Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 4

  Something brushed against his arms it was soft, fleshy. Stephen England started to move towards the direction of the breeze. Half-swimming, half treading water. Every now and then he would stop to check the breeze. The further he went the warmer the water became, even the breeze started to get warmer.

  He opened the door leading to the sub chamber under the house knowing what he was going to find, there was no point in being optimistic about the situation. The room was empty. He saw the rope attached to the trap door and marvelled at Stephen England’s ingenuity and fight for survival. He stood over the open chamber and gripping the rope lowered himself into the sewer system below. His journey down quicker and more assured than England’s. Lights above flickered on, motion sensors detecting a mass greater than that of any sewer life than normally habituated the environment. He could hear splashing further down the tunnel, England was not far away…Oh this could be fun. He would follow from a discreet distance before pouncing. Oh yes, this could be fun.

  The scream that echoed down the tunnel behind England cut through to his bones. He had returned. The shrill sound gave his legs and arms fresh impetus, moving him on at greater speed. Suddenly there was a flash of light up ahead, followed by another and the rumble of thunder. The current became stronger, making it harder for him to progress.

  The lightning exposed the walls of the tunnel; Stephen figured he was in an underground river or storm drain. The entrance -his exit- was only fifty yards away.

  Seven

  Gillian Dace shifted the Subaru Jeep to fifth gear. Her husband, James, was sitting next to her asleep, as was her two-year-old son, Robert. They had been driving all day and it was her two-hour shift behind the steering wheel. It was their annual vacation, two weeks with Jimmy's mother – Barbara - on Turtle Island. Jimmy's mother and father moved there 15 years ago. George Dace -Jimmy's father- had died eight years ago and they have been holidaying there ever since. Now with little Robbie, it seemed even more important to have solid contact with Barbara. During the sixties it had been a place where artists, writers, painters, photographers had flocked mainly to experiment with drugs in a certain amount of peace but a solid community had built up over the years and now it was more like a small insular outpost full of travellers who found their own Nirvana and decided to settle. It was a close-knit community with a real sense of purpose. Gillian loved it there and so did Jimmy; it was only their jobs that kept them from relocating and settling there. Gillian turned the wiper speed up a notch, the blades increasing their speed as they travelled across the screen vainly trying to keep her with a clear field of vision. She looked at the illuminated clock, only ten minutes of her shift left before Jimmy could take over the driving duties for the last stretch of the journey.

  ‘Wake up, Jimmy?’

  She took her hand from the wheel and shook his arm gently. He mumbled, moaning. Gillian shook him again. ‘Come on, Jimmy, it's near your turn.’

  Jimmy opened his eyes and blearily looked out at the rain lashing against the windscreen. They passed a signpost; it was illuminated by the Subaru's headlights.

  Turtle Island 15km.

  ‘Sure you don't want to carry on driving? We're nearly there.’

  Gillian took her right hand away from Jimmy's arm and rubbed her neck. ‘I'm bushed, kinda finding it hard to concentrate.’

  ‘Okay, I'll just ring Mom, tell her we'll be there in half hour or so.’ Jimmy lifted the handset from its cradle and dialled his mother's number.

  ‘I hope she's still awake?’ Gillian said looking at the clock; it was nearly two o'clock in the morning.

  ‘She'll be awake...Yeah, hi mom...yeah, we're nearly there...just passing Campbelltown...Okay...see you soon.’ Jimmy put the phone back in its plastic house attached to the dashboard. ‘She said she hopes we're hungry.’

  Gillian groaned, visions of a spread fit for an army flashed through her mind. The only thing she felt at the moment was tired and ready for her bed. She slowed the four-wheel drive down and pulled it to a halt on the verge.

  ‘I'm not getting out in that.’ Jimmy protested looking at the rain.

  ‘Okay, shuffle over.’

  The two of them made a simple manoeuvre look complex as they collided in the middle of the car, collapsing in a heap of laughter. After a few minutes they were back on the road, with Jimmy behind the wheel. Gillian opened a can of cola and sipped from it.

  ‘Music?’

  Jimmy nodded

  Gillian passed her husband a can of coke while she opened the glove compartment and fumbled through a pile of CD’s, until her hand rested on the one she was searching for. She opened the cover and popped the CD in the stereo. Iris Dement started to sing, filling the confines of the vehicle with her lyrical personal stories of America's heartlands and her life. The songs seemed to strike a chord of recognition with both Jimmy and Gillian.

  Jimmy took a quick swig from the can.

  ‘JIMMY!’ Gillian's scream rose above the engine noise and the CD, waking her confused child and shocking Jimmy. She grabbed his arm ‘STOP.’

  James instinctively slammed on the brakes as the figure of a naked man, half bent over, holding his knee with his left hand and his right hand outstretched appeared through the blur of the rain. The ABS system stopped the wheels from locking, but the vehicle skidded, veering wildly sideways on a blanket of water. Jimmy fought with the steering wheel to straighten the car. The Subaru aquaplaned as the tyres tried to form a bond with the tar macadam surface. The figure did not move, showed no sign of wanting to move. Gillian covered her eyes, fearing impact. They were almost on top of the man. Jimmy felt the tyres finally grip the road, he pressed down harder on the breaks, hoping the hydraulic system held up under the pressure. The wheels started to squeal a protest as the car finally shuddered to a halt but not before bouncing hard off the body of Stephen England, knocking him onto the grass verge.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Jimmy stared at the naked figure of Stephen England., His hands were still gripped, white knuckled to the wheel. ‘Shit…I never saw him….I’

  James leapt out of the car, the rain immediately drenching him. Gillian turned around to comfort her son and found that the contact with him comforted her far more. She unbuckled the restraints and lifted the child from his seat. Gillian watched through the rain-soaked windscreen as James took of his jacket and placed it over the man's body.

  Gillian started singing to Robert to quieten him. ‘Hush little baby don't you cry, mama's gonna sing you a lullaby.’ In the background Iris Dement was singing about the death of her father.

  Jimmy shouted through the driving rain. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  He watched from the sanctuary of the darkened countryside. England was lying motionless in the road. Some poor sap was running around like a headless chicken panicking. He sat on the damp earth watching, willing the driver to get back in his car and leave. He could not help but laugh at the irony of the situation. Someone up there must really have it in for England. The driver returned to his car and used the cell phone. He waited until the ambulance arrived before getting up, turning and heading back towards the house.

  Eight

  The ringing sound was distant and annoying. The noise grew nearer and louder, until it registered in Agent Georgina O’Neil mind and her eyes snapped open.

  Darkness.

  The ringing again.

  She scrabbled around the bedside table until her hand fell upon the phone.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Her eyes focused on the green illuminated LCD display. 4-35am. Somewhere down the other end of the line Leroy LaPortiere was imparting news that had just been relayed to him. His own mind was just beginning to assemble the facts through the fog of sleep. She placed the phone down and was tempted to crash back into the world of dreams and sanctity of darkness. Night was still pushing against the curtains.

  Georgina sat on the edge of the bed watching the local TV station's news bulletin, while waiting for the kettle to boil. H
er motel room was small and basic but at least provided the luxury of an electric kettle, two cups (one chipped.) and one saucer, some small packets of instant coffee, sugar and milk powder plus a portable television, which she had turned on, along with the kettle. Part of her morning ritual was to drink at least two cups of coffee before showering, because it was still the middle of the night Georgina saw no point in changing her routine. As she poured the boiling water onto the grouts that were meant to be instant coffee, her attention was drawn to an article on the TV. She saw Gillian Dace being interviewed.

  ‘Well, we had been on the road all day driving to Turtle Island to see Jimmy's mother and all of a sudden I saw what turned out to be a naked man standing in the middle of the road, right about here.’

  Gillian moved to a spot to indicate the exact position. ‘He was kneeling in the pouring rain. Looked to Jimmy and me, like he had been beaten badly. He had no teeth; his mouth was a mess...I’m sure we didn’t do that to him.’

  The phone rang again, interrupting Georgina's concentration. She answered it, turning the volume of the television down with the small remote handset.

  ‘Hi Leroy... yeah I know, I'm watching. How come your boys didn't warn her away from the media?’

  ‘It would seem Jimmy's mother works for the local TV station.’ Leroy was sitting in his kitchen munching through a slice of buttered toast, talking to the phone via it's built in speaker, while simultaneously trying to shave with a battery shaver.

  ‘What's that noise Leroy?’

  Leroy chomped another bite of toast. ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘No, the buzzing.’ Georgina said puzzled. ‘Don't tell me if it's personal.’

  Leroy laughed. ‘I'm shaving.’

  Georgina stretched the telephone lead to grab her coffee and swallowed a mouthful. ‘How's is he, the TV says he’s alive?’

  ‘I've been on the phone to the hospital, the doctor tells me that he’s in a coma. By all accounts he was a mess, unlucky to be alive.’ Leroy replied.

  Georgina swirled the grouts in the bottom of her coffee cup.

  Leroy continued talking. ‘Rick’s down there at the moment assessing the situation. Making sure that even if he blinks we get to talk to him.’

  ‘I think we should talk to...’ Georgina read the name on the television screen. ‘Gillian Dace and her husband. Can you meet me here?’

  ‘No Prob.’ Leroy put the phone down.

  Nine

  Turtle Island is an oddity, 350 square kilometres, population somewhere in the region of 5,500. One of the last areas in the state to enter the union in 1822 a full year after the rest of Missouri.’

  ‘Don’t forget to tip the guide.’ Leroy leaned to his side and joked with Agent O’Neil.

  Rick ignored his partner and continued. ‘The Island had a governor up until three months before joining the union; he was skinned alive by what we endearingly term Native Americans nowadays. This act was the primary reason for Turtle Island falling in line with the rest of the constitution. During the depression in the nineteen twenties, people moved away in search for employment but a bootleg whiskey operation flourished during prohibition. The island had a large black community until the fifties. Mainly descendants from the slave trade, they all but left now. In the sixties it was a haven for artists, hippies and drugs. Now it's an idyll set among a mad world, populated by middle class wealthy whites and intelligent blacks, I'm pleased to say.’

  ‘Yeah, that means Rick lives here.’

  The Chrysler carried on down the decline toward the area known as Freemantle, Turtle Island’s Main Street. One multi-plex cinema, eight restaurants including one Korean, one basic American, a small shopping mall and an edge of town general store. No police station, one small legal practice and a realty office. O’Neil tried to absorb her surroundings. The area looked affluent, there were no groups of kids hanging out, although it was still early in the morning. In many neighbourhoods where O’Neil had been called to work, it was not uncommon to find groups of delinquents bunking school and terrorising the locals almost any hour of the day. Montoya swung the Chrysler round a sharp left bend, causing O’Neil to fall against Leroy. The car then climbed up a sharp gradient, pushing them both back into their seats. The road was now almost dirt track, another sharp left past two derelict houses, wooden in construction, flaking paint and broken side panels. O’Neil noticed a mill house in the distance.

  ‘This area is mostly owned by the realty office in the town.’ Montoya offered ‘Plans are to revitalise the properties and sublet them to tourists. You’ll be pleased to know planning permission has just been granted to start the byway.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ O’Neil bounced around the rear seat, her body battered by the dirt road. ‘So, where do you live Rick?’ She asked more to pass the time than real interest.

  ‘Near town. Jo-Lynn gets phobic if she can’t see some concrete.’

  ‘I’ll get phobic if I don’t see some tarmac soon.’ Leroy said looking pale.

  They bounced along for another five miles before joining a stretch of tarmac and what appeared to be a better-preserved area of the Island. Montoya halted the Chrysler outside a large detached brick-built house. There was a Subaru parked on the drive and a ‘M.R.TV.’ van behind. The double garage next to the house was open and residence to two more vehicles.

  The home of Barbara Dace was comfortable; Georgina O’Neil guessed they paid well in TV land, even if it was only the local station. They were welcomed into a large hall. There was a staircase slightly adjacent to the front door. Barbara Dace put her fingers to her lips.

  ‘Ssh! Gillian and James are just finishing a spot for the next bulletin, hopefully it’ll be going network.’ She whispered. ‘Follow me.’ Barbara led the three detectives through the hall into the kitchen. ‘That’s better, we can talk here.’

  O’Neil opened a calfskin wallet and showed the silver haired woman her identification.

  ‘That’s all right dear, I know who you are, I received a phone call from Captain Frusco. He’s a nice man…a rare breed these days.’

  The words nice man and Frusco were rarely used in the same sentence and brought a smile to both Leroy and Rick’s lips.

  ‘Oh my, look at my manners. Would you like drink?’ Barbara Dace continued. ‘Tea or coffee, or maybe something cold?’

  Rick was going to decline but when Agent O’Neil immediately accepted a coffee he reconsidered and asked for one too, Leroy plumped for tea. As Barbara filled the kettle the detectives sat on kitchen stools placed away from the walnut breakfast bar. ‘I’m sure they won’t be too long. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

  Georgina stiffened her back and sat upright on the chair. ‘I presume the police officers warned you against doing that last night?’

  ‘Of course they did.’ She smiled patronisingly. ‘I am a reporter Ms O’Neil; this is what I do for a living. It quite simply is the biggest thing that has hit our little island in nearly two hundred years, probably ever will. Anyway, I preserve the right of my family to the Fifth Amendment, besides James and Gillian are being paid $15,000 each for their story.’

  Rick interrupted. ‘Their story? There is no story. All they did was run over some poor bastard.’

  ‘Oh, but were that true detective. If there was no story, then what are you doing here and what is the F.B.I. doing here in my kitchen? It is no secret that a killer may be at large in our small community here on Turtle Island.’

  O’Neil, LaPortiere and Montoya looked at each other with a certain amount of surprise.

  ‘Don’t try denying it. As soon as the story went out on the air this morning the television station had phone calls from six families reporting missing people plus one person claiming to be the killer.’