hard Col­lins aga­in. For the first ti­me I met Cha­se Pres­cott.

  I re­ad the next few li­nes ca­re­ful­ly, but, on­ce aga­in, it was simply ba­re bo­nes: pla­ce na­mes, the new­s­pa­per, the da­te Ric­hard and I mar­ri­ed, Emily's birth.

  I scan­ned the rest of it and fo­und it all ac­cu­ra­te and ab­so­lu­tely unin­for­ma­ti­ve. If the rest of the fol­ders we­re this spa­re with in­for­ma­ti­on-re­al in­for­ma­ti­on, li­ke the lo­ves and ha­tes of li­ves, the tra­umas and mis­ta­kes and tri­um­p­hs-they wo­uld be of lit­tle help.

  I put my own asi­de and pic­ked up Cha­se's. I was grin­ning by the ti­me I fi­nis­hed it. I won­de­red what yo­ung ho­pe­ful on Cha­se's staff had pre­pa­red it. Al­t­ho­ugh it still didn't gi­ve me me­at, re­al me­at, it was a gre­at de­al mo­re for­t­h­co­ming than my own.

  All ser­ved up, of co­ur­se, in the most la­uda­tory of terms. I was in­te­res­ted to see that it ad­dres­sed Cha­se's cur­rent fi­nan­ci­al crunch. That me­ant La-vi­nia's in­for­ma­ti­on was ac­cu­ra­te. It even con­ta­ined a re­cent qu­ote of his-from a spe­ech to a men's din­ner club-that Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons was in no dan­ger of dis­so­lu­ti­on and the an­no­un­ce­ment that new mo­ney wo­uld be in­fu­sed by fall.

  I did le­arn facts abo­ut Cha­se that I hadn't known:

  He was ra­ised by an aunt in Chi­ca­go (both pa­rents de­ad in a tra­in crash). Cha­se and his aunt Sylvia we­re ac­hingly po­or.

  He mar­ri­ed his first wi­fe, Eli­za­beth War­ren, the

  same ye­ar Ric­hard and I mar­ri­ed. The­ir son, Ro­ger, was born a ye­ar af­ter Emily. Eli­za­beth in­he­ri­ted six new­s­pa­pers and two ra­dio sta­ti­ons from her fat­her. The­se be­ca­me the co­re of Cha­se's vast me­dia cha­in. Can­cer kil­led Eli­za­beth when Ro­ger was eig­h­te­en.

  I un­der­s­to­od what that me­ant to Ro­ger.

  Chase mar­ri­ed Car­rie Lee the fol­lo­wing fall. Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent was Car­rie Lee's sis­ter. Cha­se's se­cond wi­fe di­ed fo­ur ye­ars ago in a small pla­ne crash en ro­ute to the­ir sum­mer ho­me in As­pen. Cha­se was in Pa­ris on bu­si­ness; Has­kell was in Spa­in. Ro­ger's whe­re­abo­uts we­ren't men­ti­oned.

  Two ye­ars la­ter Cha­se and Mi­ran­da Tem­p­le mar­ri­ed on Va­len­ti­ne Day. She was an eve­ning-news co-an­c­hor for his Chi­ca­go te­le­vi­si­on sta­ti­on.

  The list of Cha­se's awards, ac­hi­eve­ments, ho­no­rary deg­re­es, and pub­li­ca­ti­ons ran six sin­g­le-spa­ced pa­ges. Cha­se was the su­bj­ect of a re­cent una­ut­ho­ri­zed bi­og­raphy, The Man Who Picks Pre­si­dents by Jeremy Hub­bard. Im­me­di­ately be­fo­re the bo­ok's pub­li­ca­ti­on Cha­se fi­led a li­bel su­it. Li­ti­ga­ti­on was pen­ding.

  It was hard not to be awa­re of the bo­ok at the ti­me, for it do­mi­na­ted bes­t­sel­ler lists and trashy he­ad­li­nes for months. I had not re­ad it, ho­we­ver. And not simply be­ca­use Cha­se was a clo­sed chap­ter in my li­fe. I re­fu­se to in­c­re­ase the pro­fits of gar­ba­ge jo­ur­na­lists by pur­c­ha­sing the­ir frothy coc­k­ta­ils of gos­sip, in­nu­en­do, and half-truths. I ha­ve a si­mi­lar po­licy for the kind of fic­ti­on that ex­ci­tes cri­tics be­ca­use of its vi-ci­o­us­ness and com­mer­ci­al­ly craf­ted vi­olen­ce. But now I ma­de a check mark in the mar­gin. I wan­ted a

  copy of The Man Who Picks Pre­si­dents. Cha­se un­qu­es­ti­onably had one he­re on the is­land.

  I to­ok a cho­co­la­te bre­ak af­ter I fi­nis­hed Cha­se's fol­der. My hand he­si­ta­ted for only a mo­ment abo­ve the se­lec­ti­on of as­sor­ted truf­fles in the candy box. Af­ter all, no­body wan­ted to po­ison me.

  The inef­fab­le es­sen­ce of cho­co­la­te la­ced my blo­od­s­t­re­am, and I re­tur­ned to the fol­der stack with re­ne­wed energy.

  It was slow go­ing. But I was de­ter­mi­ned to re­ad them all to­night. I in­ten­ded to get an early start to­mor­row tal­king to my fel­low gu­ests, and I wan­ted all the am­mu­ni­ti­on I co­uld carry. I ma­de no­tes, jot­ted down li­nes of qu­es­ti­oning, even ca­me up with a few the­ori­es.

  The lights went out.

  "Damn." I sa­id it softly, wit­ho­ut too much ran­cor. Af­ter all, it was la­te now-qu­ite la­te. The lu­mi­no­us di­al of my watch re­ad ten mi­nu­tes af­ter two. And a po­wer outa­ge on a re­mo­te is­land cer­ta­inly was no ca­use for sur­p­ri­se. I'd re­cently do­ne a se­ri­es of sto­ri­es in the Vir­gin Is­lands. It was rat­her mo­re a mat­ter of ce­leb­ra­ting when the lights we­re on than re­mar­king when they we­re off. I knew from my ear­li­er no­sing abo­ut that this is­land had its own ge­ne­ra­tor. I didn't know what wo­uld ca­use it to fa­il, but I was con­fi­dent it wo­uld co­me back on. Even­tu­al­ly.

  I ne­ver tra­vel wit­ho­ut a flas­h­light, of co­ur­se. Ho­tel fi­res do hap­pen. I al­ways put my flas­h­light and my ro­om key-when in a ho­tel - on the te­le­vi­si­on set, so I wo­uld know im­me­di­ately whe­re to find them in an emer­gency. He­re I'd pla­ced the flas­h­light on the de­li­ca­te wri­ting desk. I pic­ked it up and tur­ned it on. I

  had eno­ugh light to fi­nish the fol­der on Lyle Sted­man, but I was sud­denly ti­red. Eno­ugh was eno­ugh.

  But I was res­t­less. Ti­red, yes, but not re­ady for sle­ep.

  I enj­oy mo­ving abo­ut in the night, wal­king qu­i­etly in the dar­k­ness whi­le ot­hers sle­ep. Now I slip­ped down the sta­irs and step­ped out­si­de thro­ugh the un­loc­ked do­or. I was get­ting ac­cus­to­med to the lack of locks on De­ad Man's Is­land.

  It was dark be­yond be­li­ef. I al­most went back up­s­ta­irs for the flas­h­light but didn't. My eyes wo­uld so­on adj­ust to the dar­k­ness. The lights in the gar­dens and ne­ar the ho­use we­re ex­tin­gu­is­hed, and not a gle­am of star­light pi­er­ced the thick over­cast.

  I wal­ked ca­uti­o­usly down the shell path to the pi­er. An er­ra­tic wind skit­te­red le­aves one way, then anot­her. The air felt sod­den. Wa­ves slap­ped un­se­en aga­inst the pi­er, flin
­ging up spray to sting my fa­ce.

  With no war­ning the lights on the pi­er ca­me on. I tur­ned away from the bro­oding wa­ter. The mas­si­ve ho­use was dark, ex­cept for my ro­om in the so­uth wing of the se­cond flo­or.

  I was at the steps le­ading down ?to the gar­dens when I he­ard fo­ot­s­teps crun­c­hing on a shell path.

  Of co­ur­se. So­me­one-pro­bably the man­ser­vant -had be­en to the ge­ne­ra­tor and res­to­red the po­wer.