“After the police left, Mr. Murrell was out sunning in a beach chair. He told me his clothes needed washing. They were soaked, and I wondered why they were wet because there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky that day. He must have wrapped some of his things in a bag, wallet, watch, passport, shoes, but wore all his clothes for the swim.
“Ms. Sarah always calls me before Murrell arrives. She gives me 24-hour notice, so I have time to prep the houses. She didn’t give me notice that day. She didn’t know Murrell was coming. He didn’t tell anyone.”
It was like the businessmen were paralyzed. Everyone was watching Edward. Woodes faced Edward, but kept glancing at Murrell, maybe letting this story play out without interruption because it made too much sense. A cloud of cigar smoke grew in front of Murrell’s face before being blown away.
“It’s karma, you know. It all comes back to bite us.” Edward turned and looked out over the bay. “You must have been surprised. That body followed you to the beach. You can’t run away from it…” Edward paused, thinking he heard a motor off out over the dunes. He looked off in that direction, but the sound dissipated in the breeze.
“Inspector, at the airport they stamped my passport with the date I arrived. I guess they do that with everyone. I bet you’ll find that Mr. Murrell entered the BVI just before the murder. Maybe you can check his passport.”
Woodes looked at Edward for a time before turning to face John Murrell. Murrell was watching Edward, biting and twisting his cigar.
“Mr. Murrell,” Woodes said. “His accusations can quickly be cleared up, and I will allow you to file a legal complaint against Mr. Tache, but I need to see your passport. It will only take a few moments.”
Murrell’s eyes slowly turned onto Woodes as if Woodes was growing, expanding, becoming something that needed to be considered. Cigar in one hand, beer in the other. Murrell huffed and shook his head as if to laugh off the outlandish statements. He let his hand fall to his side. The men around him, not wanting to move their feet, made an almost imperceptible motion to lean away and turn to see him. Murrell’s mouth jumped from a sneer to a smile to a sneer again as if something was caught inside his cheek. Then he brought the cigar up toward his face, but instead of putting it in his mouth, he scratched his temple with the knuckle of his thumb.
Edward turned away from everyone. They no longer mattered. His heart would always be broken, but he could take in the air again. All for her. Edward hoped he had returned something, repaired a small bit of spiritual damage that had been done to that pristine island. In his heart, he was sure one ghost would not walk the beaches looking for reckoning. It was something – even if the wound was not the one he had caused.
“Mr. Murrell, if you would, sir. Your passport.”
No one moved. Murrell seemed to be thinking of a response, his tongue licking across his bottom lip to wet it. The eyes of the other men darted from the policeman to their boss. They waited for a response that would clear up what must have been a mistake. They waited for their boss to start laughing at the ridiculous accusations. They waited for the policeman to apologize and the police boat to leave so they could start their fishing trip.
“Mr. Murrell?”
Edward listened for a sound, almost forcing it to appear. The buzz of her motorboat. Her laughter as he tickled her, rolling over each other in the sand. Her voice in the darkness before they fell asleep. Edward looked up at Inspector Woodes, but Woodes’ face had become hard, his gaze locked onto Mr. Murrell. Some movement caught Edward’s eye and he looked back up the pier. The banana trees quivered, the shadow of their leaves playing on the ground. He imagined he’d seen someone there between that cluster of green and his house. But of course, there was no one. The houses were empty. The beach deserted.
“Do you think... she could ever forgive me?” Edward said to Woodes, but Woodes wasn’t listening to him. And Edward knew he had become a ghost to this place. And no one can hear ghosts. Edward didn’t mind. Ghosts were nothing but memories, and he preferred those to what he had. Tension filled him with the desire to step back in time a few days and change. Change himself. But he could not. So he stayed with his memories and let his thoughts drift. He felt like he was floating up, over the boat to look down at it.
“Mr. Murrell?”
Woodes moved his hands up to rest them on his belt, his right hand over his holstered weapon. Murrell glanced down at this and nodded. The other businessmen swayed with the deck in their brand new clothes, holding their beers out awkwardly like manikins displaying a product.
Finally, Murrell bit down on his cigar in an artificial smile, and with his free hand, he reached to his back pocket, and pulled out his passport. Woodes took it without saying anything. He quickly opened it and flipped through the pages, scanning over dozens of stamps. He stopped on one page and examined one particular BVI immigration stamp for what felt like a long time before looking up at Murrell.
“Mr. Murrell, given the circumstances, I’m placing you under arrest.”
In one practiced motion Woodes had pulled off a set of handcuffs from the back of his belt and brought a cuff down on Murrell’s left hand. Murrell looked down at his beer just as the cuff locked itself around his wrist. Woodes took his beer and handed it to Henry standing next to him. Without releasing the cuffs, Woodes stepped around Murrell and brought his other arm back to slap the second cuff down on his free wrist.
Murrell still had his cigar clamped between his teeth. He maintained his chomping smile and minute nod and looked over at Edward, aiming the cigar like a gun barrel at him.
“You could have made a fortune, Eddy,” he said “A fortune. If you had played your hand right. A fortune. What do think about that?”
Woodes pushed Murrell forward, moving him toward the police boat.
“Did you even think about that, or are you too stupid?” His tone angry and bitter. “A million dollars. That’s what you missed out on. You could have bought a house on an island yourself. You could have bought your own island, Eddy, if you weren’t so stupid. If you knew how to play your hand, you could have had anything in the world you wanted. Did you think about that, Eddy? Anything in the world.”
But Edward didn’t notice Murrell or his words or what the others were doing. He had an ear aimed windward, toward the mouth of the bay, listening intently. He would stay there as long as he could, until someone came and guided him away. All he could hear was the breeze and the waves lapping against the side of the boat.
THE END
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Wayland, author of Deadman Bay and The Nialhaus Proxy, was born during a hurricane in Corpus Christi, Texas. He has worked in Silicon Valley in the high-tech industry and later studied Asian languages in Hong Kong and Taiwan. Patrick lives in Taipei.
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