Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (22 page)

I leaned casually against the sofa, trying a little body language to relax her. “Betty, I just want you to think back a little bit. Since you unpack for the guests, naturally you’re generally aware of what is in their luggage. Now, were there any wrapped parcels about this long?” I spread my hands a foot apart. “Like a package of candles.”

“Candles, ma’am?” Almost immediately, understanding flickered in her eyes, confirming my judgment that Betty was both intelligent and observant. Her hands stilled. “Is that how dynamite is shaped, Mrs. Collins? Like candles?”

“Near enough. An inch or a little over in diameter. Eight to twelve inches long. Like inch-round sticks a foot in length. They’re yellowish with a waxy feel. They look like a mixture of oil, sawdust, and clay. Straight dynamite has an almost sickening-sweet smell.”

It didn’t escape me that when she was confident the questions had nothing to do with her personally, she relaxed enough to sit on the edge of the sofa. Her hazel eyes stared off into space. When Betty’s face lost its subservient cast, the thoughtful, measuring look in her eyes was clear to see.

I didn’t try to hurry her.

Finally she gave a little sigh of disappointment. “No. But I didn’t open three pieces of hand luggage. One was yours. Mr. Dunnaway has a briefcase. Mr. Haskell brought a gym bag.” Her mouth quirked. “I smell real good. I didn’t smell anything sweetlike.”

“So you’re pretty certain that none of the other guests could have had sticks of dynamite with them.” So how the hell did it get on the island?

“I don’t see how. There was nothing like that—nothing—in any of the cases I unpacked. And how else could something like that get on the island? We don’t get any mail here. All our supplies are opened and put away by Enrique. Anything a guest brings goes directly to the room. You can check with Enrique and Mr. Andrews to be sure. I unpacked everything but those three things. I smelled rose petals in Miss Valerie’s things and spicy soap in Mr. Dunnaway’s. But nothing sweet.”

I hadn’t been too hopeful, but this was an avenue I had to pursue. Because someone had managed to come up with explosives somehow. “Okay, Betty. How about the storeroom here on the island. Do you know if there’s ever been any dynamite around? Maybe to blow up tree stumps, something like that?”

Although if Chase had chosen this island for its solitude and quiet, as Burton Andrews indicated when I arrived, certainly it would have been more agreeable to dig out stumps than to explode them. But Chase and his entourage wouldn’t have been here when construction was under way.

“Nothing’s ever been blown up—not when we’ve been on the island.” Betty was quite definite. “And I’ve never seen sticks like you described. But you should talk to Enrique.”

Gusty winds tugged at my clothes, scudded magnolia leaves across the ground, rattled the palm fronds,
whipped the somber cypress. Wind sighed through the live oaks with the eerie sound of zithers mindlessly strummed. It was a hostile world, the dark sky lowering overhead, branches cracking, the air heavy with moisture.

I almost turned toward the maintenance building. Light streamed from the open door. But instead I ducked into the maritime forest.

I wanted to see the ocean.

I went as far as the first dune.

If the person who had detonated that dynamite, stranding us here, had taken the time to walk across the island and look at the boiling, churning, explosive surf, surely the explosion would not have occurred. Not if that person had any idea of the vulnerability of this low-lying piece of land.

If Haskell didn’t reach the mainland … If our desperate calls on the mobile phone weren’t answered …

I had no doubt of our fate.

The signs were too clear.

The tide surge could be measured. I estimated at least fifteen feet.

The interval between the waves was longer than it had been yesterday. Much longer. An unmistakable portent. And the waves were awesome, lifting tons of water up against the purplish sky, up, up, up. Foaming crests curled over to crash with explosive thunder. The dune plants rippled as if yanked by a giant’s hand. The mist from the thunderous surf drenched me in seconds.

How could anyone—have been fool enough, or
desperate enough, or angry enough to subject all of us to this indifferent, unstoppable force?

Was someone willing to die to see Chase dead? Or was Chase not even the main focus anymore? Had anger so possessed some soul that all humanity was gone, replaced by the kind of vicious violence that was willing to die to deal out indiscriminate death, like the sniper in a campus bell tower or the gun-laden attacker in a shopping mall?

If that was the case, my dogged pursuit of information was pointless. Rational investigation is incapable of explaining irrational acts.

But I must find out what I could.

I hurried back along the sodden path, wet tendrils of ferns slapping against me. I caught myself just in time from stepping on a black snake seeking higher ground.

I moved carefully but even faster. There would be more and more snakes if the rains started again.

As they would.

And when they did, it wouldn’t be the straight, unremarkable rains of the peripheral storms. No, the next rains would streak from the sky, pummel the waterlogged earth, cascade into standing, ever deepening pools of water.

As I came out of the forest and turned toward the maintenance building, I saw that the door was shut.

I hesitated.

Enrique was probably back in the main house.

But it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look through the building myself and to look more closely than I had before.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

Enrique had left the light on. Perhaps he expected to return soon. Perhaps it was simply an acknowledgment that there was no longer a reason to conserve electricity.

If the storm swamped the island, this building would be swept away, and with it, of course, the generator.

Why not leave the light on?

I tried not to look at the remnants of Haskell’s desperate work. I still carried with me in my head the howl of the frenzied ocean, a roar so deep and pervasive, so inhuman and incalculable that it numbed the mind. To be adrift in its midst would be so terrifying, so dreadful …

Concentrate
.

I opened cupboards, closets, boxes.

I didn’t have time to search every possible hiding place. But I wasn’t looking for a hiding place. I wanted to know if dynamite had been stored here, for whatever reason. If it had, that fact could be known by those who regularly used the maintenance building. That would include Enrique, the cleaning and work crews that visited the island every week, and, possibly, Chase.

I found no trace of dynamite anywhere.

“Dynamite?” Burton’s voice broke in a squeak. “I don’t know anything about dynamite. Why would I? I’m a secretary, not a workman.” His face no longer appeared boyish. But the faint stubble of fair beard on his cheeks looked seedy rather than masculine,
like a downy duck caught in a windstorm. He caught my wrist in a grip of surprising strength.

“Are we going to get out of here? You know things. Is it all right? Is this just some kind of hideous joke someone’s playing? To scare us? The island won’t disappear in the water, will it? Will it?” His eyes bulged. Hysteria wasn’t far distant.

I tried to be reassuring. “It’s hard to say what might happen, Burton. A lot will depend on where the storm strikes. If it’s close, we might be in trouble. But hurricanes are odd. It could turn and streak out to sea, or it could veer to the west, sweep over Florida and move into the gulf.”

“Mrs. Collins”—his voice was a husky whisper—“do you think somebody’s insane?”

Enrique’s shirt had pulled out of his trousers. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. Sweat streaked his swarthy face. Blood welled from an angry scratch across the back of his right hand. He hammered with swift, competent grace.

For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he paused to wipe his face with his sleeve. “Dynamite? On the island? No.” He turned, grabbed another board, slammed it into place. As the hammer thudded, he swore in a monotone, one hostile obscene phrase after another, describing the antecedents, lifestyle practices, and intelligence of whoever had ignited the explosion aboard the
Miranda B
.

I didn’t doubt his sincerity.

•     •     •     •

I found Chase pacing the upstairs balcony, looking out at the mist-swept sound and the jagged peaks of white foam. The wind had eased considerably, but I knew better than to take comfort. This was simply a lull.

He swung around as I stepped out onto the balcony.

“Any word? Have we got through yet? Made any contact?” He was still angry and, I think, astonished, at what had happened, at the fact that someone had dared to taunt him like this.

“I don’t think so. I’ll check with Trevor. I’ve been nosing around. Trying to figure out who could have set the explosives.” I shivered in the wind. I was wet through from my walk.

He shook his head impatiently. “That doesn’t matter now. God, we’ve got to get out of here. If there were something, anything…” He swung around, strode to the railing, and gripped it.

I came up beside him.

“Come downstairs, Chase. Rosalia said breakfast will be ready at seven.”
The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast
. Yes, I’d written that once, years ago. The only formal execution I ever covered. I still feel a sour curdling in my throat when I remember it.

“Breakfast.” He repeated it as if it were a word he’d never heard. He let go of the railing, jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. He wore a crimson and navy nylon warm-up that seemed incongruously cheerful.

“We need the nourishment. Come on, Chase.” I started for the doorway.

He stared out at the sound again. “I don’t know
what to do.” Frustration and anger harshened his voice.

“We’re doing all that we can,” I said quietly. I looked up at him, his fine-boned face now taut with anxiety, and thought that he was—perhaps for the first time in his life—caught up in circumstances that not even one of the richest men in the world could control.

It galled him.

“Chase?” I managed a smile. “Do you want my take on it?”

Some of the tension eased out of his body. His eyes brightened. “Sure. I remember press parties when you’d wrap a red kerchief around your hair and put on huge gold hoop earrings and tell everybody’s fortune. Have at it, Henrie O.”

I’m afraid my smile wavered for an instant. I, too, remembered those parties—and the time I held his hand, so tightly, and told him a dark young woman would be his wife and his helpmeet for life. But we all know how much stock to place in fortune-tellers.

I began to talk rapidly, both to drown out memory and to be heard above the freshening wind.

“A free prediction, won’t cost you a cent.” I lifted my voice in a reedy singsong. “Listen to a Gypsy who’s traveled this sea. The storm will pass by, we’ll heave a great sigh. Sure as pirates love pieces of eight, tonight we’ll gather to celebrate.”

He gave me an odd smile.

I felt absurdly pleased to have lightened his mood, even if only for an instant.

“Pieces of eight.” His eyes had a faraway shine. “Funny how romantic it sounds—and it’s only
money. Money. Sometimes it isn’t enough.” He looked back toward the water. His face hardened. “And sometimes it is. Come on, Henrie O. Let’s go downstairs. What the hell, you may be right.” At the foot of the stairs he paused for an instant, then said, “Go on out for breakfast. Let’s keep to a regular schedule. It will encourage everybody. I’m going to check on Miranda, then I’ll swim.”

Lyle worked the telephone. He paused long enough to shake his head at the offer of food. “Just coffee, okay?” His savagely red hair bristled in unruly curls. He hadn’t shaved and thick red stubble covered his cheeks. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt. He hunched over the phone, dialing, talking, cutting the connection, dialing, talking….

I was pushing open the door to the dining room when I heard the change in his voice.

“
Savannah?
” Coast Guard Group Savannah? Stranded party of eleven seeks rescue. Sea island 3250.5 north, 8055.1 west. Stranded party of even …

I swung around, hurried back to him.

He gave the message over and over. The hope in his voice lessened with each repetition. Finally he stopped, breathing deeply. “I heard something. I think we had a connection. Just for an instant. I don’t know if it was long enough. But, by God, it’s something. And if it happened once—” He punched the buttons exuberantly.

Hope is so much better than despair.

I was a little surprised when I entered the dining
room to find it empty. Rosalia had promised breakfast at seven and it was now a few minutes past. Then I saw through the French doors that Enrique and Betty were setting out the serving dishes on the sideboard on the patio.

I opened the doors and smelled bacon and sausage and cheese grits—and the sweetish, heavy, wet-foliage scent that follows a drenching rain. A glum, grimly quiet group occupied the two tables.

I wondered briefly why on earth breakfast wasn’t being served in the dining room. It would certainly have been far more cheerful than to be outside on an overcast, sultry morning like this. The wind had lessened, though the palm fronds still fluttered. But I supposed in the aftermath of the explosion no one had taken time to direct Rosalia to change the location—and of course that wasn’t her decision to make. Miranda wasn’t among those on the porch. It should have been her call. Or Chase’s.

“Good news,” I said briskly.

Every face turned toward me.

The men started to rise. I motioned them to keep their seats. “Lyle just made momentary contact with the Savannah Coast Guard station. He doesn’t know how much they got, but they got something. And now he’s continuing to call. And he’d love some coffee, Betty.” I crossed to the first table, grabbed up a coffee thermos, and poured the hot, steaming brew almost to the brim of a crimson pottery mug. Usually I add two generous dollops of milk. This morning I wanted it black, hot, and strong.