Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  As I ca­me out of the fo­rest and tur­ned to­ward the ma­in­te­nan­ce bu­il­ding, I saw that the do­or was shut.

  I he­si­ta­ted.

  Enrique was pro­bably back in the ma­in ho­use.

  But it wo­uldn't hurt to ta­ke a qu­ick lo­ok thro­ugh the bu­il­ding myself and to lo­ok mo­re clo­sely than I had be­fo­re.

  I ope­ned the do­or and step­ped in­si­de.

  Enrique had left the light on. Per­haps he ex­pec­ted to re­turn so­on. Per­haps it was simply an ac­k­now­led­g­ment that the­re was no lon­ger a re­ason to con­ser­ve elec­t­ri­city.

  If the storm swam­ped the is­land, this bu­il­ding wo­uld be swept away, and with it, of co­ur­se, the ge­ne­ra­tor.

  Why not le­ave the light on?

  I tri­ed not to lo­ok at the rem­nants of Has­kell's des­pe­ra­te work. I still car­ri­ed with me in my he­ad the howl of the fren­zi­ed oce­an, a ro­ar so de­ep and per­va­si­ve, so in­hu­man and in­cal­cu­lab­le that it num­bed the mind. To be ad­rift in its midst wo­uld be so ter­rif­ying, so dre­ad­ful…

  Con­cen­t­ra­te.

  I ope­ned cup­bo­ards, clo­sets, bo­xes.

  I didn't ha­ve ti­me to se­arch every pos­sib­le hi­ding pla­ce. But I wasn't lo­oking for a hi­ding pla­ce. I wan­ted to know if dyna­mi­te had be­en sto­red he­re, for wha­te­ver re­ason. If it had, that fact co­uld be known by tho­se who re­gu­larly used the ma­in­te­nan­ce bu­il­ding. That wo­uld in­c­lu­de En­ri­que, the cle­aning and work crews that vi­si­ted the is­land every we­ek, and, pos­sibly, Cha­se.

  I fo­und no tra­ce of dyna­mi­te an­y­w­he­re.

  Dynamite?" Bur­ton's vo­ice bro­ke in a squ­e­ak. "I don't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut dyna­mi­te. Why wo­uld I? I'm a sec­re­tary, not a wor­k­man." His fa­ce no lon­ger ap­pe­ared bo­yish. But the fa­int stub­ble of fa­ir be­ard on his che­eks lo­oked se­edy rat­her than mas­cu­li­ne,

  like a downy duck ca­ught in a win­d­s­torm. He ca­ught my wrist in a grip of sur­p­ri­sing strength.

  "Are we go­ing to get out of he­re? You know things. Is it all right? Is this just so­me kind of hi­de­o­us joke so­me­one's pla­ying? To sca­re us? The is­land won't di­sap­pe­ar in the wa­ter, will it? Will it?" His eyes bul­ged. Hyste­ria wasn't far dis­tant.

  I tri­ed to be re­as­su­ring. "It's hard to say what might hap­pen, Bur­ton. A lot will de­pend on whe­re the storm stri­kes. If it's clo­se, we might be in tro­ub­le. But hur­ri­ca­nes are odd. It co­uld turn and stre­ak out to sea, or it co­uld ve­er to the west, swe­ep over Flo­ri­da and mo­ve in­to the gulf."

  "Mrs. Col­lins" - his vo­ice was a husky whis­per- "do you think so­me­body's in­sa­ne?"

  Enrique's shirt had pul­led out of his tro­users. His sle­eves we­re rol­led up past his el­bows. Swe­at stre­aked his swarthy fa­ce. Blo­od wel­led from an angry scratch ac­ross the back of his right hand. He ham­me­red with swift, com­pe­tent gra­ce.

  For a mo­ment I tho­ught he wasn't go­ing to an­s­wer. Then he pa­used to wi­pe his fa­ce with his sle­eve. "Dyna­mi­te? On the is­land? No." He tur­ned, grab­bed anot­her bo­ard, slam­med it in­to pla­ce. As the ham­mer thud­ded, he swo­re in a mo­no­to­ne, one hos­ti­le ob­s­ce­ne phra­se af­ter anot­her, des­c­ri­bing the an­te­ce­dents, li­fes­t­y­le prac­ti­ces, and in­tel­li­gen­ce of who­ever had ig­ni­ted the ex­p­lo­si­on abo­ard the Mi­ran­da B.

  I didn't do­ubt his sin­ce­rity.

  I fo­und Cha­se pa­cing the up­s­ta­irs bal­cony, lo­oking out at the mist-swept so­und and the jag­ged pe­aks of whi­te fo­am. The wind had eased con­si­de­rably, but I knew bet­ter than to ta­ke com­fort. This was simply a lull.

  He swung aro­und as I step­ped out on­to the bal­cony.

  "Any word? Ha­ve we got thro­ugh yet? Ma­de any con­tact?" He was still angry and, I think, as­to­nis­hed, at what had hap­pe­ned, at the fact that so­me­one had da­red to ta­unt him li­ke this.

  "I don't think so. I'll check with Tre­vor. I've be­en no­sing aro­und. Trying to fi­gu­re out who co­uld ha­ve set the ex­p­lo­si­ves." I shi­ve­red in the wind. I was wet thro­ugh from my walk.

  He sho­ok his he­ad im­pa­ti­ently. "That do­esn't mat­ter now. God, we've got to get out of he­re. If the­re we­re so­met­hing, an­y­t­hing…" He swung aro­und, stro­de to the ra­iling, and grip­ped it.

  I ca­me up be­si­de him.

  "Come dow­n­s­ta­irs, Cha­se. Ro­sa­lia sa­id bre­ak­fast will be re­ady at se­ven." The con­dem­ned man ate a he­arty bre­ak­fast. Yes, I'd writ­ten that on­ce, ye­ars ago. The only for­mal exe­cu­ti­on I ever co­ve­re4- I still fe­el a so­ur cur­d­ling in my thro­at when I re­mem­ber it.

  "Breakfast." He re­pe­ated it as if it we­re a word he'd ne­ver he­ard. He let go of the ra­iling, jam­med his hands in his jac­ket poc­kets. He wo­re a crim­son and navy nylon warm-up that se­emed in­con­g­ru­o­usly che­er­ful.

  "We ne­ed the no­uris­h­ment. Co­me on, Cha­se." I star­ted for the do­or­way.

  He sta­red out at the so­und aga­in. "I don't know

  what to do." Frus­t­ra­ti­on and an­ger har­s­he­ned his vo­ice.

  "We're do­ing all that we can," I sa­id qu­i­etly. I lo­oked up at him, his fi­ne-bo­ned fa­ce now ta­ut with an­xi­ety, and tho­ught that he was-per­haps for the first ti­me in his li­fe-ca­ught up in cir­cum­s­tan­ces that not even one of the ric­hest men in the world co­uld con­t­rol.

  It gal­led him.

  "Chase?" I ma­na­ged a smi­le. "Do you want my ta­ke on it?"

  Some of the ten­si­on eased out of his body. His eyes brig­h­te­ned. "Su­re. I re­mem­ber press par­ti­es when you'd wrap a red ker­c­hi­ef aro­und yo­ur ha­ir and put on hu­ge gold ho­op ear­rings and tell ever­y­body's for­tu­ne. Ha­ve at it, Hen­rie O."

  I'm af­ra­id my smi­le wa­ve­red for an in­s­tant. I, too, re­mem­be­red tho­se par­ti­es-and the ti­me I held his hand, so tightly, and told him a dark yo­ung wo­man wo­uld be his wi­fe and his hel­p­me­et for li­fe. But we all know how much stock to pla­ce in for­tu­ne-tel­lers.

  I be­gan to talk ra­pidly, both to drown out me­mory and to be he­ard abo­ve the fres­he­ning wind.

  "A free pre­dic­ti­on, won't cost you a cent." I lif­ted my vo­ice in a re­edy sin­g­song. "Lis­ten to a Gypsy who's tra­ve­led this sea. The storm will pass by, we'll he­ave a gre­at sigh. Su­re as pi­ra­tes lo­ve pi­eces of eight, to­night we'll gat­her to ce­leb­ra­te."

  He ga­ve me an odd smi­le.

  I felt ab­surdly ple­ased to ha­ve lig­h­te­ned his mo­od, even if only for an in­s­tant.

  "Pieces of eight." His eyes had a fa­ra­way shi­ne. "Funny how ro­man­tic it so­un­ds-and it's only

  money. Mo­ney. So­me­ti­mes it isn't eno­ugh." He lo­oked back to­ward the wa­ter. His fa­ce har­de­ned. "And so­me­ti­mes it is. Co­me on, Hen­rie O. Let's go dow­n­s­ta­irs. What the hell, you may be right." At the fo­ot of the sta­irs he pa­used for an in­s­tant, then sa­id, "Go on out for bre­ak­fast. Let's ke­ep to a re­gu­lar sche­du­le. It will en­co­ura­ge ever­y­body. I'm go­ing to check on Mi­ran­da, then I'll swim."

  Lyle wor­ked the te­lep­ho­ne. He pa­used long eno­ugh to sha­ke his he­ad at the of­fer of fo­od. "Just cof­fee, okay?" His sa­va­gely red ha­ir bris­t­led in un­ruly curls. He hadn't sha­ved and thick red stub­ble co­ve­red his che­eks. He wo­re kha­ki shorts and a T-shirt. He hun­c­hed over the pho­ne, di­aling, tal­king, cut­ting the con­nec­ti­on, di­aling, tal­king…

  I was pus­hing open the do­or to the di­ning ro­om when I he­ard the chan­ge in his vo­ice.

  "Sa­van­nah? Co­ast Gu­ard Gro­up Sa­van­nah? Stran­ded party of ele­ven se­eks res­cue. Sea is­land 3250.
5 north, 8055.1 west. Stran­ded party of ele­ven…"

  I swung aro­und, hur­ri­ed back to him.

  He ga­ve the mes­sa­ge over and over. The ho­pe in his vo­ice les­se­ned with each re­pe­ti­ti­on. Fi­nal­ly he stop­ped, bre­at­hing de­eply. "I he­ard so­met­hing. I think we had a con­nec­ti­on. Just for an in­s­tant. I don't know if it was long eno­ugh. But, by God, it's so­met­hing. And if it hap­pe­ned on­ce -" He pun­c­hed the but­tons exu­be­rantly.

  Hope is so much bet­ter than des­pa­ir.

  I was a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sed when I en­te­red the di­ning

  room to find it empty. Ro­sa­lia had pro­mi­sed bre­ak­fast at se­ven and it was now a few mi­nu­tes past. Then I saw thro­ugh the French do­ors that En­ri­que and Betty we­re set­ting out the ser­ving dis­hes on the si­de­bo­ard on the pa­tio.

  I ope­ned the do­ors and smel­led ba­con and sa­usa­ge and che­ese grits-and the swe­etish, he­avy, wet-fo­li­age scent that fol­lows a dren­c­hing ra­in. A glum, grimly qu­i­et gro­up oc­cu­pi­ed the two tab­les.

  I won­de­red bri­efly why on earth bre­ak­fast wasn't be­ing ser­ved in the di­ning ro­om. It wo­uld cer­ta­inly ha­ve be­en far mo­re che­er­ful than to be out­si­de on an over­cast, sultry mor­ning li­ke this. The wind had les­se­ned, tho­ugh the palm fronds still flut­te­red. But I sup­po­sed in the af­ter­math of the ex­p­lo­si­on no one had ta­ken ti­me to di­rect Ro­sa­lia to chan­ge the lo­ca­ti­on-and of co­ur­se that wasn't her de­ci­si­on to ma­ke. Mi­ran­da wasn't among tho­se on the porch. It sho­uld ha­ve be­en her call. Or Cha­se's.

  "Good news," I sa­id briskly.

  Every fa­ce tur­ned to­ward me.

  The men star­ted to ri­se. I mo­ti­oned them to ke­ep the­ir se­ats. "Lyle just ma­de mo­men­tary con­tact with the Sa­van­nah Co­ast Gu­ard sta­ti­on. He do­esn't know how much they got, but they got so­met­hing. And now he's con­ti­nu­ing to call. And he'd lo­ve so­me cof­fee, Betty." I cros­sed to the first tab­le, grab­bed up a cof­fee ther­mos, and po­ured the hot, ste­aming brew al­most to the brim of a crim­son pot­tery mug. Usu­al­ly I add two ge­ne­ro­us dol­lops of milk. This mor­ning I wan­ted it black, hot, and strong.

  Rosalia hadn't chan­ged the si­te of bre­ak­fast, but

  she had swit­c­hed the bre­ak­fast dis­hes from de­li­ca­te chi­na to brightly hu­ed pot­tery.

  "Hey, that's gre­at." Ro­ger's fa­ce cre­ased in a de­lig­h­ted smi­le. He had sha­ved, nic­king his left ear. A spot of blo­od sta­ined his yel­low po­lo shirt. "Best news I've had in a hell of a long ti­me." He splas­hed map­le syrup li­be­ral­ly over his waf­fle. "Co­me on and ha­ve so­me bre­ak­fast, Mrs. Col­lins. May­be the Co­ast Gu­ard will get he­re be­fo­re we fi­nish." He twis­ted to lo­ok out ac­ross the wa­ter­log­ged gar­dens at the whi­te-cap-la­ced so­und.

  I lo­oked, too, but at a sky la­den with knobby clumps of pur­p­lish-black clo­uds. To the so­uth, lig­h­t­ning flic­ke­red be­hind the bul­ges of clo­ud that stret­c­hed from ho­ri­zon to ho­ri­zon, lo­oking as if they'd be­en go­uged out of sla­te.

  I to­ok a hu­ge gulp of the cof­fee. God, it was hot.

  Trevor spo­oned su­gar in­to his mug. "Mo­men­tary? " he re­pe­ated. Oddly, he was the le­ast al­te­red in ap­pe­aran­ce from the pre­vi­o­us days. His curly blond ha­ir was ne­atly brus­hed, his fa­ce smo­othly sha­ven, his pa­le pink sports shirt crisp and fresh. But his vo­ice was tight and sharp.

  "You me­an he didn't re­al­ly talk to the Co­ast Gu­ard, don't you?" Bur­ton de­man­ded shrilly. "So why get our ho­pes up? No­body's co­ming. I know no­body's - "

  Valerie twis­ted sud­denly and slap­ped Bur­ton hard. "Shut up, lit­tle man." Shoc­ked, we fell si­lent as she con­ti­nu­ed with wit­he­ring con­tempt, "See if you can't at le­ast pre­tend you're a man. Don't you know, if the ship's go­ing down, we might as well enj­oy a last

  good bre­ak­fast." She re­ac­hed for a blu­eber­ry muf­fin. "At le­ast the fo­od's dam­ned go­od."

  Burton pres­sed a sha­king hand aga­inst the red welt her ring had ma­de. Te­ars glis­te­ned in his eyes.

  I lif­ted my vo­ice. "The po­int is, we do ha­ve a chan­ce."

  Valerie lif­ted an ele­gantly pen­ci­led eyeb­row. "Co­me this way aga­in so­me­ti­me when you've got mo­re go­od news." She po­ked thro­ugh the roll bas­ket, pic­ked out two mi­ni­atu­re che­ese-top­ped swe­et rolls.

  "My ple­asu­re," I res­pon­ded over my sho­ul­der with a flic­ker of a smi­le. I li­ke spi­rit.

  I wal­ked swiftly to­ward the po­ol. I co­uld ha­ve •wa­ited un­til Cha­se fi­nis­hed his wor­ko­ut, but he wo­uld want to know im­me­di­ately.

  I stop­ped at the shal­low end of the po­ol. The swe­et, smo­oth so­und of "My Is­le of Gol­den Dre­ams" con­t­ras­ted sharply with the in­ter­mit­tent but ra­pidly in­c­re­asing growls of thun­der.

  Chase kni­fed thro­ugh the wa­ter, his arms sli­cing li­ke pis­tons, his he­ad tur­ning and dra­wing air in as his legs thrum­med the wa­ter in a fo­ur-fo­ur be­at.

  As he ne­ared, ob­li­vi­o­us to my pre­sen­ce, re­ady to ma­ke his flip turn, I yel­led, "Cha­se. Cha­se!"

  He pul­led up, sto­od, his chest he­aving, wa­ter glis­te­ning aga­inst his skin, his fa­ce ruddy with exer­ti­on.

  "Chase" - I co­uldn't ke­ep the joy out of my vo­ice - "bri­ef con­tact with the Co­ast Gu­ard. Lyle do­esn't know how much they he­ard, but it was so­met­hing. Our first bre­ak."

  "Good," he sa­id simply. He loc­ked both hands and slam­med the wa­ter. A plu­me of wa­ter gey­se­red up and splas­hed over me.

  "God, I knew it." This 'was Cha­se at his most con­fi­dent, his vo­ice de­ep and full of ex­ci­te­ment. "They'll co­me. They're smart bas­tards, Hen­rie O. They're pro­bably scan­ning the area for our sig­nals right now. They'll find us." He lo­oked up at the sky, his eyes in­tent. "He­li­cop­ters. I'll bet they're he­re wit­hin a half ho­ur."

  "Chase, Cha­se, it was just a con­tact. Not­hing that de­fi­ni­te." But his sud­den con­fi­den­ce ma­de me smi­le.

  He was re­vi­ta­li­zed, his dark eyes flas­hing, a tri­um­p­hant smi­le lig­h­ting his han­d­so­me fa­ce. He grip­ped the po­ol ed­ge, pul­led him­self up, and sto­od be­si­de me, lit­he and strong. "Qkay." He lo­oked down at me, an odd mix­tu­re of ple­asu­re and pa­in in his eyes. "I'm al­ways lucky when you're aro­und, Hen­rie O."

  I ca­ught the in­tent in his eyes just in ti­me and to­ok a bac­k­ward step to es­ca­pe his exu­be­rant em­b­ra­ce. Out of the cor­ner of my eye I saw Mi­ran­da stan­ding in the French do­ors of the­ir qu­ar­ters.

  "Well," I sa­id lightly, "if they're go­ing to be he­re in half an ho­ur, you'd bet­ter get dres­sed, Cha­se. I think I'll ha­ve so­me bre­ak­fast."

  "Yeah." He grab­bed a to­wel from the back of a deck cha­ir. "Gre­at idea." He shi­ve­red, he­si­ta­ted, then sa­id briskly, "But I'm go­ing to get warm first."

  Lightning splin­te­red the sky. Thun­der bo­omed.

  It was clo­ser now.

  Not he­re yet.

  But clo­se.

  Chase star­ted up the path to the hot tub.

  I al­most cal­led out to him. A hot tub wo­uldn't be

  my cho­ice with an elec­t­ri­cal storm co­ming. But I've ne­ver suc­cum­bed to ma­ter­nal in­s­tincts with men.

  I won­de­red if we'd ha­ve ti­me to fi­nish bre­ak­fast be­fo­re the ra­ins be­gan. The sac­cha­ri­ne Ha­wa­i­i­an mu­sic was now sul­lenly co­un­ter­po­in­ted by an al­most con­s­tant mur­mur of thun­der.

  I pul­led out a cha­ir to jo­in Ro­ger's tab­le.

  Chase hur­ri­ed up the wo­oden steps of the hot tub and jum­ped in­to the frot­hing wa­ter.

  He didn't scre­a
m.

  It was mo­re of a yelp, a sud­den stric­tu­re of the vo­cal cords. His body ar­c­hed, an un­mis­ta­kab­le, vi­olent, shi­ve­ring con­tor­ti­on. With that sin­g­le stran­g­led so­und he slid smo­othly be­ne­ath the chur­ning, gur­g­ling wa­ter.

  11

  Don't!" I cri­ed. "Don't go

  near it. Don't!" My vo­ice was ter­rib­le, a ras­ping, des­pe­ra­te cry.

  It stop­ped them. Mi­ran­da, arms out­s­t­ret­c­hed, hal­ted only a few fe­et from the red­wo­od tub.

  "My Is­le of Gol­den Dre­ams" con­ti­nu­ed to play.