Porter Island Chapter Eight (standard:action, 1483 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Dec 20 2024	Views/Reads: 41/15	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Agent Betty McCloud, alias Amanda Thornton, is reassigned to service to face her most difficult operation yet.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Please do.” Betty's ebony eyes burned into the woman, causing her to 
blink as she snatched up the phone. “There's a woman here demanding to 
see you, Mrs. Harper.” The emphasis on woman was blatantly sarcastic, 
Betty noted. “I'm afraid I'm busy,” came the administrator's reply. 
“Tell her to ask for an appointment, and I'll consider it.” 

“Says she doesn't need one,” the receptionist answered, openly scowling
at Betty. “Appears to be a government agent.” 

“I'm still busy,” came the reply through the intercom, revealing obvious
irritation. Nevertheless, Betty picked up a sigh and then, “Tell her 
five minutes, no longer. Send her up.” 

The woman fingered a button, releasing a security door on Betty's left.
“You heard that. Five minutes, no longer. No lift, so up the stairs, 
second floor. Turn right and then left. Room at the end of the 
corridor. “Got it.” Betty smiled, but her eyes burned fire, and her 
muscles rippled in her bare arms. 

Betty swept up the stairs to the second floor and proceeded along a
corridor that seemed of interminable length, past side wards and staff 
attending patients. 

Finally reaching the end room, Betty rapped her fist on the door and
swung it open. A woman of ample size stared up at her from behind a 
computer screen, removed her spectacles, and placed them on the desk. 
“To what do I owe this somewhat unexpected disturbance, Ms. ...” 

“Thornton, Amanda Thornton.”  Betty sat in the visitor's chair before
the desk without being prompted, clasped her hands together, and leaned 
toward Harper. “I'm seeking the whereabouts of any relatives of a 
resident in your nursing home who passed two years ...” 

“Before I reveal any such information,” the grey-haired administrator
interrupted stiffly, “I'll require some I.D. 

“I've been through that.” Betty sighed, produced her FBI authorization
from her pocket, and held it in front of Harper. 

“I see,” came the resigned reply. “Well, I daresay I can find what
you're looking for, providing, of course, that the former resident had 
any relatives. “Name?” 

“Graham Mahoney. Statistics confirm that he passed away here.” 

“Mahoney.” Harper tapped on her keyboard, waited a second, hand
caressing her chin, and then nodded. “One relative, just the one, mind. 
Justin Mahoney, 9 Lockhart Lane, East Island.” 

“And where is ...” 

“It's a promontory, opposite end of Porter Island.” Harper drew breath,
a frown accentuating the thin cracks of her brow. “You'll need to 
exercise care. Lockhart Lane has a reputation, not one of the island's 
more salubrious places.” Harper ran her eyes over Betty's powerful 
frame. “Though it's quite evident you work out.” 

Betty gave a thin smile and got to her feet. “Just a bit. Mrs. Harper,
thanks for your time.” At Harper's acknowledgment, Betty left the 
office. Outside, the limo's sloping rear end signified a problem. 
Stooping, Betty examined the nearside back wheel, finding a tiny 
puncture mark. A similar examination of the offside tire showed a 
similar puncture. The nursing home's rough road surface or sabotage? 
Could be either, Betty supposed. But either way, two punctures couldn't 
be repaired without garage assistance. Betty gritted her teeth. Her 
intention had been to pay Lockhart Lane an early visit, but now it 
posed a problem. Tracking back inside, she tapped on the security 
window and then thumped it when the receptionist failed to respond 
immediately. The woman glared at her, thrusting the screen back. 

“What?” 

Betty controlled her temper, barely. For two pins, she'd teach the woman
some manners. She breathed deeply. “You have surveillance?” 

“It doesn't work externally,” came the reply through gritted teeth.
“What use is that?” Betty shook her head. “No matter. Nearest garage?” 
“There's only one this side of Porter Island, and he'll be shut today,” 
came the almost gleeful reply. 

“Terrific.” Betty turned to go, then stopped and glared back at the
obnoxious woman. The urge to reduce the security screen to fragments, 
reach in, hoist her out, and shake her until her bones rattled was 
almost too strong to resist. 

Almost. She had more important matters on her agenda than flexing her
muscles on worthless causes. “Apart from that, the nearest one's in the 
center. You'll need to hurry, though. Half-day closing,” the 
receptionist added as Betty was about to exit. 

Betty stopped and retraced her steps. She stood in front of the
protective screen and sighed. “Contact number?” 

“Can't say,” came the reply in an obviously fake apologetic tone. “We've
no cause to store that kind of information.” 

Betty swept out; no point in getting into a battle of words that the
woman would obviously relish. With her strength and stamina, it 
wouldn't take long to run the distance to the center. 

Or so it seemed. 

Betty jogged steadily along the gravel track, the tree branches
penetrating the mist like grotesque limbs as she approached the 
junction. Suddenly, a shot cracked through the air, and almost 
simultaneously, she felt a searing pain in her upper left arm. The air 
seemed sucked from her lungs as her legs began to buckle. Gritting her 
teeth, Betty reached across with her right hand and pulled out the 
culprit—a three-inch-long dart. Barely was their time to register three 
figures emerging from the undergrowth before she slumped to the ground 
and consciousness abandoned her.  


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