Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 18

by Carolyn G. Hart

  There was no sen­se of an­ger or ur­gency, and cer­ta­inly no­ne of fe­ar.

  "Some of you-tho­se of you who are old salts - can't ha­ve hel­ped no­ti­cing the de­te­ri­ora­ti­on in our we­at­her. My step­son's be­en mo­ni­to­ring the prog­ress of the storm on our ship ra­dio, as has En­ri­que. The up­s­hot is, we'll le­ave the is­land af­ter bre­ak­fast to­mor­row and re­turn to the ma­in­land." His fa­ce har­de­ned. "This mor­ning I in­di­ca­ted we'd stay he­re un­til we knew the truth of the shots that we­re fi­red." He pa­used for a long mo­ment, his mo­uth com­p­res­sed,

  then ma­na­ged a wry smi­le. "This af­ter­no­on my le­gal co­un­sel con­vin­ced me that was an un­wi­se de­ci­si­on. Fur­t­her, I be­ca­me awa­re of our we­at­her si­tu­ati­on. And fi­nal­ly, I de­ci­ded I didn't li­ke the idea of con­ti­nu­ing as a sit­ting duck. So the de­ci­si­on's be­en ma­de. Let's enj­oy our din­ner and our eve­ning. To­mor­row mor­ning we le­ave."

  Dinner was al­most fes­ti­ve. So­me­ti­mes the la­ug­h­ter se­emed for­ced. But the­re was cer­ta­inly an un­der­cur­rent of re­la­xa­ti­on. Cha­se was ma­king every ef­fort to charm. He went out of his way to spe­ak ge­ni­al­ly to Tre­vor and even res­to­red prickly Va­le­rie to go­od hu­mor, pro­mi­sing to lo­ok over her play. "It wo­uld be fun to back a show aga­in. Gi­ve Mi­ran­da and me an ex­cu­se to spend mo­re ti­me in New York." And he ga­ve Va­le­rie's arm a fri­endly squ­e­eze.

  I was glad, truth to tell, to ha­ve the bur­den of this in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on lif­ted from me. And per­haps I co­uld get myself de­le­ted from an of­fi­ci­al list of sus­pects, if the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on was han­ded over to the po­li­ce. Af­ter all, I'd be­en now­he­re ne­ar Cha­se's New York brown-sto­ne when the po­iso­ned candy kil­led the dog and Tre­vor and I had be­en stan­ding to­get­her when this mor­ning's shots we­re fi­red. I held tight to that ho­pe. Per­haps I co­uld slip away un­no­ti­ced, un­he­ral­ded. Be­ca­use if the jac­kals star­ted dig­ging in­to my past…

  I felt al­most re­la­xed. I fo­re­saw my own es­ca­pe from the tur­mo­il of Cha­se's prob­lems. Ho­we­ver, I still in­ten­ded to get out of Cha­se's will. And I cer­ta­inly had much to say to him abo­ut Ro­sa­lia. But all of that co­uld be han­d­led easily eno­ugh. Then I co­uld re­turn to my li­fe, free at last of Cha­se and his grip on my past. I had co­me when sum­mo­ned. I hadn't ac-

  complished Cha­se's obj­ec­ti­ve, but I felt that I had go­ne a long way to pay an old debt.

  In any event, I was no lon­ger in­vol­ved.

  But, as we wal­ked out of the di­ning ro­om, Cha­se le­aned to­ward me and sa­id, "Co­me to my study. In half an ho­ur."

  9

  Chase le­aned aga­inst the

  mantel abo­ve the un­lit fi­rep­la­ce and wa­ited for me to an­s­wer his re­qu­est, a re­qu­est I de­fi­ni­tely wan­ted to re­j­ect. He was frow­ning, as he al­ways frow­ned when it ap­pe­ared he might not ha­ve his way. But his pre­sen­ta­ti­on to­night had lac­ked the for­ce and fury of our pre­vi­o­us en­co­un­ter. He was de­ter­mi­ned, yes, but to­night he no lon­ger lo­oked dri­ven and fe­ve­rish. His fa­ce was calm. He smo­ked, but he lif­ted the ci­ga­ret­te to his mo­uth al­most ab­sen­t­min­dedly.

  I sip­ped the aro­ma­tic and sin­ful­ly de­li­ci­o­us cho­co­la­te li­qu­e­ur and felt the emo­ti­onal shac­k­les slip­ping aro­und me aga­in. He had la­un­c­hed so swiftly in­to his plea that I hadn't even had a chan­ce to bring up the will and the be­qu­est to me. I wo­uld, no fe­ar of that. But first…

  "Chase, you can't ke­ep tre­ating this li­ke a pri­va­te

  problem. At­tem­p­ted mur­der is a cri­me. Con­tact the po­li­ce." This was what I had sa­id at the very be­gin­ning; this was what I knew must be do­ne, even as I won­de­red how to dis­tan­ce myself from pub­lic no­ti­ce.

  "Do you want he­ad­li­nes?" His dark eyes we­re un­re­adab­le.

  Fury fla­med thro­ugh me for an in­s­tant. What right had he to drag me back in­to his li­fe, to ma­ke me vul­ne­rab­le to ex­po­su­re?

  But I knew the an­s­wer to that.

  There are rights and rights, and I had not al­ways ac­cor­ded Cha­se what be­lon­ged to him.

  "Henrie O" - sud­denly he was all warmth and charm, fo­cu­sing a mag­ne­tic smi­le on me - "you're won­der­ful when you're mad." His mo­uth cur­ved in a ru­eful, for­gi­ve-me smi­le. "I'm sorry. I'm so ob­ses­sed with what's hap­pe­ned to me that I for­get that this isn't yo­ur li­fe, that you ha­ve work and de­ad­li­nes and go­als that ha­ve not­hing to do with me." He res­ted his arm along the man­tel. His fin­gers ab­sently tur­ned the ba­se of a mar­b­le sta­tu­et­te, one of a pa­ir. "The thing abo­ut it is, I ha­ve to find out. Be­ca­use it's po­iso­ning my li­fe. I lo­ok at my son -and Ro­ger and I ha­ve had our prob­lems. He's a vi­si­onary, li­ke his mot­her. He wants the world to be go­od, but he hasn't le­ar­ned that you can't for­ce pe­op­le to be go­od. I lo­ok at my son, and I won­der, 'Is it you? Are you the one?' I re­ach out for my wi­fe and sud­denly the whis­per's the­re in my mind. 'Are you the one? Are you trying to kill me?' " He grip­ped the sta­tu­et­te. "Or I'm tal­king to Lyle. Lyle. God, I can't tell you, Hen­rie O, it's li­ke be­ing born aga­in. Can you un­der­s­tand that? He's what I was when I was yo­ung. Smart. Fast. Six jumps

  ahead of the crowd. He knows he's go­ing to ma­ke it. He's got that de­si­re that won't be qu­en­c­hed. And he's go­ing to ta­ke Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons in­to the next cen­tury. He's go­ing to ma­ke Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons the most im­por­tant me­dia con­g­lo­me­ra­te in the world. In the world, Hen­rie O, not just Ame­ri­ca or Euro­pe. I've felt twenty ye­ars yo­un­ger ever sin­ce Lyle ca­me. I lo­ok at Lyle, and I think, 'Was it you? Was it you " Cha­se sta­red at me. "I've got to know. And the hell of it is, I know the po­li­ce won't fi­gu­re it. It's go­ing to ta­ke the kind of in­s­tinct they don't te­ach at po­li­ce aca­de­mi­es. It's go­ing to ta­ke the kind of in­s­tinct you've got, Hen­rie O."

  I lo­oked at him over the rim of the crystal li­qu­e­ur glass. The po­ig­nancy of his cry to­uc­hed my he­art.

  Was it you? Was it you?

  How ter­rib­le and ul­ti­ma­tely how des­t­ruc­ti­ve of trust and lo­ve to lo­ok at a fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce and he­ar that dre­ad­ful qu­es­ti­on in yo­ur mind.

  Chase's eyes gle­amed. "Hen­rie O, you will stick with it, won't you?" The re­li­ef in his vo­ice la­id anot­her bur­den on me. He co­uldn't hi­de his de­light. "God, I knew I co­uld co­unt on you. When we get back on the ma­in­land, you can get yo­ur own in­for­ma­ti­on on ever­yo­ne. You'll ha­ve an un­li­mi­ted ex­pen­se ac­co­unt, of co­ur­se, and an­y­t­hing I can do to help, I will."

  He sto­od tri­um­p­hant in front of the fi­rep­la­ce, he­ad high, hands jam­med in­to the poc­kets of his bla­zer.

  I sta­red at him grimly. Was I ac­qu­i­es­cing be­ca­use he ne­eded me? Or was I ta­king anot­her des­pe­ra­te step to ke­ep this in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on out of the pub­lic eye?

  "If I'm to do it, Cha­se, I will cer­ta­inly ne­ed yo­ur help. Mo­re help than you've gi­ven so far. Why didn't you tell me abo­ut the Lloyd's of Lon­don po­licy?"

  The eager­ness se­eped out of his fa­ce. On­ce aga­in he was con­f­ron­ting the re­ality of mur­de­ro­us in­tent be­hind a fa­mi­li­ar smi­le. "Lyle." That was all he sa­id. "I don't want it to be Lyle." He ga­ve me a half-wo­eful, half-amu­sed lo­ok. "But then I don't want it to be an­y­body. And I still ke­ep thin­king, This is nuts, this is crazy, this can't be hap­pe­ning. But it is. And I think abo­ut Mi­ran­da. She's… she's so lo­vely, so yo­ung. She thinks I'm won­der­ful. I can't help li­king that. No one can. It's bet­ter than the most po­wer­ful nar­co­tic. But
, the truth is, and I gu­ess she knows it, de­ep down, I don't lo­ve her the way she lo­ves me. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I wo­uld if I co­uld, but the truth is"-and he pa­used, se­ar­c­hing for words, trying him­self to un­der­s­tand - "I gu­ess I'm not a per­son who's ever be­en ab­le to fo­cus on lo­ve. I've fo­ught and bat­tled and strug­gled all my li­fe. I've tri­ed to be go­od to ever­yo­ne. But I've ne­ver re­al­ly lo­ved…" Now he did lo­ok at me, and the emo­ti­on in his eyes was un­mis­ta­kab­le. "Except on­ce, Hen­rie O, on­ce when I was yo­ung and the world still held ma­gic."

  "But we are no lon­ger yo­ung." I ma­de it crisp. "Lo­oking back is an exer­ci­se in fu­ti­lity. The mis­ta­kes we've ma­de-all of us-are writ­ten in sto­ne, Cha­se. We ha­ve to li­ve and die with them-and for­gi­ve our­sel­ves, if we can. The po­int, my de­ar, is not to ma­ke mis­ta­kes now, if we can help it. So I'll try to help you find who's be­hind the fal­se fa­ce. But from this mo­ment on I want you to be ab­so­lu­tely ho­nest with me."

  He re­gar­ded me for a long mo­ment, then ga­ve an

  abrupt nod. He pul­led a stra­ight cha­ir clo­se to me and sat. "All right. What do you want to know?"

  "A lot. Let's start with the bo­ok, The Man Who Picks Pre­si­dents. You hi­red a pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve. Who did he in­ves­ti­ga­te?"

  There was a flash of ap­pre­ci­ati­on in his eyes. "Bur­ton. Va­le­rie. Has­kell. Ro­ger. En­ri­que."

  What a re­ve­aling list.

  "Not Mi­ran­da?" The li­qu­e­ur rol­led so easily, so de­li­ci­o­usly over my ton­gue.

  "Miranda?" His vo­ice ro­se in she­er sur­p­ri­se. "She wo­uldn't." His con­fi­den­ce was to­tal. "Be­si­des, most of it she co­uldn't ha­ve known abo­ut-the stuff abo­ut Eli­za­beth and Car­rie and Ro­ger."

  "That stuff. How much of it is true?"

  "It's twis­ted, Hen­rie O, twis­ted. Su­re, I was go­ne a lot. Dam­mit, I was wor­king. Eli­za­beth un­der­s­to­od that. The bas­tard to­ok true things and ma­de them lo­ok ugly."

  That was a start on what I ne­eded to know. How did Cha­se vi­ew the bi­og­raphy? What stung the most?

  "Okay, Cha­se. Hub­bard go­es af­ter you in all are­nas. Fa­mily re­la­ti­on­s­hips. Work et­hics. Bu­si­ness prac­ti­ces." I didn't spa­re him. "What ma­de you mad eno­ugh to fi­le a law­su­it?"

  He fo­und his pack of ci­ga­ret­tes, lit one. His vo­ice was hard. "The dam­nab­le part was abo­ut my fa­mily, an out­right cla­im that I mar­ri­ed Eli­za­beth for her mo­ney, that I sta­yed away from her when she was sick be­ca­use I… be­ca­use I co­uldn't stand to be aro­und an­yo­ne se­ri­o­usly ill, that I ne­ver had an­y­t­hing to do with Ro­ger." His fa­ce was ri­gid with an­ger. "Dam­mit, I had work to do. That was a to­ugh pe­ri­od,

  very to­ugh. We we­re fig­h­ting for sur­vi­val, an an­tit­rust su­it, the edi­tor of our At­lan­ta pa­per had a fa­tal he­art at­tack, the gu­ild struck for six months. It was a hell of a ti­me."

  I ga­ve him a mi­nu­te to calm down. But his an­s­wer ma­de it cle­ar. He knew that the le­aks ca­me from so­me­one who knew him well, so­me­one very clo­se to ho­me.

  "What did yo­ur in­ves­ti­ga­tor find out?" I lo­oked reg­ret­ful­ly in­to my glass. Al­most empty.

  Chase's an­ger fled, sup­plan­ted by ge­nu­ine amu­se­ment. "The dam­ne­dest things. Wo­uld you be­li­eve old Val has a li­ve-in boy­f­ri­end, em­p­ha­sis on boy, a twen­ty-th­ree-ye­ar-old guy na­med Billy with long blond ha­ir? And Bur­ton had a for­mal bu­ri­al with a gra­ni­te sto­ne for his cat, Che­rie, when she di­ed?" He to­ok a last drag on his ci­ga­ret­te, stub­bed it out. "Has-kell ser­ves din­ner at a so­up kit­c­hen twi­ce a we­ek, then drops at le­ast a hun­d­red bucks on Sa­tur­days at the ra­ces. Ro­ger's on every li­be­ral ma­iling list in the co­un­t­ry-if not the world." He sho­ok his he­ad. "The bot­tom li­ne is that no­body's got a fat new bank ac­co­unt he­re or in Swit­zer­land, no­body's ren­ted a sa­fe-de­po­sit box, no­body lo­oks to ha­ve poc­ke­ted a penny from any un­k­nown so­ur­ce, and this guy I hi­red is one of the new brand of com­pu­ter dicks who spe­ci­ali­zes in fin­ding stray bonds or hid­den as­sets."

  I co­uld see how Cha­se had fi­gu­red it: da­ma­ging in­si­nu­ati­ons had be­en tra­ded for mo­ney.

  But per­haps mo­ney hadn't be­en the mo­ti­ve.

  "Burton co­uld be the one. He's what we used to call ma­la­dj­us­ted." Every de­ca­de has its pse­udo-so­ci­al sci­en­ce lin­go. I knew Cha­se wo­uld re­mem­ber the

  gray- flannel-suit days when the epi­to­me of suc­cess was to be well-ro­un­ded, a fi­gu­re of spe­ech as re­ve­aling of its ti­mes as any I've ever he­ard.

  Here at le­ast Cha­se and Has­kell we­re in strong ag­re­ement. "Bur­ton's a wimp." Cha­se's to­ne was dis­mis­si­ve. "He wo­uld p -" He pa­used, and I was amu­sed when I re­ali­zed he was rep­h­ra­sing to avo­id of­fen­se. "He's sca­red to de­ath of me. He's so af­ra­id he'll be bla­med for an­y­t­hing that go­es wrong that it's pat­he­tic. Su­re, I know he's re­sen­t­ful. He lo­oks at me and thinks I'm a rich bas­tard who gets to do an­y­t­hing he wants to do whi­le he has to work his guts out for pen­ni­es. That's true. It's the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en ta­lent and me­di­oc­rity. And I know he's tic­k­led when so­met­hing li­ke that dam­ned bo­ok co­mes out. He lo­ves to see me squ­irm. But he'd ne­ver ta­ke the risk him­self."

  I to­ok the last sip of li­qu­e­ur. "Enri­que ta­kes risks."

  Chase lo­oked at me wa­rily. "So you've pic­ked up on that."

  "Yes. Fe­eding in­for­ma­ti­on to a wri­ter wo­uldn't bot­her him a trif­le. Af­ter all, a man who be­ats his wi­fe wo­uldn't stick at sel­ling in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut his em­p­lo­yer."

  There was a stra­ined si­len­ce.

  Chase's eyes shif­ted away from mi­ne.

  I felt very ti­red. "Cha­se, you know how that man tre­ats Ro­sa­lia, and you ha­ven't do­ne a damn thing abo­ut it."

  He shrug­ged. "All right, so­me­ti­mes I'm a bas­tard. I ne­ver sa­id I was per­fect. But why the hell do­es she put up with it?"

  It didn't sur­p­ri­se me. He had the ar­ro­gant con­fi-

  dence of a rich whi­te ma­le who had ne­ver be­en de­pen­dent, ne­ver in his li­fe. No one had ever physi­cal­ly hurt him or thre­ate­ned him. The world be­lon­ged to him and to men li­ke him. They had a trig­ger-qu­ick dis­da­in for an­yo­ne who wo­uldn't fight back. They didn't be­li­eve in a vic­tim's re­sig­ned ac­cep­tan­ce of abu­se, the vic­tim's pi­ti­ful sen­se of pu­nis­h­ment de­ser­ved.

  "She puts up with it…"I be­gan. Then I sho­ok my he­ad. "She's sca­red and co­wed and emo­ti­onal­ly crip­pled. But you aren't, and you've got the chips. You'll re­medy it?"

  He shot me an exas­pe­ra­ted glan­ce, then qu­ickly sa­id, "Oh, hell, yes. I un­der­s­tand-you're ma­king that a con­di­ti­on. I'll see to it."

  I didn't le­ave it at that. "What will you do?"

  "Oh, she has a sis­ter. I'll send her to vi­sit and ar­ran­ge for so­me co­un­se­ling. I'll talk to En­ri­que, ma­ke it cle­ar he's out on his ass if it ever hap­pens aga­in."

  "I will talk to En­ri­que, too." And he'd lis­ten. If he wan­ted to ke­ep his job, he'd lis­ten. Ha­ting every mi­nu­te of it, fin­gers it­c­hing to stri­ke out at me, En­ri­que wo­uld lis­ten.

  "Enrique." Cha­se fum­b­led for anot­her ci­ga­ret­te. "Frankly, I'd be de­lig­h­ted if it was En­ri­que. He's a hi­red hand. He's not my wi­fe or son or step­son. But I can't see why the hell he'd do it. He li­kes mo­ney, su­re, but wo­uld he ta­ke a chan­ce on lo­sing his job? I pay han­d­so­mely, mo­re than he'd ever ma­ke an­y­w­he­re el­se. No, I don't see him as the so­ur­ce for that gar­ba­ge in the bo­ok. I had him lo­oked over be­ca­use I />
  don't trust him. He d do an­y­t­hing that wo­uld ad­van­ce him­self, but he's not stu­pid."

  "Maybe he'd li­ke to get his hands on what you've left him and Ro­sa­lia." I re­ac­hed up and un­c­las­ped an ear­ring that was be­gin­ning to pinch.

  Chase's fa­ce was fully il­lu­mi­na­ted by the bron­ze flo­or lamp be­hind his cha­ir. I stu­di­ed the dark hol­lows be­ne­ath his eyes, the stra­ight, pat­ri­ci­an no­se, the firm jaw and de­ter­mi­ned mo­uth. I saw the swift ap­pra­isal in his eyes, fol­lo­wed by al­most in­s­tant ne­ga­ti­on.

  "If I we­re fo­ol eno­ugh to bro­ad­cast the con­tents of my will, yes, En­ri­que might be tem­p­ted. But no one knows what's in that will, Hen­rie O, ex­cept my at­tor­ney, myself-and now you."

  "But that isn't true of the in­fa­mo­us in­su­ran­ce po­licy, is it?"

  "No."

  "As for the will it­self, fa­mily mem­bers ha­ve no re­ason to as­su­me they aren't in­c­lu­ded, right?"

 

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