Harsens Island

by T. K. Madrid

  She pushed him to his side so he could speak, and then sat next to him, leaning against the couch. She took a long, cleansing breath before she spoke.

  “You know, for a long time I didn’t know why men stopped wearing belts and tucking their shirts in. But then I got it.”

  His pain-red eyes stared at her dumbly.

  “Uh, why…?”

  “Because they’re fat.”

  “What?”

  “They don’t need belts to keep their pants up because they’re fat. They don’t tuck in their shirts because they’re fat. They think if they don’t tuck in their shirts no one will notice they’re fat.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “So?”

  “You’re fat. Lose a few pounds, cut back on the burgers and bacon, and you can wear belts again.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure…whatever you say?”

  “Good, now tell me why you’re here.”

  He said nothing.

  His hair and mustache were black, his eyes a dark brown, almost black, and his skin was a light brown. He was in his early- to mid-forties. His body was stuffed into a short sleeve black shirt with a wide collar, blue jeans, and black sneakers.

  “Listen,” she said. “The belt? I’ll tighten it. After a few tugs I can bust your knee or your wrist. And if I break your wrist you’ll need a new hobby.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said.

  “Take your time,” she said. “I’m in no rush.”

  His mustache twitched a fraction.

  “I came for the money. Everybody says you’re a rich bitch. You have cash. Lots of it.”

  Sam exhaled through her nostrils, thinking of Rowland’s advice. She realized this moment was a result of her choices and actions.

  “I hate to tell you, sport, but there is no cash. Your buddy cleared me out earlier.”

  He squinted and remained silent.

  She decided it was time to push another button.

  “Haberski shot Bill.”

  “What? What you talking about?”

  Sam uncrossed, stretched, and flexed her legs.

  “Just what I said. Haberski popped Bill.”

  “I got no idea what you’re saying, lady.”

  “That’s okay. But so you know, Haberski’s dead.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Serious as his heart attack,” Sam said. “He’s dead and Bill’s alive.’

  “You’re a goddamn liar, that’s what you are you fu…”

  She talked over him.

  “…Tell you what. I’ll tell you what I think has happened. You jump in anytime I’m wrong, okay? Ready?”

  “You are so fu…”

  “…Bill has access to the house through the Alarm Company. He installed the new system. He probably knows the house as well as I do, and he had the time to look around when he was working on the place. He was blackmailed or being extorted by Haberski for some reason – drug dealing or possession, something along those lines, I’d guess. We’ll confirm that once he’s able to talk.

  “Anyway, Haberski forced him to break into the house and take the cash I had left. When he was done, Bill set the alarm. Then Haberski shot him as he left the cottage, leaving him for dead, wanting to cover his involvement.”

  “That would’ve been fuckin’ dumb. He hated Bill but he wasn’t dumb enough to do that.”

  “Maybe it was planned, or maybe it was an accident, or maybe he panicked. No matter what, he shot Bill and took the money. The problem is that Bill survived, triggered the alarm, and managed to get away.”

  He spat on the floor.

  “I don’t know what any of that means.”

  “Okay, let me be a little clearer. Before Haberski died, he spent the better part of the day trying to convince everyone I shot Bill. He knew I would never be convicted of anything – he just wanted me out of the way before tonight’s fireworks. You were his backup plan. He calculated that if Bill didn’t find the money that you would. The problem is that he died before he could stop you. Now here you are, the second unluckiest man in the world.”

  “You fu…”

  “…Did you tell Redsky you were coming here, or did you and Haberski arrange this cheap stunt on your own?”

  His eyes betrayed a sense of dread.

  “My leg,” he said. “It really hurts.”

  “Your balls, too, I bet.”

  She picked his wallet off the floor, opened it, found a little over a hundred American dollars and one hundred Canadian dollars. There were the usual credit cards and I.D.’s.

  She laughed loudly.

  “James Earl Redsky? You’re Lauren’s brother?” She flipped the wallet closed, still laughing. “Sheriff James Earl Redsky?”

  “What’s so funny? Come on, lady, let me loose.”

  She picked up his Samsung phone, activated it, and tapped its screen.

  “Hey,” he said. “That’s private! You can’t look at that! That’s an international peace treaty violation right there.”

  Sam activated the camera icon. The phone flashed as she captured a picture of his red face, mouth agape.

  “Do you have an Instagram account? Facebook?”

  He protested until he realized he was no further along and that his pain had worsened.

  “Do you want to waste more time?” Sam asked.

  His face, dripping with sweat, was flat against the floor. He exhaled the odor of stale beer.

  “James Earl,” she said. “I’ve got a question. Who killed Lynn Hunter?”

  He licked his lips and swallowed.

  “I want a beer. I’m thirsty.”

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I don’t drink.”

  “You don’t got anything for guests?”

  “Okay, for a start, let’s assume you killed her…”

  “…Hey, bullshit, lady…”

  “…so the question is…”

  “…I didn’t kill nobody…”

  “…why did you kill her?”

  He again thrashed like a landed fish, cursing several times, and then, finally, he rolled to his side, bringing his left knee a few inches off the ground.

  “Is that helping you think?” Sam said.

  He relaxed.

  “I heard something about that goofy black guy taking a shot. That’s all I know.”

  “Snake?”

  “Yeah, that clown. Are you getting me something to drink? My leg is killing me. You really fucked it up. I’m thinking I’ll sue your ass and take all your money.”

  Sam mulled Snake’s gun and its missing bullet.

  “Where was Hunter when she died?”

  “I don’t know shit,” he said. “And lady, once my sister hears what you did to me, you’ll want to go back to whatever hole you crawled from.”

  Sam produced her best Grinch smile.

  “That’s a great idea. Let’s call her.”

  “No, no, no…”

  Sam ignored him.

  “Is she on speed dial? Or do you use the directory?”

  He cursed at her. Two words.

  “Okay. Let me help you think through this,” she said. “If you behave yourself you’ll be in a hospital before midnight. Afterward, depending on the wrangling, you’ll have a layover in Rowland’s jail, then county. No matter what, you’ll stay clear of tonight’s party. And either way, you won’t see her for a while, and that’ll give you time to spin a lie she’ll believe or be forced to live with.”

  He exhaled, his eyes focused on the floor, and he moved his head side to side.

  “She is going to kill me,” he said with a sigh.

  “When does your partner get here?”

  “My partner?”

  Sam raised her eyebrows.

  He clamped his eyes and spoke with resignation.

  “Eight-fifteen.”

  “No call, right?”

  “No call,” he said.

  Sam’s shoulder banged in pain.

  “I need a couple of aspirin,” she said. “You want anythin
g?”

  “A shot of tequila and a Vicodin.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She went to the kitchen, removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and knocked four aspirin into her left palm. She washed two of them down. She set the remaining two on the counter and sat the bottle next to them, cap off.

  The deep-bass reverberation of the El Camino’s 454 cubic inch engine came shortly after that.

  “Your ride’s here,” she said.

  “Fuckin’ A,” he said. “That’s Angel. He’s gonna fuck you up when he sees what you did to me.”

  “James,” she said, “we’re going to have to work on your vocabulary.”

  From Angel’s vantage, as he got out of the car, it was impossible to see her extract a washcloth from a kitchen drawer. It was just as impossible for him to see her stuff the washcloth in James Earl’s mouth, take hold of his free ankle, and slide him, squirming, down the hallway to the bathroom. But as Angel entered the kitchen, he did see the bottle of water and aspirin.

  “James!” Angel yelled. “James! Where you at, brother? Show me the money! Show me the money!”

  In his enthusiasm, Angel didn’t think to look in the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen.

  From the floor of the bathroom, James heard the sound of a short struggle followed by the grunt and thud of a body falling to the hardwood floor. He thrashed about to signal his presence. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled in disbelief as Sam dragged his unconscious ally to the second bedroom.

  “He juices doesn’t he?” Sam said.

  Angel Lopez was muscular in the manner of a professional body builder. His skintight, black tee shirt exposed thick, tatted biceps and forearms. He was her height and she estimated he weighed somewhere between 175 and 190 pounds. His head was shaved and he wore a neatly trimmed, almost imperceptible goatee. His sleeping face reminded her of a fat baby boy.

  “A word of advice, James Earl,” she said, pausing in her labor. “You don’t need actual muscle for muscle. Agility and flexibility are stronger weapons.”

  James Earl rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “I’m putting your buddy where nobody can trip over him. I think his ego will be more bruised than his body. And I’m taking your weapons, wallets, phones, and ride.”

  She shut the bathroom door, locking it from the inside.

  With deliberate, unhurried movements, she stationed Angel in the second bedroom, bound his ankles and wrists with extension cords, and trussed him like a rodeo calf. She locked his door, and then she locked the master bedroom door.

  Next, she gathered James Earl’s scattered ammo and gun, placing everything in a grocery bag along with Angel’s Smith and Wesson. She placed their wallets in the grocery bag. She kept their cell phones.

  She unhooked the house phone and placed it in the dishwasher. She closed the curtains, turned on lamps, activated the alarm, and locked the rear door.

  She opened the garage, retrieved the key from the coffee can, and deposited the grocery bag in the trunk of Haberski’s cruiser. In the trunk’s left corner, there was a Kevlar vest, an emergency kit, a box of flares, and a jacket. It was a neat, deliberate pile. The remainder of the trunk was empty.

  She leaned in, pulled the clothing and materials back, and saw disheveled stacks of twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills.

  “The honor of thieves,” she said to herself, realizing her money was now evidence.

  She locked the garage.

  She stood silently for a few seconds, and then, assuring herself there were no loose ends, drove away in the El Camino.

  (24) The Lighthouse

  The lighthouse was at the end of North Channel, at the tip of the island’s head, and had been erected three decades earlier.

  Brian Catanzaro had said the lighthouse had been a boondoggle: a handful of local, hayseed contractors convinced the state and federal city slickers that the short stretch of water between Dickinson and Harsens was a tragedy waiting to happen, selling the idea that a lighthouse would provide an extra level of safety for locals, commercial tradesmen, and the summer yachtsman.

  The construction took longer than expected and the cost doubled. The light spun its warning for maybe a month before complaints from homeowners in Algonac caused it to go dark. Three years after its closure it was auctioned off by the federal government. The Catanzaro’s bought the then $500,000 property for $2,000, turning it into a pricey summer rental.

  She steered inland, eventually arriving at the t-intersection of Cottage Lane, and there she parked on the shoulder of North Channel.

  She exited the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. She set the stolen cell phones to vibrate, and put one in each of her front pockets. She walked the remaining, short distance to the lighthouse. The lighthouse was as the end of the west road.

  There were three houses on the spur: two were dark and the third displayed a lamp in the front window, but was otherwise lifeless. The fading sun cast a watercolor orange on the horizon, and painted brushstrokes of dark gray on the empty road.

  Ahead of her, where the road ended, was an arbor of trees. Behind that was the lighthouse tower, a white candlestick reflecting the orange sunset. The house was consumed by shadows, its bright white now a mix of dull blue and gray-black, and the red roof had turned a deep shade of maroon.

  When she was within thirty feet of the arbor, she saw the lighthouse entry: two massive red-enameled doors swung inward, exposing a short hallway. The inside glowed with incandescent light. It might have been inviting if not for the solemn pacing of Hannibal’s majordomo.

  Serhad was smoking. His suit coat was unbuttoned and revealed the dark strip of a left-handed shoulder holster. He walked left to right and back again. His pace was relaxed and betrayed no sense of worry.

  After a few moments, finding his rhythm, she moved to her left as he moved to his right, keeping pace with him until she lost his line of sight. She then moved closer to the arbor, avoiding heavy steps, carefully avoiding the natural sound traps of dead leaves and twigs.

  From this vantage point, she saw the driveway, a large swath of concrete built to accommodate trucks and cranes more than automobiles. There was a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade, a silver Mercedes with impenetrable tint, a dark blue Yukon, and Snake’s Camaro. The Mercedes was likely Hannibal’s, and the Yukon had been at Redsky’s mansion. The Camaro was a wild card; it should’ve been in Rowland’s impound yard.

  It was a little after nine when James Earl’s phone vibrated.

  Sam removed it from her pocket and saw the word “Sis” and a local number on the screen. It rang five times before Sam answered and ended the call. She moved around the perimeter of the lighthouse, through a coppice of shrubs and flowers, pausing only to answer and cut off Redsky’s second call.

  There were two floors to the house. She went to its backside and saw the kitchen. In a dark, second floor window she saw a brief flame of orange light as a man – perhaps a sniper, definitely a lookout – sparked a cigarette.

  She looked around the yard, its perimeter, and examined the tower walls: there were no motion detection lights; a foghorn or siren was attached halfway up its side.

  She moved to the east side of the house. The living room curtains were drawn back and its windows were opened to allow an inflow of cool river air.

  Redsky was on her cell phone, pacing. Hannibal and Houle sat in oversized chairs to the left. Moon sat on a couch opposite the men, her arms stretched to either side. Despite her relaxed manner, she was in an animated conversation with Houle. Another oversized chair was against the window, obscuring a view of their legs.

  Sam stepped forward until she reached the edge of natural darkness and the cusp of incandescent light. She steadied her breathing to an almost meditative state and became still, her arms to her sides, her hands loose and relaxed.

  Redsky ended her conversation on the phone and addressed Moon, yelling. Moon sat upright, lowering her arms, and spoke loudly and sharply. Their voices overl
apped and the words were indecipherable.

  The majordomo, hearing the raised voices, rushed in, gun in hand at shoulder height.

  “Serhad!” Hannibal bellowed.

  The word stopped him; he lowered his weapon.

  A woman rose from the chair against the window, her face in profile. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. Her arms bent at the elbows, hovering between waist and shoulders, her hands patting the air with palms open, a gesture for calm and order.

  Despite what had happened to her in the last week, Lynn Hunter still did not look a day over thirty-five.

  (25) The Girl in the River

  With Serhad away from his post, Sam swiftly moved to the front entrance. She came to a dark spot and checked the time on Angel’s cell, a quick tap on and a quick tap off. There was less than twenty minutes before Rowland’s arrival.

  Sam imagined the next steps.

  She would intercept Rowland. He would call for assistance – if he hadn’t already arranged for it – and he would arrest all of them.

  With Hunter alive and the poisoned girl in the coroner’s office, there was enough to detain all of them on a laundry list of charges: murder, fraud, conspiracy to commit murder – a harrowing list of felonies. Sam felt a grim satisfaction knowing the dead girl in the river would be avenged.

  A distinct, hollow noise came somewhere from her left, and she looked sharply to the trees, arbor, and hedge that formed the property border.

  The noise repeated itself, coming from the Camaro’s trunk. The car was ten feet from her, parked behind the Yukon, and both were forty-some feet from the house doors. She went to the Camaro’s driver side, reached in through its open window, and found the trunk latch button. She pressed it and the trunk lid rose.

  A meager light shone from it, and when she lifted the lid she found Snake, who was bound at his wrists and ankles with white clothesline. His mouth was gagged by a blue bandana. His face bore the evidence of a beating. He stunk of sweat, fear, and urine. He was scared to death. His eyes stared at her in fright and wonder.

  She placed her first right finger to her lips.

  He blinked once, understanding.

  She spoke without whispering.

  “You must be getting use to this.”