A Killer's Island by Thomas Fincham

Author:Thomas Fincham [Fincham, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-07-29T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTY-FIVE

Jo stood in the hall outside her room. Arms folded. Shivering. It wasn’t cold inside the bed and breakfast, but her veins were full of ice.

A door opened further up. Ford came stumbling toward her. Rubbing his eyes.

“I guess you got my text,” Jo said.

He yawned. “What did Clark want?”

“To let us know that Roger Sparks is dead.”

Ford went from half asleep to fully awake in the next second. “What? Dead?”

“Apparent suicide,” Jo said quietly. “We’ll be given the rest of the details when we get there. I already left a note for Ted. Just in case we aren’t back by the time he has to leave.”

Ford sighed. “We’ll need coffee.”

“Clark said he’d have some for us.”

“Then I guess we don’t have any excuses. You should probably drive again. I’m in no state. I slept for about forty minutes, which is way worse than not sleeping at all.”

***

Ford was silent most of the drive. As soon as they left Port Barren, everything was dark. The headlights barely penetrated the darkness of the primeval forest.

Something else they had learned earlier was that the stewardship of Buttonbush Island went back to the beginning. Logging had been done here at first. The original trees were almost all gone. But the practice had been banned well over a century ago. The trees here were old. Some were downright ancient. Towering pines. Maples with trunks as big around as the car.

Jo didn’t see them now. The world was nothing but two cones of light. Extending ten feet in front of the bumper.

“I wonder if Rupert’s still on the island,” Ford said.

His first words since getting in the car.

Jo didn’t have an answer for him. Her mind was empty. All she could think about was the warm bed she had left behind. It was a chilly night in the low fifties, and a misty rain hung in the air.

Long before reaching Roger’s house, they were aware of the police presence. Red and blue lights flashed in the forest like beacons, glowing strangely in the fog.

As they came up the driveway, Ford’s question was answered. Nestled in among the half dozen police cruisers and an ambulance was Rupert’s white van.

Jo parked the car. Wisely, she had left her spare umbrellas in the back seat. They popped their canopies in unison, walking toward the scene.

Two men were waiting outside. One was Deputy Rainey, the pale officer who had discovered the second victim on the beach.

The other was Clark. He excused himself from Rainey and beckoned Jo and Ford to the porch. The front door was wide open. One of Rupert’s crew was squatting on the threshold, dusting for prints.

Jo lowered her umbrella. “What happened, Clark?”

In the yellow porch lights, Clark looked very sick.

“I just need a second,” he said.

“Take a few,” Jo told him. “This has got to be hard on you.”

Clark shuddered. Holding a fist to his mouth. Like he was holding in vomit.

“It’s like every death stacks on the last one,” he said, “making things especially worse.

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