The Writer (2 page)

It was that reclusive nature that had enhanced Decklan Stone’s appeal to Adele since her first reading of
Manitoba
. Stone’s reputation as a mysterious recluse gave him an aura of the unknown that fascinated Adele. She had spent hours staring at his black-and-white photo that dominated
Manitoba’s
interior back cover. She knew the faint lines that crossed his forehead, the large, expressive eyes, the slightly upturned nose, and the full-lipped, almost feminine mouth that contrasted his strong, undeniably masculine jawline. She could also recall nearly every strand of the unruly, dark hair that crowned the head of the man that she, and many others, considered a literary genius.

“Have you ever seen him?”

Will turned around in the wooden seat that barely contained his large and lumpy frame so he could look behind him where Adele sat on the single wood bench housed at the very back of the Whaler.

“Who, the writer?”

Adele nodded.

“Yeah, I guess I have, though not for a while and it wasn’t up close. Late last summer after dropping off his monthly supply order I looked back on my way back to Deer Harbor and saw him standing on the dock staring at me. I waved at him. He didn’t wave back.”

This bit of information piqued Adele’s interest. For the first time since stepping onto his boat, she was interested in what Will Speaks had to say.

“What did he look like?”

Will shrugged his wide shoulders, making certain to talk loud enough so his voice could be heard above the droning din of the small two-stroke outboard motor.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kind of thin, tall, I think he was wearing a sweatshirt. There was almost fifty yards of water between us by then. Like I said, I waved, but he didn’t wave back. Makes me think he’s probably as much of a jerk as some folks say.”

Adele was quick to ask a follow up question.

“People around here don’t like him?”

Will, possibly sensing the verbal trap, quickly shook his head.

“I didn’t say
that
. I guess it’s more, well, we don’t really
know
him. He’s a mystery. I mean, that’s why you’re coming out here to do the talking thing, right? So you can try and solve the big mystery of the writer?”

Adele wasn’t about to let Will off the hook that easy. She also made note of his phrase, “the talking thing” thinking it something a much younger person would say.

“But you just said some around here say he’s an asshole. Those were
your
words, Mr. Speaks. I’d appreciate knowing who those people are.”

Will winced as he realized he should have kept his mouth shut. His next reply was again sprinkled with an oddly childlike speech pattern juxtaposed within the body of a full-grown man.

“Oh, I didn’t mean people
today
. I’m sure your, uh, research, if you’ve done research, you know about his wife’s death, her disappearance and all that stuff. There were some around here who thought maybe it wasn’t like the cops said it was, is all I meant. I was just a kid then, so don’t take what I say as how it is, or something.”

Adele knew the story well. Decklan Stone’s young, beautiful wife was reported lost in a nighttime boating accident, her body never recovered. That tragedy took place just three years after Stone had become among the most successful and widely regarded authors of his day when he was but twenty-seven years old. He was thirty when Calista Stone was said to have slipped beneath the cold and dark, San Juan Islands waters never to return, and from then on, whatever continued literary promise Decklan Stone might have had, seemingly perished along with his wife. He had become an extension of the tragic romance that was such a critical element within
Manitoba,
a condition that no doubt contributed to the novel’s return to the bestseller list immediately following Calista Stone’s death and the mystery surrounding it, thus earning Decklan that much more money, mystery, and notoriety.

Few things are as attractive or profitable as human tragedy.

“Didn’t your father used to be the San Juan County Sheriff?”

Will’s eyes widened slightly, a gesture that let Adele know her earlier research was correct. He gently increased the Whaler’s speed, wanting to be rid of the college girl and her questions.

“Yeah.”

“Is he one of those you just said doesn’t like Decklan Stone?”

Will turned away from Adele and pointed to the private dock that extended like a long, rigid finger from a small, densely wooded island near the entrance to Deer Harbor.

“We’re just about there, Ms. Plank. I’ll be pulling in portside.”

Adele had no idea what portside was until after the Whaler turned to the right to allow its left side to come to a slow and well controlled stop directly against the dock. Will tied off the skiff, jumped onto the dock, and extended his right hand to help Adele from the boat.

“Is that the same boat?”

The boat in question was a forty-one foot, red, white and blue, wooden-hulled Chris Craft. Adele had seen photos of it while scanning the Internet for the information pertaining to Calista Stone’s death. She knew the boat to have been built in 1961 and purchased by Decklan and Calista shortly after they bought Wasp Island in 1986, following the bestselling success of
Manitoba
.

Will scowled as he tried to avoid Adele’s eyes. His response was a barely audible grumble. He appeared not to want to look at the boat any more than he wanted to look directly at Adele.

“Yes, it’s the same boat. He has Old Jack come out every six months to keep her looking right.”

Adele had no idea who Old Jack was, but made a mental note to follow up on the name. She then took out her phone and snapped several pictures of the boat, the dock, and the hillside. It was an undeniably beautiful place, with rock-strewn beaches, abrupt, dark- stoned cliffs, and majestic evergreen trees that rose up like towering, silent sentinels that kept watch over the small island.

“The path begins at the end of the dock. It’ll take you to the house. If I remember right, it gets a bit steep, but a young, pretty woman like you should have no trouble at all.”

Again Adele noticed how Will would sometimes use a word or expression that didn’t quite fit with how a man his age would normally talk.

Not sure what his thinking I’m pretty has anything to do with my being able to get up the hill.

Adele readjusted her backpack. Then she offered her right hand, which Will quickly took in his much larger and calloused appendage.

“Thank you for helping to get me here, Mr. Speaks. I hope to have a chance to speak with you again soon.”

Will gave Adele a forced smile and shrugged.

“I can’t make any promises about that. I don’t want to cause any trouble with Mr. Stone. He pays me good to bring him his supplies and jobs like this aren’t exactly easy to come by around here. Oh, when you call me to say you’re ready to be picked up, you might have to use Mr. Stone’s regular, uh, the old kind of phone. Cell phones don’t always work out here.”

Adele smiled and then readjusted her backpack again, realizing she was doing so more out of nervousness than necessity.

“OK, I’ll do that. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

After she took several steps on the dock toward the awaiting trail to Decklan Stone’s home overlooking the waters that surrounded his private island, Adele heard Will call out to her.

“You be careful, Ms. Plank.”

Adele tried to reassure him with a smile.

“I’ll take my time getting up there. Don’t worry. I won’t slip.”

The smile normally affixed to Will’s face vanished. His eyes narrowed as he gave Adele a long, hard stare.

“I’m not talking about you getting up to the house. I’m talking about you getting back.”

It was at that moment Adele wondered why the seemingly affable, albeit childlike, Will Speaks wasn’t escorting her to the writer’s home that was almost entirely hidden behind a wall of trees.

“Have you been to the house, Mr. Speaks?”

Will shook his head.

“No, not for a long time.”

“Why not?”

Will peered up at the faint outline of the Stone residence through a gap in the tree line.

“Mr. Stone doesn’t allow it. He’s made that clear. I drop off the supplies on the dock, and then leave. At the end of the month a check is mailed to my dad from a place in New York with a list of supplies to be delivered the next month. That’s what my dad tells me to do and so, uh, so that’s what I do.”

“And why do you think I need to be careful when I get up there?”

Will looked down as he shuffled his feet, appearing even more like a nervous child than a grown man. He felt as if he was being watched from above.

“It’s just that I think people who meet someone who they think they know are kind of let down. And you’re not the first fan of the writer to come around here hoping to get a peek. I figure everyone just needs to let things be. Let him live up there alone because that’s what he seems to want and I think people should get what they want.”

Adele readjusted her backpack for a third time.

“Yeah, but I’m the first one who he actually invited, right?”

Will gave Adele a slow nod as he kept his eyes locked onto hers.

“Yeah, I guess so. Unless I hear different, expect me back here in three hours like you said.”

Adele was both fascinated and just a bit uncomfortable at Will’s sudden concern for her well-being. She quickly pushed aside her discomfort when she remembered she was about to meet the reclusive Decklan Stone –
in person
.

“OK, Mr. Speaks, and thank you again.”

She gave Will a quick wave as he hopped back onto the Whaler, restarted its motor, and began to move away from the dock.

He didn’t wave back.

The path at the end of the dock consisted of a narrow trail of compacted gravel that led upward and then through a dense area of trees. After several steps, Adele paused to look behind her at the glistening, glasslike waters below. She could see Will Speaks navigating the Whaler back to the Deer Harbor marina and then moved her eyes upward to follow the slow, circling path of a bald eagle. Between a gap in the trees, she saw a small cove almost entirely hidden from the main body of water by a dark, circular outcrop of rock. Behind that was a small, red-hulled fiberglass runabout tied by a long rope around the trunk of a tree that hung over a sand and pebble beach.

Adele took a deep breath and relished the intoxicating mixture of saltwater and trees.

It was certainly a beautiful place, the kind of place she could easily imagine a writer like Decklan Stone living out his days in quiet solitude.

I would love to live here.

Adele Plank was a student at the nearby university in Bellingham, some twenty-six nautical miles from Deer Harbor, but she had grown up in Washington State’s interior. She was born and raised in the small town of Concrete in Skagit County. She had never been to the San Juan Islands; though, she knew of people who summered there and spoke glowingly of its enchanting and mysterious nature. Over four hundred smaller, but no less beautiful, islands, accompanied the primary islands of San Juan, Orcas and Lopez. It was a boater’s paradise, a place that had long attracted visitors from all over the world.

“Hello there.”

Adele whirled around and found herself staring up at Decklan Stone. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell partly open as she tried in vain to think of something to say.

“Can I take your backpack? The trail gets a bit steep, though it does make for a nice workout.”

Oh, my. He’s gorgeous!

Decklan Stone appeared remarkably well-preserved. Though Adele knew him to be fifty-seven years of age, he could easily have passed for a man in his early forties. His lightly bearded face was nearly devoid of lines, his blue eyes bright and clear, and his dark hair nearly as thick and unruly as the black-and-white photo of him that accompanied Adele’s copy of
Manitoba
, taken thirty years ago.

Adele was horrified to find her mouth barely able to form words.

“Oh, yes, uh, thank you. Hello, my name is Adele, Adele Plank.”

The author easily dissected the distance between himself and Adele in a few quick and confident steps down the trail, bringing with him the subtle scent of cologne and tobacco smoke. His voice was low, smooth, and dangerously enticing. He was just over six-feet tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and especially long, athletic legs housed in tan khakis that accompanied a thick, cream-colored wool sweater. A pair of dark gray, loafer-style boating shoes adorned his feet.

“Yes, I know who you are, Ms. Plank. I invited you.”

Adele tried not to blush, but failed as she placed her backpack into Decklan’s long-fingered, outstretched hands. She made note of the gold flash of a classic Rolex watch as it peeked out from underneath the left sleeve of his sweater.

“How was the journey here?”

Adele cleared her throat and smiled.

“Oh, it was great. It’s such a beautiful place. And this island! It’s just…it’s just perfect!”

Decklan stood staring down at Adele for a few uncomfortable seconds, and then he looked up at the trees as his voice took on a contemplative tone.

“Perfect? I don’t know about that, but it
is
home.”

The author shook off whatever memories had suddenly taken him away and he smiled again, flashing a row of brilliant white and perfectly aligned teeth.

“Just follow me then, and we’ll be to the house in no time.”

Adele did as she was told, struggling just a bit to keep up with the longer-legged writer as he easily made his way up the narrow, steepening path.

With her lungs stinging their angry discontent, Adele looked across a small, grass and flower clearing at a log-framed structure that loomed on the other side and was stunned to find that it appeared exactly as it did from the news clippings of decades ago. The two-story home had a covered, wrap-around front porch that dominated the entrance, and a large balcony that led out via a pair of French doors from what was the second floor master bedroom above.

It was the house
Manitoba
’s long-ago success had built.