7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  “Thanks.” The plaster casts had given him a nice model to work from. Except now he needed to order more lubricant for his leg. He’d gone through Claire’s stash and had to use some of his own. The camera descended the stairs into the cave where Brittany Bellamy awaited her fate. “This woman is Brianna. She’s an accused witch. But the Inquisitor knows she really is a witch and wants her to share her secrets. She will be a most stubborn captive.”

  “Be quiet. Let me watch.” And he did, his expression changing from amusement to horror as the Inquisitor placed the screaming woman on the inquisitional chair. “My God,” he whispered as Brianna’s screams tore the air. “My God.” Like Warren, Brittany Bellamy had suffered well, her screams a beautiful thing to hear. He’d simply imported the sound file of her screams into his computer-generated animation.

  When the Inquisitor put a flame to the chair, Brittany shrieked in pain. Van Zandt actually paled. When the scene ended on a close-up of Brianna’s eyes at that moment of death, Van Zandt collapsed back in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead. He stared at the screen which had faded to the oRo dragon.

  When a full minute of silence had passed, he drew a breath, prepared to defend his art. “I’m not going to change it, VZ.”

  Van Zandt held up his hand. “Quiet. I’m thinking.”

  Five full minutes passed before Van Zandt swiveled to face him. “Split the scenes.”

  He could feel his temper start to boil. “I’m not cutting up my scenes, VZ.”

  Van Zandt rolled his eyes. “Have you no patience? We will include the chair scene with the main release, but keep it hidden. We will release the code for the more gruesome knight scene as free publicity. We will follow that free publicity by announcing the availability of the execution code for the chair . . . but at a price. Unlocking this part of the dungeon will cost our customer another $29.99.”

  The base release was priced at $49.99. Van Zandt’s plan would add more revenue with no extra cost, increasing profits by four hundred percent. “You capitalist, you,” he murmured and Van Zandt lifted his eyes, his gaze piercing.

  “Of course. That is why the R is the biggest letter in oRo.”

  He remembered the small print on the logo below the dragon’s claws. “Rijkdom?”

  Van Zandt’s smile was razor sharp. “It is Dutch for ‘wealth.’ It is why I am here. It should be why you are here as well.” He stretched out his hand. “Give me the rest.”

  He shook his head, suddenly hesitant. “I gave you enough for the Pinnacle show.”

  “So Derek told you about our Pinnacle opportunity?”

  His lip curled. “Yeah.”

  Van Zandt’s brow lifted. “You do not like Pinnacle?”

  “I do not like Derek.” He spaced each word, mimicking Van Zandt’s heavy speech.

  “Derek has served his purpose, but he will not move with us to the next level. You, Frasier, I have high hopes for.” He hadn’t moved his hand. “Give me the rest. Now.”

  Cocking his jaw, he slapped another CD into Van Zandt’s hand. “This is King William. When the good knight is defeated, William attempts a final rescue of his queen. But by this point the Inquisitor is a very strong sorcerer. Even the king himself cannot defeat his dark magic and is captured.”

  Van Zandt’s smile grew sharp. “And what does the Inquisitor do to King William?”

  He thought about Warren Keyes, the way he’d screamed. It still sent shivers down his spine. “He stretches him on the rack, then disembowels him.”

  Van Zandt laughed softly. “Remind me never to make you angry, Frasier Lewis.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Philadephia, Tuesday, January 16, 11:30 A.M.

  This still isn’t right,” Vito muttered as he ran his finger over the chain mail Andy had spread out on his counter. It was way too big. Andy’s Attic was an all-purpose costume store. Vito imagined their killer would sneer at such poor re-creations.

  “I’ve shown you all the mail I have,” Andy said stiffly. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something smaller. About a quarter inch in diameter.”

  “You should have said so when you first came in,” Andy grumbled. “I don’t keep that quality here in the store, but I can order it for you.” He thumbed through a catalog. “What you’re talking about is much better quality, but pricier.” He found a picture of a man wearing a mail hood and shirt. “This hauberk-and-coif set runs eighteen hundred.”

  Vito blinked. “Dollars?”

  Andy looked offended. “Well, yeah. It’s SCA approved. You know, Society for Creative Anachronism. You don’t know anything about this stuff, do you? Is this a gift?”

  Vito coughed. “Yeah. So this set is eighteen hundred. How much for just the shirt?”

  “The hauberk is twelve-fifty.”

  “Do you ever sell these out of your store?”

  “Not usually. Usually I sell ’em off my website.”

  “Have you sold any recently? Like before Christmas?”

  “Yeah. I sold nine hauberks before Christmas. But I sold twenty-five last summer, about a month before the Medieval Festival. Serious jousters like to get the feel of the mail before the event.” Andy closed the catalog and handed it to Vito. “Detective.”

  Vito winced. Busted. “I’m sorry.”

  Andy’s smile was rueful. “I won’t say anything. I kind of figured it when you first walked in. My uncle was PPD, thirty years. What else are you looking for, Detective . . .?”

  “Ciccotelli. A sword, about this long, with a hilt this big.” Vito gestured. “And a flail.”

  Andy’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. Well, let’s see what we can find out.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 11:45 A.M.

  Van Zandt locked the CDs in his desk drawer. “This is good work, Frasier.”

  He stood up. “Since you’re set for Pinnacle, I’ll be leaving. I’ve still got lots to do.”

  Van Zandt shook his head. “I have a few more things to discuss. Please sit.”

  With a frown, he complied. “Like what?”

  “You must learn patience, Frasier. You’re still young. You have lots of time.”

  Why did old people always equate youth with the need for patience? Just because he had lots of time didn’t mean he wanted to wait lots of time. “Like what?” he repeated, this time through his teeth. He had Gregory Sanders to meet at three o’clock.

  Van Zandt sighed. “Like the queen. Have you designed her face?”

  He thought of the old man’s daughter. “Yes.”

  “And? What will she look like?”

  Her face flashed in his mind. “Pretty. Petite. Brunette. Similar to Bri—Brianna.” Shit. He’d very nearly said Brittany. Focus.

  “No, I don’t think that type of character has a dramatic enough beauty. Your queen should be stately. Bigger. Your Brianna looks little more than one and a half meters.”

  Brittany Bellamy had been five-two. He’d chosen her because of her small stature. His chair was on the small side and he wanted it to look larger with respect to the woman sitting in it. “You want a different queen?”

  “Yes.” Van Zandt had lifted his brows, as if expecting dissent.

  He considered it. Van Zandt had an eye for what worked. What sold. He could be right. This was going to be messy. He’d be filling the third row in the field with Gregory Sanders, and the fourth with his resources, and the old man’s spawn still had to die. If he used any more models for this game, he’d need to start another row. Well, the field was big. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’ll do it,” Van Zandt corrected mildly, and although challenge burned his tongue he didn’t oppose him. For now, he still needed him. “Next, the flail scene.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What about it? It’s done.”

  “No, it’s not. The scene you have in there is so sedate. He just . . . falls. It’s anticlimactic. Why not make the basic scene the head-coming-apart scene, then for the hidden scene make it even more exciting? Maybe
his head could completely explode, or he could be decapitated entirely. It’s—”

  “No. That’s not how it happens. The skull doesn’t explode and the entire head doesn’t come off.” He’d been very disappointed to discover this truth.

  Van Zandt’s eyes had narrowed. “How do you know?”

  Be careful. “I’ve researched it. Talked to doctors. That’s what they say.”

  Van Zandt shrugged. “So what? What does it matter what really happens? It’s all fantasy anyway. Make the base injury more exciting.”

  He counted to ten inside his head. Remember, this is a means to an end. It is not forever. Soon you can walk away and not have to think about Van Zandt or oRo Entertainment ever again. “Okay. I’ll spice it up.” He stood up but VZ stopped him.

  “Wait. One more thing. I’m thinking about your dungeon. Something’s missing.”

  “What?”

  “An iron maiden.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. How amateurishly trite. His opinion of Van Zandt was rapidly deescalating. “No.”

  “For God’s sake, Frasier, why not?” Van Zandt asked, exasperated.

  “Because that is not period. Maidens didn’t even appear until the fifteen hundreds. I’m not putting an iron maiden in my dungeon.”

  “Every one of our gamers will expect to see a maiden in his dungeon.”

  “Do you know how long it’ll take to—” He drew a breath. He’d nearly said ‘build.’ There were no iron maidens to be had. If he wanted one, he’d have to build it himself and there was no way he’d do that. “Jager, I’ll find a new queen. I’ll spice up the flail scene, but I won’t put a fraudulent piece in my dungeon.”

  His eyes darkening, Van Zandt leaned to one side and picked a sheet of letterhead out of his inbox. “I see my name on this letterhead as president. I do not see your name, Frasier. Anywhere.” He tossed the sheet back in the inbox. “So just do it.”

  Gritting his teeth, he snatched his laptop case from the floor. “Fine.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 11:55 A.M.

  “Excuse me!”

  Derek paused on the steps that led from the street to oRo’s office building, a bag lunch from the deli in his hand. A man was getting out of a taxi with a small suitcase. Although he was well dressed, it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Yes?”

  “Are you Derek Harrington?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  The man started for the steps, weary desperation on his face. “I just need to talk to you. Please. It’s about my son and your game.”

  “If you’re upset your son’s playing Behind Enemy Lines, that’s out of my hands.”

  “No, you don’t understand. My son isn’t playing your game. I think my son is in your game.” He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his pocket. “My name is Lloyd Webber. I’m from Richmond, Virginia. My son Zachary ran away a little more than a year ago. His note said he was going to New York. We never heard from him again.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Webber, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

  “Your game has a scene where a young German soldier gets shot in the head. That boy looks exactly like my Zachary. I thought he’d modeled for your artists, so I looked up your company. Please. If you have a record of the models you’ve used, please see if he was one of them. Maybe he’s right here, in New York.”

  “We don’t employ models, Mr. Webber. I’m sorry.” Derek started to move away, but Webber sidestepped him, blocking his path.

  “Just look at his picture. Please. I tried to call you but you wouldn’t accept my calls. So I got up this morning and bought a plane ticket. Please.” He held out the photo and with a sigh for the man’s pain, Derek took it.

  And felt every breath of air seep from his lungs. It was the same boy. The exact same face. “He’s . . . he’s a handsome boy, Mr. Webber.” He looked up to find Webber’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Are you sure you haven’t had him in your studio?” he whispered.

  Derek felt light-headed. He’d known from the minute he’d laid eyes on Frasier Lewis’s work that it possessed an element of realism that crossed the lines of decency, but the thoughts that were running through his mind right now . . . “Can I take your son’s photo, Mr. Webber? I can show it around to the staff. We don’t employ models, but maybe one of them saw him somewhere. In a restaurant or maybe on a bus. We get our ideas for characters from so many places.”

  “Please. Keep the picture—it’s a copy and I can get you more. Show it to anyone you think can help.” He extended a business card in a trembling hand and, his own hand shaking, Derek took it. “My cell phone number is on there. Please call me at any time, day or night. I’ll stay in town for a few days, just until you know one way or the other.”

  Derek stared down at the photo and the business card. Frasier Lewis was still here, inside, talking to Jager. He could ask him point-blank. But he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Be a man, Derek. Take a goddamn stand for something.

  He looked up and nodded. “I’ll call you one way or the other. I promise.”

  Gratitude and hope shone in Webber’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 12:05 P.M.

  His simmering fury came to a full boil when he saw Derek Harrington waiting for him by the building exit. His fist clenched around the handle of his laptop case. He’d much rather his fist be engaged in more satisfying pursuits, such as breaking Harrington’s face. But there was a time and place. Not here, not yet. Without a word of greeting or acknowledgment of any kind, he walked past Harrington and out the door.

  “Lewis, wait.” Harrington followed him out. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m late,” he gritted out and started down the steps to the street. “Later.”

  “No, now.” Harrington grabbed his shoulder and he teetered dangerously, nearly losing his balance and falling down the steps. He caught himself, leaning against the iron handrail. Fury erupted and he shoved Harrington’s hand out of the way.

  “Get your hands off me,” he said, his roar barely contained.

  Derek took a step back so that he was two steps higher. They now stood eye to eye. There was something new in Harrington’s eyes, something defiant.

  “Or what?” Derek asked quietly. “What would you do to me, Frasier?”

  Not here. Not yet. But the time would come. “I’m late. I have to go.”

  He turned to go, but Derek followed, passing him on the steps so that he waited at the bottom. “What would you do to me?” he repeated, with more force. “Hit me?” He climbed one step and looked up out of the corner of his eye. “Kill me?” he murmured.

  “You’re crazy.” He started down the stairs again, but Harrington grabbed his arm. This time he was prepared and stood steady, his good leg taking his weight.

  “Would you kill me, Frasier?” Harrington asked in that same low voice. “Like you killed Zachary Webber?” He took a photo from his coat pocket. “The resemblance to your German soldier is amazing, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He looked at the photo and kept his expression impassive, even as his heart began to beat more rapidly. For staring back from the photo was Zachary Webber’s face as it had been the day he’d picked him up off I-95 outside of Philly, hitchhiking. Zachary had been on his way to New York, to be an actor. His father had told him he was too young, that he should finish high school. Zachary had scorned his father. I’ll show him, he’d said. When I’m famous, he’ll eat every damn word.

  The words had echoed in his mind that day. They had been his own, at Zachary’s age. Meeting Zachary was fate, just like Warren Keyes’s tattoo.

  “I don’t see it,” he said carelessly. He got to the street and turned to look Derek in the eye once again, as the older man still stood on the steps. “You should be careful before making accusations of that nature, Harrington. It could come back to haunt you.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 1:15 P.M.

  Ted Albright was frowning. “You were flat today, Joan.”r />
  Sophie glared at Ted Albright as she pulled the armored boots from her feet. “I told you to get Theo to do the knight tour. My back is killing me.” So was her head. And her pride. “I’m going to get some lunch.”

  Ted grasped her arm as she walked away, his grip surprisingly gentle. “Wait.”

  Slowly she turned, prepared for another argument. “What?” she snapped, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. Marta was right, Ted Albright was a very handsome man, but right now his broad shoulders were slumped and his face was haggard. “What?” she said, much more softly than she had the first time.

  “Sophie, I know what you think of me.” One corner of his mouth lifted when she said nothing. “And believe it or not, I respect that you’re not denying it right now. You never actually met my grandfather. He died before you were born.”

  “I read all about his archeological career.”

  “But none of the books tell what he was really like. He wasn’t a dry historian.” His voice dropped low on the word. Then he smiled. “My grandfather was . . . fun. He died when I was a kid, but I still remember that he loved cartoons. Bugs Bunny was his favorite. He gave me pony rides on his back and he was a huge Stooges fan. He loved to laugh. He also loved the theater and so do I.” He sighed. “I’m trying to make this a place children can come and . . . experience, Sophie. I’m trying to make this a place my grandfather would have loved to visit.”

  Sophie stood there a moment, uncertain of what to say. “Ted, I think I have a better idea of what you’re trying to do, but . . . hell. I am a dry historian. Asking me to dress up. It’s humiliating.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not dry, Sophie. You don’t see the faces of the kids when you start to talk. They love to listen to you.” He let out a breath. “I have tours scheduled every day for weeks. We need that income. Desperately,” he added quietly. “I have everything I own invested in this building. If this museum fails, I have to sell the collection. I don’t want to do that. It’s all I have left of him. It’s his legacy.”