James Benn: The White Ghost

“Take a look at that sky,” he said, arching his head back and sighing. The sun was edging low, tinging the thin clouds with streaks of orange, the sea sparkling in the distance. “I wanted a peaceful life, with money and the beauty of these islands around me. I couldn’t face going back to Sydney after the war. I didn’t want to die a broken man, like my father, his health ruined after a lifetime of factory labor, his legs crippled.”

“Luckman told us your father had been in an accident,” I said.

“Yeah, a lorry backed into him, crushed his legs. It was a contractor’s vehicle leaving after a delivery, and Luckman claimed my dad had been negligent in stepping behind it, so it wasn’t the company’s responsibility. Best he would do was to give me dad’s job, so I could earn enough to provide some care for him. I took it, of course, hating every minute of working in that damned, sweltering factory.”

“And you left after your father died,” I said, trying to feel some pity for him.

“Yes, I wanted to start over. When the Japs came along, it was like everything fell into my lap. I knew that after the war I could rebuild and work hard, hard enough to turn a profit and sell the plantation.”

“But any buyer would want a deed, some proof that they owned the property,” Kaz said.

“I knew that,” he said. “Before I left I’d helped Silas bury his strongbox. It held cash, the deed to the property, a few gold coins, some other papers. All I had to do was come back after the war and dig it up. I thought I had everything worked out. When Daniel Tamana came along and threatened to ruin everything, I snapped. I surprised myself, really.” He shrugged, as if admitting to a minor character flaw.

“He recognized you,” Kaz said.

“Yes, but he wasn’t about to go running to the authorities. He wanted my old job when the war ended. Said he knew what it took for a man to succeed out here, and he wanted his share.”

“You went along with it,” I said. “Lured him to the beach.”

“Yeah, and I might have made that deal with him. There’s enough work to go around, and he seemed eager enough. We went to the beach separately, so no one would suspect we had any connection. But then he told me about Sam Chang, and how if I double-crossed him, he’d get Sam to confirm his story and take it to the authorities. Well, that was that. I couldn’t trust him if he was going to blackmail me. Who knows what he would have demanded next?”

“So you hit him on the head with your Australian commando knife and then threw it into the water,” I said.

“Damn, Boyle, you are a detective. That’s right. I didn’t plan it, really. It was like my anger took over, and suddenly the knife was in my hand, Daniel gazing out to sea, and then he was dead on the ground. It sickened me, to tell the truth. But after that, I couldn’t leave Chang as a loose end. I had to eliminate that threat as well. Very distasteful, but it left me safe and secure.”

“Why did you kill Deanna?” I asked, my voice soft and soothing, wanting the details to keep coming.

“Oh God, that was awful. I called the signals section from Sesapi, the day you showed up there. I got Gordie on the telephone. He mentioned that Deanna was on the prowl, looking for some Chinese woman. I knew exactly what that meant; she was looking for the Chang sisters. She and Daniel had been friendly, and I figured he’d blabbed the story to her. So when Gordie told me he was dropping her off in Chinatown, I took my chance.”

“You met her there, and killed her in that alley,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I’d sent Kari off on an errand, and I knew if I acted quickly, I could be back at the dock before he returned.” His face clouded over, the pain and guilt overcoming his desire to tell us how clever he was. I’d seen this before, the criminal’s need of an audience to appreciate his audacity and skill, to share his belief in his own superior intelligence.

“You had it figured pretty close,” I said. “I saw John Kari in Chinatown, but I missed you.”

“Jesus, if I knew things would end up like this, I never would have started. I’d be glad to be plain, penniless Peter Fraser again. But I was in so deep, I didn’t see any other way out. I mean, after two killings, it’s almost a sacrilege to let the fear of a third stop you. Otherwise, the first two would have died in vain,” he said, in the remorseless logic of a murderer. “Don’t you see, Deanna’s death would have finished things? I’d be Silas Porter for the rest of my life. A plantation owner, a man of property, and a war hero to boot.”

“Except for Josh Coburn being alive,” Kaz said. “Do you not see? You never would have gotten away with it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It was like a curse came over me, and I had to protect this terrible secret. The first killing was almost an accident, then the second was so easy; it was as if it were fated. I never imagined it could be so easy. The rage I felt towards Daniel was nothing like I ever felt.”

“It was fate that made you stick a knife into Deanna’s heart,” I said evenly. “Not greed or fear?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Boyle. Yes, I was afraid of being found out, terribly afraid. I think it was fear more than money. The fear of public shame and ridicule. I desperately didn’t want to be found out, to be unmasked as a common murderer. Now that it’s over, I’m almost glad you found me out. No, I am glad. I never really felt like Silas Porter. Sometimes I felt it was him doing those things, not me.”

“The insanity defense isn’t going to work, Porter,” I said. “So can it.”

“Believe what you will. I’ve finally told you the truth, such as it is. All I want is to ask you to do me one small favor.”

“What?” I said, disdain for this pitiful killer foul in my mouth.

“Could you call me by my real name? I’m tired of being Silas Porter. I am Peter Fraser, after all.”

Kaz and I were both silent, stunned at the fawning self-justifications of this man. Whose name I could not speak.

The late-afternoon sun cast shadows through the coconut grove, long slivers of darkness lengthening between the rows. We were on lookout, searching the ground in every direction, watching for an enemy expert at infiltration. Everyone except Porter, who sat slumped against a log, passive amidst the activity around him.

“There!” Trent focused his binoculars. “Hold your fire! It’s Ariel.”

He was alone, and he didn’t look good. His weapon was gone. Blood flowed from his shoulder, and he grimaced as he ran, his one good arm waving back and forth. Trent sent two men to help him up the hill and into the perimeter.

“What happened?” Trent said as a corpsman handed Ariel a canteen and began cleaning his wound. It looked like a through and through in his upper shoulder. Not bad, if you were near an aid station. Out here, it wasn’t good news.

“Hem dae,” Ariel gasped, then took another drink.

“Who? Johnston?” Trent demanded.

“No, other marine. Jap takim Johnston. We cross stream, see no denja. Japs jump us, shoot marine, shoot me, grabim Johnston. Hitim, drag away. I come kwiktaem.” His eyelids fluttered, and he collapsed.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the corpsman said. “But he’s alive.” He and another marine carried Ariel to rest under the shade of a shelter half rigged up to a coconut tree.

“Now what?” Trent said, looking to the two officers present, even though we weren’t marines. “G Company still has no idea we’re here or the boats are coming.”