Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 Read Free Page A

blocking out the hazy sunlight. Resurrection ferns poked into the dusky lane, slapping against the car. Several miles farther on the track plunged out from beneath the pines torun beside a lagoon. A tawny red doe and her two half-grown fawns, feasting on the leaves of a sweet myrtle bush, turned startled eyes toward me. I slammed on my brakes, and they bolted into the pine-woods.
    I came to the end of the lane, literally, about two hundred yards farther on. And this curious odyssey turned curiouser indeed. The weathered Low Country shack on pilings was to be expected, as was the narrow planked pier extending into the salt marsh and out to the lime-green water of the sound. But the row of cars parked at the end of the lane looked as out of place in this remote marshland as tinsel stars tacked to an evergreen. A blue BMW, a Ford van, a rust-spotted Plymouth, a cream Mercedes sedan, a black Porsche, a yellow classic MG, a red Maserati, and a jade Jaguar. So much for “Buy American” among these drivers.
    There was not a soul to be seen. No one near the cars. No one on the pier. No one on the sagging porch of the house. Not a living person other than me moved in that heavy hot air. But my instructions had been precise. This was as far as I would go by automobile. Passage across the water would come next.
    I rolled up the windows and locked the car, retrieved my bags from the trunk, and walked toward the pier. Swirling clouds of no-see-ums attacked my bare face and arms, and I knew there would soon be prickly red welts.
    I dug into my carry-on bag for some skin lotion to discourage the frenzied insects, slapped it on my arms, then paced up and down the narrow pier. Sweat trickled down my face. A stiff breeze stirredmy hair, but the air was so oppressive that it only made me more uncomfortable. Fifteen minutes passed. Then I heard, faintly, the
pop-pop-pop
of an outboard motor. I waited at the end of the pier, shielding my eyes from the late-afternoon sun and looked out across the whitecapped sound.
    The motorboat rode low in the water and its paint job had seen better days, but the stocky black man at the stern handled it with casual competence. As the boat knocked up against the pier, he tied up, then stepped out of the boat and climbed the ladder. The rickety pier quivered as he scrambled up to stand beside me.
    “Miz Collins?” He was a muscular man who looked like he worked outdoors, his T-shirt tight against a muscular chest, his dungarees faded and stained.
    I nodded.
    Without another word, his heavy face somber and unfriendly, he picked up my bags. He tucked both under one arm and descended the ladder.
    I looked after him thoughtfully as he stowed the luggage. He knew my name. That meant he had to be the person instructed to convey me to the island. But I didn’t like his scarcely veiled hostility, and I didn’t much like the entire appearance of this venture, the expensive cars haphazardly parked in this isolated, godforsaken wilderness, the slapdash provision for the transference of guests. It created an aura that didn’t reek of welcome.
    What kind of gathering was in progress? What the hell was Chase up to?
    The boatman looked up at me. I could see thesweat beading his face, the wetness of his shirt against his skin. “Miz Collins?” His deep voice was impatient.
    “Who are you?” I asked abruptly.
    I thought at first that he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, sullenly, he said, “Frank Hudson. I work for Mr. Prescott—when he comes ’round. I’m supposed to take you over to the island.”
    Hudson. That was the name in my packet of information. I started down the ladder.
    He made no move to offer a helping hand. I didn’t need help, and, in fact, I resent the automatic assumption that everyone past fifty requires assistance in physical efforts, but I was a little surprised nonetheless. I reached the bottom rung and stepped onto the boat.
    As I settled into the backseat, he cast off.
    “Whom do the cars