Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  But how?

  The ob­vi­o­us con­c­lu­si­on wo­uld be that Bur­ton had de­man­ded mo­ney for his si­len­ce.

  That rang fal­se.

  Not be­ca­use the sec­re­tary was ho­nest. He wasn't ho­nest. I was po­si­ti­ve he'd ta­ken the en­ve­lo­pe fil­led with cash from Cha­se's sa­fe on­ce he knew Cha­se was de­ad and the ho­use was li­kely to be des­t­ro­yed by a hur­ri­ca­ne. As I'd tho­ught when I fo­und the en­ve­lo­pe, it was a qu­ick, cle­an, com­for­tab­le, sa­fe lit­tle cri­me.

  That was Bur­ton's spe­ed.

  Burton wo­uldn't ha­ve the guts to blac­k­ma­il a mur­de­rer.

  So if Bur­ton hadn't en­ga­ged in blac­k­ma­il, what had he do­ne that had bro­ught the mar­b­le sta­tu­et­te cras­hing down on his he­ad? „

  What did I know abo­ut Bur­ton?

  He was a to­ady.

  He didn't know what to do if so­me­one flo­uted his su­pe­ri­or's or­ders.

  He was al­ways on the de­fen­si­ve, ex­pec­ting to be bla­med for wha­te­ver had go­ne wrong.

  He lo­at­hed wo­men.

  He wo­uldn't want to do an­y­t­hing that wo­uld get him in tro­ub­le. But the en­ve­lo­pe fil­led with cash-oh,

  that was easy. He co­uld al­ways cla­im, as na­ive Ro­ger had qu­ickly as­su­med, that he'd ta­ken the mo­ney to sa­ve it, in­ten­ding all along to gi­ve it to Ro­ger or to Cha­se's es­ta­te.

  I was scar­cely bre­at­hing I was so in­tent. I was clo­se, I knew it. Bur­ton… aut­ho­rity… af­ra­id…

  Oh, God, sud­denly I knew who. The­re was only one pos­sib­le an­s­wer. I still didn't know why, but I knew who.

  That's when Lyle sho­uted-a de­ep, ho­ar­se, tri­um­p­hant sho­ut. Qu­ickly he pul­led his limp, smud­ged T-shirt over his he­ad, ti­ed it aro­und the end of a two-by-fo­ur, ra­ised the bo­ard, and be­gan to wa­ve it back and forth.

  We all sho­uted, yet abo­ve our cla­mor we co­uld he­ar the whop whop of the Co­ast Gu­ard res­cue he­li­cop­ters co­ming from the west, two of them, the­ir whi­te and oran­ge co­lors vi­vid aga­inst the sickly gre­en sky.

  They we­re co­ming. Oh, God, they we­re co­ming!

  I ma­de a qu­ick and fa­te­ful de­ci­si­on.

  Would I ha­ve do­ne it wit­ho­ut the gun in my poc­ket?

  I'll ne­ver know.

  But it wasn't simply the gun. I don't think it was. I ho­pe it wasn't. It was a con­vic­ti­on that ne­ver aga­in wo­uld our mur­de­rer be as vul­ne­rab­le, that un­less I sprang a trap now, the kil­ler wo­uld walk away fo­re­ver scot-free be­ca­use no ma­te­ri­al clu­es wo­uld be ava­ilab­le to help the aut­ho­ri­ti­es. We didn't even ha­ve Cha­se's body an­y­mo­re.

  And per­haps my sub­con­s­ci­o­us had al­re­ady ab­sor­bed the truth. Shi­el­ding Bur­ton's bat­te­red he­ad

  with my body, I cal­led out, "Bur­ton's awa­ke. My God, he's awa­ke!"

  One per­son stif­fe­ned, stif­fe­ned and didn't mo­ve.

  Rosalia le­aned clo­ser.

  I coc­ked my bent he­ad as if lis­te­ning hard.

  The he­li­cop­ters we­re clo­se now, per­haps a hun­d­red yards away.

  The no­ise from the ro­tors bo­omed over us: whop whop whop whop.

  When I ro­se and tur­ned, I held the gun in my hand. I be­gan to walk to­ward him.

  He saw me co­ming.

  "You are un­der ar­rest-a ci­ti­zen's ar­rest un­til the Co­ast Gu­ard ar­ri­ves - for the at­tem­p­ted mur­der of Bur­ton An­d­rews."

  I sho­uld ha­ve re­mem­be­red that cor­ne­red ani­mals turn sa­va­ge.

  15

  Savage and cun­ning.

  Trevor Dun­na­way slowly ra­ised his hands.

  He glan­ced up at the ap­pro­ac­hing he­li­cop­ters, then he star­ted to walk to­ward me.

  I didn't worry. It was all over now. It ne­ver oc­cur­red to me to or­der him to re­ma­in whe­re he was.

  But Ro­ger sur­p­ri­sed me.

  It all hap­pe­ned at on­ce, Tre­vor wal­king to­ward me in ap­pa­rent sur­ren­der and Ro­ger ab­ruptly lun­ging to­ward his fat­her's mur­de­rer.

  Startled, I swung to­ward Ro­ger.

  That in­s­tant was all Tre­vor ne­eded.

  In a rush and a jump, he scram­b­led to his left, flung Ro­sa­lia asi­de, and bent over Bur­ton to snatch up Mi­ran­da. Hol­ding her as a shi­eld, he bac­ked slowly ac­ross the ro­of to the east ed­ge, then swung her small, limp body out over the swift-flo­wing flo­od-wa­ters.

  Roger skid­ded to a stop.

  I aimed the gun at Tre­vor. But I co­uldn't ta­ke the chan­ce. If Mi­ran­da went in­to that swir­ling wa­ter un­con­s­ci­o­us, we wo­uld ne­ver find her, get her out, sa­ve her.

  "I'll throw her in." The law­yer's han­d­so­me fa­ce twis­ted with fe­ar and an aw­ful de­ter­mi­na­ti­on.

  I to­ok a sin­g­le step to­ward him. The wil­d­ness in his eyes stop­ped me. Iput the gun in my poc­ket. For now, it was use­less" and might ma­ke ever­y­t­hing wor­se.

  Roger ma­de a no­ise de­ep in his thro­at and ten­sed, po­ised to jump.

  I grab­bed his arm and hung on. For Mi­ran­da's li­fe. "No, Ro­ger, no. He me­ans it." And I clung.

  Roger's chest he­aved, his eyes gla­zed. "He kil­led Dad. He kil­led Dad!"

  I yel­led to be he­ard over the whop whop whop whop of the he­li­cop­ter ro­tors. The whi­te and oran­ge crafts we­re di­rectly over­he­ad now. "Ro­ger, he has Mi­ran­da. Wa­it, let me talk to him." I co­uld fe­el Ro­ger trem­b­ling.

  The do­or in the le­ad cop­ter slid back, and a blue-hel­me­ted res­cu­er bel­lo­wed thro­ugh a lo­ud ha­iler, her firm vo­ice cle­ar. "Are the­re ca­su­al­ti­es among tho­se to be res­cu­ed?"

  Lyle to­ok char­ge. He held up two fin­gers, then po­in­ted to­ward the mat­tress. Then he held up eight fin­gers for the am­bu­la­tory eva­cu­e­es. The wash of wind from the ro­tors whip­ped our sod­den clot­hes aga­inst us, and the whop whop whop whop of the ro­tors drum­med aga­inst our ears.

  The flight mec­ha­nic cal­led down, "Ro­ger. Two

  injured, eight am­bu­la­tory." She ad­vi­sed thro­ugh the lo­ud ha­iler that the bas­ket wo­uld be lo­we­red first for the inj­ured, then the re­ma­in­der of the party, the inj­ured and three pas­sen­gers to the first cop­ter, the re­ma­ining fi­ve to the se­cond.

  I ges­tu­red for Ro­ger to stay put and I ca­uti­o­usly ed­ged clo­ser to Tre­vor. I pled with him. "This won't do you any go­od. Put her down, Tre­vor. You can't es­ca­pe. Don't ma­ke things wor­se."

  "Stay the­re, Hen­rie O." He was a big man. It was no ef­fort for him to con­ti­nue to hold Mi­ran­da's still body out over the wa­ter.

  I hal­ted. "This do­esn't ma­ke sen­se!" I sho­uted. "You can't get away. Gi­ve it up. Lo­ok, they've thrown a li­ne down to Lyle and now the bas­ket is swin­ging down. Let's go put Mi­ran­da in it."

  "Give me the gun." His eyes flic­ke­red from si­de to si­de.

  I didn't li­ke the­ir fe­ve­rish shi­ne.

  The flight mec­ha­nic cal­led down: "Hus­t­le. We ha­ve only mi­nu­tes to lo­ad if we're to get back to the sta­ti­on be­fo­re the eye mo­ves on."

  "What go­od will the gun do you, Tre­vor?" The wash from the ro­tors buf­fe­ted us. "You can't ho­pe to kill us all. Even if you did, you'd be in cle­ar vi­ew of the pi­lots. Gi­ve it up. You're thro­ugh."

  Whop whop whop whop.

  "No. No way. Lis­ten, I'll ma­ke a de­al." His sho­ut was ho­ar­se and em­p­ha­tic. "Mi­ran­da for the gun. It's easy, it's swe­et. No prob­lem. I'm not go­ing to sho­ot an­y­body-un­less they try to ta­ke me along. I'm sta­ying he­re. That's fi­nal."

  "You'll die if you stay!" I scre­amed it at him.

  Whop whop whop whop.
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  "The hur­ri­ca­ne's co­ming back." I po­in­ted be­hind him, at the mon­s­t­ro­us dark sky, pur­p­lish and black, awe­so­me and hor­rif­ying.

  Trevor didn't so much as glan­ce at the clo­uds. "I'll ta­ke my chan­ces."

  Behind me I he­ard Lyle's sho­ut to the flight mec­ha­nic ope­ra­ting the res­cue ho­ist. "This way, this way! Gre­at." And then the cry, "He­re he co­mes," and I knew Bur­ton's limp form was swin­ging up to the air­c­raft.

  Roger to­ok a step for­ward.

  Trevor didn't miss Ro­ger's mo­ve. "Fi­ve se­conds," he yel­led. "That's all you've got and she go­es in. One… two…" He me­ant it. The mus­c­les in his neck we­re dis­ten­ded. He was li­ke a shot-put­ter, get­ting re­ady to he­ave. If I wa­ited, Cha­se's yo­ung wi­fe wo­uld be go­ne, flung to cer­ta­in de­ath.

  Slowly, I drew the gun out of my poc­ket, pla­ced it ca­re­ful­ly on the ro­of, and kic­ked it to­ward Tre­vor.

  It ca­me to rest in­c­hes from him.

  "Oh, Christ." Ro­ger bun­c­hed to jump.

  I swung aro­und and grab­bed him aga­in and dog­gedly hung on. "No." „

  Gradually Ro­ger eased back on his he­els.

  Watching us with tho­se fran­tic, fe­ve­rish eyes, Tre­vor ed­ged for­ward, sco­oped up the gun, and put Mi­ran­da down on the ro­of.

  I star­ted to bre­at­he aga­in.

  With the gun in his hand, Tre­vor ga­ined con­fi­den­ce. Brus­qu­ely he ges­tu­red for En­ri­que to mo­ve away from the so­uth ed­ge, the torn sec­ti­on that ope­ned down in­to the shat­te­red mu­sic ro­om.

  Enrique mo­ved. Qu­ickly.

  Trevor ran lightly to the si­de, swung a leg over. And then he was go­ne.

  Roger al­re­ady had his arms aro­und Mi­ran­da.

  The bas­ket slip­ped down to the ro­of, and she was sa­fely en­s­con­ced and on her way up to the he­li­cop­ter.

  Lyle ges­tu­red for me to go next.

  I po­in­ted at Ro­sa­lia and Betty.

  Then they we­re go­ne, and Va­le­rie was in the bas­ket, swin­ging up in­to the sky.

  Whop whop whop whop.

  The flight mec­ha­nic le­aned out, using the lo­ud ha­iler. "Cla­rify co­unt, ple­ase. We­re told to res­cue ele­ven. Abo­ard now are two inj­ured, three am­bu­la­tory. We see fo­ur on the ro­of. Whe­re are the re­ma­ining two?"

  When we'd sent out our dis­t­ress mes­sa­ge over the mo­bi­le pho­ne, we'd re­por­ted twel­ve stran­ded. At that ti­me, Cha­se had be­en ali­ve and Has­kell had still be­en on the is­land. When Has­kell left the is­land, Cha­se was ali­ve. Now Cha­se was de­ad and Tre­vor go­ne, hi­ding out in the mu­sic ro­om, des­pe­ra­tely, cra­zily ho­ping to ri­de out the hur­ri­ca­ne.

  Haskell!

  Haskell had ma­de it thro­ugh! That's why they we­re ex­pec­ting ele­ven. They knew Has­kell was sa­fe. Has­kell was ali­ve!

  I felt a swift rush of pu­re hap­pi­ness.

  But Lyle wasn't wor­rying abo­ut who ca­me why or when. He didn't was­te ti­me. He held up fo­ur fin­gers, po­in­ted at them em­p­ha­ti­cal­ly. Did it on­ce, twi­ce.

  "I re­ad you: fo­ur re­ma­ining to be res­cu­ed." The bas­ket swung down.

  I was the se­cond abo­ard the com­pa­ni­on he­li­cop­ter. I tri­ed, sho­uting to be he­ard, to ex­p­la­in to our ear­nest yo­ung pi­lot that one man in­de­ed re­ma­ined on the is­land but that he was ar­med and dan­ge­ro­us, he'd com­mit­ted mur­der twi­ce and was re­fu­sing res­cue, ho­ping to ri­de out the storm and es­ca­pe be­fo­re the aut­ho­ri­ti­es re­ac­hed the is­land.

  "Two mur­ders?-" the pi­lot yel­led.

  "Two"

  "He won't co­me abo­ard," Lyle yel­led.

  Swiftly, the pi­lot com­man­ded the flight mec­ha­nic to or­der Tre­vor to sur­ren­der. She sho­uted over the lo­ud ha­iler. They ga­ve him twenty se­conds to res­pond.

  Twenty se­conds can se­em li­ke a li­fe­ti­me.

  But the­re was no mo­ve­ment. Not­hing.

  The he­li­cop­ters tur­ned and he­aded back to the ma­in­land.

  I cra­ned my neck for a fi­nal bac­k­ward glan­ce at the muddy wa­ter sur­ging aro­und that rem­nant of a man­si­on. That small patch of ro­of was the only in­di­ca­ti­on man had ever set fo­ot on JDe­ad Man's Is­land.

  There was no tra­ce of Tre­vor.

  I tri­ed to sha­ke a strong fe­eling of un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness. In ho­ar­se, trun­ca­ted sho­uts, Lyle and I fles­hed out the ca­se aga­inst Tre­vor Dun­na­way du­ring that bumpy and ten­se flight to the Co­ast Gu­ard sta­ti­on.

  Lyle star­ted it, put­ting me on the spot. "Bur­ton was de­ad. He didn't tell you a dam­ned thing. So how'd you know Tre­vor bas­hed him?"

  The he­li­cop­ter lur­c­hed, the no­ise ma­de my ears ac­he. "Bur­ton eit­her knew so­met­hing abo­ut tho­se shots at Cha­se…"I pa­used, then lif­ted my vo­ice aga­in. "… or he fi­red them in col­lu­si­on with so­me­body. In the first in­s­tan­ce, his in­s­tinct wo­uld be to tell so­me­body. He wo­uld ha­ve trus­ted only two pe­op­le. If it was the se­cond ca­se, only the sa­me two co­uld ha­ve be­en col­la­bo­ra­tors."

  Lyle saw it at on­ce, and I had a new ap­pre­ci­ati­on of his per­cep­ti­ve­ness. He le­aned clo­se, yel­led in my ear. "Ye­ah, su­re. The sho­oting ali­bi­ed you and Tre­vor. So Bur­ton wo­uld fe­el sa­fe in go­ing to eit­her one of you. And that's true of the se­cond pro­po­si­ti­on: the only pe­op­le who ga­ined an­y­t­hing from the sho­oting we­re you and Tre­vor. You we­re auto­ma­ti­cal­ly eli­mi­na­ted from the list of sus­pects when Cha­se was kil­led."

  The sky was he­avy with clo­uds all aro­und us now. The he­li­cop­ter wob­bled from the buf­fe­ting of the wind.

  "So what's the truth-was Bur­ton a go­od lit­tle fel­low trying to re­port to so­me­body he trus­ted or was he in­vol­ved in a plan to kill Cha­se?"

  We didn't sol­ve that.

  But, yel­ling un­til we we­re ho­ar­se, we ca­me up with so­me pla­usib­le ide­as, with a lot of co­nj­ec­tu­re thrown in:

  That in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on wo­uld re­ve­al Tre­vor to be in­vol­ved in so­me kind of il­le­ga­lity wit­hin the Pres­cott em­pi­re.

  That Tre­vor had used his own ha­ir dryer in a kind of do­ub­le bluff, co­un­ting on the fact that he was

  alibied du­ring the sho­oting in­ci­dent to eli­mi­na­te him as a sus­pect in Cha­se's mur­der.

  That Tre­vor and Bur­ton had be­en in col­lu­si­on, Tre­vor per­su­ading Bur­ton to plant the box of mar­zi­pan and to sho­ot at Cha­se, mis­sing him, of co­ur­se, in so­me kind of ela­bo­ra­te sche­me to per­su­ade Cha­se to trust Tre­vor and be sus­pi­ci­o­us of Lyle and Ro­ger. Ob­vi­o­usly, it had re­qu­ired col­lu­si­on be­ca­use Tre­vor hadn't be­en pre­sent at the brow­n­s­to­ne that we­ekend.

  That's as far as we'd got­ten when we re­ac­hed the air sta­ti­on.

  And that's abo­ut as far as the in­ves­ti­ga­ting aut­ho­ri­ti­es, which wo­uld in­c­lu­de the lo­cal she­rif­fs of­fi­ce, Lloyd's of Lon­don, and the pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ves hi­red by Ro­ger, ever got when all was re­por­ted.

  The af­ter­math re­ve­aled that Tre­vor had in­de­ed be­en in­vol­ved in the il­le­gal tran­s­fer of mo­ni­es wit­hin Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons to sta­ve off fi­nan­ci­al col­lap­se.

  Some won­de­red how Tre­vor had ma­na­ged to ke­ep his chi­ca­nery from Cha­se. They spe­cu­la­ted that Tre­vor had be­en for­ced to kill Cha­se be­fo­re the hu­ge in­te­rest pay­ments ca­me due Oc­to­ber 1 and that Tre­vor had in­ten­ded to rep­la­ce the il­le­gal­ly used funds with the hu­ge chunk of mo­ney Lloyd's owed on the po­licy in­su­ring Cha­se aga­inst mur­der. And, in fact, the in­su­ran­ce mo­ney did in­de­
ed ma­ke it pos­sib­le to sa­ve Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons from ban­k­ruptcy.

  The press, in­c­lu­ding all the new­s­pa­pers and te­le­vi­si­on sta­ti­ons wit­hin Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons, pla­yed the story to the hilt. Fa­ce it, the­re is not­hing the press enj­oys mo­re than a go­od mur­der.

  This mur­der had every ele­ment ne­ces­sary to win 48-po­int he­ads ac­ross the co­untry: