Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 12

by Carolyn G. Hart

  *

  "That's crazy, Dad." Ro­ger wit­h­s­to­od his fat­her's fu­ri­o­us glan­ce, and it oc­cur­red to me that he was a stron­ger man than per­haps Cha­se re­ali­zed. "You can't ke­ep pe­op­le hos­ta­ge he­re. And the­re has to be so­me re­aso­nab­le ex­p­la­na­ti­on - "

  "Of that?" Cha­se as­ked bit­terly, po­in­ting at the fal­len can­vas and the three dar­ke­ned ho­les. "Tar­get prac­ti­ce? Ac­ci­dent? Mis­ta­ke? Which wo­uld you pick, Ro­ger?" His qu­ick mo­ve­ment star­ted blo­od

  flowing aga­in from his right el­bow. One drop, then anot­her splat­te­red on­to the sto­ne. Mi­ran­da ga­ve a soft mo­an. Cha­se clap­ped the so­iled han­d­ker­c­hi­ef to the wo­und.

  Roger jam­med his hands in the poc­kets of his shorts. He lo­oked hot and un­hap­py and wor­ri­ed.

  Sweat be­aded Cha­se's fa­ce, as much, I think, from shock as the he­at. "No, this is my is­land and no­body le­aves un­til I say so. Be­si­des, if any of you gi­ve a damn abo­ut me you'll want to co­ope­ra­te." His pug­na­ci­o­us, de­man­ding gla­re swept from fa­ce to fa­ce.

  Which pretty well put it on the li­ne.

  Trevor spo­ke up, and my res­pect for him grew.

  "Chase, I've sta­yed with you thro­ugh a lot of fights, a lot of hard ti­mes. I've go­ne yo­ur way even when I didn't ag­ree with you. But this is wrong. Mur­der isn't a par­lor ga­me. You've got to call in the po­li­ce."

  Chase's eyes we­re ste­ely. "I'm the son of a bitch in char­ge, Tre­vor, and you bet­ter not for­get it."

  "One item you've over­lo­oked," I in­ter­po­sed qu­i­etly.

  I saw the plea in Cha­se's eyes, the de­ep, pas­si­ona­te, ac­hing de­mand.

  Our ga­zes loc­ked.

  I wasn't Cha­se's ser­vant or em­p­lo­yee or fa­mily. I co­uld tell him to go to hell.

  But the­re was such raw emo­ti­on in tho­se eyes that be­se­ec­hed me.

  I co­uld tell him that his pro­po­sal was un­ba­lan­ced, a plan de­vi­sed by a mind un­der too much stress. And I cer­ta­inly didn't sha­re his con­fi­den­ce in my su­pe­ri­or-

  ity as an in­ves­ti­ga­tor. The po­li­ce are pro­fes­si­onals. No ama­te­ur can match a pro­fes­si­onal.

  But I co­ul­dn't-not for the li­fe of me-turn down the ap­pe­al in his eyes.

  All right. I wasn't a cop. But I was a dam­ned go­od re­por­ter. The jobs ha­ve mo­re in com­mon than most cops wo­uld li­ke to ad­mit.

  I co­uld do it.

  If I didn't do it, Cha­se wo­uld simply send us «H back to the ma­in­land. He co­uldn't be for­ced to re­port the at­tack to the aut­ho­ri­ti­es. And on anot­her day in anot­her way the kil­ler co­uld try aga­in.

  It was one of tho­se pi­vo­tal mo­ments in li­fe.

  Everyone knew it.

  Every eye fo­cu­sed on me.

  "I will ag­ree" - I saw tri­umph fla­re in Cha­se's eyes-"on one con­di­ti­on."

  He stif­fe­ned. "That is?"

  "You will from this mo­ment on, so long as we stay on this is­land, be in the com­pany of one or mo­re per­sons."

  Chase's fa­ce smo­ot­hed out. He even smi­led. "Su­re. Hell, yes. Lo­ok." The smi­le fled and in an unaf­fec­ted, open, won­de­ring vo­ice, he sa­id, "I don't want to die." He lo­oked down at the blo­od-dap­pled han­d­ker­c­hi­ef. "I don't want to die," he sa­id aga­in, so softly we al­most co­uldn't he­ar. It was a cry from his he­art. Ever­yo­ne the­re knew it.

  "Dad, oh, God, Dad." Ro­ger step­ped for­ward and wrap­ped his arms aro­und his fat­her.

  For an in­s­tant the two held each ot­her in a tight em­b­ra­ce, then Cha­se bro­ke lo­ose. "Okay. Po­int well

  taken, Hen­rie O. That's easy eno­ugh to do. No prob­lem."

  That was the most im­por­tant re­qu­ire­ment. I co­uld ta­ke on an as­sig­n­ment to se­arch for facts. I wasn't a bod­y­gu­ard, and I co­uldn't ta­ke the res­pon­si­bi­lity of Cha­se's sa­fely.

  I wasn't fi­nis­hed. "Fur­t­her, if I con­c­lu­de that I can­not suc­ces­sful­ly com­p­le­te my task, the po­li­ce must be con­tac­ted."

  "I un­der­s­tand what you're sa­ying, Hen­rie O. But you know and I know what will hap­pen if I go to the po­li­ce." Cha­se's mo­uth twis­ted. "Hell, it's how I ma­de my first mil­li­on. Toss the qu­ive­ring hunk of warm flesh to the wolf pack and ri­de the story to the end. May­be it wo­uld be po­etic jus­ti­ce to see my own fa­mily on the re­ce­iving end of for­ty-eig­ht-po­int he­ads, but I don't want it to hap­pen."

  How co­uld I ha­ve for­got­ten that the po­li­ce, on­ce in, are news so­ur­ces? The en­ter­p­ri­sing press corps wo­uld lo­ve this one. I co­uld see the he­ad­li­ne now:

  MEDIA MAG­NA­TE CHE­ATS DE­ATH IN POSH LA­IR; MUR­DER AT­TEMPT ON PRES­COTT IS­LE FA­ILS; PO­LI­CE IN­TER­RO­GA­TING MEM­BERS OF FA­MILY

  If the new­s­ho­unds pro­bed de­ep eno­ugh, dug de­ep eno­ugh, my own story co­uld be­co­me part of a tab­lo­id frenzy, which wo­uld then spill over in­to the ma­in­s­t­re­am press thro­ugh ar­tic­les sa­ga­ci­o­usly reg­ret­ting sle­aze jo­ur­na­lism but qu­ite tho­ro­ughly re­pe­ating and re­lis­hing each and every char­ge, every ru­mor and in­nu­en­do, no mat­ter how sen­sa­ti­onal.

  And I had a sec­ret I was de­ter­mi­ned-no mat­ter

  what it cost-to con­ce­al. Now I, too, wan­ted des­pe­ra­tely to avo­id po­li­ce in­vol­ve­ment.

  So I'd damn well bet­ter fi­gu­re this out and fi­gu­re it out fast.

  "Henrie O, gi­ve it twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs. That's all I ask. Twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs. If you're stymi­ed by this ti­me to­mor­row, I'll eit­her get the aut­ho­ri­ti­es in or ever­yo­ne will le­ave the is­land."

  Twenty- four ho­urs. Cha­se was ag­re­e­ing to con­s­tant com­pa­ni­on­s­hip for that pe­ri­od. Cer­ta­inly we sho­uld, with ever­yo­ne alert, be ab­le to ke­ep him sa­fe for twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs.

  And I had twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs to me­et a de­ad­li­ne that sud­denly me­ant as much to me as it did to him.

  "All right. I'll try." I lo­oked swiftly away from the gra­ti­tu­de in his fa­ce and sa­id brus­qu­ely, "Ro­ger, ple­ase le­ad the way back to the ho­use. Ever­yo­ne, ex­cept for Tre­vor, is to fol­low you. En­ri­que, you go last. Ke­ep yo­ur eyes open. No­ti­ce if an­yo­ne to­uc­hes an­y­t­hing on the path-or off of it, for that mat­ter. Ever­yo­ne ke­ep an eye on his ne­ig­h­bor and -"

  A scowl twis­ted Lyle's pug­na­ci­o­us fa­ce. "Why is Tre­vor yo­ur buddy?"

  "When I he­ard the shots, h^ was stan­ding right be­si­de me. I am cer­ta­in he didn't sho­ot at Cha­se. He knows I didn't. So if he's ag­re­e­ab­le, we'll do a pre­li­mi­nary exa­mi­na­ti­on he­re. The rest of you are to stay to­get­her. Eat lunch, then" - I glan­ced at my watch - "we'll me­et in the li­ving ro­om abo­ut one."

  As they wal­ked away, Ro­ger in the le­ad, I chec­ked them out. All wo­re ca­su­al clot­hes. No one was car­rying a gun.

  So the gun was eit­her hid­den so­mew­he­re ne­arby

  or the mar­k­s­man had tos­sed it as far as pos­sib­le in­to the tan­g­le of se­mit­ro­pi­cal fo­li­age.

  If the lat­ter we­re true, the gun wo­uld be fo­und only by the gre­atest go­od luck.

  After a pro for­ma obj­ec­ti­on-"As an of­fi­cer of the co­urt, I fe­el I must in­sist that the pro­per aut­ho­ri­ti­es be no­ti­fi­ed" -Tre­vor tur­ned out to be an ag­re­e­ab­le pu­pil. We wor­ked in tan­dem. As I di­rec­ted him, he ma­de a sketch of the cri­me sce­ne. We had to es­ti­ma­te dis­tan­ces, but it was clo­se eno­ugh. The bul­lets that had rip­ped thro­ugh the can­vas we­re easy to spot on the sto­ne flo­or. Three of them. I had just sus­pi­ci­o­us eno­ugh a mind to fo­re­see cla­ims of ma­nu­fac­tu­red evi­den­ce if I did this on my own
. The first im­pe­ra­ti­ve was to be su­re we had an ac­cu­ra­te des­c­rip­ti­on of the sce­ne, one we co­uld turn over to in­ves­ti­ga­tors at a la­ter ti­me.

  The only physi­cal tra­ces of the at­tack we­re the knoc­ked-over easel, the trio of bul­let ho­les in the can­vas, the blo­ody path of Cha­se's fran­tic scram­b­le to shel­ter, and the bul­lets. To the na­ked eye, they we­re simply mis­sha­pen lumps of le­ad, but a la­bo­ra­tory co­uld link them to a par­ti­cu­lar gun. Tre­vor ca­re­ful­ly sket­c­hed the­ir po­si­ti­on re­la­ti­ve to the easel.

  That was the easy part.

  Then ca­me the pa­in­s­ta­king, slow, scratchy bu­si­ness of se­ar­c­hing for the mar­k­s­man's van­ta­ge po­int. I kept an eye out for po­ison ivy and po­ison oak.

  We wor­ked in si­len­ce. I had plenty of qu­es­ti­ons for Tre­vor, but this te­di­o­us hunt to­ok all our con­cen­t­ra­ti­on. Mos­qu­ito­es whi­ned and bit. Tre­vor sne­ezed from the fo­li­age. I was bat­hed in swe­at.

  "Look!" Tri­um­p­hantly, Tre­vor held asi­de a plu­me of fern.

  A car­t­rid­ge ca­se.

  He re­ac­hed for it.

  "Wait!" I wa­ved Tre­vor back. We we­re abo­ut fi­ve fe­et in­to the wo­ods. From he­re a mar­k­s­man, scre­ened by a fir, had an unob­s­t­ruc­ted vi­ew of Cha­se stan­ding by his easel. Twenty fe­et of sand in­ter­ve­ned be­fo­re the sto­ne plat­form. The easel had be­en in the mid­dle of the plat­form, ad­ding anot­her ten fe­et. All three shots had struck the easel. That was go­od sho­oting even tho­ugh it had mis­sed Cha­se. At the first shot, Cha­se wo­uld ha­ve thrown him­self down im­me­di­ately. A mo­ving tar­get is hard to hit. Or had the at­tac­ker in­ten­ded to miss him?

  I as­ked Tre­vor to sketch the tree, the car­t­rid­ge, and the easel whi­le I con­ti­nu­ed to study the gro­und. I spot­ted the se­cond car­t­rid­ge. The third I co­uldn't find. It co­uld ha­ve ri­coc­he­ted away or fal­len in­to the pi­ne straw. But I felt con­fi­dent we'd pin­po­in­ted the si­te of the sho­oting. When Tre­vor fi­nis­hed his sketch, I eased a hefty frag­ment of oy­s­ter shell un­der the car­t­rid­ges and pla­ced them se­cu­rely on the ed­ge of the plat­form.

  The lo­ca­ti­on told me so­met­hing abo­ut the mar­k­s­man, too. He/s­he had pla­yed it sa­fe, at no ti­me be­co­ming vi­sib­le to Cha­se.

  Was it ca­uti­on or co­war­di­ce?

  Armed, all an­yo­ne had to do was walk up to Cha­se, walk right up to him, and sho­ot.

  It told me a go­od de­al that the at­tac­ker had re­ma­ined at arm's length. That was all of a pi­ece with the anon­y­mity of po­ison.

  Three shots fast.

  Then what?

  Chase, of co­ur­se, had cri­ed out and di­ved for the shed. From he­re it might well ha­ve lo­oked to the at­tac­ker as if he had suc­ce­eded. But the­re wo­uld ha­ve be­en no ti­me to be cer­ta­in, no ti­me to bre­ak out in the open and fi­re in­to the fal­len fi­gu­re be­ca­use the sho­uts and calls wo­uld ha­ve be­gun and the rush of pe­op­le to­ward the po­int.

  There was only the sin­g­le path.

  "Okay, Tre­vor, let's go up this way and see if we can spot whe­re so­me­one co­uld ha­ve hid­den."

  We ga­ve it up mid­way up the path. Su­re, the­re we­re pla­ces. Be­hind that twel­ve-fo­ot stand of Spa­nish ba­yo­net. Or cro­uc­hed be­hind the ya­upon or bay­ber­ry shrubs. The most li­kely was a patch of trod­den gras­ses and ferns abo­ut a third of the way up the path. But it may ha­ve be­en vi­si­ted by a dif­fe­rent pre­da­tor. In one pi­ece of mo­ist gro­und I saw a rag­ged im­p­rint of an al­li­ga­tor's ta­il.

  We sco­uted that area well. No gun. We lo­oked aga­in whe­re we'd fo­und the car­t­rid­ges. No gun.

  I ga­zed at the den­se tan­g­le of vi­nes and shrubs and tre­es. "What wo­uld you do if you'd just shot at so­me­body-may­be you think you suc­ce­eded-and you he­ard pe­op­le co­ming?"

  Trevor used his arm to wi­pe the swe­at from his fa­ce. "Throw the damn thing as far as I co­uld and duck be­hind the big­gest clump of shrub I co­uld find," he sa­id grimly.

  Once in my ro­om I slip­ped the car­t­rid­ges from the shell in­to a handy plas­tic bag, which I nes­t­led in a si­de poc­ket of my pur­se. I ma­na­ged a sho­wer, so­ot­hing lo­ti­on on bi­tes, fresh clot­hes, and a qu­ick lunch in twel­ve mi­nu­tes. I went by Cha­se's study, spent a few mi­nu­tes get­ting my sup­pli­es, but I still ma­de it to the li­ving ro­om on ti­me. Tre­vor wasn't with me. I had gi­ven him a spe­ci­al task, and I tho­ught he just had ti­me to do it.

  Everyone, ex­cept Tre­vor, "was in the li­ving ro­om, in­c­lu­ding Ro­sa­lia and Betty.

  I pla­ced a le­gal pad and a han­d­ful of pens on the red-lac­qu­ered cof­fee tab­le, then chec­ked with Cha­se. "You've kept ever­yo­ne to­get­her?"

  "Occasional res­t­ro­om stops, but ever­yo­ne's be­en es­cor­ted di­rectly to and from the ne­arest bat­h­ro­om on this flo­or. No one's had a chan­ce for a pri­va­te con­ver­sa­ti­on. And sin­ce they we­re all in he­re - I told them to stay-I to­ok a sho­wer. If they we­re all in he­re, it was sa­fe eno­ugh." He shot me a half-de­fi­ant, half-em­bar­ras­sed lo­ok. It wasn't, of co­ur­se, strict com­p­li­an­ce with my di­rec­ti­ve. But I un­der­s­to­od. He had to get cle­an. He had to dis­tan­ce him­self from the kind of swe­at -sticky and wet and smelly -that fe­ar cre­ates.

  I fa­ced a ro­om full of une­asy, be­wil­de­red pe­op­le. "I ne­ed ever­yo­ne's co­ope­ra­ti­on. I want each of you to wri­te down in so­me de­ta­il pre­ci­sely whe­re you we­re when you he­ard the shots and yo­ur sub­se­qu­ent ac­ti­ons un­til you re­ac­hed the po­int. When that sta­te­ment is fi­nis­hed and sig­ned and gi­ven to me, you will be free to co­me and go as you ple­ase with the pro­vi­so"- I lo­oked at my we­ary host - "that you, Cha­se,

  stay with Tre­vor for the rest of the day. And I want ever­yo­ne in the ho­use af­ter dark. No wan­de­ring abo­ut alo­ne."

  Chase pat­ted the right hand poc­ket of his blue bla­zer. It bul­ged. "Don't worry. And I want ever­yo­ne to know I'm ar­med."

  "Where did you get it?" How many damn guns we­re the­re on this is­land?

  "From the ca­bin cru­iser. I've had it for ye­ars. You don't tra­vel in the Ca­rib­be­an wit­ho­ut a gun. I ha­ve it, and I know how to use it." His fa­ce was pa­le, but his vo­ice was strong.

  Which ca­me as no sur­p­ri­se to me. Cha­se was the kind of man who wo­uld fight de­ath with every to­ol at his com­mand.

  "Is that the only gun you know abo­ut?"

  "The only one. Who­ever shot at me must ha­ve bro­ught the gun to the is­land." His left eye­lid flic­ke­red. A ner­vo­us tic. I'd ne­ver se­en Cha­se so sha­ken.

  But tho­se bul­lets had co­me clo­se.

  "All right. I don't ha­ve to warn you to ke­ep the damn thing handy. As I re­call, you sho­ot qu­ite, well." My vo­ice was ad­mi­ring. Ac­tu­al­ly, I ne­ver re­cal­led Cha­se ha­ving an­y­t­hing at all to do with guns, but I wan­ted to erect every pos­sib­le psycho­lo­gi­cal bar­ri­er bet­we­en Cha­se and his stal­ker.

  I pic­ked up the le­gal pad and rip­ped out a she­et for each per­son and han­ded the­se out with the pens. I even ga­ve one to Cha­se. "Think back. Try to re­mem­ber the mi­nu­tes just be­fo­re the shots. Clo­se yo­ur eyes. You may re­mem­ber so­met­hing-a smell, a so­und - so­met­hing that pos­sibly co­uld help."

  I wa­ited pa­ti­ently, lis­te­ning to the scrat­c­hing of

  the pens and the oc­ca­si­onal sigh. One of the wri­ters, I knew, was pen­ning a lie.

  Lyle was fol­ding his she­et when the do­or ope­ned and Tre­vor slip­ped in. Go­od-

  I sto­od by the do­or to re­ce­ive the she­ets.

  Lyle ga­ve me a ja­un­di­
ced lo­ok. "Lady, what if it's a nut? What if Cha­se was to­day's tar­get and to­mor­row one of the rest of us gets blown away? It's go­ing to be hard to ex­p­la­in to the cops, isn't it?"

  "Who el­se wo­uld eat a cho­co­la­te tur­t­le from a box on Cha­se's desk?" I as­ked.

  "Yeah." He glan­ced back at Cha­se, al­most spo­ke, then shrug­ged and wal­ked out.

  Miranda, her fa­ce sul­len, pus­hed her she­et to­ward me. "I sho­uld be the one to stay with Cha­se. Why don't I get to stay with him?"

  Before I co­uld an­s­wer, her gir­lish fa­ce crum­p­led aga­in in te­ars. She hur­ri­ed blindly past me.

  Chase didn't no­ti­ce. He sto­od stiffly by the Adam man­tel, his hand clas­ped tightly to the gun-bul­ked poc­ket of his bla­zer.

 

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