Turtle Island (8 page)

Georgina showed her I.D

‘F.B.I.’

‘Hi, I'm Leroy La Portiere, Rick's partner.’

Ned shook their hands. The hand shake as firm and powerful as
before, nearly too strong.

‘Pass the map, Leroy?’ Rick took the map and unfolded it. ‘Can
you take us on the full tour, Ned?’

‘Don't mind where I take you, as long as you're
paying.’

Georgina handed him a form, P114ex. ‘Fill that in and send it
to the address at the bottom of the sheet. Don't worry it's
freepost, you'll be fully reimbursed for any expenses you
incur.’

‘Sheets ain't money, honey.’ Ned said smiling

Rick opened his wallet. ‘How much Ned?’

‘Full tour could take anywhere up to four hours, I could be
picking up paying customers.’

‘How much Ned?’ Rick repeated not particularly wanting to play
the game.

‘$150.’

Rick had a fifty in his wallet. ‘Leroy, what you
got?’

Leroy searched through his pockets. ‘Forty five and some
pennies.’

‘Give us the forty five, bro.’ Rick took the cash added it
with his own then looked at Georgina.

‘I gave Mr Freeman the official P114ex form.’

Rick nodded at Georgina beckoning her away from Ned. ‘Look, if
you don't pay the man, we don't get no nice trip up the river. 55
bucks and we are on our way.’

Reluctantly Georgina fished inside her purse and pulled out a
fifty.

Rick smiled and handed the money to Ned.

‘I owe you five.’

Within two minutes the boat was turned and they were heading
toward Turtle Island.

Even at such a slow pace the Ingénue offered the detectives
the chance to catch a cooling breeze on the deck. The blue grasses,
tall grass and reeds that grew along the river were home to a rich
variety of wildlife. Thrush and Oriole flew overhead resting in the
trees and prairie grasses. Georgina breathed in; relaxing
momentarily, wondering how such violence could be brought to such a
quiet and peaceful place. The killer was obviously deeply disturbed
but it never failed to fascinate her how that even in such tranquil
idyll’s the most evil acts were perpetrated. She could understand
why people go off their heads in New York or L.A…but
here?

‘Peaceful, ain’t it.’ Leroy joined her by the port side of the
vessel.

‘You read minds too.’

Leroy looked at her, enjoying her beauty, enjoying being close
to her. ‘Sometimes.’

The breeze created by the boats movement flattened Georgina’s
hair, parting it in the centre. She tried vainly to push it back
but gave up after three futile attempts.

‘So, what’s the story here?’ She asked casually, hoping the
relaxed atmosphere would enable Leroy to be a little more
forthcoming about the events of the past few weeks.

‘You mean the case?’

She nodded.

‘Just checkin. Ain’t much of a story other than what you
already know.’ Leroy turned and rested his back against the
handrail. He watched Nemo scurry around following his master, Ned,
who in turn was busying himself tidying the mooring ropes. Leroy
looked into the bridge and saw Rick steering the Ingénue. ‘I want
to do that.’ Leroy sounded genuinely envious of his partner’s
promotion to Vice-Captain or whatever they had on boats. 1st mate,
yeah that was it, 1st mate. As Ned passed by walking to the stern
of the boat, Leroy called to the Captain. ‘I’d like to do that,
drive this boat.’

Ned stopped in his tracks. ‘Steer the ship, detective, Steer
the ship.’

‘Yeah, whatever, boat, ship, steer, drive.’

Ned called to Rick. ‘Ten minutes, Mr Montoya, ten minutes.’
and continued with his business checking the condition of the
ropes.

The Ingénue maintained its course against the tide moving
toward Turtle Island.

‘Kinda touchy.’

Georgina smiled, a rare event, but one that Leroy was glad to
witness. ‘Probably seen Jaws too often.’

‘I wondered who that guy reminded me of; it’s that Irish guy
in the film.’

‘Robert Shaw. He played Quint.’

Georgina smiled again; Leroy was hoping it was going to become
a habit.

‘Yeah, he was great, shoulda got the Oscar, great film. So,
you a film buff?’

‘I'm an only child, my dad used to take me every weekend.’ The
memories of afternoons and evenings spent with her father in
darkened cinemas rekindled fond memories of their
relationship

‘You’re very close to your old man.’

‘Yeah. You?’

Leroy thought about his father, the relationship they had was
good. Together they covered most aspects of what would be deemed a
closely bonded relationship, it still would have been today had his
heart been stronger. For such a large man, -he stood over 6’5’’ and
weighed in at 17 and a half stones-everyone thought he would live
forever. He was strong as an ox and never complained of illness,
bar the one day he took to his bed never to get out. ‘My father was
one of the best. I don’t know how my mother coped when he died. I
was 24 years old at the time, and had had a lifetime of memories
and fun with him, but I had younger brothers and sisters. I was the
eldest of five children, ages ranged from 24,’ Leroy pointed to
himself with both hands. ‘down to eight, my baby Sis’ A smile came
to Leroy’s face just thinking of Merrill, his younger
sister.

‘Your father must have been quite young when he died?’
Georgina turned around and rested against the hand rail, like
Leroy

‘He was forty-eight. My mother had just turned forty; my
father was her first and only man. She was thirteen when they met
and sixteen when she fell pregnant with me. Fell pregnant isn’t
that such a stupid phrase. Makes you sound unwanted, unloved,
nothing could have been further from the truth.’

‘Your father...was he Dominique La Portiere, the centre for
the Philadelphia Warriors?’

‘Yeah, that was my old man, he played NBA for five years,
until he busted his knee in a…’

‘Coach accident. They were returning from playing the Celtics.
The bus ran off the road.’ Georgina searched her memory for the
details. ‘The driver had been drinking and fell asleep. Your dad
and the driver were the only casualties.’

‘You really are a fan.’

Georgina nodded. ‘I saw your father play once. Long time ago
when I was a little girl.’ Georgina held up her index finger with
her thumb closed close to it. ‘Very little... I must have been
around eight years old. He was great.’

‘Yeah.’

Ned walked past Georgina and Leroy. ‘You can see Turtle Island
from the bridge. Tell Mr Montoya that you are to relieve him at the
helm.’

Leroy saluted. ‘Aye, aye Cap’in.’

Georgina laughed as they strolled to the bridge. For a few
moments this was summer in the country, it wasn’t searching for a
killer or trying to find clues, it was something happy couples do.
She reflected on the moment.

Leroy took control of ‘The Ingénue’ and steered her against
the flow toward the Parlandale fork, where the river split into
two, circumnavigating Turtle Island. Rick studied the map with
Georgina, his finger tracing possible routes from the various
tributaries that fed in to the river.

‘If we take the right fork we pass the storm drains and the
old mill plus a whole load of dwellings built on the
river.’

‘What are these?’ Georgina pointed to three marks constructed
across the width of the river.

‘They’re called the Three Wise Men. Bridges built about
seventy years ago, they used to link to the mainland, they’re
unusable by car or just about any other vehicle now.’

‘So the only way on to Turtle Island is over Independence
Bridge...or by boat.’

Ned sat close by petting ‘Nemo’, watching and listening to the
detectives. He slowly peeled an orange, cutting the rind with a
sharp knife before splitting the segments revealing the fruit’s
soft fleshy contents. He popped a piece into his mouth, speaking as
he mashed the segment to pulp. ‘That’s not entirely true.’ Ned
stood, casting Nemo to one side as he joined the detectives. Rick
looked puzzled

‘There are a host of tunnels leading from the storm drains,
some are merely excess water chambers which drop one hundred to two
hundred feet to underground rivers, but others are access tunnels
used during construction.’ He offered Georgina and Rick a slice of
the orange, which they both took.

‘Left or right?’ Leroy shouted from the bridge, slowing the
boat at the fork.

He showered, dressed and read the newspaper before pushing out
a further one hundred press-ups. Lunch was light, mostly fresh
fruit, some poached eggs and a slice of wholemeal bread, toasted on
one side. The television had been buzzing with stories and
assumptions about a man found wandering on the highway from Turtle
Island. One intrepid reporter even managed to link the man with two
other missing locals, speculating whether ‘a serial killer’ might
be at large in the small island community. He laughed, spurred on
by his newfound infamy. There was a need for release burning inside
of him. There would be no escape this time, although even that
mistake served a purpose. The computer screen flickered and buzzed.
He moved the mouse and the screen saver of two men torturing a boy
disappeared, to be replaced by a list of names. The first two were
highlighted in red, number three was flashing on and off…waiting.
He highlighted the name with the cursor and clicked the left hand
button on the mouse, the screen changed once more and a picture
along with the resume of his next victim appeared.

Charles Fleisher sat behind his desk in the Office of
Bradwell, Shawsted, Fleisher; Real Estate Agents. As a senior
partner of the small Island business, Fleisher's association with
the company stretched over ten years since joining the then
fledgling company. It took time until he was trusted enough to be
brought on board as a partner. As time passed so did the elder
partners, some into retirement, some relocated to busier areas
where the action was faster paced and some to the Green Pastures
Memorial Gardens outside Campbelltown, Charles though was happy
where he was. He liked certain things to be predictable. Fleisher
felt good, pumped up. A lunchtime workout always managed to get the
adrenaline flowing, if he was true to himself (which he often was)
he felt horny. The day was quiet. He didn't have an appointment
until 4-30 in the afternoon. Three and a half hours to kill.
Charles flicked through the roller deck, stopping at Harley's
school. Visions of Karen Fuller, Harley's teacher, formed in his
mind. His fingers were dialling the number before thoughts of the
consequences were able to stop him. It was nearly one. She'd still
be at lunch. Two minutes of hanging on the line listening to a Phil
Collins medley were rewarded with the sound of her sweet voice on
the end of the receiver.

‘Hello, Miss Fuller.’

Karen Fuller didn't take much persuasion before succumbing to
an offer of dinner, she never did. Charles knew where it would
lead, exactly where it always led. He put the phone down and
breathed deeply trying to control the surge of adrenaline.
Sometimes he felt as though he would explode. His mind went back to
Narla and thoughts of last night. He phoned Narla. ‘Hi, darling.
Got to work tonight...probably till 11 or so, hopefully gonna tie
up selling the Kingsley plot...Yeah , put the champagne on ice...I
love you too. See ya later hon.’ He put the phone down, it was that
easy. The deception made him buzz.

The Kingsley plot was just about done and dusted. At four
thirty he would meet with representatives from 'Harper Pellum' at
five he would be shaking hands and taking his usual ten per cent
rake off on top of their normal fee. Easy money.

Beep! An incessant tone registered Stephen England’s every
breath. A tiny pulse monitored his life in static green flashes on
the small screen above his head. Cara Morton sat patiently by his
side, holding his hand and talking to him. The doctors told her
that under the medication he had been given, Stephen was likely to
remain unconscious for some time. They wanted to give his body time
to repair and his mind more importantly time to adjust.

Dr Martinez opened the door to the private room and poked his
head through the gap.

‘You still here?’

Cara looked at the Latino doctor. ‘I want to be here when he
wakes.’

Martinez pushed the thin wooden door open further and entered.
‘You know that could be some time, you really ought to get some
rest.’

‘No, I’m alright, anyway this is hardly strenuous.’

‘Not physically.’ The doctor walked toward the bed and stood
beside Cara ‘But mentally it can be quite exhausting.’ He rested
his hand on her shoulder as a sign of compassion for her plight and
gently squeezed. Cara appreciated his strength and encouragement,
and knew the doctor was right. She had been at Stephen’s side for
almost ten hours and apart from the occasional bout of activity on
the monitors, which the doctors assured her was nothing to worry
about. ‘Probably nightmares’. He had not moved or shown any sign of
waking. Cara yawned and stretched. The sterility of the room and
the temperature were beginning to have an effect.