Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (31 page)

It sank into the swirling water.

Lyle’s hands balled into fists. He faced a force he couldn’t defeat, and his thwarted fury was palpable. It would take very little to ignite him.

Roger Prescott watched the fragment of brick disappear, too, his usually genial face empty of everything but weariness—and resignation. Roger took a step toward Lyle, then stopped, as if in recognition that he was powerless to help. Good-humored, kindly, hopeful Roger, a man passionate in his beliefs. Were ideals more important to him than people? He saw the power for good that his father’s empire could provide. Had he succumbed to the old siren song of the ends justifying the means?

Roger turned suddenly, looked straight at me. He had sensed my eyes upon him. He looked like a teddy bear that had been left out in the rain, his blond hair scraggly, his clothes wrinkled. He forced a smile. “Like Robinson Crusoe, aren’t we?” He didn’t wait for an answer but began his walk along the edge of
the roof again. Perhaps he knew there wasn’t a good answer.

The sounds were the same: the scuff of the men’s shoes, the swish and gurgle of water, the occasional frantic call of a gull. But no one spoke.

Trevor still crouched near the shattered chimney, working on his mound of broken bricks. His eyes followed his hands as they reached out and retrieved the pieces of chimney. His entire being was focused on the task, the better to exclude the terrifying reality of his surroundings. It was hard to recall the polished, confident, handsome man I’d met on my arrival with this frightened, diminished creature.

I walked across the roof.

“How’s it going, Trevor?” I heard the rattle and scrape as he reached for another brick.

He didn’t look up; his eyes never left the brick in his hand. “Fine, fine.”

If ever someone was vulnerable to assault, it was this man. If he knew anything at all, this was the time to find out. How much had he been in Chase’s confidence? He’d known about the insurance policy, the policy that would make all the difference for Lyle Stedman and for Roger. Chase had tried to keep that from me.

Had Chase kept anything else from me?

But I must feel my way carefully. “Trevor, you owe your loyalty to the living. Not to the dead.”

Reluctantly his eyes slid from the brick in his hand to my face. His look twisted my heart; it was a look of despair mixed with fear and horror.

“Trevor, tell me, did Chase have any idea at all
who wanted to kill him? Did he tell you anything that would help us?”

I wasn’t prepared for his response.

“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.

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.

S
avage and cunning.

Trevor Dunnaway slowly raised his hands.

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