Harsens Island (5 page)

“In an old lighthouse on the north side, across from Dickinson Island. She doesn’t come to events like this – she becomes very excited and emotional when she’s in a crowd.”

“She lives on her own?”

“Yes and no. She’s old enough to take care of herself, but she has assistance. We provide her with food and help prepare meals. Some of the kids visit her, but she’s very shy. And, as you can imagine, some of them taunt her, calling her all sorts of terrible things…”

“…Voodoo Child…”

“…Tell me, have you met Chief Redsky?”

“No. I don’t know him.”

“Redsky is a ‘she’. Lauren Redsky. She’s the leader of the Walpole tribe. When she heard what happened, she offered to take Moon to their island, but we felt responsible so she stayed with us. The chief affords her a housekeeper during the day, and at night she has someone stay with her, a sort of security guard.”

“How’s her English?”

“She speaks a few words. Please, thank you, yes and no. Mostly she sings in Vietnamese. We’ve had translators decipher the songs but they’re just children’s rhymes. We plan on having her work with an English tutor this fall.”

“So she’s Vietnamese?”

“We’re pretty sure she is, yes.”

“Why hasn’t she been deported?”

“Nobody knows where to send her! Plus, Brian and I want to adopt her.”

“So what’s her real name?”

“We call her Moon. We found her under a full moon.”

Dixie’s eyes drifted over the dancers. 

“I’ve tried to imagine it a thousand times, what it must’ve been like. Adrift on a sheet of ice, frozen to the marrow and everyone you know is gone in black water. Then an enormous ship comes up on top of you, and there you are, a little girl, floating through clouds and ice…a searchlight shines on you, men are yelling, and then a boat and rescue, and finally you’re warm…”

In that moment, they spotted Brian weaving through the dancers, swaying, a drink in each hand.

“Should I apologize?” Sam asked.

“No, he knows we’ve talked. Let it be.”

He set the drinks on the table. Dixie rose to greet him, and smiling she clasped his hands.

“Wanna dance, big boy?”

He was bright with happiness and vodka

“
Hell, yes!
The joint’s jumpin’! C’mon, sweet cheeks, let’s boogie!”

They waltzed onto the dance floor, and then Brian slid from Dixie’s grip. With shuffling steps, he returned to Sam, leaned forward, and with tenderness placed his hands behind each ear and kissed her forehead, a light peck, nothing more.

She touched his hands as they melted from her.

Then he and Dixie twirled away like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, dancing to their own music, oblivious to the DJ’s choice of
It’s a Mugs Game.

Suddenly Snake sat next to her, startling her. She had the immediate, distrustful impression he’d been waiting for her to be alone.

“Hello, hello!”

He leaned in for a hug and Sam accepted him, briefly, not wanting to snub him publicly.

“Are you enjoying these proceedings?”

“I’m having a good time, yeah.”

“Would you like to dance?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

His eyed widened and his head cocked back.

“
No?
Seriously?
”

“Seriously.” 

“My
goodness
,” he said.

“I don’t dance,” she said, and reaching for her bag said, “Excuse me,” intending to disappear into the bathroom for a few minutes.

It was then that a woman screamed; a piercing cry of fear. The music abruptly stopped. Then there was a chorus of anguish, terror, and shock. 

One lone voice cut through the noise.

“The river! She’s in the river! Moon!”

The crowd shifted in every direction; voices wailed; the refrain rose, fell, and echoed around her.

“
Moon! Moon!
”

A surge of people headed for the dock as a counter surge pushed into the dining room.

“Moon!”

Sam dropped her purse on her seat, abandoning Snake.

“Dear god, it’s Moon!”

She pushed through the crowd.

“Help her! Help her!”

Brian, emerging from the crowd, his face ashen, grabbed Sam’s arm, trying to stop her. Dixie, ghostly pale, eyes fixed on nothing, trailed behind him.

“Don’t go out there,”
he pleaded.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just don’t.”

She shook him off, and pushed deeper into the melee. She saw Rowland at the rail of the dock, ordering people back.

“
Get off the dock
,
move back
,
move back!”

She pushed through the crowd to the dock rail.

In the dark river, a body drifted: face down, arms extended, black hair floating on the water.

“Somebody do something!”

Sam dove in to the cold water, hands in prayer, arms outstretched. Her left shoe spiraled off.

Through the sound of the water, the pulse of her heart, and her sharp breaths, she heard men and women shouting. She kicked rapidly, legs and feet extended, losing the second shoe, arcing arm over arm, swimming fearlessly. The body was no more than twenty yards from the dock; Sam quickly reached it. A small boat came up on her and a voice yelled:

“
Get in! Get in the boat!
”

Gasping for air, Sam rolled the body over and greeted a cold, lifeless and bloated face.

She emitted a short, strangled gasp and coughed violently, fighting nausea, her eyes rapidly brimming with tears.

She wrapped an arm around the body and kicked away from the boat, gasping for air, emitting short, painful sobs.

When she caught traction on the river’s edge, she pulled the body onto shore as the men from the boat landed.

“We got ‘er, honey,”
one of them shouted.
“We got ‘er…”

“…
Sam
…”
a voice said.

Her mouth opened but no words escaped.

“…
Samantha
…”

Sheriff Rowland tugged on her arm.

“…
Sam
…”

She looked to Rowland and saw Hannibal standing next to him.

“Get her out of here,” Hannibal said.

“Come on, Sam,” Rowland said. “We’ve got her. It’s over. It’s okay. Let’s get you checked out. Come on…”

“
Now
, Rowland. I want her gone,
now
.”

“Back off, Clayton!”
Rowland yelled.

“Hunter,” Sam said. 

“What?” Rowland said.

“
Hunter
. It’s Lynn Hunter.”

“The woman that called me?”

“Yes,” Sam said, gasping. “Lynn Hunter.”

“
Now
, sheriff,” Hannibal snapped.

Rowland helped her onto her feet and guided her through the crowd, ordering people to stand aside.

Time blurred.

She was at his cruiser. He was wrapping her into an emergency blanket. She blinked and realized she was seated in the back of Rowland’s cruiser. Dixie sat to her right, holding her hand. Brian was outside, leaning against the door.

“You’re the bravest woman,” Dixie whispered.

“Rowland’s getting an EMT, Sam,” Brian said. “Just relax, take deep breaths, that’s it....”

Snake appeared. He had her purse.

“You forgot this!”

He gave it to her with a wide, friendly smile before disappearing in the crowd.

She sat on a hard, laminate chair at a rectangular laminate table. Another chair sat opposite her. Fluorescents lit the small room; the walls were concrete blocks, painted white. A video camera was in the upper left corner, across from the door.

Men and women from the Border Patrol, State Police, and, eventually, the FBI, interviewed her. She provided economical, easy to remember answers:

Q: And how did you know the victim?

A: She was my lawyer.

Q: Why did you jump in the water?

A: I thought she was drowning.

Q: How did you know it was your lawyer?

A: I didn’t.

In between interviews, she sat quietly, mindful not to do anything that might be interpreted as nervousness or guilt. 

She’d been in the room for over eight hours when Rowland came in; he carried a cup of coffee, two pens, and a yellow pad of legal-size paper. A dozen or more pages were folded over, and the front sheet had the date and the time written at the top.

His face bore the haggard effects of caffeine, sleeplessness, and stress. His shirt was unbuttoned, and a light sweat shimmered on his forehead. He removed his wristwatch and set it by the pad, facing the dial toward himself.

“How are you holding up, Sam?”

“Okay.”

“It’s been a long night, I know, and we’re almost done.” He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Pop?”

“No, but thank you.”

“I have a couple-three more questions and then we’ll get you home.”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat a second time.

“I’d like you to tell me about Lynn Hunter.”

“She was my lawyer.”

“What firm was she affiliated with?”

“Houle and Kelly. They’re a New York outfit.”

“Alright,” Rowland said. “I’ll tell you up front I’m not interested in what your business dealings were or why she was your lawyer. I’d like to hear about the woman, the person. What you know of her and any impressions, false or positive, you had of her.”

“Impressions.”

“Observations,” Rowland said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Sam spoke directly and steadily, avoiding any intonation of rancor or dislike, pleasure or happiness. As she spoke, her eyes drifted to the past and to the present, from the desk to her hands, from Rowland’s hands to his eyes.

“She was the type of person who would answer her phone in the middle on a conversation and talk to both parties simultaneously. She could write error-free on a laptop without looking at her fingers, like a court stenographer.”

Sam paused.

“How’s it sound, so far?”

“It’s a start,” he said. “Take your time.”

“She would ask how you were but not comment or follow through on the answer. The rituals of greeting and departure were essentially cut and paste phrases devoid of empathy or meaning. She hated her father and loved her mother. She liked to give the impression she was self-made, which I imagine she was, to a point. Then, who isn’t?

“She owned a five-thousand dollar pug dog named Hurley, and had a fourteen-year old daughter named Ann. Ann attended a private school in Manhattan. She said the tuition was north of forty-thousand a year. She was very proud of that. She said Ann was so beautiful that one of her teachers, a married woman with three children, tried to seduce her – she sued the school and in the process forced the teacher to retire. She was very proud of that, too.

“Twenty years ago she married an alcoholic named Thomas. I say it that way because she admitted she knew he was an alcoholic before they married. Three years ago, she decided to divorce him for that very reason. She said the divorce was ongoing and that he wanted custody of the daughter more than alimony or any financial settlement. She didn’t want him to have visitation rights or any say in the daughter’s life. His last name wasn’t Hunter, by the way. It’s something Slavic, Romanian or Hungarian.”

Sam paused, staring at the desk.

“No matter. I’ll wager she had no real friends, only the type you ‘friend’ on Facebook or endorse on LinkedIn
.
Business associates, people who measure happiness by profit and loss statements, title, or zip code. She had a pretty face, stunning gray eyes, and sometimes when she smiled, I imagined I saw blood on her teeth. She was intelligent, quick-witted, and dressed as if she was ready to appear on the cover of
Vogue
. I know her peers feared her and she enjoyed their fear.”

Sam paused a second time.

“Let me say it this way. If you and she were the sole desert island survivors of a plane crash, she would have you on a rotisserie before the first sunrise.”

Sam paused long enough for Rowland to react.

He repeated his two-note whistle.

“That’s quite a biography,” he said. 

“More of a thumbnail sketch.”

“You didn’t like her?”

“I took her for what she was, not what I wanted her to be. I liked her well enough.”

“She must’ve been a hell of a lawyer.”

“She was.”

“Was she ever suicidal?”

“No. Not so far as I know.”

“Did she ever indicate anyone wanted to hurt or harm her?”

“No.”

“She had no enemies?”

“No. Not so far as I know.”

“You knew her socially?”

“No. We had a business relationship.”

“And you liked her?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “I did.”

“But you feared her?”

“No. I fear no one.”

Rowland tapped his pad with one of the pens.

“We didn’t find an ID or a phone.” 

“They’re in her computer case,” Sam said. “She never carried a purse.”

Rowland continued looking at his pad. There were only a few notes.

“Alright, good. I think we’re done for now. We’ll let you go. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

“When’s the autopsy?” Sam asked.

“Tomorrow, Monday. We took her to county.”

“If you can let me know how she died, I’d appreciate it. If you can, I mean.”

Rowland squinted.

“You don’t think she drowned?”

“I have no idea. I’d just like to know.”

Rowland considered this before speaking.

“Alright. If it goes smoothly, we’ll get a prelim late Tuesday afternoon, early Wednesday morning. If you want, give me a shout anytime Wednesday afternoon or, say, Thursday morning, to be on the safe side.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

“Thank you…”

The officer Emily Dowicki drove her home while the sun was low in the east. Dowicki gave Sam a business card with her home number on the back, and told her to call if she needed anything.

Sam went inside, turned on her TV, sat on the couch, and instantly fell asleep in river-dirty, sweat stained clothes.

**********

She woke Sunday afternoon to a loud and insistent knocking on her front door. She was groggy but noted the time: it was shortly after two p.m.; she had been asleep for seven hours.

The knocking continued.

She ignored it.

She stripped naked, used the bathroom, showered quickly as she always did, using soap to wash off the stench and grit of the river, and shampooed her hair. The knocking was more or less continuous now: staccato raps followed by a moment of quiet, then more rapping. She dried off, brushed her teeth, applied deodorant, and dressed in a black tee and blue jeans. 

The man at the door was in his early seventies. He was a handsome man. His eyes were steel blue, sharp and penetrating; his hair was thin and gray; he was barrel chested and his hands were large extensions of thick, heavy arms. His suit was a dark blue with almost imperceptible gray lines; Sam estimated it cost at least six-thousand dollars. His tie and shirt were of a similar quality.

“Fred Houle,” he said, offering her a business card. “Senior partner, Houle and Kelly. We need to talk.”

She examined the card.

“About what?”

“Take one guess.”

“I want to see your ID,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know a Houle or a Kelly. I’d prefer a passport.”

“Ms. Moretti…”

“…Melillo...”

“…If you think I’m letting you proof me you’re sadly mistaken.”

“No,” she said. “The mistake is yours.”

She ripped the card in half and let it flutter away in the soft, river breeze.

Houle sat his briefcase down and extracted his passport from his left inside suit pocket.

“Nice suit. Armani?”

“Weatherill,” he said.

“Never heard of them.”

“Nor they, you.” He handed her his passport. “Mother, may I?”

She felt the weight of the paper, touched the stamps, and examined the wear. 

“It’s real enough,” she said to him.

“I’m so glad you approve.”

They went to the living room and sat.

“This is a very bad business,” he said. “Very bad. I have a dead associate and your bloody trail. I understand a rescue team was on top of the lovely Lynn when you did your swan dive. They’re suggesting you interfered with a rescue that may have contributed to her death. What were you thinking?”

“I was trying to save her.”

“How did you know it was her?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know she was on the island?”

“She called and left a message stating she wanted to meet with me.”

“So you arranged a time and place to meet?”

“No. She set a time and a place to meet. She said she was meeting me here.”

“You didn’t talk to her directly?”

“No.”

“Why do you think she wanted to meet?”

“I imagined it was regarding the house warming gifts I destroyed.”

Houle smiled.

“You’ll need to talk slower. I’m an old man. What gifts?”

She described the surveillance equipment she found in the cottage and garage.

“…I think the Feds wanted to shake something out of me that doesn’t exist.”

“Interesting,” Houle said. He leaned forward, clasping his hands, and said, “Ms. Melillo, this is very troubling, a
very
bad business…”

“…I heard you the first time…”

“…The first I heard of Ms. Hunter’s sojourn is when I received a call stating she was in the river Saint Clair. I don’t know why she was coming to see you. I’d prefer an answer that suggests you’re not guilty of luring the poor woman to her death because of a fantasy relationship. Were you in love with her?”

“You’re the second person to ask that.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“It’s a fantasy, to use your word, a male fantasy. You know, like The Beach Boys, two girls for every boy.”

“That may be correct, but frankly, Ms. Melillo, in order for me to best serve your interests, I will ask questions others think or believe will be asked.”

“Okay.”

“Did you murder her?”

Her right arm quickly extended and she snapped her fingers.

“Wake up.”

Houle settled backward in the chair; his girth and height made the frame of the chair disappear. He brought his hands to his face, interlacing his fingers to form a temple, and stared at her.

Sam, imitating the man, clasped her hands and brought them to her chin.

“You knew she was here,” Sam said. “At twelve-hundred an hour, she wouldn’t stray too far.”

Houle smiled generously.

“That,” Houle said, rising from his chair, “is a very good point.”

“Leaving so soon?”

He lifted his briefcase. He looked at a gold wristwatch that looked like it weighed five pounds.

“I will be in touch. If you need me, I will be at The Ritz. I suggest not straying too far until we receive the coroner’s report.”

The Ritz was a hotel, a part of The Old Club compound. After he left, she located its rates online and envisioned more of her confiscated inheritance spent on Sferra sheets, Bushmills whiskey, and Cohiba cigars.