Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Oh, ye­ah, just li­ke we to­ok ca­re of Cha­se. So­me­body damn su­re to­ok ca­re of Cha­se. Lis­ten," he sa­id fe­ve­rishly, "I don't know an­y­t­hing. I don't know who kil­led Cha­se. I don't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut Bur­ton. Hell, I was with you when the bas­tard shot at Cha­se. I don't know a damn thing."

  "Then you sho­uld be qu­ite sa­fe. Why don't you es­cort Betty back to the mu­sic ro­om, Tre­vor? We'll all be along in just a mo­ment."

  "Yeah, ye­ah, su­re." The law­yer tur­ned and he­aded up the hall. He didn't wa­it for Betty.

  She he­si­ta­ted.

  "Go with Mr. Dun­na­way, Betty. We'll ta­ke ca­re of ever­y­t­hing he­re." I was glad to see them go. I co­uldn't watch ever­yo­ne at on­ce, and I ne­eded to be qu­ite cer­ta­in that I didn't miss a thing when it ca­me ti­me to mo­ve Bur­ton. The odi­o­us lit­tle man might die, but I damn su­re didn't want to gi­ve his at­tac­ker anot­her crack at him. It wo­uldn't ta­ke much: pres­su­re

  on one of the ca­ro­tid ar­te­ri­es, a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef stuf­fed in his mo­uth, his nos­t­rils pin­c­hed shut…

  Someone was go­ing to be de­vas­ta­ted to know that Bur­ton still li­ved. I wis­hed I'd had the wit to lo­ok swiftly abo­ut when I an­no­un­ced he was ali­ve. But I hadn't.

  From this mo­ment on I had one pri­ority: to pro­tect Bur­ton.

  "When the go­ing gets to­ugh…" Lyle draw­led. He didn't bot­her to hi­de his dis­gust at Tre­vor's be­ha­vi­or. "First thing I'm go­ing to do when we get back to At­lan­ta is fi­re that jerk." The­re was an in­s­tant of si­len­ce, then he slan­ted a lo­ok at Ro­ger. "If that's okay, boss."

  Roger sto­od very still. He wasn't smi­ling. His ga­ze loc­ked with Lyle's. "Ye­ah, Tre­vor's a jerk." He spo­ke tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. "Dad tho­ught he was a hell of a law­yer. I don't know if physi­cal co­ura­ge has to be in­c­lu­ded in a law­yer's job des­c­rip­ti­on. But we're a long way from ha­ving to worry abo­ut that right now, Lyle. Right now we ne­ed to worry abo­ut Bur­ton and whet­her we can ke­ep him ali­ve un­til help co­mes." He sho­ok his he­ad. "Bur­ton! I can't be­li­eve an­y­body'd de­li­be­ra­tely try to hurt him."

  Perhaps I'm cur­sed-or bles­sed-with a cyni­cal min­d­set. It se­emed to me that both Ro­ger and Lyle we­re be­ing mo­re than a lit­tle di­sin­ge­nu­o­us in the­ir ex­c­la­ma­ti­ons of sur­p­ri­se that the un­c­tu­o­us lit­tle sec­re­tary was a vic­tim. The gu­ilty per­son wo­uld be de­lig­h­ted to con­vin­ce ever­yo­ne that it must be a cra­zed kil­ler, thus dis­co­ura­ging spe­cu­la­ti­on abo­ut what Bur­ton might ha­ve do­ne to in­vi­te vi­olen­ce.

  Because I sud­denly felt con­fi­dent that I knew the re­ason be­hind this at­tem­p­ted mur­der.

  It all went back to the flurry of shots fi­red at Cha­se on Fri­day mor­ning. I was su­re of it. I didn't say it alo­ud. But I wo­uld ha­ve bet a Co­ast Gu­ard res­cue ves­sel I was right.

  "As you say, Ro­ger, we'll worry abo­ut what hap­pe­ned to Bur­ton la­ter. Right now I want to -"

  The ho­use shud­de­red, then ga­ve a scre­ech of agony li­ke a li­ving thing dis­mem­be­red.

  The flo­or be­ne­ath us til­ted.

  "Oh, Christ, the ho­use is go­ing, she's go­ing!" Lyle sho­uted.

  Time ex­pands when the mind con­f­ronts mor­tal dan­ger.

  It has hap­pe­ned to me be­fo­re. On­ce when a gu­er­ril­la lif­ted a sub­mac­hi­ne gun to fi­re at a party of jo­ur­na­lists; on­ce when a hi­j­ac­ker grap­pled with a pi­lot and the air­p­la­ne plum­me­ted out of con­t­rol; on­ce when a gun­man dar­ted from a crowd, his pis­tol aimed at the Pre­si­dent.

  Time and dis­tan­ce we­re me­anin­g­less, as if each in­s­tan­ce wo­uld last fo­re­ver.

  And this mo­ment.

  The ima­ges in my mind and he­art we­re al­ways the sa­me: Ric­hard's la­ug­hing fa­ce and the to­uch of my mot­her's hands and Emily's bell-li­ke la­ug­h­ter.

  Those ex­pe­ri­en­ces con­vin­ced me that not­hing mat­ters-not­hing truly mat­ters - in li­fe ex­cept pe­op­le. Not mo­ney, not fa­me, not chal­len­ge, not des­pa­ir, not hat­red, not po­wer - only the pe­op­le who ha­ve lo­ved you and whom you lo­ve.

  The flo­or stop­ped he­aving. A last tre­mor rip­pled thro­ugh the wo­od.

  I don't know how long we cro­uc­hed whe­re we had fal­len-yes, the jolt was that strong-be­fo­re Ro­ger spo­ke. "Go­od God, what do you sup­po­se that was?"

  Lyle swung his flas­h­light to­ward the do­or.

  Water lap­ped over the do­or­sill.

  "The so­uth wing. It's go­ne." I ma­na­ged to ke­ep my vo­ice even, but I co­uldn't ke­ep the shock out of it tho­ugh I had co­ve­red Ca­mil­le and knew too well what hur­ri­ca­nes co­uld do-knoc­king off this por­ti­on or that of a ho­tel, des­t­ro­ying one ho­use, le­aving the one next do­or un­to­uc­hed. The­re is a cap­ri­ci­o­us­ness, an unex­pec­ted­ness abo­ut hur­ri­ca­nes that ma­kes them that much mo­re ter­rif­ying. "We've got to get back to the mu­sic ro­om." I didn't tell Lyle and Ro­ger abo­ut the sna­kes. May­be we'd be lucky. At the very le­ast we sho­uld ha­ve a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re the des­pe­ra­te rep­ti­les clin­ging to the cen­t­ral por­ti­on of the ho­use fo­und this new raw wo­und to en­ter.

  I didn't ha­ve to ur­ge the men to hurry. It to­ok only mi­nu­tes to fold a card tab­le, gently lift Bur­ton's bat­te­red he­ad, and sli­de him on­to it. Ro­ger and Lyle car­ri­ed the tab­le whi­le I held Bur­ton's legs up and as stra­ight as I co­uld ma­na­ge. We co­uld only ho­pe that Bur­ton hadn't suf­fe­red a neck or spi­nal inj­ury. But we had no cho­ice. We had to mo­ve him to the sa­fest

  area.

  I po­in­ted the flas­h­light to­ward the flo­or. It hel­ped Ro­ger and Lyle see the­ir way. It hel­ped me watch for sna­kes. So far, so go­od. But I didn't bre­at­he easily un­til we'd ca­uti­o­usly ma­ne­uve­red our bur­den down

  the hall and in­to the mu­sic ro­om and clo­sed the do­or be­hind us.

  Lyle's mat­tres­ses, in­ten­ded for use in a des­pe­ra­te last-ditch ef­fort to sur­vi­ve, we­re pi­led three de­ep along the so­uth wall of the mu­sic ro­om, an in­te­ri­or wall. Mi­ran­da, as un­mo­ving as the de­ad, lay on the top mat­tress, se­cu­rely wrap­ped in a cre­am-co­lo­red wo­ol blan­ket. Va­le­rie still sat be­si­de her, hol­ding a limp hand.

  Betty mo­ved for­ward qu­ickly to help. Va­le­rie la­id that slack hand on the co­vers and sto­od, lo­oking to­ward us.

  Lyle he­si­ta­ted, shif­ting his hands for a bet­ter grip.

  "We ne­ed to get a mat­tress out from un­der Mi-

  randa's.

  "No," I sa­id qu­ickly. "The­re's ro­om for Bur­ton on the top mat­tress. We can ease Mi­ran­da over and put him next to her."

  It ma­de sen­se. It was easi­er. But my obj­ec­ti­ve was to ke­ep them to­get­her. I must watch out for both at the sa­me ti­me.

  One of us had slam­med that sta­tu­et­te on­to Bur­ton's skull.

  Had Mi­ran­da swal­lo­wed that bot­tle of pills of her own ac­cord? Dis­t­ra­ught with gri­ef over Cha­se's mur­der or un­do­ne by gu­ilt, it was pos­sib­le, but I was in no mo­od to ta­ke chan­ces.

  Betty and Va­le­rie gently mo­ved Mi­ran­da, snug in her blan­ket, to the in­te­ri­or of the mat­tress, clo­se to the wall.

  Lyle and Ro­ger shif­ted Bur­ton on­to the mat­tress. Fresh blo­od sta­ined the tic­king be­ne­ath his he­ad. I chec­ked his pul­se. Still er­ra­tic, per­haps a lit­tle

  weaker. His left che­ek felt clammy be­ne­ath my fin­gers.

  "A blan­ket, ple­ase."

  Betty bro­ught a light wo­ol co­ver­let.

  As I gently drew it over Bur­ton, I de­ci­ded to ma­ke su­re the he­ad wo­und was all we had to de­al wi
th. I han­ded my flas­h­light to Betty and ca­re­ful­ly eased a hand un­der his body and in­si­de his bla­zer. I felt the crac­k­le of an en­ve­lo­pe in an in­si­de poc­ket. My im­me­di­ate in­s­tinct is al­ways to in­ves­ti­ga­te. I didn't he­si­ta­te. I pul­led the en­ve­lo­pe out.

  The pla­in whi­te en­ve­lo­pe was full of crisp fif­ty-dol­lar bills. It was qu­ite a stack. This was a ni­ce sum, per­haps as much as fi­ve tho­usand dol­lars.

  Roger lo­oked over my sho­ul­der. "Oh, that's pro­bably a stash of cash from the sa­fe. Dad al­ways had plenty of cash with him. I gu­ess Bur­ton was brin­ging it along in ca­se the ho­use was com­p­le­tely was­hed away."

  There wasn't even a no­te of sus­pi­ci­on in Ro­ger's vo­ice.

  I ho­ped Ro­ger had the be­ne­fit of to­ugh ad­vi­sers when he to­ok con­t­rol of his fat­her's em­pi­re. Ot­her­wi­se, it wo­uld be bro­ken up and swal­lo­wed by pre­da­tors fas­ter than vul­tu­res de­vo­uring a ro­ad kill.

  Because my ta­ke on that en­ve­lo­pe was en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent. Bur­ton was ste­aling the mo­ney. I knew it as cer­ta­inly as I know that San­ta's jol­ly ho-ho-ho is cyni­cal­ly de­sig­ned to ma­ke cash re­gis­ters ring. Now I un­der­s­to­od why it had sur­p­ri­sed me to find Bur­ton hard at work this mor­ning sal­va­ging fi­les, why the epi­so­de had had a co­un­ter­fe­it fe­el. That had be­en his ex­cu­se, his co­ver, to get his fin­gers on cash that no-

  body might ever ask abo­ut. A ni­ce, sa­fe, ca­uti­o­us lit­tle cri­me. If the ho­use went, who wo­uld ever know or qu­es­ti­on what had hap­pe­ned to the va­lu­ab­le con­tents of that sa­fe?

  If the ho­use went…

  I lif­ted my he­ad, lo­oked to­ward the bo­ar­ded-over win­dows. So­me­how they still held aga­inst the un­ce­asing, de­mo­nic at­tack of the wind and ra­in. Wa­ter was be­gin­ning to se­ep in­si­de and tric­k­le down the walls.

  I han­ded the en­ve­lo­pe to Ro­ger.

  Without com­ment, he fol­ded and stuf­fed it in­to a back poc­ket of his shorts. He fol­lo­wed my ga­ze and sta­red at the win­dows, lis­te­ning to the ban­s­hee scre­am of the storm.

  A he­avy thump sho­ok the wall that on­ce had fa­ced the ten­nis co­urts. A go­od-si­ze so­met­hing, a tree limb or a drow­ned de­er per­haps, had struck the ho­use.

  Every eye wat­c­hed the wall, but mi­ra­cu­lo­usly it held. Each in his or her own fas­hi­on wel­co­med the ex­t­ra mi­nu­tes or per­haps even se­conds of pro­tec­ti­on af­for­ded us from the kil­ling storm out­si­de. Who co­uld ho­pe for mo­re?

  I was on­ce a pri­so­ner of go­ver­n­ment for­ces in El Sal­va­dor, along with three lef­tist gu­er­ril­las. We had ex­pec­ted to die at dawn. In­de­ed, we most cer­ta­inly wo­uld ha­ve ex­cept for a fif­te­en-ye­ar-old boy who had led us to sa­fety whi­le our cap­tors slept from the drug­ged wi­ne he'd bro­ught them. On that night I had felt the un­mis­ta­kab­le to­uch of de­ath's bony fin­gers, on that night and du­ring this long day.

  Waiting hel­p­les­sly to die en­gen­ders a som­ber qu­i­et. It pulls the mus­c­les of the fa­ce, plants frig­h­t­ful

  phantasms in the mind, re­cal­ls to the he­art a li­fe­ti­me's tri­umphs and fa­ilu­res.

  But I wasn't go­ing to sit he­re arid wa­it to die. I still had a task-to dis­co­ver Cha­se's mur­de­rer and Bur­ton's at­tac­ker-and I in­ten­ded to see it thro­ugh. If I co­uld.

  But first I lo­oked aro­und the ro­om. Tre­vor was lying, pil­lows prop­ped be­hind him, on the co­uch next to the op­po­si­te wall, just past the pi­ano. His right arm shi­el­ded his fa­ce; he had wit­h­d­rawn. I glan­ced from one fa­ce to anot­her, stop­ped fi­nal­ly at Ro­sa­lia's. She on­ce aga­in sat on the flo­or in the so­ut­he­ast cor­ner of the ro­om. Her hands held the ro­sary, her lips mo­ved, her eyes we­re clo­sed.

  "Rosalia."

  She lif­ted her he­ad.

  "Will you co­me he­re, ple­ase, and sit be­si­de Mr. An­d­rews?"

  Rosalia hur­ri­ed ac­ross the ro­om.

  Valerie, still stan­ding be­si­de the mat­tres­ses, stret­c­hed and yaw­ned. Af­ter bre­ak­fast she'd put on gre­en li­nen slacks and a cre­am cot­ton tur­t­le­neck. Her gol­den ha­ir was pul­led up in a pon­y­ta­il with a sa­ucy gre­en bow. Her clot­hes we­re che­er­ful; her fa­ce was not. De­ep li­nes brac­ke­ted tho­se cher­ry-red lips, her skin was as­hen, dark sha­dows ma­de her eyes hu­ge. "I don't ha­ve de­signs on the lit­tle man, but if Ro­sa­lia su­its you bet­ter, that's fi­ne with me." She tur­ned and wal­ked to the pi­ano, slid on­to the se­at, and to­uc­hed a key. The no­te was al­most lost in the howl of the wind.

  I fo­lio wed the ac­t­ress with my eyes. No one co­uld ever say Va­le­rie had slow tho­ught pro­ces­ses.

  Rosalia ca­me up to me.

  "Why don't you sit he­re?" I pat­ted the mat­tress, next to Bur­ton.

  The ho­use­ke­eper dar­ted an un­hap­py lo­ok at me but obe­di­ently to­ok her pla­ce, per­c­hing gin­gerly on the mat­tress's ed­ge.

  "Would you li­ke so­met­hing hot from a ther­mos?"

  She star­ted to get up.

  "No, ple­ase. I want you to stay with Bur­ton. If an­yo­ne co­mes ne­ar, watch ca­re­ful­ly. Sho­ut if an­yo­ne tri­es to to­uch him." I spo­ke lo­udly eno­ugh so that all in the ro­om co­uld he­ar, even over the storm.

  Rosalia's fin­gers clut­c­hed the ro­sary. Her wi­de eyes clung to my fa­ce.

  That do­ne, I mo­ved to the tab­le in front of the fi­rep­la­ce. It was la­den with ther­mo­ses, bot­tles of wa­ter, and se­ve­ral co­ve­red pla­tes. I po­ured a mug of cof­fee for Ro­sa­lia and for myself. I lif­ted the cloth from the first pla­te and snag­ged a ham san­d­wich. I've ne­ver tas­ted an­y­t­hing as go­od as that san­d­wich: the ham had a swe­et-su­gary Vir­gi­nia-smo­ke tas­te, the mus­tard was just hot eno­ugh, the French bre­ad was flaky and fresh. It to­ok only fo­ur bi­tes to de­vo­ur the san­d­wich. Then I to­ok Ro­sa­lia's cof­fee to her and gul­ped so­me of mi­ne. •

  And lo­oked aro­und our be­le­agu­ered san­c­tu­ary.

  I was se­eking a kil­ler, a tho­ug­h­t­ful, cun­ning, plan-ahe­ad kil­ler.

  The was­h­c­loth had told me that. The kil­ler had grab­bed it, car­ri­ed it along in a poc­ket. The plan: to use the was­h­c­loth when grip­ping the sta­tu­et­te. The­re wo­uld be no in­c­ri­mi­na­ting fin­ger­p­rints.

  The was­h­c­loth told me even mo­re:

  That the at­tack on Bur­ton was pre­me­di­ta­ted.

  That the kil­ler was well ac­qu­a­in­ted with Cha­se's study and the man­tel with its twin sta­tu­et­tes.

  That Bur­ton so­ught out the kil­ler fr a clan­des­ti­ne me­eting.

  Further, I was con­fi­dent I knew the re­ason for this clan­des­ti­ne me­eting. Bur­ton knew-so­me­how - who had shot at Cha­se.

  That per­son co­uld be an­yo­ne on the is­land ex­cept myself, Tre­vor Dun­na­way, and Has­kell. Tre­vor and I we­re ex­c­lu­ded be­ca­use we had be­en to­get­her when the shots rang out. Has­kell was ex­c­lu­ded be­ca­use he was no lon­ger on the is­land and co­uld not pos­sibly ha­ve at­tac­ked Bur­ton. (I wo­uld not think abo­ut the si­ze of the wa­ves now po­un­ding the co­ast.)

  I lo­oked from fi­gu­re to fi­gu­re in this fra­gi­le shel­ter aga­inst the storm and knew one was my qu­ar­ry. And the­re was the mat­ter of Cha­se's mis­sing gun. Why hadn't I no­ti­ced, af­ter the ex­p­lo­si­on, whet­her the jac­ket of Cha­se's warm-up had bul­ged?

  The gun hadn't be­en in his nylon warm-up or his bla­zer af­ter he di­ed. Cha­se co­uld ha­ve drop­ped it in­to a dres­ser dra­wer when he put on his swim­su­it. If so, that was fi­ne. But it co­uld well be that so­me­one el­se had ret­ri­eved the gun af­ter Cha­
se di­ed-and hel­ped Mi­ran­da swal­low pills.

  What mat­te­red now was whet­her the kil­ler had hid­den the gun so­mew­he­re in this ro­om.

  I star­ted with the mat­tres­ses. I had Ro­sa­lia help me pull them out from the wall, ta­king ca­re not to jos­t­le Bur­ton or Mi­ran­da. I po­ked the flas­h­light in­to the spa­ce, then ma­de cer­ta­in no gun was tuc­ked be­ne­ath any of the mat­tres­ses at any po­int.

  I pla­yed the light along the flo­or by the so­uth wall, pas­sing Lyle in his stra­ight cha­ir.

  He ra­ised a dark red eyeb­row. "Lo­oking for so­met­hing spe­ci­al?"

  I he­si­ta­ted. I had no in­ten­ti­on of un­de­res­ti­ma­ting the mur­de­rer, and it wo­uld oc­cur to even the me­anest in­tel­li­gen­ce that I was de­fi­ni­tely se­ar­c­hing for so­met­hing. I de­ci­ded to ta­ke a gam­b­le.