Harsens Island

by T. K. Madrid

“Seriously.”

  He slowed and turned onto her road.

  “You purposely sank a sports car for reasons unknown, blew up a microwave – which still puzzles me, but that’s beside the point – and you pay for everything with cash, even up to this day, despite my warnings. You tussled with our very own Thurston Howell the Third, dove into a river to rescue a woman – your lawyer as it turns out – who died under suspicious circumstances, and just now, without breaking a sweat, you flattened a local regarded as a seriously tough drunk. Add your choice of dinner companions to spice things up, and I’d say you’re professional grade. How am I doing so far?”

  He steered into her driveway, bringing them to a fast, smooth stop. He parked and doused the lights. The radio squawked but he ignored it.

  “You added up the facts but the total is wrong. Do you want some pizza? I can’t eat all of it.”

  He looked at her, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and killed the engine.

  “Alright, fair enough. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

  **********

  Leaning against the cruiser, they ate warm pizza. From two houses down came the sounds of music and laughter.

  “This is really good,” Sam said. “And I’m not big on pizza, either.”

  “You know, I hear people complain about that place, and every time, every one of them is from some other town that’s bigger, faster, and louder. You know, towns and cities where people think Papa John’s is a delicacy.”

  “That’s funny,” she said. “And probably about right.”

  Finishing a third slice he said, “Which of the Catanzaro’s do you think is funnier?”

  “Funnier?”

  “You know, humorous.”

  “That’s a tough one. I think it’s a tie.”

  “I gotta go with Bill. He has that dry humor, hippy vibe, you know? He’ll make a crack that can make you double over.”

  “He strikes me as being pretty sweet.”

  “He is. If someone asked me to sum him up, I’d tell ‘em how, a long time ago, when I was in a bad way, he came over, you know, to talk, give me a little cheering up. And I don’t know what got into him but he did this – this handspring, sort of a cartwheel, end over end, and landed on his feet like he was an Olympic gymnast...”

  “…I can see it…”

  “…tumbling like a circus clown. I’m skipping the context, but it was his way of telling me to move forward.”

  Sam paused for a moment, and when it was apparent he was done, she spoke.

  “He’s a friend?”

  “He is. And he’s a good spirit.” He gestured to the pizza box. “More?”

  “No, I’m stuffed. Please, take the rest home. I won’t eat it.”

  “Alright,” he said, “I hate to see food go to waste.”

  There was the sound of water roiling as another freighter slid through the water, lit up as if it was a pleasure cruise. The music and laughter from two doors down was louder.

  Sam shifted to business.

  “Has anyone talked to Hunter’s husband?”

  “Depends,” Rowland said. “Are we exchanging confidences? One hand washes the other?”

  Sam briefly stared at the water.

  “Tell you what. Let’s do this. Let’s both go as far as the law and common sense allow.”

  Sam extended her clenched left fist, Rowland mirrored her with his right, and they fist-bumped.

  “MPD’s in the loop,” Rowland said, “and of course there’s Houle. I asked him to contact the husband to let the daughter know, but I couldn’t tell you if he’s made headway either. For all I know he hasn’t bothered. And for all anyone knows the husband’s dead.”

  “There’s a hell of a thought.”

  “Murder-suicide.”

  Sam considered it for a few moments.

  “I think it’s doubtful.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just doubt it, that’s all. Intuition.”

  “You heard she came over with someone, right?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact,” Sam said. “I chatted with Dan Mule this afternoon and he said someone came with her but nobody knows who.”

  “So you see what I’m saying? He came over with her, did what he did, and left.”

  Sam shifted her eyes from the river to him.

  “You’re checking Mule’s tapes?”

  “You bet. As well as all points from LaGuardia to Detroit Metro.”

  “If what you said is right, it would explain the missing car.”

  “Exactly,” Rowland said.

  “Could the car be on the island?”

  “We’ll do an aerial search of the island now that the rain has passed. And yes, we’ve checked all the public parking spaces.”

  She tilted her head to look at him fully.

  “You knew I was thinking that?”

  He gave her a mocking smile.

  “You’re a professional, right?”

  The right corner of Sam’s mouth rose; she went down another path.

  “What do you think of Snake?”

  Rowland was slow to respond.

  “Elon ‘Snake’ Adams.” He whistled. “Boy, I tell you, he’s a curious one.”

  “Nosy?”

  “No, I meant he’s a curious case. He’s been on the island for maybe a year, less than, and fits in well enough but he’s too odd and too enthusiastic for my taste. Then there’s his bullshit nickname. Who gives themselves a nickname?”

  “I heard he’s with Homeland Security.”

  Rowland said, “You heard that from Lauren?”

  “Yeah. She thinks most people aren’t aware of his badge. Or perhaps don’t believe it.”

  “Most everything he claims is more or less verifiable except for the stuff I pick up through the rumor mill.”

  The answer neither confirmed nor denied what Redsky claimed; she prodded him.

  “Such as…?”

  “Low-rent misdemeanors. Bill gets along with him, if you catch my drift. I know he barters, let’s say, goods and services, with a mainland crew, but he keeps his nose clean on the island. Do you know anything besides the Homeland speculation?”

  “No, nothing else, unfortunately. What about this girl they call Moon?”

  “Ah,” he said with a sigh, “there’s a goddamn mess from one end to the next.”

  “Lauren had a long story about her, but I didn’t know what to think of it. What happened?”

  “The gist is people travel to Canada and cross the river from Walpole illegally. Moon and her family tried to cross last winter. Their boat sank and Moon was the one survivor. What did Lauren say?”

  “Mostly the same,” Sam said, deliberately avoiding any further detail. “Did they ever find the bodies?”

  “No, not a one. The river devoured them. Who have you worked for?”

  “I’m not affiliated with anyone but me. What about Houle?”

  “He seems more concerned with you than his dead associate. What brought her here?”

  “Supposedly she came to see me. Do you know where she went or what she did before she died?”

  “I assumed you’d met her,” Rowland said.

  “No. Like I said during the interviews, she said she was coming in Sunday.”

  “You had no direct phone contact or texts from her?”

  “No, nothing. Do you think she was murdered?”

  He shrugged.

  “We’ll find out eventually. Right now, it’s all theory. And I’m no scientist. The coroner said she drowned.”

  “A girl at the ferry thinks I killed her.”

  “Let me guess. Coiner?”

  “Exactly.”

  Rowland shook his head.

  “Shit – she claims she wrote the Harry Potter series, too. Besides, the coroner confirmed she was dead before you dove in. You really didn’t see the boat?”

  “All I saw was the water and her. Nothing else.”

  “It’s a fast current
. You could’ve easily drowned.”

  Then there was the inevitable beat of time punctuated by the sound of the river caressing the shore.

  “Seriously. What about you?” he said. “What’s your story?”

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said.

  “Ah, that’s not right,” Rowland said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Sam...”

  They were standing close to each other, arms crossed, and without thinking she lightly swatted his left arm with her right hand.

  “What?”

  He spoke, his voice slightly above a whisper.

  “You have no history. Everything leads to dead ends. You exist, but then again you don’t. I couldn’t find a picture of you beyond the one in the DMV database. That FBI agent the other morning – I never saw one arrive so fast and leave so quickly.”

  “Maybe they were in the neighborhood.”

  “What’s the expression? You’re a mystery wrapped in an enigma.”

  His voice and words were increasingly tender.

  “Who are you, Sam? Who are you, really?”

  She liked the angularity of his jaw and nose, his musk; his eyes were bright and curious; there was vigor in his actions and thoughts. She liked that he wasn’t using his past as a way of seducing her. She liked the way he fell into and joined her humor.

  Then, without hurry or recklessness, they embraced. He did not whisper entreaties of love. He held her in silent acquiescence, a simple and humble gesture of desire. She said nothing, wanting him only to hold her, wanting to feel his strength, his warmth.

  Their lips met, holding for a long moment, and then she pressed her face against his neck as he pressed his face into her hair.

  **********

  Later, a soft, cool wind drifted through her open bedroom windows, causing the curtains to flutter. She watched them as she listened to Rowland’s gentle, sleeping breath, her hand resting on his naked chest as it rose and fell. She felt his heartbeat. And for a fleeting moment, as she wandered into dreams, she wished the sun would not rise.

  (14) Four

  He rose before the sun, kissing her once on the forehead to wake her, and then he kissed her lips when she was awake.

  “I’m leaving,” he whispered.

  “What time is it?” she said.

  “Early. Around five.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you out…”

  “I got it.”

  “Okay…”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Hey, Sam, you still awake?”

  “No…”

  “I get off work about one tonight. Maybe we can catch a meal after the fireworks.”

  “Oh…a date?”

  “It’s up to you...”

  “Hmm, I guess that would be okay.”

  He kissed her on the lips a second time.

  “Let’s make it midnight. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Okay…”

  She heard the front door open and close, the screen door open and close, his footsteps, and the sound of the car engine. The car idled for a moment before she heard its tires crackle the earth.

  She lay awake for a long time, thinking.

  **********

  It was July Fourth, a beautiful Friday morning. The humidity was moderate, the clouds scattered and fleeting, and the shore was blossoming umbrellas, towels, and beach chairs. Without debating the thought, she decided to walk to The Old Club compound.

  She saw yachts and smaller boats; Jet Ski’s buzzed between them. From somewhere on the beach she heard firecrackers. A single engine plane circled overhead, preparing for a landing on the island’s single airstrip.

  The main building of The Old Club glowed white. Its adjacent grounds – tennis courts, golf course, and hotel – reminded her of an impressionist painting: red roses and white oleander framed by a bright blue sky. She walked under towering willow trees before reaching the wide, open porch of The Ritz.

  At the front desk, a young woman in a green vest asked her to sign in, called Houle’s room, and allowed her to proceed.

  When she reached his room, she found the door open. She walked in without hesitation.

  “Look what wandered in,” Houle said, looking at her in a bemused way. “Did you forget how to knock while you were in the joint?”

  The room was simple-ornate, elegant and rich without screaming either fact. There was a sitting area, where Houle was; there was a fireplace and above its mantle a large TV; straight ahead was a private porch.

  “Not bad for a grand a night.”

  “Even more so as I get a discount,” Houle said.

  “I thought this hotel was for members only.”

  “Of which I am one.”

  “How about that?”

  She paused on the porch and looked over the grounds and the river. A warm breeze pressed against her.

  “Lots of space,” she said. “A good view. You’re on top of the world, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly,” he said. He gestured. “Sit.”

  She sat across from him. An oval and expensive coffee table separated them. His laptop and papers were scattered over it; the papers were face down. His briefcase, which was open when she walked in, was now shut.

  “Still wearing jeans, I see.” He motioned to her boots. “At least you’re not wearing sneakers.”

  Sam brought a heel up and let it fall with a solid thump on the table.

  “You break it, you buy it,” Houle said, his voice flat and calm.

  “I imagine I already have.”

  “How can I help you this morning, Samantha?”

  “Redsky’s said she’s one of your clients.”

  “This is true. I have many clients,” he said.

  “I wanted an assurance that there’ll be no conflict of interest.”

  “There never is. It’s one of our selling points.”

  “Who was Hunter traveling with?”

  “I have no idea. That is a question for the police and others. There was a companion, and everyone in an official capacity as well the locals are aware of the fact. Who it was, male or female is unknown, at least to me. There’s a rumor you met her the night she died.”

  “It never happened. I’ve made that clear.”

  “I’m curious, Samantha. Did the sheriff deputize you last night?”

  Sam flushed with embarrassment and anger.

  Houle’s voice took on a paternal tone.

  “You do understand your past actions and our shared circumstances warrant prudence? Especially with Rowland’s obvious infatuation. I would hate to see your choices or actions compromised by an uncertain relationship with the man charged with determining the facts.”

  She decided that any more time with this man was useless. She rose.

  “The facts are the facts,” Sam said. “Nothing can color or change them. You can bill me for our time but not this palace. And let your buddy know I’m paying him a visit.”

  “My buddy?”

  “Four.”

  His light-heartedness vanished as Sam entered the empty hallway. She heard his door shut with a gentleness that came from a warm pulse of river air or, perhaps, a man in deep thought.

  **********

  She evaded the Old Club’s concierge desk. The lunch and bar crowd provided her with a shade of invisibility. But a man, pear-shaped and balding, dressed in an expensive suit, approached her and asked if he could escort her back to the front desk. He had dark, brooding eyes embedded in an oval face. It took her a moment to recognize him as Hannibal’s majordomo.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I came to see Four.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Four. Clayton Ethan Hannibal the Fourth.” She gestured. “About yeah-high. Humorless, rich.”

  “Come with me,” the man said.

  “I’ll find him if you steer me in the right direction.”

  She heard whispers and light laughter that were obviously directed at her, the gossipy d
isdain of etiquette and affluence. A wolf whistle came from the direction of the bar.

  “Serhad!”

  Hannibal’s voice hushed some of the onlookers.

  From the bar a man stage-whispered, “Get ‘er, Four!”

  “Yes, sir,” the servant said.

  Hannibal was standing outside a room adjacent to the bar. Behind him, three men were huddled around a poker table, cards and cash scattered over its green surface.

  “Escort the young lady to my office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Without taking his gaze from his servant, Hannibal continued.

  “Then close the bar until whomever lacks manners is identified and ejected. After his removal, reopen the bar, and then ensure he doesn’t appear for the remainder of the season.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make the young lady comfortable. I’ll be along shortly to explain the dress code.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  **********

  Hannibal possessed an office suitable to his station. There was an imposing mahogany desk and a leather chair suitable for a king. Two chairs faced the desk, and she knew each would set its occupants lower than the man behind the desk. There was a thick, patterned carpet, a bar, and a pool table. Ceiling to floor windows captured white yachts, a blue swimming pool, and the fantastic Michigan summer light.

  The majordomo gestured to one of the chairs.

  “Would you like a drink while you wait? A Shirley Temple, perhaps?”

  She ignored his disdain.

  “No, but you can tell Four that I know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Two words. I know.”

  Serhad straightened his shoulders and exited.

  They let her wait for fifteen minutes.

  She didn’t react to the soft whisper of the door closing as Hannibal entered. He ignored her as well, and went to the bar.

  “What an unwelcome surprise,” he said, his back turned to her. “How unbearable it is to see you.”

  He prepared a drink, Jack Daniels, two fingers.

  “Did your servant relay my message?”

  “Right to the point, eh?”

  Hannibal held his glass to the window light. He brought it to his nose. He inhaled and closed his eyes for one brief second.

  “You know, at one time he was a capable, shrewd man. Wharton and Syracuse graduate. His father was a doctor and his mother a belly dancer. He was a real estate broker in Florida before I acquired him. Can you guess what I did when I first met them? Straightaway?”