Endgame (15 page)

She stomped off through the rain, heedless of the rocks and roots that stuck up everywhere waiting to trip an unsuspecting hiker.

S
andra and Pete had almost reached the halfway point when something occurred to Sandra. She stood on the edge and looked at the restless water more than twenty feet below.

“What if there are caves down there?” she asked with a mournful expression. “Edwards could be hiding out and we'd never see him.”

“How would he get down there?” Pete asked.

She thought about it. “Ropes maybe. Or possibly his boat is tied up somewhere and we just can't see it.”

She looked again and was startled to see something bobbing in the waves. Before she could make out what it was, she had a vision of Pete pushing her over the edge. She whirled to face him.

“Did you see anything?” he asked, staring at her.

She nodded. “I … I think so.”

They both looked together, trying to pierce the gloom and mist on the waves below. Something green bobbed under the water.

“There! Did you see that?” Sandra asked.

“What?”

“It looks like a knapsack or something.”

Pete tried to lean over the edge to see what she was pointing at, but the rain obscured the view and cut visibility to almost nothing.

“It's green,” she told him. “You can barely see it for the rain and the waves.”

When Sandra looked again, it had disappeared, if it had ever been more than just a figment of her imagination.

They kept walking and met up with Verna and Spike a few minutes later.

“How'd you get that cut?” Sandra asked when she saw the gash on Spike's arm.

“This bitch tried to kill me by pushing me over the cliff.”

Spike enjoyed the look of horror on Sandra's face. Verna shot him a nasty look.

He held up his hands. “Okay, I'm kidding. I slipped. Verna here was a true-blue hero. She hauled me back to safety.”

“I can get you bandaged up once we get back to the house,” Sandra said with relief. “There's not a lot in that first aid kit, but there are plenty of bandages.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Spike said. “Oh, by the way — we ran across a stray dog on our travels. He looks hungry. Scrawny son of a bitch and pretty vicious. We'd better tell the others to watch out for him.”

“Are you sure it was a dog?” Sandra asked. “I hope it wasn't a wolf.”

“Doubt it,” Spike told her. “Too small for that.”

“I wonder how he got here.”

Spike shrugged. “Probably swam over at low tide or something. What about you two? Anything to report?”

Sandra shook her head. “Not really, but we were wondering … what if there are caves below the cliffs? Near the waterline? Someone could be hiding out there.”

Spike thought for a moment. “I suppose it's possible. Is there any way to get a glimpse of them from above without having to shimmy down the side?”

“No,” Sandra said. She looked over at Pete, who shook his head. “Pete and I both tried, but it's too dangerous. The only way we could do it is with a rope.”

“There was rope in the mud room,” Verna said. “Nylon, I think. So it would be fairly strong.”

“I think I saw something down below,” Sandra said. “I could just make it out floating in the water. It looked like a knapsack.”

“Probably worth checking, then,” Spike said, “but I can't do much of anything till I get this arm looked at. It hurts like a bitch.” He threw a glance at Verna, but she didn't respond. “Besides, it'll be dark soon. We'll have to leave it until tomorrow.”

They trekked back through the middle of the island, but found no trace of anyone. The trees were thickest on the cliffs. The centre was largely barren rock. Where the dog was holed up remained to be seen, but there were no other buildings and no possibility anyone could be hiding out in a hole or any other form of shelter. They checked the boathouse together, but it was empty. Life vests hung from the rafters — the ceiling was completely open and concealed nothing. Other than in the main building where the guests were staying, for all intents and purposes they were alone on a deserted island.

S
upper
that evening was a sombre affair. Everyone agreed it was best to be wary of any possible avenue of attack. It was therefore decided that one person would cook while another watched. That way there could be no chance of slipping anything poisonous into the food.

Verna watched Max make an herbed chicken then she prepared a bean-and-vegetable salad. For all their outward desperation, the results would have been at home on the menu of any chic café.

Tea, coffee, and biscuits followed. By now Sandra had raised the simple act of boiling water to the level of an art. Conversation was stilted and intermittent. It was like a meal shared by religious postulants who have vowed to speak as little as possible. A few words surfaced now and again, and were responded to just as briefly, as the guests sank back into the tedium of eating in silence.

With dinner over, the seven turned their thoughts to the hours that lay ahead of them before sleep. It was a disquieting time, for the prospect of retiring to their rooms till morning — most of them alone — lay heavy on them all. Who might attack while they slept? Who might land on the island and lay siege to the house while no one was watching? Was it possible their tormentor might set fire to the place and leave them trapped inside to perish? They could all die and never be heard from again. It was terrible to contemplate.

It was Crispin who suggested they re-watch the video to determine a possible guilty party. They paraded by, those long-ago faces that now and then vaguely corresponded to people who were, or had been recently, among them on the island. Again, they listened to the video's theme song as the band thrashed out “The Twelve Days of Shagging” on that bygone Christmas Eve.

Count them
, the Voice told Pete. And Pete did.

“Twelve,” he said, when the video had finished playing and the images were laid to rest again.

“Of course there's twelve of them,” Max spat out. “That's why it's called the fucking ‘Twelve Days of Shagging.' Did you never stop to consider it before?”

“I don't mean the song. I mean the faces.”

Max grunted. “Huh? What are you saying?”

Pete turned to look at him. “I'm saying there are twelve people named in the video.”

“Play it again,” Spike commanded.

Pete restarted the disc. One by one, they counted the faces: Harvey Keill, Spike Anthrax, Max Hardcore, Pete Doghouse, Sarah Wynberg, Jack Edwards, Sandra Goodman, Noni Embrem, Werner Temple, Sami Lee, Crispin LaFey, and Newt Merton.

“It's twelve in total, all right,” Spike said, when the video ended the second time.

“I counted thirteen with Kent Stabber,” Max stated.

Pete nodded. “Kent wasn't named, though. You saw his face, but his name wasn't onscreen.”

“That's right,” Spike said. “He was in the band, but he wasn't named in the video.”

“Why is that?” Verna asked.

“Because he's already dead,” Pete said agitatedly. “That's why there's only twelve. Twelve faces, twelve verses, and twelve chess pieces.”

Spike turned to him. “And you're suggesting there's a connection?”

“You're not listening to me!” Pete exclaimed. “I already told you, every time someone dies, another piece of the chessboard gets turned over.”

“I am listening to you. And just because you told us that, doesn't make it so. As I recall telling you earlier, there have been only three deaths —”

“That we know of!” Pete insisted.

“All right — three deaths that we know of,” Spike amended. “So why are there five pieces lying down on the board?”

“I don't know,” Pete replied, sinking back in his seat.

“And even if whoever is doing this eventually murders everyone on this bloody island — which he bleedin' well won't — that still only makes ten in total. So no Twelve Fucking Days of Murder, is how I read it. So bloody well stop this nonsense.”

“Eleven,” Pete said.

“What?”

“Eleven — if he kills the rest of us. You forgot Edwards.”

“All right,” Spike said testily. “So I forgot Edwards. Who's the twelfth?”

Pete shrugged. Sometimes he wished the Voice would provide him with useful information and not just commands to count this or do that. It might make things a lot simpler. It would be like having a personal news service to keep him briefed on current events.

“Who fucking cares how many have already died?” Sami Lee exclaimed. “We're the ones who are still alive. What are we going to do about the rest of us here?”

Spike held up his hand. “The most important thing for us now is to stick together.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Max demanded. “You think we should all sleep in one bed? Not bloody likely.”

They argued over various permutations on sleeping arrangements, but in the end decided it was preferable to stick to their own rooms. Despite everything, it still felt safest to sleep behind a locked door. It was with heavy looks of dread that they all went upstairs at the very early hour of nine o'clock that evening.

“And I don't need to remind everyone to lock their doors and not open them till morning,” Spike said. “Unless — unless anything happens during the night. If something happens, just let out a howl and the rest of us will come running. Agreed?”

Reluctantly, they all nodded one at a time.

“Wait a minute,” Verna said. “What about the key ring?”

“Bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed. “Of course. There's a spare key to every single bedroom.”

“What'll we do with the keys?” Sandra asked. “We can't put them in the hands of one person — just in case, I mean.”

“We could all take our own keys to bed with us,” Verna said.

Spike threw her a scornful look. “And if anything happened, we might not be able to break into your room in time. It's not like we're as young as we were back in the days when we used to trash computers and appliances on stage.”

“Oh!” Verna slumped back in her seat.

It was Crispin who solved the riddle. “If I may suggest something, I believe you said there were two keys to cupboards in the kitchen …”

“Three,” said Spike. “There were three.”

“No matter,” Crispin said. “Here's what I propose: I have a case that locks with a key. If we put the ring of keys in there, I can give the key to one of you. Then we lock the cupboard, and we give that key to another one of you. Therefore it would require two keys to get to the ring, and no one person will have control of or access to it.

Although he couldn't see the faces staring at him, he sensed their approval of his rather ingenious solution to the problem.

“Then we need to give the keys to two people who don't know or particularly trust one another,” Max said.

“I don't know any of you,” Sandra suggested quietly.

“Okay,” Spike agreed. “Who else?”

He looked around. Several people shrugged.

Verna said, “I'll do it. If you all agree.”

There were no dissenting voices, so Spike placed the ring of keys in Crispin's satchel. He then locked it and handed the first key to Sandra.

“Sandra has the key to the satchel,” he announced. “And she will keep it in a safe place without telling the rest of us. Now let's put the case in the cupboard downstairs.”

When that was done, he handed the second key to Verna.

“Verna will now put the key to the cupboard somewhere safe where none of us can find it and she will tell no one,” Spike announced again.

“And we will all go to bed and sleep safely and soundly and, we hope, not wake till morning,” Crispin added.

“Shall we all agree on a time to get up and unlock our doors in the morning?” Sandra asked. “I only think it's sensible.”

“You're right,” Max said. “How about we all get a good night's sleep and stay in our rooms till eight o'clock?”

The suggestion was agreed upon by everyone. And with that they all trudged up the stairs, shutting and locking their doors behind them.