Death Island

by Joan Conning Afman

  “Ah, yes,” he continued, “Danny Manning, our serial killer.” He raised his eyes and looked out at the television audience in their homes. His deep blue eyes, piercing, under perfectly groomed eyebrows, seemed to make direct contact with each person watching. He fingered his oh, so manicured chestnut goatee and assumed a grave expression. “Danny, as you recall, brutally murdered five women, including his own wife, Kathryn, in the bucolic little town of Northington, Connecticut.

  “Bucolic!” Mindy sniffed. “We’re ten miles from the state capitol, and there’s not a meadow in sight!”

  “Shhhh!” everyone said in unison.

  An inset of the five women popped up at the top of the screen. There didn’t seem to be any similarities in the victims. Two were dark haired and looked to be in their thirties. A dyed blonde was late fortyish. One was a black woman, very pretty, probably mid-twenties. And Kathryn Anne Manning, thirty-eight, petite, with an oval face and dark, thick hair. Her picture enlarged itself and her all too-familiar face stared out at them.

  “She has gorgeous eyes,” said Sarah. “Light blue with that rusty hair—great combination.”

  “And a super smile,” said Charlie. “She was a nice person.

  “You didn’t know her well, did you?” Mindy asked.

  “No, hardly at all. They didn’t go to our church,” Charlie replied. “Not sure they went to any church. “Just ‘hi’ coming and going, although for a time they were involved in the teen youth group. They didn‘t have any kids. I don‘t know why.” She held a finger to her lips. “Listen.”

  Pierre LeGrande continued. “We have some new information about these murders now, from a very reliable source connected to the police department in Hartford,” he intoned. “Of course, we cannot mention this person’s name, but I can assure you, the information is most credible.”

  The five women sat spellbound. Charlie wriggled on the edge of her chair. Sarah tucked her long, athletic legs beneath her.

  “The police,” he informed them, “when they found Kathryn’s body, ascertained that a necklace had been ripped from her neck by the killer. It was a necklace very much like this one.” He reached into the pocket of his tailored camel cashmere blazer, and pulled out a necklace. He spread it out on his palm and held it up for the audience to see. It was a string of black beads, like pearls, but shining with glints of other colors. “These are Venetian glass,” Pierre informed them. “I bought some very much like these on the glass-blowing island of Murano just off the coast of Venice. They’re pretty, but not expensive, available in many craft shops here.” He looked down his nose at the beads and laid them on a small table to the left of his armchair. “Our informant says that the killer, as is the habit of serial killers, probably kept some of the beads as a memento of his deed, because some of them were missing.”

  “Why would Danny keep beads that belonged to his own wife?” Heather asked.

  “That’s just one of the things that doesn’t make sense,” Charlie said.

  “Shhhhh!” hushed everyone else, although Charlie noted to herself that Heather had made a good point.

  “Serial killers, as you undoubtedly know,” Pierre instructed them, “often have little displays of things they keep from their victims. In this case, nothing like that was found in the Manning home, but it was Danny’s axe, with his fingerprints—no one else’s—all over it. In spite of his vehement protests to the contrary, authorities are convinced they have sent the right man to Death Island.”

  Charlie got up and refilled everyone’s glasses. She and Mindy were drinking white wine, a Chablis that Charlie had adopted when she was in college at U Cal, Irvine. Sarah always preferred red wine, no matter what she ate with it, and Heather, as far as Charlie knew, didn’t drink anything alcoholic. Charlie set another Diet Coke on the table near her. As she set it down, she caught a faint flash of light out of the corner of her eye. She turned and looked out into the night at the Manning house. Had it come from there? But as she watched, she saw nothing else.

  “What have these products got to do with this show?” Sarah asked, as the commercials rolled on, one after the other. “Look at this! Blood pressure medicine. Olay. Nordstrom. Men’s Warehouse. Do the sponsors really think we care how we look when we watch this blood-thirsty show?”

  Charlie and the others laughed as the screen faded out, then blinked on again, showing a view of Death Island from space.

  “There are the infamous red cliffs,” Charlie noted. The camera skimmed along the river, headed toward the cliffs like a bird heading home, then froze. A view of a cave carved into the cliffs appeared.

  “Where is Danny?” asked Heather. “Didn’t he find the cave?”

  The camera peered closer, probed the areas around the cave. Nothing, no one. It was obvious Danny Manning had eluded them. Charlie felt a nudge of apprehension. She just wanted a glimpse of him, just to know he was okay.

  The camera skipped along until it came to a thread of a small meandering stream, thinly bordered by woods, with patches of brambles along its banks. A movement in one of the thickets caused the camera to pause.

  “We’ve hit pay dirt!” Heather exclaimed.

  It’s Tom,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “He’s pushing his way out of that bed of brambles he slept in.”

  “Who cares about him?” Mindy asked. “We want Danny!”

  There was a chorus of “yeahs,” but the women watched as Tom looked warily around, then made his way to the edge of the brook. He bent heavily, splashed water over his face and arms, cupped his hands and drank some of it. With effort, he straightened up and again looked around. Suddenly his face collapsed like a doughy cookie, and tears gushed from his eyes. He threw his arms up toward the sky and implored, directly into the tiny camera hidden in the tall, tropical palm tree, “Do you think I deserve this? To die all alone here, to be murdered in some horrible way for what I did? Was what I did so bad?” He lowered his arms and spread them wide, palms open. “Nobody got hurt. Not like Danny’s victims! I’m not like Danny! I don’t deserve to die here!”

  Tom collapsed to the ground in a rumpled, rounded heap. Sobs shook his corpulent body. Fascinated, they watched him cry.

  “This is good dip, Charlie,” Mindy commented. She dug a corn chip into the colorful mixture. “What’s in it?”

  “Oh, cream cheese, chili sauce, onion—”

  She was interrupted by Sarah. “Look! Over there, at the edge of the woods …”

  The camera sought a slight movement in the trees. They caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s shape, but it drew back into the dark of the woods almost immediately.

  “Danny?” breathed several of the women together.

  Charlie wondered why she didn’t feel her usual thrill of satisfaction watching one of these pathetic guys getting just what he deserved. Instead, her apprehension about Danny grew. Was he all right? He seemed like such a nice guy—could they have made a mistake in branding him the killer?

  They watched the camera shift back to Tom, who had blocked his eyes with his fists. As if sensing the figure in the woods, he swiveled around on his ample bottom, and gazed toward the tree line. Had he heard a sound, seen a hint of movement? He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the trees. He picked up his knapsack and back-walked to the bramble patch, his eyes never leaving the woods. He tossed his backpack into the center of the thicket. Tom stood and gazed in all directions for several minutes. Then, shuffling like an old man, he began to retrace his steps.

  Charlie, eyes glued to the screen, had only one thought: where was Danny? Was he all right?

  “It’s kind of boring tonight,” Mindy said. “I think I’ll head out. I really have to have this recipe Charlie—”

  She was interrupted by a combined whoop from Charlie and Sarah. “Look! There’s Danny!” Sarah leapt up and bounced around like the vivacious cheerleader she had once been. “Give me a D!”

  A dark figure emerged from the woods, stood there and stared after Tom’s retreating figure.r />
  It wasn’t Danny. They watched as the man inched his way out of the copse of trees and observed Tom as he trudged off in the direction he had trekked the day before. He strode easily to the brink of the little brook and, like Tom, bent down, cupped his hands and drank. They stared, entranced, as he stood, and for one mesmerizing moment, appeared to gaze directly into the camera lens.

  Charlie gasped, and heard Mindy’s “Oooh,” a long sigh from Heather, and Sarah’s quick intake of breath all at the same time.

  His golden hair crowned a chiseled face, and his sky-blue eyes stared defiantly into the camera. Tall, taut, and rangy, he was muscular but thin. His clothing was worn and shabby. A large rip exposed one brown shoulder, jutting through a hole that looked like it had been cut with pinking shears.

  “Martin Sicilia, might have known,” Charlie said. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “I wonder why he doesn’t have a beard,” Heather mused. “How does he shave it off?” Her question went unanswered.

  Martin hesitated a moment, then grinned, as if knowing he was being watched.

  Slowly, pantomiming a striptease, he pulled off his shirt, moving in time to some unheard music. He raised one sinewy shoulder, than the other, turned slowly around, assumed a Greek statue pose, like a discus thrower, then another, like a hero accepting a laurel wreath.

  The women laughed and clapped their hands. “He always puts on such a show!” Heather said.

  Martin slowly, with great deliberation, removed his shorts. He wore nothing underneath. He stood there, preening, in his naked glory, his grin wide as all the earth, as he turned to show them all views of himself.

  “Why do they always put a blur over the private parts?” Sarah asked with a tinge of irritation. “We’re all grownups here. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, and besides, we paid for it.”

  Mindy seemed to have forgotten about leaving. Heather sat with a hand over her mouth, appalled, but also laughing. Sarah and Charlie stared, fascinated.

  “He’s gorgeous, just gorgeous!” Sarah breathed, and everyone else nodded in spellbound agreement.

  Martin strolled over to the waterfall and let the cool water flow over the taut, muscled contours of his body. If anything, the water falling over his bronzed muscles made the scene even more erotic. Martin mimed for the camera, pretending to rub soap on his arms and legs then rinse it off. Pretended to shampoo his hair, lather it up, and rinse it off. It was only when he began to masturbate that the camera cut away, back to the show’s host in the studio.

  “Well,” Pierre LeGrande said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, “that Martin Sicilia, he never disappoints! Now, before we return to Death Island for tonight’s final glimpse into the lives of these unfortunate condemned men, let’s hear this important message from our sponsor.”

  Heather flicked open the tab on her Diet Coke. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure they could use some blood pressure meds.”

  * * * *

  Was it the fact that it was very late, and Paul was not yet home, that kept her awake? Something swirled around in her mind and refused to let her sleep. The hands on her bedside clock crept from eleven to twelve, and still there was no sound of a door opening or footsteps on the stairs. Between furtive glances at the uncooperative clock and short periods of drowsiness, Charlie’s mind opened doors to thoughts she would rather not have entertained.

  Where was Paul?

  Why had Heather seemed edgy and nervous—or had she? Maybe that was just Charlie’s imagination. Forget it.

  Danny. Seemed like such a cool guy. She hadn’t known him well, but she knew him by reputation. He had been a history teacher at the high school, hadn’t liked teaching, quit to start up his own construction business. Had been pretty successful at it. He hadn’t disliked the kids, she had heard; it was the politics of the school system itself that turned him off. He’d still coached the soccer team; what had Paul told her once, laughing? Oh yes, that he had stopped in at IHOP for a cup of coffee and seen Danny and Katie having breakfast there with about a dozen noisy teenagers. And all of them having a great time! And just a few months ago, he and Katie had volunteered to take over the Youth Group at church, which had immediately picked up a half dozen new kids when the Manning’s took over.

  Would that kind of man be an axe-murderer?

  Oh! Charlie suddenly remembered something else Danny had said to her. Just as she was leaving with the decorative tiles for her kitchen backsplash. He’d put his hand on her shoulder, lightly, his amber eyes twinkling but his manner sincere. “I believe in fate,” Danny had said. “I believe that every person who comes into your life has a meaning for you, and a reason to be there. Now, why in the world, Charlie Adjavon, would you be coming into my life?”

  Quarter to one. Where the hell was her husband?

  Chapter Four

  He combed his hair carefully, making sure that the Sandy-brown thatch to the left of the part fell over his forehead. Just so that it concealed the ugly scar. Not bad, he thought, as he surveyed himself in the mirror. He was a handsome man at fifty. Women still found him attractive.

  Not that he was interested in any of them. They were all sluts; Darcy had proven that.

  Now, as comptroller of Ireland Brothers—the largest retail chain in the state—he had more respect and more money than he’d ever enjoyed on the police force. The move from Alaska to Connecticut had been the right thing to do after Darcy’s untimely death.

  He adjusted his tie, a red one to set off the muted gray of his expensive suit, and grinned at himself in the mirror. He would have to get there a little early because he was on usher duty this morning. He glanced at his Rolex.

  Almost time for church.

  * * * *

  Danny emerged from the hole he had discovered under a large fallen log. He was exhausted, having spent a nearly sleepless night. A sleep-number bed it wasn’t, but he had cushioned the dirt with layers of leaves and pine needles. Nevertheless, he had tossed and turned, startling awake with each new unfamiliar sound. Once, a fierce crashing through the bushes had kept him awake, shaking, for nearly an hour. He rubbed his chin, feeling the coarse stubble. He would miss being clean shaven. He stretched, still half asleep, then whirled around, with the sudden unmistakable prickling sensation that he was not alone.

  “Good morning.” a voice said.

  Danny felt his breath sucked from him as completely as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. He jumped backwards, fists raised.

  The tall blond man rose, cat-like, from his seat on the ground. He bowed, formally, as if he were the doorman at some posh hotel in New York City.

  Danny stared, words failing him.

  “You are a new resident of our fair island, I presume?” the man continued, “and you are—?”

  “Danny Manning,” Danny croaked. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Oh, c’mon, man,” he grinned. “Martin Sicilia here. Everyone sees those ’chutes coming down.” He took a step toward Danny, extending his hand. Danny backed up, stumbled on the log where he had slept, and sat down on it, hard.

  Martin dropped his hand, shrugged, and took a seat on the other end of the log, crouching gracefully on the end like a cat. “Everybody spends the first night in one of several places, where they think they’re safe and no one can see them,” he said. “Either that made-for-viewing cave up the path from the red rocks, or here, or in those bushes out there by the brook, where that other dork thought he was hiding last night.”

  “Tom Koranda,” said Danny. “He dropped just before I did. I thought he might die of fright on the way down.”

  “Me, too,” said Martin. “So I checked. “Turns out he passed out for a while.” His eyes traveled over Danny.

  “You don’t look like the average con. Soooo … what did you do to get to enjoy this tropical paradise for the rest of your life?”

  “I didn’t,” said Danny. “I was framed, all the way.”

  Martin’s eyebrows shot up. “
Really? Well, what was it you didn’t do?”

  Danny answered in a defiant tone, “I was accused, and found guilty, by a jury of my clairvoyant peers, of axe-murdering five women, including my own wife, Katie.”

  Martin gazed at him, his face impassive.

  “I didn‘t do it!” Danny stated again. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Why would I kill Katie?” He turned his head away, unwilling to share his personal memories with this intruder.

  Martin regarded him with a level gaze. “What about the other guy, Tom? What is it he didn’t do?”

  Danny shook his head and regained some measure of composure. “Oh, he did it all right. He tried to bilk the federal government out of billions of their own money. It wasn’t a capital crime, but they were so ticked off they made a special exception for him.”

  Speaking of which,” Martin said, pointing to an object several yards away, “I stole his knapsack while he went wandering in the woods this morning. I imagine that will tick him off plenty.”

  For the first time, Danny noticed Tom’s black knapsack propped up against the trunk of a tree. He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the man. “Aaah, maybe you shouldn’t have done that,” he said, looking at Martin. “He’s not a bad sort. He’s probably having a nervous breakdown over this right now.”

  “Here he comes, right on cue,” Martin said.

  They heard the sound of branches snapping noisily and breaking as a large body made its way toward them.

  Danny stood up and moved toward the commotion. Soon he recognized Tom’s bulky form forcing its way through the dense brush. “Tom!” he called. “Over here!”

  Tom emerged, sweating and covered with scratches, some of them bleeding, into the clearing. He stopped short at the sight of Martin, who was still sitting calmly on the fallen log. “Who’s that?” he squawked.

  Martin rose, his motions graceful as a panther’s. “Martin Sicilia,” he said. “I brought your knapsack over for you while I waited for Danny to get out of bed. I knew you’d be along. Everyone comes this way.”