Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 Read online

“Chase.” Trevor’s voice shook. “I wish I’d never come to this goddamned island. Never. Never. Never.” His breathing was jerky. “You work for somebody, and they call the shots. Right? But it was stupid, stupid from start to finish. And now look what’s happened to us. We’re going to die—all because of Chase.”

  I wouldn’t have called Chase’s plan stupid. Actually, it was quite in keeping with his character: daring, arrogant, secretive, determined. Foolish, yes. Obviously, it was entering the lion’s den to invite a murderer to try again. That’s what this carefully engineered gathering on the island came down to. Chase had refused, as he had refused all of his life, to do it the easy way, the ordinary way. Looking back it was easy to say, yes, Chase should have called the police about the poisoned candy. And there was no doubt but that he should have contacted the police after the shooting episode.

  But Chase would—at all costs—have his own way.

  And cost him it had.

  Trevor’s voice dropped. “I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want to. And now we’re going to die, and it’s all Chase’s fault.”

  So Trevor had known all along the purpose of this gathering—and now he would have forfeited all his possessions to have made a different decision.

  But I didn’t suppose he’d ever been able to resist Chase.

  I didn’t fault him.

  I, too, hadn’t resisted Chase.

  I looked down at the lawyer for a moment more and once again he was searching for pieces of brick, scrabbling across the graveled roof, picking them up, adding them to his mound.

  I doubted if he even remembered the reason for this stockpile. But it didn’t matter. It was his focus, his reality, and it protected him from what was to come.

  The eastern horizon was darkening by the minute. Too soon the wall cloud would curve closer to us and we would see the bunchy layers of blackness climbing to heaven.

  Trevor wouldn’t look that way.

  Valerie St. Vincent wasn’t looking either. She still rested against the remnant of the chimney. A bleak smile touched her mouth. Her eyes were closed. I wondered what fragment of memory touched her. Did she recall a triumphant scene upon the stage that she loved, when she and an audience had the overpowering, incredible sense of fusion that can occur only in drama? She was a woman who would wither away without a creative goal. Chase had promised to consider backing her play after dinner on our second night. She hadn’t had that promise when the candy was poisoned or the gun fired on the island. But she was on very good terms with Roger. Did she feel confident that Roger would fund her? Confident enough to commit murder? Resting, her face upturned to the sun for warmth, Valerie’s unstudied classic beauty was as perfect as a marble sculpture of Minerva and, like the cool, milky stone, not quite human.

  A muffled cry, and a sharp crack sounded.

  I whirled toward the south.

  Enrique lifted his arm. The blunt board whipped down, pounding the writhing body of a water moccasin. Enrique’s tan, pocked face was utterly absorbed. The bulge around his middle, beneath his shirt, was quite evident when he lifted his arm.

  I had a theory. I almost crossed the roof to confront him. I put my hand inside the patch pocket of my slacks and gripped the butt of the gun. I stood that way for a long moment, then slowly the tension eased out of my shoulders. No. Not now. Later—if later came—I would see to him.

  He kept on striking the pulpy head long after the snake was dead. Although not a tall man, Enrique had a powerful physique, muscular arms, broad shoulders, thin hips, and strong legs. I thought of Haskell’s Christmas Eve memory. I felt sure Enrique cared no more about the two men he’d shot that night than he did about the snake he’d just killed. He dispatched victims with ferocious competence.

  I looked toward Rosalia, still guarding our wounded.

  She watched her husband. Her face was expressionless.

  I walked closer. “Rosalia, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what do you and Enrique intend to do with the money Mr. Prescott left you in his will?”

  “The money?” Her eyes stared up at me, then slid past me, stopped. She drew her breath in sharply. “I don’t know anything about money, Mrs. Collins. All of that my husband sees to.”

  I knew Enrique stood close behind me. He must have moved quickly and cat-footedly, for I heard no sound.

  I turned to meet his dark and hostile stare. He still held the stained board in his right hand. I said insistently, “Quite a lot of money.”

  Enrique shook his head. “I know nothing about money from Mr. Prescott’s will.” His eyes moved down to his wife. Rosalia drew in on herself, seemed to grow smaller as we watched.

  “That’s a lie.” Betty looked up defiantly. “I’ve heard them talking about it. He said it would be money for the dog races.”

  Enrique bolted forward, the board upraised.

  Betty began to scramble backward.

  “No.” It wasn’t a shout, but it was loud enough. “If you touch her, Enrique, you’re a dead man.” The gun in my hand felt good. I don’t like guns. If you draw a gun, you have to be prepared to use it. I was. I didn’t like the way it made me feel inside, but still I was glad—glad—to have it in my hand and to face him down.

  Roger and Lyle started across the roof.

  I held up my left hand. “It’s all right. He’s going to do just as he’s told.”

  Enrique had beaten and brutalized women for so long, he couldn’t believe the equation had changed. But, finally, slowly, he lowered his arm, his eyes full of fury, his mouth twisted with rage, his skin an ugly saffron. Then his eyes flickered toward Roger. “A misunderstanding, Mr. Prescott. That is all it is.” He moved lithely back toward the edge of the roof. He did give one backward glance, and I knew I had a mortal enemy.

  Roger hurried up. “What’s going on?”

  “A disagreement,” I said easily. “But not a misunderstanding. Enrique knew your father left him money in the will. He lied about it.”

  Roger looked down at Rosalia.

  “And there’s no good your asking Rosalia. He abuses her. She’s afraid to tell the truth.” I stuck the gun back in my pocket.

  Roger’s horrified gaze swung back to me.

  “I’m sure.”

  Roger knelt down beside the mattress. “Rosalia, when we get to shore, I’ll take care of you.”

  Tears welled in the housekeeper’s eyes.

  “I mean that. Don’t be frightened.” His clothes were rumpled and his face pale, an odd figure for a rescuer. I liked Roger. But I also watched him closely. I didn’t want anyone too near Burton.

  Roger awkwardly patted Rosalia’s shoulder, then stood up and turned toward me. The wind stirred his blond hair, tugged at his clothes. I was suddenly aware that the wind was stronger, harder, flatter. I looked to the east.

  There was the wall cloud, huge and black and curved. Roger opened his mouth.

  I didn’t want to talk now. “Later.” I wanted to think. There wasn’t much time left. I was like a marathoner. It didn’t matter now so much what the end of the race would bring, I was content merely to finish.

  Rosalia, too, felt the freshening wind. She was on her knees, spreading another blanket over Burton.

  Burton.

  Abruptly I realized that I had gone about everything the wrong way.

  Because Burton was the key.

  Yes, Burton had been attacked because his continued existence threatened the murderer.

  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.
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  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. I put 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.

  “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 s
ide, 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 Dead Man’s Island.