Authors: Wendy Howell Mills
Tags: #FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths
Island Blues (24 page)
“Did you kill Gilbert?” Sabrina was too tired to be anything other than blunt.
“Did you know a beetle is capable ofâ”
“Sam. Stop. Tell me the truth, please.”
Sam leaned forward to brush dirt off her face. “No. I didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't. My only thought was to catch Michael or Gilbert doing something illegal so I could go to the police.”
“So why did you have Gilbert's camera? With his blood on it?”
“He bled on it when we were on the boat on the way to Goat Island. He caught his hand in the zipper of the duffel bag. And thenâ¦I took the camera when his back was turned. After finding that picture of my sister, I wanted to see what kind of pictures he had on his camera.”
Sabrina believed him.
With blaring sirens and blazing lights, the police cars pulled up outside. Sabrina leaned on Sam's arm as she limped out to face them.
Like a blowtorch heating metal until it glowed red and orange and flowed liquid silver, the setting sun burned a brilliant path across the mercurial water.
Sabrina dipped her paddle in the water and continued on.
She was sore, but most of the damage was just aching muscles and a pretty good case of road rash. The paddling seemed to be loosening her up, and she shrugged out of her jacket as her muscles warmed and stretched like pulled taffy.
Up ahead was Goat Island, and she stopped rowing as she neared the island. She had no intention of stepping foot on the sand where Gilbert Kane met his demise. Above, a seagull circled, his body bathed a rich orange from the setting sun. His foot hung oddly, as if maybe it was broken.
She felt calm and rested as she watched the serene water ignite in an explosion of color. The seagull circled endlessly, his raucous call lonely and cheerless. An osprey shrieked back from her large nest high in a tree. A second osprey in a nearby tree added to the racket.
Michael Siderius maintained his innocence in Gilbert Kane's death, as did Lance Mayhew and Sam Myers. With Lance's help, the police had retrieved Gilbert's duffel bag from the sound. The papers were soggy and unreadable, but there were two interesting things about the bag, one in its presence, the other in its absence.
There was no corkscrew. The weapon used to kill Gilbert was still unaccounted for, which left the police baffled.
The second seemed so insignificant that Lance had not thought to mention it. There was another item in the bag beside the papers.
A rope.
Sabrina's gaze swept over Goat Island, taking in the few trees that grew straight up without any reachable lower branches. The rest of the vegetation on the island was tangled undergrowth no higher than a man's head. It would have been impossible for Gilbert to use the rope. Was that when he started eyeing the corkscrew?
Today she had gone to Bicycle Bob's house. Bicycle was passed out on the couch, clutching a picture frame to his chest. Joseph sat on the couch, painting his indecipherable symbols onto a piece of driftwood. He didn't look up as she came in.
“Your son has been arrested,” she told him. “They know what he's been doing to those people. It's all over now.”
Joseph did not look up as she left, either, but there were tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks.
She thought about Joseph's touch the other day, the one that had made her head buzz and rational thought impossible. She thought about how much Joseph must hate Gilbert for what he'd done to Hummers International and his life's work, not to mention his son.
Gilbert Kane had been acting strangely the last week of his life, distracted and forgetful. He kept clutching his head. She couldn't forget the expression on Gilbert's face when Joseph touched him that first day in the meeting room. Was Joseph somehow able to tap Gilbert into the Hum? Gilbert must have been under a lot of strain those last few days, and the Hum would have only compounded it. Lance was threatening to go to the police, and Gilbert knew Sam Myers was camped on his doorstep, just waiting for a misstep. It was enough to drive a man to drink.
Or to suicide.
The osprey called again, a shrill piercing sound that made Sabrina want to clap her hands over her ears. She looked up at the massive nest in the top of the pine tree, thinking about the ospreys' compulsive junk collecting.
Was there a bloody corkscrew buried in that mass of twigs somewhere? Was Joseph Siderius crying because his long nightmare was finally over, or because he had done the unforgivable, and driven an unstable man over the edge?
To the west, the sun was being submerged in a puddle of incandescent light. The edges of the salmon clouds were turning dark, like the golden glory of an orange turning black with age and time.
Sabrina glanced at her watch. If she didn't hurry, she was going to be late. She might not have a job or a home, or any idea what she was going to do next, but she did have something.
A date.
Sabrina picked up her paddle and turned back toward Comico Island.
Comico Island is fictional, created from a conglomeration of traditions and lore from some of my favorite islands. This time, I utilized two books by Elaine Blohm Jordan,
Tales of Pine Island
and
Pine Island, the Forgotten Island,
to lend verisimilitude to my Comico stories.
In the forensics department, I would like to extend thanks to D. P. Lyle, MD, for answering my admittedly bloody questions about corkscrews and their effect on the human brain. Any mistakes are my own.
The Hummers, or Hearers, are real, though Hummers International is not. If you are interested in more information about the Hum phenomenon, please go to my website,
www.wendyhowellmills.com
, for links to some interesting Hum-related websites.
I would like to thank Momma, A.J. and Alan for putting aside everything and reading this manuscript in its early stages. They understood the urgency: the baby is coming, the baby is coming!
Finally, I would like to thank you, my readers. Without you, Comico Island would just be a figment of my imagination. You make it real.
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