Porter Island Chapter Ten (standard:action, 4115 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Apr 07 2025	Views/Reads: 27/3	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Super-strong agent Betty McCloud is coaxed out of retirement for her most challenging assignment yet.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

station. Her job wasn't getting any easier. But one thing was sure. If 
Shriver didn't fear her power, he was apprehensive of it. He had every 
right to be. 

*** 

Betty abandoned any thought of getting local help to fix the tires and
phoned the chauffeur, Ted Hands. His grumbling indicated his lack of 
amusement at the outcome of her taking the limousine. 

Betty's retort had been short and straight to the point. “You do your
job, and I'll do mine. Have a unit out to get it back on the road.” 
Hands had grudgingly murmured that he'd have an FBI outfit service the 
vehicle and return it to The Hurst. 

Back out on the promenade, Betty headed for The Hurst at a jog. Shriver
had known he couldn't detain her; there was nothing he could hold her 
for, but he no longer believed her alias if he ever had. How much 
longer she could continue to act under it, Betty was uncertain. Her 
next move was to call Anthony and apprise him of the situation. Shriver 
would no doubt do his utmost to uncover her real identity and mission. 
On the plus side, she now had the confession she'd forced out of Logan. 
Shriver had been dismissive when she'd mentioned it and claimed that 
Castleford had denied it. Well, he would. He'd hardly admit it, and 
then Shriver had seemed more intent on uncovering her background than 
anything else. So had Shriver something to hide? Come to that, had they 
all something to hide? 

There was evidence of extortion in what she'd uncovered thus far, and
right now, to Betty's mind, the finger pointed at Castleford.  But 
Castleford alone? From how Shriver was going about it, it seemed 
doubtful. In being intent on uncovering her background, Shriver 
appeared to be unwittingly revealing he was fearful of Betty 
discovering information that could incriminate them all. 

Betty increased her pace the closer she got to The Hurst; the mist,
present throughout, had begun to dissipate a little, but a cloying heat 
remained, something that, with Betty's strength and stamina, was not a 
worry to her. Betty reached The Hurst in the late afternoon as the 
first rays of sun broke through the thinning clouds. 

Hands was on the mansion's front steps, smoking a cigarette. His eyes
settled on her as soon as she'd passed through the gates, so she did 
not doubt that a continuation of past hostilities would occur. 

“Costing the public more money, McCloud?” 

“Button it,” Betty scowled. “The name's Thornton, and the puncture had
nothing to do with me or the road, for that matter.” 

“Eh?” 

“Never mind.” 

Betty pushed past Hands into the foyer. “Hey, watch it.” 

But Betty didn't reply as she headed for her suite and a shower just as
Stapleton appeared from the main lounge. 

“Next time you take the limousine, be kind enough to check with me
first, would you?” 

Betty winced; the shower would have to wait, and this wouldn't.
Stapleton might be playing a secondary role in the operation, but she 
needed to be kept in the picture. Striding toward Stapleton, Betty 
indicated the lounge. 

“We need to talk.” 

“Please don't say you've smashed the car up.” Stapleton's pale
complexion grew pastier. “I have social commitments ...” 

“Nothing of the sort, so don't panic.” Betty strode past Stapleton into
the cavernous lounge, Stapleton following behind, her fair eyebrows 
narrowing so they almost met in the middle. “Then what's this all 
about? You look as though you've ...” 

“Been in a fight? Yes,” Betty finished for her. She could only guess at
her appearance; the shock would come when she glanced in the mirror. 
Betty relayed the day's events, beginning with her search for the 
relatives of Graham Mahoney through to the grilling by Shriver and her 
subsequent jog back to The Hurst. 

“I must say, your bull-in-a-china-shop approach to the job worried the
hell out of me before this mission started – let alone now – Stapleton 
sat in a high-backed Queen Anne armchair, elegantly as ever, back 
straight and her head held high. 

“Then why did you accept the assignment?” Betty snapped, tossing her
head back and not liking the way her thick black curls seemed to cling 
to her head rather than swirl around her neck and shoulders. 

Stapleton sniffed, raised her head even higher, and fingered her
blonde-white hair. “Because I was pleaded with most persistently." 

Of course, you were, Betty thought, though she let the remark pass. No
sense in getting into confrontation mode with the obnoxious woman. 

“Sounds like you've compromised our operation by your rashness. Why, at
any moment, I could have Shriver on my doorstep questioning whether I'm 
who I say I am.” 

My doorstep. Betty gritted her teeth. Stapleton's imperious attitude was
testing her patience despite her resolution to play it down. 

Betty crossed to a period occasional table and wrenched the seal off a
bottle of mineral water. She needed something to cool her down, and it 
wasn't the after-effects of her run causing the influx of heat. She 
turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, Hands was speaking to 
someone she didn't recognize. A teenager, around seventeen or eighteen, 
she thought. 

“Do you recognize that boy?” Betty asked without breaking her gaze. 

“How do you expect me to see from here?” came the imperious voice from
the Queen Anne chair. 

That did it. Betty about turned, strode across the room, stretched out
an arm, caught Stapleton's hand, lifted her from the chair, and dragged 
her to the window. 

“Take your hands off me!” Stapleton screeched, but Betty wasn't
listening. Powerless to resist, the protesting woman was stationed in 
front of the window, two powerful hands gripping her forearms and 
holding her motionless. 

“Him.” Betty nodded her head toward the youth. I'll ask again. Do you
recognize him?” 

“No.” Stapleton shook her head. “And I'll thank you to ...” 

“Button it,” Betty growled, swinging Stapleton around to face her. “Now
look, stop panicking about Shriver. He has nothing to question us for, 
and he knows it. But right now, out there for all we know, Hands could 
be letting something slip, inadvertently or not. This is the kind of 
thing we should be alert for.” Betty thrust a finger at Stapleton. And 
that's where you come in. It's part of your job as household head, so 
in a nutshell, keep your eyes open!” 

Betty turned and swept out of the lounge before Stapleton could refute
her remark. Turning into the hall, she made for the foyer, then down 
the steps toward Hands. 

“I see you have a visitor, Ted,” she said sweetly, concealing her
revulsion for Hands. Then, turning to the youth, “You got business 
here, kid?” 

“The lad said he was just passing by,” Hands cut in. “Said curiosity got
the better of him.” 

“That a fact.” Betty met the kid's gaze. He didn't flinch. “Got a name,
kid?” 

The kid raked a hand through his corn-colored hair. “Course I've got a
name,” he scowled. 

“So?” 

“So what?” 

The pleasant expression disappeared from Betty's face. “Now, don't try
my patience. This fella here'll tell you it's not a good idea.” 

The kid sighed, “Jack.” 

“Well, it's a start.” Betty bit her lip. “Jack what?” 

“Flash.” 

“I see.” Betty glanced at Hands. “Well, Jack Flash, let's whisk you on
your way.” The lad stood an inch, maybe two inches taller than Betty, 
not that height made any difference. Curling an arm around the youth's 
midriff, she yanked him off his feet, carrying him one-armed, 
complaining and shouting the fifty yards or so to the main gates before 
hurling him onto the rough paving outside. 

“What the fuck?” The lad heaved himself to his feet, furiously rubbing
the dust from his jeans, angry grey eyes focused on her. “My uncle'll 
hear about this.” 

Betty raised her eyebrows. “Will he, indeed? And who might your uncle
be, Jack Flash?” 

“You'll find out soon enough.” The lad took off through the bushes,
along the wooded path leading to Porter Island center. Betty watched 
him go, then marched back to Hands, who'd stood monitoring them. 

“You could've just told him to scram.” 

“He pissed me off.” Betty cast him an irritated gaze. “And he's not the
only one.” 

“Whoa ... The chauffeur threw his arms in the air as Betty folded hers
across her chest. “What was he saying, and what did you say?” 

“Nothing that gave us away if that's what you're thinking,” Hands said
with a sneer. “The kid asked how long we'd been here, where we came 
from, and why we wanted a big place like this. Told him it was on 
account of the mistress, her house, her money, and her say-so. That's 
when you stormed out.” 

“Kind of nosey for a kid, don't you think?” Betty fingered her hair; it
felt oily – the shower couldn't come soon enough. 

“That's what kids are like.” Hands took a cigarette packet from his
pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. “Of course, you wouldn't 
know.” 

“Can't say I'm the motherin' type, no.” Betty didn't avail Hands of a
full answer. Fact was, she got on with kids okay, for the most part. 
Tolerated them, at least. 

“Has the car been sorted out?” Hands exhaled heavily. “Why d'ya reckon
I'm standing here? It's fixed; the guys are bringing it back.” 

Betty nodded. “That should appease Stapleton for a while.” She turned
and sprinted up the steps. Time for that shower and then to call 
Anthony, though the kid's inquisitiveness still lingered in her 
thoughts. Almost as if he'd been running an errand for someone, such as 
Shriver or Castleford, or even Mayor Milton Carson, come to that. 

Upstairs, Betty showered, rubbed herself down, dried her hair, and then
called Mike Anthony. After relaying the day's events, a lengthy silence 
followed that had Betty wondering whether someone had cut the 
connection, but then a sigh ensued, and she had a feeling of what was 
coming next. “From what you're telling me, Betty, it seems that this 
operation needs a few more bodies on the ground if we're truly going to 
get to grips with this.” 

Betty flushed with anger, biceps bulging as she gripped the phone
tighter. Suddenly aware that she could crush it to fragments, she eased 
off, though her temper remained.  “Haven't you listened to a word I've 
said, Mike? I broke free and forced some crucial information out of 
Logan, and now both Shriver and Castleford will be aware of what I'm 
about. But they won't be aware of my real identity, and as I've done 
nothing wrong, they can't force me to reveal it. I can handle this job, 
Mike. Don't you dare assume that I can't.” 

Another delay before Anthony sniffed. “It's just that there appear to be
a few more shadowy figures than we bargained for. 

“Than you bargained for,” Betty snapped back. “It's nothing I can't
handle. Just give me time to crack this wide open, and then you can 
send in the boys to mop up.” 

Betty heard the creak of Anthony's desk chair as he presumably leaned
forward. The man needed to replace that damned chair, but either he or 
the FBI admin was too tight to do it. “Supposing I do, what's your next 
move?” 

Betty smiled. He was going to concede. She had him. “I picked a file out
of those found in the cabinet. Graham Mahoney. I intend to track down 
Mahoney's relatives; they might provide a lead. I have the address from 
the care home. I'm hoping they can help blow the lid off the corruption 
surrounding this place. Which brings me to what these files were doing 
inside The Hurst. Have you got the previous owner's details yet?” 

“Yeah. I was coming to that. Comes back as Franklyn Carson.” Betty
frowned. “Carson? Did you say, Carson?” 

“Uh-huh. The mayor's grandfather. But it was leased out for a number of
years before we got our hands on it, had quite a few different tenants 
staying there, according to our sources.” 

“I see.” It could have been just a coincidence that the mayor's family
had owned it. In any case, if it had been leased out a few times,  
connecting the files to his family just got more difficult. “I don't 
suppose we know who these leasees were?” 

Betty heard tapping on a keyboard. “I'll send you through the names.
“Look, I'm giving you thirty-six hours to produce evidence that we're 
making progress in eliminating the lawlessness of Porter Island. If 
nothing substantial ensues, I'll have no choice but to change our 
methods. Understand, Betty?” 

“Sure, I understand.” Betty cut the call before Anthony had a chance to
reconsider. He was under pressure to produce results, but Anthony was 
also concerned about her, Betty knew. And that irked her, perhaps more 
than it should. Pushing forty-five and taking on a complex assignment 
almost single-handed. But she retained abilities far beyond the norm, 
and Anthony and co needed to remember that. 

Betty sighed, composed herself for the evening meal with Stapleton,
choosing a conservative long-sleeved cotton dress that didn't hug her 
figure but loosely flowed over her powerful muscles. 

Downstairs, through the open foyer doors, Betty saw the limousine parked
outside the entrance, which should at least provide her some respite 
from Stapleton's nagging tongue. 

The sound of Stapleton's manufactured ultra-sophisticated voice echoed
from the other direction as, further down the main hallway, Betty heard 
the woman signing off on the phone. When Betty strode into the 
high-ceilinged dining room, Stapleton had taken her customary seat at 
the head of the table, focusing her stony eyes on her the moment she 
entered. Betty returned Stapleton's glare, taking a seat opposite 
Hands. 

“You're late. We've been waiting; dinner was ready to be served ten
minutes ago,”  Stapleton announced, lofting her blonde head. “Dare I 
ask what materialized to warrant you returning in such a deplorable 
state?” 

Betty acknowledged the housekeeper, placing a plate of beef stew before
her. How much should she divulge? She turned her attention to 
Stapleton. “I've already told you. I ran into an ambush. They regretted 
it, but don't worry, the car is fixed and ready to use.” 

“H'mmm. I must have missed that part; you do tend to drop your tone too
low at times.” Stapleton put a serviette to her mouth. “I take it 
you've no plans to monopolize the car tomorrow afternoon? I've been 
invited to the mayor's wife's social, which means that in your role as 
my companion, you'll be required to attend also.” 

Betty's eyes darkened, never leaving Stapleton's face. Apart from the
woman's comment about how she spoke, which was blatantly untrue, 
Stapleton's comment about the social was tantamount to an order, at 
least in the sense that Stapleton had delivered it. The operation 
certainly didn't revolve around Stapleton's airs and graces. However, 
Betty was forced to admit that Stapleton's role complemented it, so 
biting back her resentment, she nodded. “Of course.” Besides, being 
inside the mayor's home might yet benefit the operation. His persona, 
when they'd met at the ball, didn't strike her as squeaky-clean; not 
only that, but the mayor's family's connection to The Hurst, and 
therefore, the stored files indicated possible involvement in Porter 
Island's corruption. 

Stapleton frowned, taken aback by Betty's compliance. Betty placed her
fork down and wiped her mouth with a cloth. “But I need it available, 
am. “I might have known.” Stapleton sighed heavily and turned to Hands. 
“Then please take him. At least I know you'll be back in time, 
hopefully, damage-free.” 

Betty's eyes flashed indignation, more difficult to bite back this time.
She knew Stapleton through and through – knew she was trying to goad 
her and succeeding. However, the assignment's success depended on 
Betty's ability to crush the corruption and not Stapleton's social 
skills. Betty pushed her plate aside and leaned her elbows on the 
table, fists resting under her chin, her biceps surging through her 
dress sleeves even though they were loose fitting. “Priorities and mine 
outrank yours, as I'm sure you know.” Watching Stapleton smart and 
drawing some satisfaction, Betty conceded, “Nonetheless, I'll be taking 
Ted if it serves to regulate your blood pressure.” 

“There is no need to resort to such sarcasm.” 

“Ms. Thornton ...” The housekeeper came hurriedly into the room, closely
followed by Shriver. “The officer wishes to ...” 

“I'll take it from here ...” Shriver interrupted, striding up to Betty's
seat at the table. 

“What is the meaning of this intrusion, Sheriff?” Stapleton swept a hand
through her blonde hair, piled high on her head, and sighed heavily. 
“Could it not have waited until we've finished dinner?” 

“I'm afraid there have been, shall we say, developments concerning Ms.
Thornton's alleged kidnapping,” Shriver replied somberly, hat held 
between his hands. 

“Nonetheless,” Stapleton continued, unwilling to let Shriver's intrusion
go uncontested. 

“Enough.” Betty leaped from her chair and muscled Shriver aside.
“Drawing room,” she said sharply, dark eyes blazing at him. “And it's 
not alleged.” 

“It is if the other parties oppose your version of the incident,”
Shriver called out, long legs at full stretch as he hastened after 
Betty as she stormed down the hallway. 

Entering the drawing room, Betty stopped, about turned, and hands on
hips faced Shriver. 

“What nonsense is this?” 

“Calm down, Ms. Thornton, if that is indeed your real name.” Shriver
placed his hat on the arm of a high-backed leather chair and slipped 
into the seat. “Please, sit down.” 

“I prefer to stand; now get on with it.” 

“Very well,” Shriver said with a sigh, stretching his legs and adopting
a relaxed posture that his rapid eye movements belied. “All three of 
the men you say ambushed and kidnapped you claim that you assaulted 
them – that you broke into the cabin and attacked them.” 

“Huh!” Betty gave an ironic laugh, displaying the whites of her teeth.
“That's absurd.” 

“Is it? Ms. Thornton. Is it really? In the short time you've been on the
island, I've had reports of you employing your considerable strength 
without apparent justification.” Leaning forward, hands pressed 
together,  Shriver continued, “It seems to me that you're a danger to 
the islanders, and while I'm reluctant to judge one way or the other, 
I'm afraid I must insist that you remain within The Hurst's grounds 
until my department learns more about you. Failure to comply will see 
you under arrest. Do I make myself clear?” Betty's eyes fired up, and 
she saw Shriver flinch. She smiled, though it was laced with anger. 
Truth was, she'd enjoy pitting her strength against the cell's confines 
but doubted that would be necessary. She had a call to make. 

“Is that it?” 

“What?” Shriver appeared momentarily taken aback as if he'd been
expecting a row. 

“For now,” he said with a shrug, placing his cowboy hat back on his
head, “good day.” 

He marched off down the hallway,  where Betty saw three of his
colleagues loitering in the foyer, obviously a backup should things go 
awry. She scowled, resisting the temptation to hurl Shriver into them 
with enough force to poleax them all. 

Upstairs, she called Anthony, telling him of the situation and how
Shriver claimed the three thugs were trying to pin the assault on her. 

“Difficult to say,” Anthony said, “maybe they are, or maybe Shriver made
it up because he doesn't know who he's dealing with. After all, you do 
go about things with all the placidity of a thunderbolt.” 

“I object to that,” Betty bristled, “I ...” 

“Here me out,” Anthony cut in, an edge to his voice, “it's your way, and
I wouldn't change that ... but now Porter Island has more than sampled 
your power and strength, and its powers that be are wary. Look, we can 
get Shriver to lay off. He doesn't have to know why.” With that, 
Anthony cut the call. 

Betty returned to the dining room where Stapleton sat, arms folded, icy
look on her face, Ted Hands having left. 

“Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” 

“I've already told you.” Betty sat at the table and poured some water
from a jug. The three amigos are lying. Don't worry; it's dealt with. 
Stapleton sniffed. “Wouldn't need to be if you didn't go around trying 
to rip the island apart.” 

The sleeves of Betty's blue dress ballooned as she flexed her mighty
arms, giving Stapleton a pointed look but resisting the urge to take 
her on physically. “Just be cautious of your answers to any probing 
questions tomorrow, though I'll be there to keep things from going 
awry.” “Huh!” Stapleton snorted, getting to her feet. “If I need to 
control how my tongue works, then certainly you need to control your 
muscles.” 

Betty watched Stapleton waltz out of the room. Controlling her muscles
against Porter Island's unsavory characters was one thing, but 
controlling them against her insufferable colleague was quite another. 
 


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