We got as close to the tower as we could. Through the massive doorway, I could see several people attempting to quell the flames with hand-held fire extinguishers. Presumably the force of the explosion had gone upward. Heat rises, so the danger was less for all of us. I thought. I hoped.
Many of the castle windows had been blown out in the explosion. Rain was pouring in the east side windows, the ones where the wind was blowing in the hardest. Several guests were removing the more valuable pieces of art and furniture from the Great Hall.
I pointed to the people on the other side of the door to the tower. “They’ve got to get out of there,” I said. “The remnants of the tower could collapse.” We rushed to the doorway. We shouted. One of them turned to us. I yelled, “Get out of there!”
But it was too late. A flaming beam crashed down. It hit one man in the back. Another stumbled backward and fell to the floor. Both began bellowing. What happened next must have taken five to ten seconds. Scott leapt for the opening. I followed an instant later. As we reached them, Craveté directed his blast of water toward the four of us. He also caught the beam and the most on fire of the victims. We were too scattered for him to get all of us at once. The second man was nearly overcome with smoke. I dragged him toward the door, pushed him through it, and returned to Scott. He was trying to use his jacket to shield his arms from the flames as he attempted to grip the beam and pull it off the second victim. I grabbed one of the smoldering cushy chairs and wedged it under the beam and pushed the chair farther under it in order to leverage the beam up. Scott grabbed the man who had been hurt and yanked him. The man’s clothes were burning. I saw flames start on Scott’s jacket. The outer shell sheemed to shrivel in the heat, but the inner lining held for now. The man he was trying to save was thrashing and screaming. Scott let out a tremendous bellow. I took hold of the man. I pulled so hard I thought my arms would pull out of their shoulder sockets. Scott and I pulled together. Inches and seconds later, the man was free. The two of us rushed him out the door. In seconds blankets encased all of us. Craveté’s water continued to drench us.
I checked Scott. The arms of his jacket were scorched. The back of his wrists had ugly red marks. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”
Pietro, who was in charge of the servants assigned to our room, rushed up to us. His face was alternately illuminated and darkened as the flames rose and fell. “Thank God you are safe.” He had to shout to be heard above the humans screaming and the storm pounding. He gave a futile swipe at the sweat pouring down his face. He said, “We were worried that you were inside when the explosion occurred. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are there other people in danger still inside?”
“If there are, it is too late. The flames are too strong to get close to. The heat is bad.”
“What happened?”
“No one knows.”
Unpleasant thoughts had already flashed through my mind. Would we have been murdered if we’d been in this evening? If there had been no dead body, would there still have been an explosion? If we’d been inside, we’d most likely be dead. This jumble of thoughts would take more time to get used to than I had now.
Help was needed to make sure the flames were quelled. “Is there anything we can do?” I asked Pietro.
“They are going to be able to save the rest of the castle, I think. The wind is in our favor.”
We pitched in. I saw the archeologists and the two students helping also. A modern pumping house had been installed on the island. I remembered it as being on the far side of the island’s harbor. Obviously, a few of the help had been trained in firefighting. The manager of the resort, Darrin Oser, was between the castle and the small pier in the bay. The doors from the tower to the outside were open. Water was being poured through one, and another hose from a farther stand pipe was rapidly being pulled forward. It reached about three-quarters of the way across the floor of the Great Hall. From that point it was turned on and water began to flow. If our stuff hadn’t been destroyed in the explosion, certainly the fire had gotten it, and if the flames weren’t enough, the water would wreck anything that was left.
I couldn’t think of anything of intrinsic value that might have been ruined. Getting new passports would be a hassle but wasn’t the end of the world. We’d lost suitcases, clothes, several paperback books, some traveler’s checks. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced. Just us, if we’d decided to sit and watch a dead body rot. The misery and chill of the elements were less than the fear of what might have been. I was cold as much from fear as from the wind and the rain.
We helped hold one of the hoses. Pietro was next to me. I said, “I thought all the electricity was out.”
Pietro shouted, “The pumping house has a gasoline generator. I don’t know how much fuel it has. We haven’t had a fire in years.”
The heat was going up through the exploded top of the tower. We could see bits of ceiling falling into the rooms beyond us. Wisps of smoke leaked into the Great Hall. The valuable art could easily suffer smoke damage, as could our lungs.
I saw Rufus Seymour in his shirtsleeves. He was rumored to be around fifteenth in line to the British throne. The few times I had encountered him, mostly he acted as if his royal shit didn’t stink. He was helping to move materials from the castle. Seymour’s lover, Matthew McCue, was next to him, carrying valuables. Henry Tudor’s valet hovered near both of them, making sure they didn’t get too near the flames, but still helping with the salvaging of castle stuff.
Through the broken glass, I saw one of them toting a Picasso to the shelter of the nearest villa. At one point I saw Seymour holding an umbrella over a priceless piece of art, but the rain was gusting horizontally at intervals as he struggled with it. I didn’t hold out much hope for the painting surviving undamaged.
Another of the guests, Warwick Movado, who owned half the gay bars on Manhattan, was helping to direct the water from the other hose onto the tower. The wind made the direction of the water hard to control. It kept blowing the icy stream from the hoses back at us.
For half an hour everyone worked. Mostly we heard the wind, thunder, and occasional shouts. The rain from the storm helped quell the flames. The wind didn’t. If we hadn’t been drenched by the storm, we were wet from the water being poured on flames driven by gusts of wind. Even the most experienced firefighters would have been hard put to fight such a wind. Mostly we shouted and sweated and stayed as wet as if we were immersed in the sea. Despite the cool night air and cold rain, nearly all of us worked without coats, a few without shirts.
When the flames were nearly out, Seymour, McCue, Pietro, and several others risked a trip inside the ground floor of the tower foyer. They came back with a body suspended between them. It was one of the staff. He was breathing, but the upper part of his body was horribly burned. He would need medical help immediately. Those who carried him out reported no one else alive or dead left inside. Our feeble efforts probably did little to help, but the pelting rain and the two-feet-thick barriers between the now soaked ruins and the rest of the castle put an end to the flames. The precious art in the Great Hall and the books in the library had been saved. As best we could, using old plastic coverings for furniture, we patched up all the blown-out windows. Most of the paintings and a number of the sculptures had been moved to the kitchen. Although I’d seen a few being carried off through the storm, presumably to the safety of nearby villas. The pouring rain would extinguish any last hot ashes. Tudor’s valet, wearing a yellow rain slicker, was detailed to keep watch for any flare-ups.
The rest of us repaired to Apritzi House. From the Port Atrium, Apritzi House was the nearest shelter. Apritzi House was five old homes clustered at the bottom of the cliff that guarded the harbor. To get to the most exclusive villas, you took a gently sloping road that hugged the cliff face both east and west. For Apritzi House they had taken the separate homes and renovated the interiors to make them one elegant palace for the permanent employees to live. It rem
inded me of someone’s great aunt’s house in which you dare not touch anything set out but whose antique-filled attic was a treasure trove of secret delights. It also held several conference rooms, a small store for essentials, a gift shop with trendy overpriced clothes and assorted astronomically priced gewgaws, and a series of elegant dorm rooms for the daily help. With its central location it allowed for the staff to move quickly to the highland above where most of the guests stayed.
We met in the immense living room, one entire wall of which was a flat-screen television. The rest of the furniture, including the smallest knickknacks, predated the French revolution. Candles had been lit and more were being brought in by the minute. We were all soaked. We smelled wet and sweaty. Several people were shivering. The staff headed for their own rooms. Scott and I each got an elegant shirt and a pair of designer jeans from the gift shop. Many of the visitors rushed back to their villas, but a number stayed. Scott and I changed in a washroom. I toweled myself as vigorously as I could, trying to force the warmth back into my veins.
None of us was a doctor. We gave as much medical attention as we knew how and as the limited supply of medicine on the island permitted. The medicine consisted of little more than aspirin and peroxide. Mostly we spent the time cleaning wounds and distributing bandages. I thought some of the untreated cuts might leave scars. There was nothing to be done about this. Scott’s head wound seeped at irregular intervals. He needed stitches. His arms were red but not blistered.
The most seriously injured person was Dimitri Thasos, the last one pulled from the tower. He was made as comfortable as possible. His chest continued to rise and fall. He came in and out of consciousness. Up close his burns looked ghastly.
I asked Pietro if he knew why Thasos had entered the tower. The elderly retainer said, “When the rest of us got there, several embers had blown in on the east side before the fire was under control. They caught on one of the tapestries. He pulled it down and put the flames out with his body. His torso, hands, and arms got the worst of the burns. He probably saved a great deal of precious art. He was found unconscious near the tower doors to the outside.”
Scott bled through his first bandage in about ten minutes. He must have been losing a great deal of blood this whole time. I applied pressure to the wound and then let up. After about another ten minutes or so, the blood was no longer flowing, but the oozing hadn’t completely stopped. I tied a cloth around his head and tried to secure it in place with several pieces of tape.
After seeing to medical needs, we clustered around Darrin Oser, the resort manager. The scene was lit by flashlights and candles. The latter provided an eerie warmth. The air in the room was cool but not cold.
For the moment among us, romance had been replaced by horror. Oser was speaking, “I’m not sure how many guests were here.” Present along with us at the moment were Warwick Movado, Rufus Seymour, Pietro, Alice Gavin and her two helpers, and several more of the staff. Oser was saying, “I’ve got those of us here and maybe seven more who have returned to their villas.” He turned Alice Gavin and said, “I don’t know you.”
She introduced herself and said, “This is Bobby Feige and Joseph Martikovic. We’re archeologists on our yearly expedition. We took safety in your harbor when the storm came up. There are only the three of us.”
Oser said, “Has anyone seen Mr. Tudor?”
I realized we’d been giving our news to Sherebury when the cataclysm struck. I said, “We found Mr. Tudor’s body in our room, a bullet hole in the head. We’d rushed down to the Port Atrium to report it. We’d just done so when the explosion happened.”
“Dead?” said Oser.
“Henry Tudor can’t be dead,” Movado said.
Scott said, “We aren’t making it up.”
I thought, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.” Neither Movado’s nor Tudor’s cash was going to bring Tudor back from the dead.
Oser said, “You’re sure of this? It’s just so hard to believe. If it’s true, he must have been in the explosion. Oh my dear, my very awful dear. This is unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know some of you were his friends and had worked with him.”
Oser asked, “Has anyone seen Derek Harris?”
The name rang a vague bell in the back of my mind.
One of the waiters said, “I delivered lunch to him and Mr. Tudor at his mansion at noon.” No one had seen them after that.
Oser said, “Neither Mr. Tudor nor Mr. Harris would have had any reason to be in the castle. Their villa was farther inland.”
“What happened?” Warwick Movado asked. The bar owner stood next to a man I understood to be his bodyguard, Chester Rechetel.
“I’m not sure,” Oser said. He was in his forties. He wore overpriced ill-fitting clothes. He puffed and sweated. He looked a carbohydrate short of a heart attack. When he walked, he took precise mincing steps. He said, “We don’t know what happened to the castle. We don’t know if it was a lightning strike or if there was an explosion or if the lightning caused an explosion. I can’t imagine anything that would have been in the castle that was volatile enough that it would lead to such destruction.”
Seymour said, “Doesn’t great heat turn moisture to steam? Maybe it was all just an accident. Maybe nobody planned anything.”
Oser said, “This is awful. Just awful. I’ve never been involved in anything like this.”
“Well, who has?” Movado asked.
I noticed that Oser and several others were doing what a lot of people do in the midst of great tragedies; chattering and clinging to irrelevancies. If we barely had enough medical supplies to treat our wounds, we couldn’t possibly have enough forensic capability to figure out what had caused the destruction.
I said, “Can we get in touch with the outside world?”
“That’s our main problem,” Oser said. “The storm has cut us off from Santorini. We’re not going to be able to leave or get help until it’s over. The forecast was for the storm to last at least two days. Even if we could get a message out, no one can get here.”
Movado said, “Do we really need help with something? Haven’t you had storms before? The fire is out. There’s room for everyone, isn’t there plenty of food?”
I said, “There are people here who need medical attention. Dimitri Thasos could die. The ones who were hurt in the falling debris from the tower have serious wounds. We’ve got to try to find some way to get them a doctor. Don’t they have rescue helicopters that go out in all kinds of weather to save people?”
Oser said, “I don’t know if there are any nearer than the Greek mainland. I don’t know if any helicopter can fly in this weather. I don’t know where there is a doctor. When anyone has been sick before, we always sent them to Santorini, and they took care of them from there.”
“We need someone now,” I said.
Movado said, “Fine, you can look for some way to communicate with the rest of the world.”
Oser said, “We should have plenty of food and water. We can hunt through the wreckage of the restaurant’s kitchen if we need to. We don’t know how long the electricity is going to be out. We’ll have to set up a search for Mr. Harris.”
“We’ll help,” Rufus Seymour offered.
His lover, Matthew McCue, said, “Maybe I could get the one pedicar that wasn’t totally smashed into working order. It would help people get around.”
I said, “We have the fact of the dead body in our room to account for. Several other people have died. We’ve got to have someone who can investigate a killing and an explosion, someone with forensic knowledge.”
Movado said, “We only have your word for the fact that there was someone dead in your room.”
“Why would we lie?” Scott asked.
Movado said, “I have no idea.”
“If he isn’t dead, why haven’t we seen him?” Scott asked.
“He could be injured in the rubble,” Movado said. “He could be in his villa aslee
p. He usually takes sleeping pills.”
I said, “Did Mr. Tudor have any enemies?”
The help didn’t answer. Even Craveté, our faithful gossip and erstwhile friend, had his eyes riveted to the carpet. The rest of the rich kept mum. Fat lot of help these people were.
I asked, “Does anyone have a satellite phone?”
Oser said, “The dish for transmission was on the top of the castle tower. It’s destroyed. Without a method of transmission the phone is useless. Same for a wireless computer.”
Pietro spoke up, “All the lights are out on the island. The old dungeons in the castle under the tower had the backup generators for when the power failed. We’ll have to sift through the ruins to find out if anything is salvageable. The rain helped with the fire. We need to get people to help look through the destruction. People could be alive under all that.”
Movado said, “We can’t go looking through the wreckage. Not in this storm. More people could die. We’ve had enough death and destruction.”
I turned to Oser. “Are you sure about there being twenty people on the island right now?”
“That sounds right,” Oser said. “Pietro and I are here from the staff. At least five of us are dead. We’ve got to find out if everyone else is okay.”
“You’d think they’d have shown up with the explosion and the fire,” Movado said.
Oser said, “The homes are well insulated. They are designed not to let sound in.”
I said, “They wouldn’t notice that the lights had gone out? They wouldn’t notice a tremor?”
“You’re not in charge of anything here,” Movado said.
The tensions of the night, the brushes with death, and now his snarkiness added up to a bit more than too much. I turned on him. “You want me to see how sharp the shards are from the collapse of the roof? Maybe we could slice up a few more people.” It was a threat born of frustration and sounded more than a bit foolish, even to myself, but I was pissed angry and scared. He wasn’t impressed.
Movado said, “Fuck you and the threats you walked in on.”
Everyone's Dead But Us Page 4
