Turtle Island (6 page)

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 doctors 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.

‘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 jobs 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 back 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 kilometres 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.’

‘Yeah, an probably five UFO sightings and Elvis Pressley about
to jump from Independence Bridge.’ Leroy tried to dilute Barbara
Dace’s reporter’s intuition. He studied Dace. She was of average
height, slim and fashionably dressed; silver-haired. He guessed she
was in her late fifties. There was no attempt to dye her hair but
she had it cut short with a modern style that was attractive and
flattered her features. Her skin was slightly weathered, tanned
with a few wrinkles, though again not unflattering. She filled
three cups with hot water, the liquid turning various shades of
brown. ‘I hope you don't mind instant.’ She stirred each cup,
adding milk as she did so.

A tall, black haired man appeared at the kitchen door. ‘We've
finished, Barbara.’ He smiled at the detectives then returned to
the lounge.

‘John Keller, my cameraman.’ Barbara explained. ‘You can see
James and Gillian now.’ Barbara walked in to the lounge. ‘You can
bring your drinks.’

James and Gillian were sitting on a sofa; two camera lights
were on stands in front of them, extinguished. John Keller was
putting away his Camera into a large canvas bag. Rick and Leroy
pulled chairs from under the dining table and sat in front of
Gillian and James.

He lifted the weights above his head, his arms straining,
pumped up, veins standing proud, sweat pouring down his face. He
held the weight steadily, swaying slightly before letting it crash
down to the ground. Dust rose into the air in plumes, refracting
against the strong light. He lifted the dumb bells and started arm
curls, grunting with each laboured exercise. His arms hurt but the
pain was somehow nice. His voice drove him on warning him of the
dangers. He knew what had to be done now. His thoughts were clearer
than they had ever been before. Exhilaration replaced pain; flowing
through his body like the blood being pumped by his heart. There
could be no more mistakes now. He stared appreciatively at his body
in the full-length mirror attached to the wall. Every muscle was
defined, glowing with health. He placed the dumb bells down on the
floor and sat on a thin mat, towelling himself dry.

‘The others won't be so lucky.’ He thought to
himself.

He showered and dressed and read the newspaper before pushing
out a further one hundred press-ups. Lunch was light, mostly fresh
fruit, some poached eggs and a slice of wholemeal bread toasted on
one side. The television had been buzzing with stories and
assumptions about a man found wandering on the highway from Turtle
Island. One intrepid reporter even managed to link the man with two
out of the other three missing locals, speculating whether a serial
killer might be at large in the small island community. He
sniggered to himself, spurred on by his newfound infamy. There was
a need for release burning inside of him. A wanton lust that need
fulfilment.

As soon as he saw the television early that morning, Gary
Clarkson knew it was going to be a busy day. He wandered through
the stock room of the general store looking for maps, films, sun
block, cold drinks and snacks, in fact anything that he thought
might possibly sell to the curious, the morbid and the media. He
whistled as he plucked items from the racked metallic shelving;
every cloud has a silver lining. The door rang. A
customer.

‘Ma.’ No answer. ‘Ma.’ Again.

Gary groaned as he placed the armful of stock on the floor and
made his way to the shop. A man was standing at the counter,
newspaper in hand. Gary recognised Charles Fleisher instantly, he
was a regular, not the sort of regular that would make Clarkson
rich but a steady reliable spender.

Fleisher was reading the front page.

‘Charles.’

‘Gary.’ Charles answered but continued reading the paper,
seemingly absorbed in the story. Gary did not need to ask what he
was reading about. It was the talking point of the year…hell, of
the decade.

‘Seems we’re going to be famous.’

‘Seems so.’ Charles answered flatly.

‘Going to be quite a circus trudging through this little
island.’ Gary Clarkson was excited at the prospect; he looked at
the headline on the morning paper, bad news for some was always
good news for others.

‘D’you have a packet of mints?’ Charles never looked up from
the paper.

‘Got a viewing?’

Charles proffered a five-dollar bill. The bell to the shop
rang again. Gary and Charles both watched Karen Fuller walk slowly
down the shop. Gary leaned forward and whispered to
Fleisher.

‘Never had teachers like that in my day.’

Charles Fleisher turned and watched appreciatively as Karen
made her way toward the counter. The morning light reflected around
her, silhouetting her. Occasionally as she moved part of her would
be exposed to strong sunlight and her skin became porcelain. She
stood right next to Charles, as close as she could. Charles wanted
to reach forward and touch her face. Just stroke it.

‘20 Marlboro, Gary. Please.’

Gary turned his back to fish the pack of cigarettes from the
racking behind him.

‘I should really be quitting.’ She said to no one in
particular. Her hand rested briefly on Charles hand. Karen Fuller’s
index finger stroked the back of his hand before moving away to her
handbag.

This was easy, everything was easy. He scanned the images one
by one. The bright fluorescent tube passed back and forth over the
images, the terrible craven images. Later on he would upload the
images direct to his web site and then when he became confident,
through a live feed and then for greater action, for greater
excitement there was high quality web cams, but this was the
start…the beginning. As the images were transferred via the ftp
program, he sat back with a feeling of accomplishment, a sense of
achievement and excitement, then he closed the program. He typed
DEATHCAM.NET into his browser and there they were for the entire
world to see; his masterpieces.

The humidity to the morning was made stronger by the sun's
desire to absorb all the moisture from the ground from the previous
night’s storm. Agent O’Neil unbuttoned her jacket letting it flap
open as she walked back to the car. Rick was dressed in a short
sleeve shirt and Leroy held his jacket draped over his shoulder.
James and Gillian followed.