Porter Island, Chapter Eleven (standard:action, 1342 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: May 12 2025	Views/Reads: 19/3	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Special Agent Amanda Thornton, alias Betty McCloud, is coaxed out of retirement to an island where crime is out of control - and she's not getting any younger.

Chapter Eleven 

Betty rose not long after dawn the following morning and dressed
casually in a pair of Levi's and a loose black top. She needed to be 
back by noon, not only to appease Stapleton but to prepare for the 
mayor's wife's function. Wasting no time breakfasting alone, for 
Stapleton had yet to show, much to her liking, Betty summoned the 
chauffeur, Hands. 

The chauffeur appeared in the morning room wearing his customary sour
expression when greeting her – greeting hardly being the appropriate 
word. 

“I'm required to remind you of the importance of returning early,” he
began stiffly. “Mrs. Stapleton ...” 

But Betty was already sweeping out of the room by the time he got the
would-be heiress's name out, merely firing over her shoulder, “Then the 
quicker you get moving, the quicker we'll be back.” 

Hands muttered something, but she ignored it, hastening along the broad
hallway, through the foyer, and down the steps to the limousine. 

“Where to?” he more or less growled as Betty climbed in the back, and he
took the driver's seat. “Lockhart Lane, East Island,” Betty answered, 
clipping her seat belt on. She heard Hands sniff and waited for his 
comment. “I understand you were instructed to remain on the grounds,” 
Hands spat out. “I'm not sure I want to be a party to ignoring police 
instructions.” 

“Now I wonder where you heard that.” But Betty already suspected that
Hands had been loitering within hearing distance of Shriver the day 
before; she'd never really known where his loyalties lay, though as an 
FBI employee, she supposed he had been fully vetted. In any case, by 
now, Shriver would have been advised to lay off, which would have no 
doubt disgruntled him and done nothing to allay his suspicions about 
her. But sure enough, there were no signs of unusual presence on the 
grounds as they drove out, Hands leaving Betty's question unanswered. 
From how the road deteriorated the further east they went, Betty could 
tell the care home administrator's comments on the East Island area 
would be accurate. The road changed from a two-lane highway to a 
pot-holed single lane, and then to Lockhart Lane, hardly a navigable 
passage at all, being a mixture of mud and shingles partly covered by 
wind-driven sand dunes. 

“The car's just had a repair job done,” Hands mumbled, “hate to think
what a stink it'll cause if the suspension packs up as well.” Betty 
offered no reply, just let Hands grumble, though she wouldn't put it 
past Anthony to present her with the bill. Still, she supposed that 
anyone tracking them in this barren landscape would find it no easy 
task. 

They plowed through a sandhill before the makeshift road dipped and
leveled out to reveal a collection of corrugated cabins, looking much 
like leftover relics from a past gold mining era. Betty glanced around 
at the sand-covered wilderness and sighed. “Stop the car; I'll cover 
the rest on foot. 

There being no retort from Hands for once, Betty trudged through the
dunes, sinking into the sand up to her ankles, and located number nine, 
close to the head of the promontory, the sound of waves crashing 
against rocks evident nearby. The premises appeared no less forlorn 
than the others, and with no sign of transport in any of the 
surrounding properties, Betty wondered how they existed. 

She rapped on the door, saw the faded net curtains twitch, and knew
someone, presumably Mahoney, was inside. Betty rapped again, harder 
this time, and eventually, the door creaked partially open. A wiry, 
late middle-aged man stood inside, hand clasping the doorframe tightly 
as though about to slam it shut. 

“Justin Mahoney?” Betty asked, arms relaxed at her sides but ready to
prevent the man from closing it at short notice. 

“Who wants to know?” 


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