Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 8

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I hur­ri­ed down the steps and he­aded that way. I wan­ted to in­ter­cept En­ri­que. Cha­se's va­let had be­en in Cha­se's New York brow­n­s­to­ne the day the po­iso­ned cho­co­la­te pi­ece had kil­led the dog.

  I al­ways li­ke to catch pe­op­le at an unex­pec­ted ti­me or pla­ce. Know­led­ge they might ot­her­wi­se hi­de

  is mo­re li­kely to slip out. My fa­ti­gue from stud­ying the dos­si­ers eva­po­ra­ted. I wal­ked swiftly, eager to plun­ge in­to the qu­est Cha­se had as­sig­ned me. What bet­ter ti­me than now?

  I sup­po­se I ma­de a go­od de­al of no­ise on the path. I had no re­ason to be qu­i­et. Just as I ca­me aro­und the si­de of the ho­use, I re­ali­zed the ot­her fo­ot­s­teps had ce­ased.

  I'm fa­irly go­od abo­ut so­unds.

  I was al­most cer­ta­in the ot­her fo­ot­s­teps-when I'd last he­ard them-we­re still so­me dis­tan­ce from the ho­use.

  Lights only spot­tily il­lu­mi­na­ted the long swath of lawn be­hind the ho­use. The ten­nis co­urts we­re dark. The wind rus­t­led the shrubs.

  It was si­lent ex­cept for the so­unds of night.

  "Hello," I cal­led out.

  The rat­tle of the pal­met­tos, the rus­t­le of mag­no­li­as, the scratch of le­aves… but not anot­her tel­lta­le fo­ot­s­tep.

  Someone was out the­re, hid­den in the sha­dows. Wat­c­hing me?

  An old ho­mi­ci­de cop on­ce told me, "If so­met­hing don't se­em kos­her, run li­ke hell."

  I'm a fa­irly ste­ady jog­ger, but my wind-sp­rint days are go­ne. In­s­te­ad, I duc­ked away from the path in­to the san­c­tu­ary of sha­dows. Two can play that ga­me. I ran lightly and qu­ickly to­ward the ho­use.

  I re­ga­ined my ro­om and was ple­ased to see that it did ha­ve a but­ton lock.

  But I slept po­orly. If not an old fri­end, dan­ger is a lon­g­ti­me ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce. I had de­fi­ni­tely sen­sed dan­ger in the ini­mi­cal qu­i­et that had fol­lo­wed my call. Who

  had mo­ved un­se­en thro­ugh the night, then wa­ited and wat­c­hed me? And why?

  Vacation from hell." Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent gla­red at the swim­ming po­ol whe­re Cha­se was wor­king out, swim­ming with a slow, ste­ady fre­es­t­y­le.

  The bre­ak­fast pa­tio was twenty yards from the po­ol. In go­od we­at­her the set­ting "wo­uld be id­y­l­lic. The­re was a gor­ge­o­us vi­ew of the so­und, com­for­tab­le wic­ker fur­ni­tu­re, and ele­gantly pre­pa­red fo­od: fresh fru­it in­c­lu­ding pa­pa­ya and ki­wi, Da­nish pas­t­ri­es hot and but­tery, ce­re­als, me­ats, che­eses, eggs, and ex­qu­isi­te cof­fee. On a sultry August mor­ning with a sul­len sky and a wind just high eno­ugh to be ir­ri­ta­ting, ho­we­ver, the pa­tio so­me­how lac­ked charm.

  As did the ac­t­ress. In the un­f­lat­te­ring light, with the wind di­sar­ran­ging her ha­ir, she lo­oked every one of her for­ty-two ye­ars (that was the of­fi­ci­al age in her dos­si­er; add at le­ast anot­her fi­ve). Her plas­tic sur­gery had be­en skil­lful, but it wasn't hard to spot the scars. And no ope­ra­ti­on wo­uld add ge­ne­ro­sity or tho­ug­ht-ful­ness to that smo­oth, self-ab­sor­bed fa­ce.

  Trevor Dun­na­way he­aped scram­b­led eggs on his pla­te, then ad­ded three pi­eces of French to­ast and se­ve­ral sli­ces of ra­re ro­ast be­ef. "Co­uld be wor­se, Val, co­uld be wor­se."

  I sip­ped my cof­fee and enj­oyed her prompt at­tack on him.

  "Worse? God, yes. I sup­po­se Ha­iti wo­uld be wor­se!" She lo­oked aro­und ve­no­mo­usly. "It do­esn't mat­ter how you dress it up, this is not­hing mo­re than a san­d­bar and a swamp. Car­rie wo­uld ha­ve lo­at­hed it.

  And if I ha­ve to lis­ten to that dam­ned mu­sic much lon­ger I may drown so­me­one." The Ha­wa­i­i­an mu­sic drif­ted to us. She had a po­int.

  The law­yer put down his pla­te and slid eagerly in­to his cha­ir. "Mi­ran­da lo­ves the mu­sic." His to­ne was ne­ut­ral.

  Valerie's he­ad jer­ked to­ward him. "Is that a lit­tle word to the wi­se, Tre­vor de­ar?"

  He shrug­ged and re­ac­hed for the cof­fee ca­ra­fe. "My mot­her al­ways told me not to bi­te the hand, et ce­te­ra," he sa­id ple­asantly.

  "The gre­edy, gre­edy hand," the ac­t­ress his­sed, and she lo­oked aga­in to­ward the po­ol.

  Chase fi­nis­hed his wor­ko­ut - I had to won­der if he wasn't sho­wing off just a bit-with the but­terfly, that most spec­ta­cu­lar and most dif­fi­cult stro­ke. At the wall he pul­led him­self easily out of the po­ol and sto­od for a mo­ment, pan­ting, full of li­fe, pro­ud of both his physi­que and his con­di­ti­oning. Then, with a ca­su­al wa­ve to­ward his audi­en­ce, and, yes, I'm su­re he knew we we­re all wat­c­hing, he lo­ped ac­ross to the hot tub, to­ok the steps two at a ti­me, and jum­ped in­to the ste­amy wa­ter.

  "All he ne­eds is a bevy of ser­ving girls stan­ding over him with fans and sprin­k­ling pe­arls and ro­se pe­tals on the wa­ter." The hand grip­ping Va­le­rie's cof­fee cup lo­oked claw­li­ke.

  Trevor pep­pe­red his ro­ast be­ef. "Why not?" he sa­id lightly. "I'll sug­gest it. He can af­ford an­y­t­hing he damn well wants."

  I ma­de my first con­t­ri­bu­ti­on to the bre­ak­fast chat­ter. "Des­pi­te the no­tes co­ming due?" I spo­oned brown su­gar over my oat­me­al.

  Trevor po­ured syrup over his last pi­ece of French to­ast. "Su­re." His to­ne was un­con­cer­ned. "As far as a pub­lic an­no­un­ce­ment go­es, we ha­ve to hold off a few mo­re we­eks. But you'll still be wor­king on the bo­ok. Just let me know, mid-month, and I'll get that in­for­ma­ti­on to you." An ad­mi­ring smi­le lit his han­d­so­me fe­atu­res. "You re­al­ly ha­ve to hand it to the old bas­tard. He can charm mo­ney out of the god­dam­ne­dest so­ur­ces."

  "Especially wo­men," Va­le­rie snap­ped.

  The law­yer's smi­le slip­ped away. "Val, if you've got any sen­se - "

  She jum­ped to her fe­et, thro­wing her nap­kin down on the tab­le. "I've got sen­se eno­ugh to know when I'm not wan­ted. So why did he in­vi­te me?" Her san­dals slap­ped aga­inst the ti­les of the porch as she flo­un­ced to­ward the French do­ors.

  I to­ok anot­her sip of cof­fee and lo­oked in­qu­iringly at the law­yer.

  Trevor re­fil­led his cof­fee cup and ad­ded three lumps of su­gar. "You mustn't mind Va­le­rie, Mrs. Col­lins. She's ne­ver adj­us­ted to be­ing an ex-sis­ter-in-law." For an in­s­tant the law­yer lo­oked be­mu­sed. "Actu­al­ly, the sharp-ton­gu­ed lit­tle vi­xen has a po­int. Why did Cha­se in­vi­te her he­re?"

  I left his qu­ery in the lim­bo of all go­od rhe­to­ri­cal qu­es­ti­ons.

  I fi­nis­hed my oat­me­al, lo­oked reg­ret­ful­ly at the suc­cu­lent French to­ast, and dow­ned the rest of my su­perb cof­fee. "Be­li­eve I'll say go­od mor­ning to my host."

  Trevor nod­ded but did not res­pond.

  As I wan­de­red ca­su­al­ly ac­ross the springy lawn

  toward the hot tub, Tre­vor pop­ped up and re­tur­ned to the buf­fet tab­le and Has­kell Lee step­ped out on the pa­tio.

  Chase ra­ised a hand from the bub­bling wa­ters to gi­ve me a che­er­ful sa­lu­te.

  I co­uld fe­el the he­at from the ro­iling, fo­aming wa­ter when I re­ac­hed the top of the steps. The hot tub-ac­tu­al­ly lar­ge eno­ugh for a small par­ty-was wo­oden with wo­oden steps le­ading up to the lip of the tub. A fen­ced wo­oden wal­k­way cir­c­led the lip.

  Chase was spraw­led com­for­tably, his back to the wall. His fa­ce lo­oked dan­ge­ro­usly pink to me. "Hen­rie O-jump in."

  I me­rely smi­led.

  But he was in high go­od hu­mor, and he al­ways lo­ved to te­ase. "You used to be a cre­atu­re of im­pul­se, Hen­rie O. Co­me on in." He was tal­king too fast, with an un­na­tu�
�ral ex­ci­te­ment.

  I sho­ok my he­ad and star­ted to spe­ak, then a mo­ve­ment ca­ught my eye. I lo­oked be­yond the tub, to­ward the ho­use.

  Miranda sto­od on the pa­tio out­si­de the­ir wing of the ho­use. She wo­re a bri­ef nig­h­t­gown of de­li­ca­te la­ce-ed­ged cot­ton. Her chil­d­li­ke fa­ce lo­oked pin­c­hed and wan.

  I smi­led and lif­ted a hand in gre­eting.

  Abruptly, she whir­led and dar­ted back in­to the ho­use.

  I sup­po­se my smi­le tur­ned to a frown.

  "What is it?" Cha­se was ir­ri­ta­ted, both, I sup­po­se, be­ca­use my at­ten­ti­on had left him and be­ca­use I wasn't res­pon­ding to his play­ful in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  "Miranda."

  The play­ful­ness se­eped out of his fa­ce. Mo­men­ta­rily he lo­oked som­ber, then he tos­sed his he­ad and slap­ped the wa­ter with a re­so­un­ding smack.

  Hot, sudsy wa­ter spe­wed up, spat­te­ring my wal­king shorts.

  "Henrie O, thu) is the way to start the day." He was smi­ling aga­in.

  As al­ways, Cha­se at play was an in­fec­ti­o­us spi­rit, but I knew I ne­eded to con­cen­t­ra­te on my task.

  "Chase, two items."

  That got his at­ten­ti­on. "You've ma­de prog­ress?" He pul­led him­self out of the tub and sto­od be­si­de me.

  I co­uld fe­el the warmth of his body.

  I step­ped back a frac­ti­on.

  "I'm not su­re. I ha­ve stir­red so­me­one up." I told him abo­ut the se­arch of my ro­om yes­ter­day be­fo­re din­ner.

  He - was qu­i­et for a long mo­ment, re­ac­hing out ab­sently for a thick to­wel from a ne­arby stack. Briskly he buf­fed his he­ad and chest dry, then wrap­ped the to­wel aro­und his wa­ist. "I don't know what the hell that me­ans. It co­uld be an­y­body. May­be just Betty stra­ig­h­te­ning up."

  "It wasn't Betty." Per­haps I was a lit­tle sharp.

  He ga­ve me a ru­eful smi­le. "Sorry, Hen­rie O. Of co­ur­se you're su­re. You wo­uldn't ha­ve told me ot­her­wi­se. Hell of a thing, isn't it! I can be­li­eve so­me­one he­re is trying to kill me, but I can't be­li­eve a gu­est or em­p­lo­yee of mi­ne wo­uld in­va­de anot­her gu­est's pri­vacy. But if so­me­one se­ar­c­hed yo­ur ro­om - "

  "There must be a re­ason."

  "All right. What do you want me to do-call ever­yo­ne to­get­her and - "

  "Lord, no." I co­uldn't be­li­eve what I was he­aring. "The last thing we want to do is alert the se­ar­c­her. No, I just wan­ted to tell you be­ca­use it may in­di­ca­te sus­pi­ci­on of me, which wo­uldn't be hel­p­ful. But the­re's mo­re…"

  I told him abo­ut that cold, ini­mi­cal sen­se of be­ing ob­ser­ved la­te last night and the ha­ir-pric­k­ling fe­eling of dan­ger.

  He cros­sed his arms over his chest; now his fa­ce was grim.

  Good. I had ca­ught his at­ten­ti­on. I was af­ra­id he wo­uld dis­miss the no­nen­co­un­ter as the fig­ment of a too-ac­ti­ve ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  "Maybe we bet­ter call the who­le thing off. I tho­ught it wo­uld be all right, that you co­uld find out the truth for me. But I won't put you in dan­ger. I won't."

  There was ut­ter fi­na­lity in his vo­ice.

  "Chase, you dam­ned chi­val­ro­us fo­ol, use yo­ur he­ad. If I'd se­en who­ever it was, I might ha­ve be­en in a jam. But I didn't. So drop that the­me. What I want is for you to think-and to be very ca­re­ful. Why wo­uld an­yo­ne turn off the po­wer? Do you ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with the ge­ne­ra­tor? Is the­re any way you co­uld be put in dan­ger the­re?"

  He didn't brush it off.

  I wa­ited pa­ti­ently. And, truth be told, with a qu­iver of ex­ci­te­ment be­ca­use this did in­de­ed bring back old ti­mes-the go­od ti­mes-to me, wor­king with Cha­se, wat­c­hing his qu­ick in­tel­li­gen­ce sift facts and the­ori­es and sup­po­si­ti­ons. Mo­re of­ten than not he'd co­me up with a new an­g­le, so­met­hing no one el­se had fi­gu­red.

  A cha­ir scra­ped back from the bre­ak­fast tab­le, and Tre­vor am­b­led down in­to the ro­se gar­den, pa­using oc­ca­si­onal­ly to bend low and sniff the blo­oms. Ro­ger ca­me thro­ugh the French do­ors and cal­led a go­od mor­ning to Has­kell, who ac­k­now­led­ged it with a nod. Ro­ger stret­c­hed and yaw­ned. To­day he lo­oked li­ke an ami­ab­le sle­epy be­ar. His blue-and-whi­te-st­ri­ped po­lo shirt was too small and al­re­ady damp with swe­at and his kha­ki shorts we­re crum­p­led. He saw me and his mo­uth spre­ad in­to an ag­re­e­ab­le smi­le, then he clap­ped Has­kell on the sho­ul­der and to­ok a cha­ir.

  Still Cha­se sto­od, stra­ight as an ar­row, his eyes spe­cu­la­ti­ve.

  The wa­ter in the tub bub­bled and gur­g­led, chur­ning and ref­lec­ting the sun­light in an al­most blin­ding gla­re.

  Finally Cha­se spo­ke. "I can't see how I co­uld be in any dan­ger the­re, Hen­rie O. I've be­en in the ge­ne­ra­tor ro­om only on­ce sin­ce this pla­ce was bu­ilt. The ar­c­hi­tect to­ok me thro­ugh ever­y­t­hing. It's not a spot I vi­sit. Ever. And I cer­ta­inly won't go ne­ar it now. So the obj­ec­ti­ve can't be the ge­ne­ra­tor ro­om it­self. As for why the lights went out, that's easy eno­ugh. So­me­one wan­ted to be cer­ta­in they we­ren't se­en. How long, Hen­rie O, we­re we in dar­k­ness?"

  "Fifteen mi­nu­tes. May­be twenty."

  Chase threw back his he­ad and la­ug­hed he­ar­tily. He re­ac­hed for anot­her to­wel. "I gu­ess I don't ha­ve to worry abo­ut any fancy bo­oby traps. The­re wasn't eno­ugh ti­me. But I won't step on an­y­t­hing that lo­oks li­ke fresh dig­ging. Be­si­des, may­be the per­son you

  heard didn't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with our lights go­ing out."

  "So why not an­s­wer when I cal­led-out?"

  He ga­ve a sar­do­nic shrug. "The­re are al­ways sec­rets, my de­ar. Per­haps Has­kell was no­sing aro­und the ma­id. He wo­uldn't exactly want to draw at­ten­ti­on to it."

  "Is that a pos­si­bi­lity?"

  "It's oc­cur­red to me." His eyes held a mix­tu­re of sa­la­ci­o­us amu­se­ment and ir­ri­ta­ti­on. "He wo­uld know I wo­uldn't li­ke it."

  I al­ways ha­ve anot­her qu­es­ti­on. "Why wo­uld you ca­re?"

  At that, he ga­ve a who­op of la­ug­h­ter. "Then you don't pic­tu­re me in the ro­le of a stern and mo­ral fat­her fi­gu­re to my step­son?"

  "No. A buc­ca­ne­er, per­haps. A stern and mo­ral fi­gu­re, no."

  "Suffice it to say, my de­ar, that that kind of dal­li­an­ce plays hell with do­mes­tic ar­ran­ge­ments. An­y­way, the po­int is that yo­ur not-qu­ite-clo­se en­co­un­ter may me­rely ha­ve be­en an em­bar­ras­sment to so­me­one."

  "I don't think so." I star­ted down the tub steps.

  "I know. You're as de­ter­mi­ned as the wit­c­hes in Mac­beth that tro­ub­le is bre­wing. So I'm war­ned. Be­li­eve me, I won't to­uch any elec­t­ri­cal con­nec­ti­ons of any sort. Now, what do you ha­ve plan­ned for to­day?" He co­uldn't qu­ite ke­ep his vo­ice ca­su­al as he fol­lo­wed me down the steps.

  "I'll get to that. But, first, how many of the pe­op­le now on the is­land ha­ve be­en he­re be­fo­re?"

  Chase cros­sed his arms on his chest. It wasn't the

  body lan­gu­age of re­sis­tan­ce. I co­uld see the rip­ple of go­ose bumps on his arms.

  "Everyone, my de­ar, ex­cept you."

  "So any one of them co­uld know whe­re the ge­ne­ra­tor is." I had ex­pec­ted lit­tle el­se.

  "It's hardly a sta­te sec­ret."

  "And no one wo­uld ha­ve any re­ason to ex­pect you to go to the ge­ne­ra­tor." I was thin­king out lo­ud. "Okay, let's drop that for now. Do you, in fact, fol­low a re­gu­lar sche­du­le when you are he­re?"

  He ga­ve me a swift lo­ok of res­pect. "I un­der­
s­tand. And, yes, I do. I start every mor­ning with a wor­ko­ut in the po­ol. Then I in­dul­ge myself in the hot

  tub. The only go­od idea that ever ca­me out of Ca­li­fo­ria-

  I lif­ted my chin. Had the cir­cum­s­tan­ces be­en dif­fe­rent, I wo­uld ha­ve go­ne to bat­tle im­me­di­ately. What all of us owe to Ca­li­for­nia can scar­cely be me­asu­red and God knows I'm not tal­king abo­ut Hol­lywo­od, tho­ugh it do­es ha­ve its mo­ments. Still, the clas­sic films can al­most be re­ci­ted by me­mory: Go­ne With the Wind, Ca­sab­lan­ca, The Af­ri­can Qu­e­en, The Brid­ge on the Ri­ver Kwai, and may­be a do­zen mo­re. But Ca­li­for­nia star­ted the strug­gle fqr a cle­an en­vi­ron­ment, in­c­lu­ding smo­ke-free lungs. And it's per­haps the last pla­ce on earth, cer­ta­inly this si­de of he­aven, whe­re de­cent pe­op­le be­li­eve af­fir­ma­ti­ons can af­fect the small-so­uled and cold-he­ar­ted le­aders who hap­pily en­ga­ge in war al­t­ho­ugh they, of co­ur­se, are sa­fe in dis­tant ca­pi­tals.

 

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