Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I twis­ted the do­or­k­nob.

  It tur­ned. Thank God, it tur­ned.

  I pus­hed the do­or open.

  "Miranda!"

  Not a so­und or a mo­ve­ment ex­cept for the tu­mult of the storm.

  I dar­ted the flas­h­light's be­am swiftly aro­und the ro­om.

  Miranda lay on her back in bed. Her he­ad, the black ha­ir cur­ling swe­etly, res­ted aga­inst the whi­te sa­tin pil­low. Her eyes we­re clo­sed. She lo­oked li­ke a child, vul­ne­rab­le and ap­pe­aling, de­ep in sle­ep.

  It to­ok all my strength to ap­pro­ach that bed and grasp a limp hand. Such a small and da­inty hand. I un­cur­led the fin­gers, lif­ted up a small brown plas­tic vi­al.

  Valium.

  I tuc­ked the bot­tle in the poc­ket of my slacks, then held her wrist and se­ar­c­hed for a pul­se.

  Nothing.

  I pres­sed a fin­ger aga­inst the ca­ro­tid ar­tery be­ne­ath her right ear.

  It was so hard to tell, with the ro­aring no­ise that sur­ro­un­ded me, pres­sed aga­inst me, and the shif­ting, qu­ive­ring mo­an of the walls.

  I tho­ught I felt a tiny, al­most im­per­cep­tib­le qu­iver.

  I swung aro­und, re­ac­hed ac­ross to the dres­ser, and grab­bed up ah or­na­te sil­ver-bac­ked mir­ror. I held it clo­se to Mi­ran­da's lips.

  Faintly, ever so fa­intly, the mir­ror clo­uded.

  I drop­ped the he­avy mir­ror, sle­wed aro­und, and ran, the be­am of the flas­h­light swin­ging madly in front of me.

  "Roger! Lyle! Ro­ger! Help! Help, help!"

  "Henrie O? Mrs. Col­lins?" Lyle was mid­way down the sta­irs.

  "Hurry!" I scre­amed. "Mi­ran­da's ill. I ne­ed yo­ur help."

  Lyle thud­ded down the sta­irs, Ro­ger on his he­els. They slo­wed eno­ugh to let me le­ad the way with the flas­h­light.

  In the bed­ro­om I swung the light to­ward the bed. Lyle to­ok one lo­ok and grab­bed the slight form up in his arms.

  "Bring a pil­low and so­me co­vers," I told Ro­ger. As they mo­ved, I swiftly se­ar­c­hed the warm-up su­it Cha­se had dis­car­ded early that mor­ning when he de­ci­ded to swim, se­ar­c­hed it and fo­und not­hing. I lo­oked fran­ti­cal­ly aro­und. The blue bla­zer Cha­se had worn the day be­fo­re… I ran to it. No gun in the

  pocket. I dan­ced the light over the chests, the tab­les. No gun. No gun.

  "Come on," Lyle sho­uted rag­gedly. "Co­me on!"

  Time to se­arch had run out. Was the gun in that ro­om? Or had so­me­one ta­ken it af­ter Cha­se di­ed?

  But I co­uld lo­ok no lon­ger. I to­ok the le­ad, shi­ning my flas­h­light up the sha­dowy hal­lway. We we­re al­most back at the cen­t­ral hal­lway, al­most the­re, when the front do­or sag­ged in­ward.

  There was no es­pe­ci­al no­ise, or per­haps it simply co­uldn't be he­ard abo­ve the hur­ri­ca­ne-for­ce winds.

  One mo­ment we we­re hur­rying for­ward, only a few fe­et away from sa­fety; the next a wa­ist-high wall of wa­ter rus­hed in­si­de with gre­edy suc­king no­ises, swe­eping us off our fe­et, slam­ming us aga­inst the walls.

  I went un­der.

  The wa­ter was cold. My sho­ul­der struck so­met­hing hard. A hot, qu­ick pa­in shot down my left arm. I lost my grip on the flas­h­light. I strug­gled to re­ga­in my fo­oting, swal­lo­wed wa­ter, ca­me up cho­king.

  A strong hand grab­bed my shirt and lif­ted me up.

  "Hold on to the sta­irs," Ro­ger sput­te­red.

  I grab­bed a ba­lus­ter, and he tur­ned away and went splas­hing off in­to the dar­k­ness.

  "Oh, Christ, help me," Lyle cal­led, "I've lost her. I've lost her."

  I saw an eerie glow de­ep in the wa­ter.

  I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath and duc­ked down. My fin­gers clo­sed aro­und the flas­h­light just as anot­her big sur­ge of wa­ter swept in, lif­ting it and me. When I bro­ke the sur­fa­ce, sput­te­ring, I pad­dled a few fe­et and was back to the sta­irs.

  I swung the light swiftly aro­und the en­t­r­y­way.

  Vases, pic­tu­re fra­mes, and sa­tin so­fa cus­hi­ons bob­bed in the wa­ter. A stra­ight cha­ir, al­most up­right, flo­ated clo­se eno­ugh to to­uch. I jer­ked out of the way as a gran­d­fat­her clock lo­omed out of the dar­k­ness to crash in­to the sta­irs, easily snap­ping that por­ti­on of the ba­nis­ter.

  Lyle and Ro­ger fen­ded off fur­ni­tu­re as they do­ve down and down, fran­ti­cal­ly se­ar­c­hing for Mi­ran­da.

  I po­in­ted the be­am at the wa­ter. The­re, to­ward the back of the hall, a glim­mer of whi­te…

  I held the flash ste­ady. "Lyle, Ro­ger, the­re she is!"

  They both went down and ca­me up to­get­her, sup­por­ting her bet­we­en them.

  Miranda mo­aned. She was still ali­ve!

  I pul­led myself up and over the ba­nis­ter and flop­ped on­to the steps. I was hal­f­way up the steps, but they we­re al­re­ady awash.

  Holding Mi­ran­da and trying to re­ach the sta­irs, Lyle fo­ught the de­adly cur­rent. Ro­ger swam alon­g­si­de, fen­ding off the big­ger pi­eces of flot­sam. The no­ise was all aro­und us.

  I kept the light ste­ady.

  At last they re­ac­hed the sta­ir­way. His chest he­aving, Lyle ca­me up out of the wa­ter, still crad­ling Mi­ran­da in his arms. He clam­be­red up the steps. Ro­ger, bre­at­hing he­avily, an angry scratch on his fa­ce, was clo­se be­hind them.

  We we­re al­most to the top when the en­ti­re sta­ir­ca­se shud­de­red be­ne­ath us. With a ren­ding crack the bot­tom two-thirds of the sta­irs crum­b­led away from the wall.

  Where we had be­en the­re was not­hing but swir­ling wa­ter and jag­ged, jab­bing pi­eces of wo­od.

  Betty sto­od wa­iting for us on the lan­ding. Whim­pe­ring, she sta­red past us at the suc­king, his­sing, fo­aming wa­ter.

  "Betty." I was so glad to see so­me­one who wo­uld help. "We've got to hurry. Mrs. Pres­cott is very ill. We ne­ed to get her warm. Co­uld you get so­me to­wels and a co­up­le of blan­kets?"

  I wis­hed I knew what mo­re to do. Sho­uld we try to in­du­ce vo­mi­ting? But she was un­con­s­ci­o­us, and the­re wo­uld be a dan­ger of cho­king. WTi­at was ne­eded-if it wasn't al­re­ady too la­te-was a sto­mach pump and pos­sibly a blo­od-cle­an­sing ap­pa­ra­tus. All we co­uld sa­fely do now was ke­ep her warm.

  We car­ri­ed her in­to the mu­sic ro­om. Tre­vor was spraw­led on a long so­fa. He lur­c­hed to his fe­et. "My God, what now?" He smel­led li­ke whis­key, but his vo­ice wasn't as slur­red as it had be­en ear­li­er and his mo­ve­ments we­re as­su­red.

  "An over­do­se." I sho­o­ed the wet and bed­rag­gled men over to a cor­ner. Tre­vor po­ured mugs of broth for them. I won­de­red if I'd ever ha­ve a chan­ce to tell Ro­sa­lia what a go­od job she'd do­ne in brin­ging up sup­pli­es.

  When Betty ca­me in, car­rying a go­od half-do­zen to­wels, Va­le­rie and I strip­ped off Mi­ran­da's sod­den nig­h­t­gown and gently dri­ed her off.

  "We've got to wrap her in so­met­hing warm." I star­ted for the hall.

  "Don't go out the­re," Ro­ger cri­ed. "The who­le wing may go an­y­ti­me."

  "I'll hurry." I threw it over my sho­ul­der. I das­hed

  through the up­per cen­t­ral hall and ran down the cor­ri­dor-the slo­ping cor­ri­dor-to my ro­om. I grab­bed a cot­ton ro­be for Mi­ran­da and so­me dry clot­hing for me. Back in the mu­sic ro­om we slip­ped my ro­be aro­und Mi­ran­da and tuc­ked her in­to a blan­ket on one of the mat­tres­ses Lyle and Ro­ger had bro­ught.

  It was ni­ce to ha­ve a task to cling to, so­met­hing to think abo­ut be­si­des the po­un­ding of the ra­in and the slam of the winds aga­inst the ho­use and the gun that I sho­uld ha­ve fo­und. With each sur­ge of wa­te
r the cen­t­ral part of the ho­use shud­de­red.

  How much mo­re co­uld this wo­un­ded struc­tu­re wit­h­s­tand?

  It wasn't un­til we had Mi­ran­da as com­for­tab­le as pos­sib­le and I had duc­ked in­to a dark cor­ner to dry myself off and re-dress that I pa­id any at­ten­ti­on to the ro­om and its oc­cu­pants.

  Rosalia knelt at the fo­ot of Mi­ran­da's mat­tress, her hands gently smo­ot­hing the blan­ket. Va­le­rie sat be­si­de the mat­tress, hol­ding one of Mi­ran­da's limp hands in hers. En­ri­que re­ma­ined hun­c­hed by the win­dow. His eyes we­re clo­sed, his arms cros­sed tightly ac­ross his chest. Tre­vor le­aned aga­inst the pi­ano, but his he­ad was up and he was lis­te­ning. I co­uld fe­el his fe­ar all the way ac­ross the ro­om. Ro­ger and Lyle hud­dled un­der blan­kets. Each held a mug in his hands.

  God, yes. So­met­hing hot to drink, to fight the chill that bit de­ep in­to my bo­nes. I was hal­f­way ac­ross the ro­om to the tab­le with its ar­ray of ther­mo­ses when I sud­denly stop­ped.

  "Burton. Whe­re's Bur­ton?" I lo­oked at Betty.

  "I hun­ted for him, Mrs. Col­lins. Just li­ke you

  told me to. I went to his ro­om" -she po­in­ted to­ward the ot­her wing-"and I chec­ked Mr. Pres­cott's study, but I co­uldn't find him an­y­w­he­re. I cal­led for him and then I was go­ing to go dow­n­s­ta­irs. I didn't know whe­re he co­uld be, but I wan­ted to find him and ask him to co­me he­re li­ke you told me to and I got to the top of the sta­irs. That's when you we­re brin­ging Airs. Pres­cott up the steps. If I hadn't wa­ited for you to co­me up the sta­irs, I wo­uld ha­ve go­ne down and I wo­uld be in the wa­ter."

  Damn Bur­ton. He wo­uldn't be any help, but this was by far the sa­fest pla­ce to be.

  "I can't see any re­ason why he wo­uld ha­ve go­ne dow­n­s­ta­irs," I sa­id briskly. "So he's up he­re so­mew­he­re. We've just mis­sed him. I'll go to his ro­om. Why don't you ta­ke anot­her lo­ok in the study? Did you ha­ve a flas­h­light with you?"

  Betty sho­ok her he­ad.

  I ga­ve her a flas­h­light.

  It only to­ok a mi­nu­te to cross the hall-at a gre­ater slant now-and check the sec­re­tary's ro­om. When I ope­ned the do­or, I knew im­me­di­ately that he wasn't the­re. A win­dow had blown in, shat­te­ring glass ac­ross the bed. Wa­ves of ra­in swept in­si­de, dren­c­hing the spre­ad and the car­pet.

  My flas­h­light be­am dan­ced from the bed to the dres­ser to the desk. I wal­ked that way and saw the bri­ef­ca­ses he'd stuf­fed with fol­ders sit­ting open on the desk. They, too, we­re wet, the lu­xu­ri­ant le­at­her sod­den.

  As I wat­c­hed, a black sna­ke cur­led over the lip of one bri­ef­ca­se. The rep­ti­le lif­ted its he­ad, lo­oked to­ward me.

  I stum­b­led bac­k­ward. The light flic­ke­red from the desk to the win­dow­sill. A cot­ton­mo­uth oozed over the sill. I aimed the flash down bet­we­en the bed and the win­dow. A tan­g­le of sna­kes qu­ive­red, a dark shi­very mass on the flo­or. A wa­ter moc­ca­sin, with that iden­ti­fi­ab­le pit-vi­per mo­uth, slit­he­red from be­ne­ath the bed.

  I whir­led aro­und, ran to­ward the do­or.

  The sna­kes we­re fle­e­ing from the flo­od, se­eking san­c­tu­ary whe­re­ver-they co­uld.

  I co­uld ima­gi­ne them craw­ling over the ho­use, un­der the eaves, on­to the ro­of.

  I hur­ri­ed out the do­or, slam­med it be­hind me.

  And that's when the scre­am ro­se, high and hi­de­o­us.

  13

  The tip of Bur­ton's ton­gue stuck out bet­we­en his te­eth.

  I saw that first.

  We ar­ri­ved at the study at the sa­me mo­ment and clus­te­red in the do­or­way-Ro­ger, Tre­vor, Lyle, and I -our flas­h­lights aimed at the mo­ti­on­less fi­gu­re spraw­led on the flo­or bet­we­en the desk and a bank of fi­ling ca­bi­nets. The top dra­wer in the mid­dle ca­bi­net was pul­led out.

  Betty hud­dled aga­inst the wall, just in­si­de the do­or, trem­b­ling. "He must ha­ve be­en the­re all the ti­me," she whim­pe­red, ra­ising ter­ri­fi­ed eyes to us.

  I lo­oked at my watch. A qu­ar­ter-past ten. I'd set out to lo­ok for Mi­ran­da and sent Betty in se­arch of Bur­ton for the first ti­me abo­ut an ho­ur ear­li­er.

  The ma­id pres­sed back aga­inst the wall. "Last ti­me I just po­ked my he­ad in the do­or and cal­led.

  Nobody an­s­we­red and it was all dark. Then I he­ard you cal­ling for help, Mrs. Col­lins, and I didn't even think abo­ut him aga­in." She lo­oked down at the flas­h­light in her hand. "But this ti­me I had the light and I saw his fe­et."

  She swung the co­ne of light to the highly po­lis­hed brown le­at­her tas­sel lo­afers, then along Bur­ton's body to his fa­ce. He was lying ches­t­down, but his fa­ce was tur­ned to­ward us, res­ting on his right tem­p­le and jaw. So the po­ked-out ton­gue, blo­od thick at the tip whe­re he'd bit­ten him­self, was easy to see. But this ti­me it wasn't a ta­unt. When Bur­ton's as­sa­ilant struck him down-and the blo­ody mis­sha­pen swel­ling be­hind his left ear was easy eno­ugh to see-the blow had jol­ted Bur­ton's he­ad for­ward and the ref­le­xi­ve mo­ve­ment of the flo­or of his mo­uth had thrust his ton­gue bet­we­en his clo­sing te­eth.

  "Oh, God," Tre­vor mo­aned.

  I was the first to bre­ak out of our fro­zen tab­le­au.

  In a co­up­le of stri­des I re­ac­hed Bur­ton. I knelt by him and with a ghastly sen­se of de­ja vu pic­ked up a limp hand to se­ek a pul­se.

  Lyle fol­lo­wed. His flash re­ve­aled the drops of blo­od spat­te­red on Bur­ton's downy stub­ble of blond be­ard.

  "He's still ali­ve." But his pul­se was slow and er­ra­tic. I won­de­red how far the he­ma­to­ma had spre­ad, how much pres­su­re was be­ing exer­ted on the bra­in. Bur­ton ne­eded me­di­cal ca­re im­me­di­ately.

  "If the Co­ast Gu­ard co­mes…" I didn't fi­nish. Any re­aso­nab­le chan­ce of res­cue had en­ded when the storm struck.

  Roger drop­ped down be­si­de me. "Co­uld he ha­ve fal­len, hit his he­ad on the desk?"

  I ga­ve him a le­vel lo­ok. "How?,What do you sug­gest? Prac­ti­cing a bac­k­ward flip wit­ho­ut a po­ol? Le­vi­ta­ti­on go­ne wrong? Lo­ok at him. He's lying in the wrong di­rec­ti­on to ha­ve fal­len and struck an­y­t­hing."

  Roger's fa­ce red­de­ned. "I tho­ught may­be he lost his ba­lan­ce, so­met­hing li­ke that."

  I didn't bot­her to an­s­wer. In­s­te­ad, I swept my light in a gra­du­al­ly wi­de­ning cir­c­le aro­und Bur­ton.

  Nothing is ever new un­der the sun, of co­ur­se, but I tho­ught this might qu­alify as a highly unu­su­al me­ans of at­tack, the kind of we­apon that wo­uld de­light even jaded po­li­ce re­por­ters.

  The slen­der mar­b­le sta­tu­et­te of Ap­h­ro­di­te had be­en flung away. A -whi­te gash scar­red the gle­aming par­qu­et flo­or. The ar­t­work had skid­ded, sco­ring a se­ve­ral-in­c­hes-long path, then lod­ged aga­inst the claw­fo­ot of a spi­der-leg­ged tab­le. Blo­od and flesh and ha­ir clum­ped on the three-in­ch-squ­are bron­ze ba­se.

  I re­mem­be­red wat­c­hing Cha­se's hand clo­se aro­und the ba­se of a sta­tu­et­te. I lif­ted the light, swept it ac­ross the man­tel. The sta­tu­et­te was one of a pa­ir. Its twin was still in pla­ce.

  But the most tel­ling evi­den­ce of all, the most me­anin­g­ful, was the un­s­ta­ined be­ige cot­ton was­h­c­loth, thick and fluffy, lying a scant inch or two from Bur­ton's po­lis­hed lo­afers. I un­der­s­to­od its sig­ni­fi­can­ce im­me­di­ately.

  Roger po­in­ted at the sta­tu­et­te. "Oh, God, lo­ok at the blo­od."

  Lyle lo­oked in­s­te­ad at the still, crum­p­led slight

  figure. "Why him? Why the hell go af­ter him? Cha­se, ye­ah, so­me­body
might ha­ve a re­ason."

  As you, did, I tho­ught, As you did..

  "But Bur­ton? That's we­ird."

  "Yeah, so­me­body's crazy, crazy as a lo­on." Tre­vor's self-con­t­rol crac­ked. "Lis­ten, don't an­y­body co­me ne­ar me." He was bac­king out in­to the hall. "Do you he­ar, don't an­y­body co­me ne­ar me!"

  He was clo­se to col­lap­se, the col­lap­se of a man who'd ne­ver in his li­fe fa­ced dan­ger or hor­ror. I tur­ned to­ward him. I co­uld only dimly see a sha­pe be­hind the sha­king flas­h­light. "Tre­vor, we're all go­ing to stay to­get­her from now on. Don't worry. We'll ta­ke ca­re of one anot­her."