Endgame

by Jeffrey Round

  For a moment, there was no answer. Then Spike replied. “Give me a minute. Fucking hell. I’ll tell you when to pull me back up.”

  They waited as the rope turned and settled. Then Spike called up.

  “I’m ready. Pull me up.”

  After a good deal of sweating and cursing, Spike’s head appeared, followed by the rest of him, soaked to the skin. He collapsed in a heap. For a moment all he could do was lie there and shake his head. Finally, he pushed himself upright.

  “What was it?” Sandra asked, agitated. “For god’s sake, tell us!”

  “It was Edwards,” Spike said slowly and quietly.

  “What?” a chorus of disbelieving voices cried out.

  “He’s drowned down there. I tied the other end of the rope to his body. We’ll have to pull him up.”

  With more sweating and heaving, they pulled on the rope till Edwards’s body appeared and flopped onto the rocks at their feet. They all stood looking in horror at his battered face.

  “I saw an oar as well,” Spike said. “It looks like he didn’t make it very far. His boat must have been swamped.”

  Max glared. “And all this fucking time we’ve scared ourselves shitless thinking he was coming back for us. What fucking idiots we are!”

  “No, Max,” Spike said. “We made a logical deduction. It seemed likely it was Edwards, and we left it at that. So now it looks like it’s been Harvey all along.”

  “Fucking Harvey!” Max screamed, kicking at a tree root.

  Sandra turned to them. Her voice was quietly terrified. “Who’s to say he wasn’t coming back to get us in the middle of the night?”

  The faces that stared at one another betrayed a combination of anger and bewilderment. Spike knelt beside the body and felt around inside his jacket pockets.

  “What do you think you’ll find?”

  “Edwards left here yesterday with the one working cellphone on the island. Maybe he’s still got it on him …”

  He gave a triumphant yell and pulled out a plastic-encased BlackBerry. He pressed the On button and watched, barely able to stifle a cry of jubilation as the screen lit up. They all watched hopefully as the logo came up and disappeared, followed by the normal display. On it, they read two words: You’re next. It was dated the morning of the previous day.

  “Oh, shit!” Pete said.

  “That’s why he ran,” Spike said. “He decided to get out while he could, and left the rest of us here to face it. At least he did us one favour — now we can phone for help.”

  Suddenly, the text faded. The screen sputtered and died.

  “No way!” Max roared.

  Spike shook the phone. He powered it off and pressed the On button again, but it refused to restart. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he said in a weary voice.

  Sandra moaned and dropped to a crouch. She sobbed and wrapped her arms around her knees. No one made a move to comfort her.

  Endgame, said the Voice in Pete’s ears.

  After a few minutes, Sandra shook her head and stood up. “We’d better go,” she said.

  Between them, they hoisted Edwards’s body and carried him through the trees back to the house. Verna was waiting for them. She opened the door as they climbed the steps. No one spoke as they carried Edwards into his former room behind the kitchen.

  “How many more bodies are we gonna stow away before this place starts to smell to high heaven?” Max asked.

  Spike shot him a look. “We aren’t going to be there that long, so don’t worry about it. Besides, we can’t just leave them out in the rain. The dog might get at them.”

  Verna shivered. “Four,” she said ominously. “That’s four of us now.”

  Pete nodded. He was thinking of the five downed chess pieces. “On the fourth day of shagging, my true love gave to me four oceans to drown in …”

  “No!” Verna’s hand went up to cover her mouth.

  Spike looked at Pete, speechless for once. After a moment, he said, “What are the others again? Five tongues of fire …”

  “David died of electrocution,” Verna said in a tearful voice.

  “Three evil Jujubes …” Spike sang softly.

  “And Janice died when she took the codeine pills,” Verna supplied.

  They stopped and looked at each other.

  “Nobody’s been shot, though,” Spike said, sounding a little bit relieved. “No silver bullets.”

  Sandra gasped. “The recipe!”

  “What recipe?” Pete asked.

  “For the drink … the drink Noni asked for. I saw it when Edwards was making it. It’s called a Silver Bullet. What he drank was a Silver Bullet.”

  “Fuck me,” Spike said.

  “And a love song full of hate …” Max filled in. “That’s for all of us, is my guess.” He turned to look at Verna. “Except you, sister. How come you’re not named in this little charade?”

  Verna stood there, eyes wide. “I don’t know.”

  Max watched her for a while then said, “I don’t believe you. You’re connected with this sordid fucking history somehow, unless …” Here he stopped and looked around at everyone else in the room. “Unless you’re the murderer, of course.”

  He let the statement hang in the air.

  “I’m not …” Verna said breathlessly. “I’m not a murderer,” she repeated, looking at all of them.

  “Then who are you?” Spike said, following Max’s lead.

  “Her name is Verna Temple, according to my files,” Sandra said.

  Spike’s head jerked up. “Temple?”

  “Yes,” Verna said. “My name is Temple.”

  Spike sat back in his chair and watched her with narrowed eyes. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? That’s the same last name as that kid who used to hang around with us.” He snapped his fingers. “What was his name, Max?”

  “Werner,” Max said.

  “That’s it,” Spike said. “Werner Temple. Have you got a brother, Verna?”

  Verna shook her head. “He died.” She looked at Spike. “I told you that yesterday.”

  Spike shrugged. “So you said.”

  “But it’s true!” Verna cried.

  Spike glared at her. “You also said his name was Tyler.”

  A panicked look spread across Verna’s face. “That’s true. His name was Tyler.”

  Without warning, Max slapped her cheek.

  “Think again, Verna. Have you got a brother named Werner?”

  She put a hand to her face and shook her head.

  Max slapped her a second time while the others watched. “I’m gonna ask you again, Verna, and I want to hear the truth. Do you have a brother named Werner?”

  Verna looked up fearfully, her lipstick smeared and hair dishevelled. She rubbed the back of a hand against her mouth to wipe away the blood.

  “Please don’t hit me agai—” she began, as Max’s hand smashed against the other side of her face. She screamed.

  “Whether he’s dead or alive, I wanna hear you tell us that you have a brother named Werner.”

  “I don’t have a brother named Werner,” she began, but her words were stopped dead as Max slapped her harder.

  Verna sobbed and shrieked, “My brother is dead. My brother is dead!”

  “Werner is dead?” Max asked.

  Verna hesitated then shook her head, no.

  “So Werner is alive?” Max asked.

  Again, she hesitated before shaking her head, no.

  Max raised his fist to hit her again, but Spike stopped him.

  “No,” he said. “This isn’t helping.”

  “The fucking bitch is playing games with us, man!” Max shouted. “I’m gonna fucking beat it out of her if I have to kill her.”

  He made to strike her again, but Spike stopped him. V
erna screamed and fell on the floor cowering, her arms over her face.

  “No, no,” she sobbed. “My brother is …”

  “Your brother is what?” Max demanded. “Tell us what Werner is.”

  “Don’t make me say it …”

  “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Werner is … Werner is … me.”

  There was a stunned silence in the room.

  “I’m Werner,” Verna sobbed quietly. “I’m Werner.”

  Max grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “You’re what?”

  Verna shook her head and took a deep breath. “I’m Werner Temple. I’m Verna Temple.”

  “Fucking hell,” Spike said.

  Max looked her over. “Holy shit,” he said, and let go of her wrist.

  Verna stood upright on her own. She smoothed her clothes and looked around at all of them.

  “I’m … I used to be … Werner. Now I’m Verna.”

  Chapter 19

  Although none of the guests trapped on Shark Island would ever see it, a small notice appeared in that morning’s edition of Noise magazine, along with the other more prominent music tabloids. Except for Noise, where it was featured in a news brief on page two, the announcements were buried at the back of the other magazines alongside the tail ends of longer articles. The news was not considered worthy or important enough to be given more prominence, but was simply meant as an epitaph to an era of excess and deceit that had coloured the music industry in a time now past.

  The article read as follows:

  Harvey Keill, 54, band manager, was found dead in his Chicago apartment on September 20 just before noon. His cleaning lady, who discovered the body, said he hadn’t been answering her calls for at least two days prior.

  Keill was once considered a superstar manager, but in recent years his star faded until he was little more than a half-forgotten legend. In his day, Keill was credited with having created the Ladykillers, a group that would form the basis of a punk-rock revival in the late eighties and early nineties. The Ladykillers broke up amidst a storm of controversy, both personal and financial, in the late nineties.

  An unsubstantiated coroner’s report suggests Mr. Keill died ingesting a poisonous substance mailed to him inside a CD case. A CD containing a copy of the Ladykillers’ hit, “The Twelve Days of Shagging,” was found at his desk alongside a half-full box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

  A full investigation is pending.

  Had the news in fact reached Shark Island, the announcement still might not have been believed, as much as it might have helped round out Pete Doghouse’s theory of twelve intended murder victims. To the seven people trapped on the tiny piece of rock in the middle of Puget Sound, however, the presence of Harvey Keill still seemed to be very much alive and well.

  “Just another bad publicity stunt,” Spike Anthrax would have said, had he heard the news.

  And he might have convinced them that this too was true.

  Chapter 20

  Everyone helped with the evening meal, which was comprised of canned food that simply had to be heated and served. Crispin was exempt from the preparation, but asked to be given the task of setting the table.

  “If you will be patient with me, I can at least do that,” he told them. “Though the colours may not match entirely. However, I would like to feel as though I have contributed in some small way.”

  They left him in the dining room. Sami Lee, cigarette in one hand and dishes in the other, went back and forth bearing plates and silverware, leaving them on the sideboard for Crispin to sort out.

  Supper was an even more sombre affair than the previous night’s. Verna was last to arrive, her hair piled on top of her head and silver hoops dangling from her ears. While she hadn’t been entirely successful in covering her bruises with makeup, the dress she wore revealed her cleavage in a way that put the lie to the fact that she’d ever been anything but a biological woman.

  The room fell silent as she entered. Max looked up.

  “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, before turning away again.

  Verna nodded. “Apology accepted.”

  She paused a moment then addressed the gathering. “I’m sorry I lied to you all. Or rather, that I did not disclose my true identity. One of the things you learn during the transitional period is to let go of your old self and merge fully into the new you. It’s impossible to live two lives at the same time, so most successful transsexuals simply abandon the past and any reference to it that might hinder their progress in becoming the person we know we are meant to be.”

  She looked around at the others then continued, “Some of you knew me as Werner, but Werner is no more. Just as I also had a brother who died when I was very young. Although I honour their memories, I know and accept that both are gone.”

  “Noble sentiments,” Spike said when she finished. “If you were so determined to leave the past behind, then why are you even here? Aren’t we Werner’s past? You said you won a contest. Why did you enter?”

  For a moment, it seemed Verna wasn’t going to answer. A hand went up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she spoke.

  “There’s always a moment when someone makes the decision — to change their sex — and mine had to do with this band.” She looked around the table. “I met most of you when I was nineteen. I hung around with you for a couple of years. You were fun, exciting, and you seemed to accept me for who I was. Then I fell in love with Max …”

  “Oh, fuck you,” Max said.

  “And you did — many times, in fact.”

  Max clenched his fist and looked around at the others. “It was the fucking heroin. I didn’t know what I was doing.” He looked over at Sami Lee. Her face was frozen in a sullen grimace.

  “I apologize for bringing this up in front of everyone,” Verna said. “But it’s true.”

  Sami Lee looked at Verna. “It’s not like it’s news. Max’s dick was never very exclusive.”

  “So I learned. Nevertheless, I fell in love with him,” Verna repeated softly. “I didn’t plan it. It just happened. I also helped you with some of your music, as I’m sure you recall.”

  “What of it?” Max snarled.

  “You let me help you when you saw I had some good musical ideas. I didn’t ask for anything in return. I just wanted you to love me. That’s all.”

  “Just.” Max sneered. “Don’t listen to her. Him — it. This is bullshit.” He turned suddenly to Crispin. “Turn that fucking thing off.”

  Crispin’s hand crept over to his recorder.

  “No — don’t turn it off,” Verna said. “This is as much my story as it is Max’s. I want it on record.”

  The hand retreated from the recorder.

  “And it’s not bullshit,” Verna said sharply. “I helped you write some of the songs that made you famous. Maybe not in a big way, but in little, telling ways. I came up with the chorus on the song that became your first big hit.”

  “‘A Kiss Is Just an X’?” said Crispin, stunned. “That song is a classic!”

  Verna kept her gaze on Max. “That’s the one. Remember, Max? What I suggested gave it the hook everyone still talks about when they mention that song. I helped make it a hit.”

  “Is this true?” Spike said to Max.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. His jaw was tight.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Verna said. “I didn’t want anything in return for it. I was glad to help, but Max wasn’t going to let you know I had anything to do with it. He said the song had to have his name on it, because of the band, but that he would give me credit for my contribution one day. He never did.”

  “Fine!” Max said suddenly. “You want credit? Here it is: you helped me with the fucking song. You want money, talk to Harvey. He stole it all.”

  “I don’t want money,” Verna said softly.

&nb
sp; “Then why are you saying this now?” Max said.

  “Because I think … I think it’s time to say everything.” Verna turned to the others. “All of us. If we have anything to say about what happened back then, it’s time to say it. We’re not going to get another chance.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Spike said.

  “It means that none of us are going to leave this island alive,” Verna said breathily.

  A chorus of dissent went up around the table, but died just as quickly as it arose.

  “You’re wrong,” Max said defiantly. “I am getting out of here alive.” He looked over at Sami Lee. “And so’s she.” He looked around again. “What happens to the rest of you is up to you. If you’re smart” — he looked at Verna — “you won’t trust a thing she’s saying.”

  Verna held his gaze. “I became Verna for you, Max. Like it or not, it’s true. I knew you didn’t love me as Werner, so I became Verna. So you could still hang on to your stupid badboy of rock ’n’ roll façade and no one would be the wiser.” She looked at Sami Lee. “But you chose her instead. I didn’t understand it, but I accepted it.”

  “Well, whatever you did it for it was a waste of time,” Max said. “Because I don’t even like you now.”

  “I know that,” Verna said. “I can see that. But at least now I’m proud of who and what I am. Back when I was Werner, I was just something for guys like you to screw and then go back to their girlfriends and deny it the next morning. At least I know who I am now.”

  “Congratulations,” Max said. “I hope it makes you happy. Anything else you’d like to confess?”

  They all waited as Verna looked around the table.

  “Yes, there is. I’d like to confess that it was my idea not to call 911 that night when Zerin Ames was dying. I did it to save Max. Not that it matters now. But I thought if anything got into the news or if the police got involved, he might go to jail.”

  There was a long silence.

  Verna continued. “You all know what part you played in that evening. If you want to make peace with your consciences, then now’s the time to do it. As I said, none of us are leaving this island. I can feel it.”