The House on Mermaid Point

Chapter Five

Maddie felt a little bit like George Washington crossing the Delaware sitting in the bow of the boat. Except for all the luggage piled around them. And the motor. And the life-vest-jacketed grandchild in her lap.

She only hoped they weren’t headed to war.

Dustin’s dark curls blew in the breeze. The sky’s blue paled in comparison to the turquoise water. Pulled cotton clouds hovered high above them. He laughed happily. The network camera crew paced them in a small boat, which Anthony drove so that Troy could shoot. His camera moved occasionally but it always came back to Daniel Deranian’s golden child. Kyra had her video camera on her shoulder and was shooting the receding marina, the birds wheeling in the sky, the approaching mangrove-shrouded island, Captain Hudson Power at the wheel, along with everyone’s reactions. Maddie could see the wariness in all of their faces as they waited to see the house they’d be working on and the person or persons who owned it.

Avery looked decidedly pained as the marina faded behind them into the distance. “I can’t believe we’re going to be working on an island.”

“It definitely presents a few unexpected logistical challenges,” Deirdre said.

“No shit,” Avery said. “I thought the worst part was going to be finding workmen and materials. It never occurred to me I was going to have to worry about how to get them on and off the work site.”

“Well, people must be used to that here. You’re probably not even allowed to live here if you don’t own a boat,” Maddie pointed out. “I think it’s kind of cool. Maybe they just drive their boats over and park . . . I mean, dock.”

“Yeah, unless they’ve all hung out their Gone Fishin’ signs,” Avery said.

“I can’t wait to see whose island it is,” Nicole said. “You have to have money to own an entire island. I kind of wish I hadn’t turned down Joe’s offer of a list of possible candidates. Maybe the owner is lonely and single and just waiting for me to find him a spouse.”

“Maybe the owner is antisocial and hiding from the spouse he already has,” Deirdre said. “You don’t usually decide to live on an island if you don’t like to be alone.”

The network camera tilted up to what Maddie assumed was her face. Her newly layered hair whipped around, stinging her cheeks, a feeling she liked but which would undoubtedly leave her looking like Medusa. Nicole had her scarf, Avery’s hair was short, and Deirdre’s wouldn’t dare budge even out on the water. Kyra’s long dark hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her neck and she was doing everything she could to block Troy’s shots of Dustin. Maddie sighed. She wasn’t sure how big the island was. She only hoped it would be big enough for the both of them.

As seen from the marina, the northern side of the island was bordered by an almost impenetrable wall of mangroves and what Maddie thought were sea grape trees—at least, they had the same broad round leaves that she remembered from Bella Flora. Rounding the island, a line of tall, skinny palms arrowed toward a half-moon of white sand beach bisected by a sphere-shaped tidal pool where seagulls and other small birds chased after food on matchstick legs.

Slightly inland and surrounded by a jungle-worthy profusion of tropical foliage, a large two-story house had been built square on to the Atlantic. Its silvered wood walls supported a metal pyramid-shaped roof. A large covered deck ran the width of the first floor and supported a narrower, shorter deck on the second. The entire back of the house appeared to be composed of sliding glass doors that reflected the late afternoon sun.

Between the house and a long rectangular swimming pool sat a large square pavilion with wooden piers that supported a smaller pyramid-shaped metal roof. The interior of the pavilion was cast in shadow and open to the trade winds. There was no movement except that stirred by the breeze.

“Oh, my gosh, I feel like we’re about to be guests on Fantasy Island!” Maddie said.

“Right. All we need is Tattoo to ring the bell to announce our arrival.”

“I watched that show in reruns for years,” Avery said. “But this island looks uninhabited. Maybe Mr. Roarke is indisposed.”

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Roarke is dead,” Deirdre replied.

“And buried in a casket lined with fine Corinthian leather.” Nicole went for a Ricardo Montalbán accent.

Hudson pretended not to listen, but his lips twitched slightly. In the boat beside them Troy’s fingers moved on the camera lens and he panned from them to the island. They continued to joke about who or what might live on this island, but Maddie prickled with unease as they searched the small landmass for signs of life.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Avery said. “What if there is no homeowner? What if it’s just a ruse to strand us on a deserted island for some kind of Survivor thing? I wouldn’t put it past Lisa Hogan to force us to swim through shark-infested waters to escape.”

“Shark infested?” Maddie looked to Hudson.

“Well, it is the Atlantic Ocean,” he said almost apologetically. “But most species don’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them.”

“That’s so reassuring,” Nicole snapped.

“The barracuda now, well, that’s a different story,” he said with a straight face.

“You can vote me off first,” Nicole offered. “I’ll wait for the rest of you at the Cheeca Lodge. Or the Moorings Village. I think those are the closest five-star accommodations.”

They passed two Adirondack chairs planted on the sand and a hammock stretched between two palm trees on the southeastern edge of the island. There was a stretch of retaining wall, then the beach disappeared again, swallowed by massive mangroves that blotted out whatever lay behind them.

“Some pruning wouldn’t hurt,” Deirdre observed as they passed.

“Unlikely,” Hudson said.

“So no one ever trims a mangrove?” Nicole asked.

“Not when anybody’s looking,” he replied. “And definitely not in broad daylight. They’re protected.”

The retention wall continued along the southern side of the island and a long dock ran parallel to it. It broke for a simple wooden boathouse that jutted out from the island. Its back half stood firmly on land; its front supports were pilings driven into the ocean floor.

Two boats were cradled well above the waterline. A second floor spanned across the boathouse, its front porch suspended over the water.

The retaining wall and narrow dock stretched westward. “This is a man-made channel,” Hudson explained, pointing to the long strip of dark blue water. “It runs all the way to the bridge, cuts south, and then meets up with the main channel. You can’t cut straight north or south because it’s so shallow.”

Two ungainly houseboats tied farther down the dock bobbed in their wake as Hudson nosed the boat in and cut the engine. It had barely glided to a stop before he jumped out holding a line. Quickly and efficiently he secured the boat.

Troy and Anthony tied up nearby then planted themselves on the retaining wall so that they could shoot the rest of them disembarking and unloading.

The house they’d spied from the ride in couldn’t be seen from here. Their greeting committee consisted of a small group of chickens and one supervisory rooster, which took one look at them and continued pecking away at the ground.

“How did chickens get on this island?” Nicole asked as Hudson handed her out of the boat.

“They’re all over the Keys,” Maddie said, not even needing to pull out a guidebook for this one. “It started back with the Cubans and their cockfighting. It was illegal, so when the feds came to investigate, they let their birds loose and pretended they were pets. More than a few of them managed to reproduce.”

They gathered in the shade of a stand of palm trees, trying to maintain as much distance as possible from the band of chickens.

“Is anyone home? I mean, are you sure the owner’s here?” Avery asked.

“Yes,” Hudson said. “At least he was when I left. Why don’t we go ahead and stack everything here in the shade. I’m sure someone will be down soon.”

It was after six P.M. and a relatively mild eighty degrees, but the humidity turned the air hot and sticky. By the time they’d unloaded, even Deirdre, who normally looked cool and collected in every situation, was sweating. “This island could use a bellman.”

“Things are pretty laid-back down here,” Hudson said. “You really don’t need much more than shorts, T-shirts, a bathing suit, and a pair of flip-flops.”

“Which would be why people don’t normally bring that much stuff with them,” Avery said, eyeing Deirdre’s pile of matching designer luggage, now stacked halfway up the base of a palm tree.

The buzz of insects, the rustle of palm fronds in the salty breeze, and an occasional cluck of a chicken were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet. Maddie couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this kind of silence—or even if she ever had.

They were milling about in the shade when they heard the soft thud of footsteps approaching. A young man with exceptionally dark hair and a strong face appeared in the clearing. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a crisp white polo. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was taller, younger, and way better looking than Hervé Villechaize, who’d played Tattoo and opened each Fantasy Island episode. The first words out of his mouth were not “De plane! De plane!”

“Hello,” he said with a nod and a smile. “I’m Thomas. Thanks for coming.”

Avery stepped forward, shook the proffered hand, and made the introductions.

“We’re thrilled to have the opportunity to work on your island.”

He flashed another smile. “I’m really glad the network sent you, but I’m afraid the island’s not mine. It belongs to my father.”

They watched him expectantly. There was something familiar about his chiseled face and broad-shouldered build, but Avery couldn’t quite figure out why or call up a name.

“Is your father here?”

“Absolutely.” His smile dimmed. “If you come with me I’ll introduce you.” He turned to Hudson. “Would you put their luggage on . . . I mean, in their . . . rooms?” He and Hudson exchanged a furtive glance that didn’t do anything for Avery’s comfort level.

The path was too narrow to walk abreast, so they followed in single file through the jungle-like overgrowth.

“Next job I’m definitely bringing a machete,” Nicole muttered. She swatted at her bare arm. “And a case of bug spray.”

They came into a clearing, which was dominated by the large two-story structure they’d spotted from the water. The front of the house faced inland. Broad stone steps led up to an expansive raised porch that encircled the first floor. Ceiling fans spun lazily above several rickety rocking chairs. A small wing protruded to the left. A stone chimney rose from the right. The house was topped by a metal roof.

Close up, the house was far larger than they’d been able to discern from the water and in far worse shape. The board-and-batten siding was not just devoid of paint but had been badly pummeled by the elements. Like a boxer who’d gone one too many rounds, the house almost seemed to be standing upright from sheer force of will. Or possibly from habit.

“Good God.” Deirdre emitted a small groan of dismay at the weather-beaten wood and the gaps from missing planks that dotted the sagging porch. Stones were missing from the foundation wall and the front steps. Much of the window trim was either gnawed on or rotten. The single-hung windows were salt caked and grimy, practically begging to be put out of their misery.

But Avery loved the home’s clean, simple lines on sight, and the way it had been designed to fit into its surroundings. Whoever this high-profile individual was, he had not been worried about impressing others.

Avery headed for the front steps eager to see the interior, but Thomas called out, “The pool’s around this way.” He led them around the house and out to the concrete pool deck that jutted toward the ocean.

The pool and its deck were empty. But they commanded an uninterrupted view over the beach and the small tidal pool to the ocean, which shimmered now in shades of turquoise, green, and blue. In the distance she spied the tip of some sort of structure.

“That’s Alligator Reef Lighthouse,” Thomas said. “The Gulf Stream flows by just beyond it.”

Before Avery could form a reply a man stepped out of the shadowed pavilion. He was even taller and broader than Thomas, with powerful shoulders, a lean but muscled body, and a deeply tanned face that was as still and craggy as a mountain range.

His shoulder-length hair was dark and straight with streaks of gray, his eyebrows thick and black as his hair must once have been. His face appeared cleaved in two by the hatchet nose that was bracketed by mile-high cheekbones.

The faded T-shirt he wore hugged his abs and strained across his chest. A thin white stick dangled from one corner of his mouth. Even standing completely still he seemed to swagger.

When he began to move toward them it was with an unexpected if predatory grace; a mountain lion come to see who’d ventured too close to his cave.

Avery resisted the urge to fall back a step. Beside her Deirdre snapped to attention, a level of awareness normally reserved for members of the press and those who might further her ambitions. Something akin to a whimper left Maddie’s lips.

“Be still, my heart,” Nicole murmured as he drew closer.

Kyra had already hoisted her video camera onto her shoulder and was shooting the famous one’s approach. A small smile quirked at her lips, which was the only part of her face that could be seen.

“I know I have to be dreaming this.” Maddie grasped Avery’s hand. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “I had the hugest crush on him for . . . ever.”

“I thought he was dead,” Nicole whispered as he drew closer.

Avery had never seen eyes quite so black. The tiniest pinprick of what might be amusement flickered in them. Or maybe it was irritation. “He looks pretty alive to me.”

Maddie clutched Avery’s hand more tightly.

He came to a stop directly in front of them, clearly aware of but not at all intimidated by the cameras. Slowly he removed the small white stick from his mouth; whatever had been attached to it was gone.

With an ironic smile, the man formerly known as William the Wild bent slightly at the waist in what might be construed as a bow. His eyes never left them.

The voice that had sold millions of records said, “I’m William Hightower. Welcome to Mermaid Point.”