Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

Chase's body bro­ke the sur­fa­ce and bob­bed fa­ce­down in the fo­amy wa­ter. A de­ad man's flo­at that wasn't a sum­mer­ti­me joke.

  "Don't to­uch an­y­t­hing," I sho­uted. "Mi­ran­da, for God's sa­ke, don't!" I whir­led to En­ri­que. "Qu­ick. The po­wer so­ur­ce. Get it off. Qu­ick. Qu­ick!"

  "Chase." Mi­ran­da's cry was a whim­per, lost in a clo­ser, har­s­her crack of thun­der. Slowly she crum­p­led.

  Enrique half-tur­ned to­ward the bat­h­ho­use, he­si­ta­ted, then swung aro­und and bol­ted off the pa­tio,

  splashing thro­ugh pud­dles to di­sap­pe­ar aro­und the si­de of the ho­use.

  The ge­ne­ra­tor, of co­ur­se. That's whe­re he was he­aded. God, yes. The­re was li­kely a fu­se pa­nel in the bat­h­ho­use, but En­ri­que wasn't go­ing to ta­ke any chan­ces.

  Smart.

  Valerie sho­ved back her cha­ir. "My God, what's go­ing on he­re? What's hap­pe­ned to Mi­ran­da? Is she de­ad, too?" She clut­c­hed her nap­kin, her eyes bul­ging as she lo­oked fran­ti­cal­ly aro­und, as if ex­pec­ting de­ath in so­me un­k­nown, un­k­no­wab­le gu­ise to wrap his arms abo­ut her next.

  "She's fa­in­ted," I snap­ped. I whir­led. "Ro­ger, cir­c­le aro­und the tub. Stay the hell away from it. Ta­ke Mi­ran­da in­to the ho­use. Don't let her co­me back out he­re. Tre­vor, help him."

  Trevor Dun­na­way's fa­ce lo­oked li­ke old li­nen left out to mil­dew. Numbly, he nod­ded and pus­hed back his cha­ir.

  I didn't bot­her to ask Bur­ton to help. He hun­c­hed at the tab­le, a half-eaten muf­fin crus­hed in one hand, sta­ring in hor­ror at the hot tub.

  "Dad," Ro­ger sa­id thickly. He was on his fe­et, his fa­ce slack with shock, his eyes gla­zed with hor­ror. "Got to get him out of- Mo­uth-to-mo­uth. Got to - "

  "If you to­uch that wa­ter, you'll be de­ad, too." Ro­ger's hands trem­b­led in mi­ne, li­ke an old man with palsy. "Ro­ger, lis­ten to me. It's too la­te. Only a car­di­ac de­fib­ril­la­tor co­uld get his he­art star­ted aga­in. We don't ha­ve one. The­re's not­hing we can do. Not­hing." Of co­ur­se, Cha­se's de­ath co­uld ha­ve re­sul­ted from in­s­tant as­p­h­y­xia be­ca­use of da­ma­ge to the bra­in stem

  rather than he­art fa­ilu­re. It de­pen­ded on how the cur­rent ran, leg to arm or fo­ot to he­ad. But the­re was no way to bring him back from bra­in-stem da­ma­ge eit­her.

  Don Ho's vo­ice bro­ke off in mid-ly­ric. The lights aro­und the hot tub and on the pa­tio flic­ke­red and then we­re go­ne.

  The si­len­ce was al­most mo­re gro­tes­que.

  I sto­od bet­we­en Ro­ger and the tub un­til En­ri­que stro­de back to the pa­tio, his dark fa­ce mas­k­li­ke.

  "Is all the cur­rent off, En­ri­que? Every bit of it?" I had to be su­re.

  "The ge­ne­ra­tor is tur­ned off. The­re is no cur­rent on the is­land." His dark eyes flic­ke­red to­ward the hot tub.

  I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. I felt old and ti­red. Mo­re than that, I was stung by gri­ef and an­ger. Cha­se had trus­ted me, and I had fa­iled him.

  But if I co­uld not sa­ve Cha­se, I wo­uld aven­ge him.

  The French do­or was flung open. "Hey, the lights - " Lyle stop­ped short, lo­oked ac­ross the pa­tio. "What the hell's go­ing on?"

  Valerie re­ac­hed out to grip the back of her cha­ir, and I knew she did it to ke­ep from fal­ling. "Our lit­tle va­ca­ti­on from hell has just pro­vi­ded its first de­ath." Her vo­ice was thin and rag­ged.

  I lo­oked at her sharply. Did she… co­uld she think this was an ac­ci­dent? But the­re wasn't ti­me now to de­al with Va­le­rie.

  I ges­tu­red to Lyle. "You can help. We ha­ve to get Cha­se out of the tub. He's be­en elec­t­ro­cu­ted. Va­le­rie,

  Miranda's stir­ring. Go see to her. Get her in the ho­use."

  Lightning ex­p­lo­ded. The jag­ged sil­ver-whi­te spe­ar was bril­li­ant aga­inst the pit­ch-dark clo­uds. The bo­om of thun­der fol­lo­wed im­me­di­ately.

  The storm was al­most upon us.

  Miranda be­gan to sob, he­avy, cho­king sobs. Va­le­rie, her vo­ice gen­t­le, sa­id, "Co­me with me, ho­ney. We ha­ve to go in­si­de. The­re's not­hing we can do for him. Co­me with me."

  At the hot tub the men -Lyle, Ro­ger, and En­ri­que-wor­ked to get Cha­se out of the wa­ter. The limp body slip­ped from the­ir hands on­ce. Ro­ger ga­ve a gut­tu­ral mo­an. Tre­vor gently pus­hed him asi­de. "Let me."

  It to­ok Lyle stan­ding in the tub fi­nal­ly to push the body up whe­re Tre­vor and En­ri­que co­uld pull it over the si­de. Ro­ger re­ac­hed up and va­inly tri­ed to cus­hi­on his fat­her's fall to the gro­und.

  There wo­uld be so­me bru­ising af­ter de­ath from this ro­ugh han­d­ling, but ot­her than the scra­pe on his left arm from the aw­k­ward ho­is­ting over the tub's wo­oden ed­ge, Cha­se's body was un­mar­ked.

  Lyle slos­hed down the lad­der.

  The smell of chlo­ri­ne ed­di­ed aro­und us. I wo­uld al­ways re­mem­ber that odor and the mut­te­ring rum­b­le of in­ces­sant thun­der and the unen­ding flic­ker of lig­h­t­ning.

  Chase's fa­ce, slack in de­ath, ap­pe­ared ut­terly at pe­ace. We lo­oked down at him, the Cha­se we knew in form but with that fi­er­ce spi­rit fo­re­ver qu­en­c­hed.

  Roger fell to his kne­es be­si­de his fat­her, grip­ped

  one flac­cid hand, and be­gan to cry, gre­at te­ars that rol­led si­lently down his che­eks.

  "All right," I sa­id qu­i­etly. Te­ars are so­me­ti­mes a lu­xury that can­not be af­for­ded. "Lyle, let's use the cha­ise lon­gue over the­re" - I po­in­ted ac­ross the po­ol -"as a stret­c­her, and ta­ke Cha­se - "

  "Wait a mi­nu­te." Lyle yan­ked on his kha­ki shorts, soggy with tub wa­ter. His wet T-shirt sag­ged aga­inst his chest. "How the hell do you know so much, lady?" His eyes we­re hard.

  Burton jum­ped to his fe­et, po­in­ted at me. "She sa­id Mr. Pres­cott was elec­t­ro­cu­ted. How did she know that?"

  I was im­pa­ti­ent. "Be­ca­use I can think-and be­ca­use I was awa­ke on Thur­s­day night when the po­wer went off. I sho­uld ha­ve pa­id at­ten­ti­on to my own in­s­tinct. I was out on the gro­unds when the lights ca­me back on, fif­te­en to twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter. I he­ard so­me­one co­ming from the di­rec­ti­on of the ge­ne­ra­tor. But when I cal­led out, no one an­s­we­red. Why not? An­yo­ne ab­ro­ad on an in­no­cent er­rand sho­uld ha­ve res­pon­ded."

  No one in­ter­rup­ted. Lyle le­aned for­ward, his hos­ti­le buc­ca­ne­er's fa­ce in­tent. Ro­ger had pic­ked up a fal­len to­wel and was gently drying his fat­her's ha­ir, smo­ot­hing it. Tre­vor sta­red sto­lidly at the hot tub, de­ter­mi­nedly ke­eping his eyes away from Cha­se's body. En­ri­que roc­ked back on his he­els, wary and sus­pi­ci­o­us. Bur­ton hung back on the pa­tio, his fa­ce whi­te with fe­ar.

  "I told Cha­se what had hap­pe­ned. I ur­ged him to be ca­re­ful in vi­ew of the po­iso­ned candy he'd re­ce­ived. But when so­me­one shot at him yes­ter­day, I

  suppose we both we­re mo­re con­cer­ned with a di­rect at­tack. I tho­ught as long as he was with so­me­one el­se, he wo­uld be sa­fe. I sho­uld ha­ve kept, on thin­king abo­ut tho­se lights go­ing out-and why so­me­one might ha­ve wan­ted the po­wer tur­ned off."

  "Okay." Lyle's ag­re­ement was grud­ging, but he no lon­ger so­un­ded ac­cu­sa­tory. "I get you." He tur­ned to­ward the tub. "But how the hell did it hap­pen?"

  "I sug­gest" - I ra­ised my vo­ice over a clap of thun­der- "that we find out." The wind was ri­sing, ra­ising go­ose bumps on Lyle's skin, tug­ging strands of my ha­ir free, flut­te­ring the nap­kins on the bre­ak­fast tab­les. "Bur­ton."

  The sec­re­tary star­ted.

  Maybe my vo­ice was a lit­tle sharp, but I was in
a hurry. The ra­in wo­uld be upon us so­on. "Get a no­te­bo­ok. Qu­ick. Then get back down he­re and ta­ke no­tes of every sin­g­le thing that we do."

  Burton he­si­ta­ted.

  "Pronto." My vo­ice was whip-sharp.

  He dar­ted a glan­ce at Ro­ger, then tur­ned and scur­ri­ed off the pa­tio.

  I didn't was­te ti­me.

  "Enrique, how is this tub em­p­ti­ed?" I step­ped to­ward it.

  "There is a dra­in, the­re, ne­ar the bot­tom." He squ­at­ted on his he­els and po­in­ted.

  A high, cle­ar vo­ice an­no­un­ced, "I wo­uldn't to­uch that thing for all the co­ca­ine in Bo­li­via." Va­le­rie cros­sed the lawn to­ward the po­ol. Her fa­ce was the co­lor of old putty. She ga­ve the tub a wi­de berth. She crad­led a pa­le pink com­for­ter in her arms. "Mi­ran­da wan­ted me to bring this out-for Cha­se."

  Roger pus­hed up from the gro­und and to­ok the com­for­ter. He la­id it gently over his fat­her.

  Valerie lo­oked down, ab­ruptly ma­de the sign of the cross. But the blue eyes that tur­ned to me we­re not gri­eving. "Mi­ran­da's in bed. Va­li­um and hot tea. I told Ro­sa­lia and Betty abo­ut Cha­se, and I told them to stick to­get­her. You sho­uld co­me in­si­de, too, Ro­ger. It won't do any go­od. To stay out he­re with… him."

  Roger sho­ok his he­ad. "I can't le­ave him he­re." He lo­oked down at the damp to­wel in his hands, then ab­ruptly flung it away.

  Thunder ex­p­lo­ded over­he­ad.

  I lo­oked im­pa­ti­ently to­ward the ho­use. Whe­re was Bur­ton? "All right, we've got to hurry. Ro­ger's right. We mustn't le­ave Cha­se out he­re. Tre­vor, will you and Lyle ple­ase use that cha­ise lon­gue, the one that stra­ig­h­tens out all the way…"

  I didn't ha­ve to ex­p­la­in.

  Lyle and the law­yer, the­ir fa­ces set and whi­te, we­re aw­k­ward at the­ir unac­cus­to­med task, fum­b­ling when they tri­ed to pick Cha­se up. One de­ad hand kept slip­ping free to dan­g­le over the si­de of the web­bed cha­ir. Ro­ger re­ac­hed over, to tuck the com­for­ter un­der his fat­her's body. Lyle and Tre­vor slid the shro­uded bun­d­le on­to the web­bing, then pic­ked up the im­p­rom­p­tu stret­c­her and lo­oked at me.

  "I think the sto­ra­ge area." I lo­oked to­ward En­ri­que. "The ref­ri­ge­ra­ted ro­om."

  After an in­s­tant of he­si­ta­ti­on the ma­kes­hift cor­te­ge star­ted off. Ro­ger sto­od un­cer­ta­inly for a mo­ment, then fol­lo­wed, he­ad bent.

  Valerie and I wat­c­hed them carry the ho­li­day fur-

  niture with its ma­cab­re bur­den aro­und the cor­ner of the ho­use.

  The ac­t­ress shud­de­red. "Go­ing to put him in an ice­box. Jesus."

  I ig­no­red her and ap­pro­ac­hed the hot tub. I cir­c­led it, mo­ving a few in­c­hes at a ti­me. It was dif­fi­cult to see in the murky light. I wis­hed I had a flas­h­light. I ran my fin­gers lightly along the wo­od.

  I fo­und what I ex­pec­ted, next to the wo­oden steps that led up to the rim of the tub. The cord was brown, just a bit lig­h­ter than the red­wo­od, ca­ra­mel aga­inst cor­do­van. It was ta­ut aga­inst the si­de of the tub. I lo­oked at the gro­und, po­ked asi­de a mo­und of oy­s­ter shells with the tip of my sne­aker, and spot­ted the elec­t­ri­cal ta­pe that fas­te­ned the cord tightly to the bot­tom of the tub.

  Valerie fol­lo­wed me, lo­oking une­asily aro­und, ta­king ca­re not to to­uch the tub.

  The flag­s­to­ned path to the hot tub was bor­de­red by vi­go­ro­us stands of mon­key grass. Lights fas­hi­oned li­ke lu­mi­na­ri­as ran on both si­des of the path, spa­ced abo­ut fo­ur in­c­hes apart. The­se we­re in­c­lu­ded in the system that af­for­ded mu­sic aro­und the po­ol.

  The cord di­sap­pe­ared in­to the mon­key grass.

  Lightning ex­p­lo­ded. The ex­p­lo­si­ve crack so­un­ded so ne­ar, Va­le­rie and I crin­ged. She grip­ped my arm, her fin­ger­na­ils sharp aga­inst my skin. "God, that was clo­se. We'd bet­ter get the hell -"

  Burton re­luc­tantly ed­ged out on­to the pa­tio, "The lig­h­t­ning's too clo­se. Just be­ca­use you're crazy do­esn't me­an I ha­ve to - "

  "Bring the no­te­bo­ok he­re," Va­le­rie or­de­red. "Then go hi­de yo­ur stu­pid he­ad."

  His fa­ce re­sen­t­ful, Bur­ton das­hed out to us, sho­ved the no­te­bo­ok and a pen in­to her hands, and tur­ned and ran back to the ho­use.

  Valerie to­ok the thick-tip­ped pen and be­gan to draw, her eyes me­asu­ring, her hand sur­p­ri­singly swift. In a few, eco­no­mi­cal stro­kes the hot tub, its steps, and the cord to­ok sha­pe. She held the dra­wing up for me to see. "Sta­ge de­sign" was all she sa­id.

  I pul­led back a she­af of mon­key grass.

  No ex­pen­se had be­en spa­red in in­s­tal­ling this wi­ring system. The me­tal-she­at­hed pi­pe sup­por­ting the lu­mi­na­ri­as al­so con­ta­ined ex­t­ra out­lets every few fe­et.

  I po­in­ted to the first out­let.

  Valerie sket­c­hed the cord le­ading up to it and the in­no­cu­o­us brown plug in­ser­ted in the out­let.

  I bor­ro­wed her pen, eased the plug out of the soc­ket.

  The first drops of ra­in, cold and hard, spat­te­red down as the men ca­me aro­und the si­de of the ho­use. Ro­ger was in the le­ad. He bro­ke in­to a he­avy run. The ot­hers fol­lo­wed su­it, and they all pas­sed him. Va­le­rie and I hur­ri­ed to the pa­tio.

  "Cover the dra­wing," I di­rec­ted.

  She grab­bed up two cloth nap­kins and wrap­ped them aro­und the no­te­bo­ok.

  "Hurry," I yel­led at En­ri­que, "dra­in the tub."

  He lo­oked out at the ra­in, then shrug­ged im­pas­si­vely. Pul­ling a pa­ir of can­vas work glo­ves from his back poc­ket, he ran to the tub and cro­uc­hed be­si­de it.

  The wind gus­ted, and ra­in bil­lo­wed on­to the pa­tio.

  Lyle, shi­ve­ring, his arms tight to his body,

  watched im­pa­ti­ently for a mi­nu­te. "Ye­ah, this has to be do­ne. But it won't mat­ter a damn if we don't get so­me help. I'm go­ing back in­si­de, get' back to the pho­ne." He he­si­ta­ted, ga­ve me a stark, ab­ra­si­ve lo­ok, then tur­ned to Ro­ger. "If you want my ad­vi­ce-and you may not-but he­re it is. Watch li­ke a hawk. Ma­ke su­re you know what's go­ing on, what's fo­und."

  He tur­ned wit­ho­ut wa­iting for an an­s­wer and stro­de to­ward the French do­ors.

  Roger lo­oked af­ter him, his kindly fa­ce puz­zled.

  "It's go­od ad­vi­ce," I sa­id dryly. "Even if it's di­rec­ted at me."

  "Or per­haps," Va­le­rie vo­lun­te­ered tartly, "a go­od of­fen­se ma­kes the best de­fen­se. I for one don't trust an­y­body on this blo­ody is­land."

  Enrique stra­ig­h­te­ned. He hur­ri­ed back to the pa­tio and sho­ok him­self li­ke a wet dog. "The wa­ter's out," he an­no­un­ced.

  "Thank you." I tur­ned to Va­le­rie. "I want you to co­me with me and watch, then you can sketch what we find." Lig­h­t­ning glit­te­red over­he­ad; de­afe­ning thun­der erup­ted.

  Valerie lo­oked up. The bo­nes of her fa­ce sho­ne in sharp re­li­ef in the une­arthly glow from the sky. But she didn't re­fu­se me.

  I held out my hand. "Enri­que, the glo­ves, ple­ase."

  "They are wet."

  "That do­esn't mat­ter."

  He strip­ped off the glo­ves, which we­re very damp but not sod­den, and han­ded them to me.

  Valerie put the no­te­bo­ok on the tab­le, using a pla­te to an­c­hor it aga­inst the wind.

  We re­ac­hed the hot tub and clim­bed the steps.

  Roger and Tre­vor we­re clo­se be­hind us.

  But that was all right. The mo­re who saw, the bet­ter we co­uld re­port to the aut­ho­ri­ti­es.

  If, of co­ur­se, we sur­vi­v
ed the on­s­la­ught of a hur­ri­ca­ne aga­inst a sea is­land.

  I wo­uldn 't ha­ve ta­ken odds on that.

  But ta­king odds wasn't my job at the mo­ment.

  Looking down in­to the ra­in-sp­las­hed hot tub was.

  Roger drew his bre­ath in sharply. "Oh, my God, lo­ok at that!"

  I pus­hed open the swin­ging do­or to the kit­c­hen with my knee, clut­c­hing a damp car­d­bo­ard box in my arms. I was wet thro­ugh and cold, but I had work to do be­fo­re I dri­ed off and chan­ged clot­hes.

  Rain slam­med aga­inst the win­dows of the dar­ke­ned kit­c­hen.