Everyone's Dead But Us

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  I asked, “Is this all there is to it, down here?” “There’s a small storage area hidden behind that declivity in the brick wall. It contains water, beverages, snacks.” Movado pressed a small recess in the alcove next to a Sex and A portion of the wall swung back.

  Scott and I looked inside. Virl Morgan with his head crushed sat in the middle of the floor.

  I said, “This is not good.”

  Movado said, “Ulp.”

  Scott said, “You can’t say we’re making this one up.”

  Movado said, “I didn’t think you were making them up since O’Quinn. I’m just saying that…” He walked up close to Morgan’s body. He began to topple over.

  Scott and I caught him. We moved him across the room to one of the chairs in the center.

  “Should we revive him?” Scott asked.

  “I like him with his mouth shut.”

  Scott said, “Stillvado?”

  I said, “He’s not used to murder?”

  “Or the sight of blood makes him sick?”

  We checked for weapons, found a gun, disarmed him, and left him there, then returned to the storage room. Scott hung back. I moved as close as I dared. I’d dealt with death while I was in the Marines. I wasn’t used to it, not like you get used to the color of your refrigerator. Perhaps immune enough to the horrors to be able to get close, but not immune enough to have removed all disgust and awe and a wave of nausea. I took I few moments to collect myself then inched closer.

  I said, “It looks like he was bashed over the head.” I extended my arm as far as I could and used the tip of the flashlight to move his head slightly. I said, “And there’s a bullet hole in his head.” I didn’t see a gun or a weapon covered in blood that could have crushed his head. In such a closed space the smell of gunpowder would be noticeable. I didn’t see significant amounts of blood and brains scattered about the storage space. I aimed the flashlight back into the room. I noted a few smears on the floor that could have come from moving him. “I don’t think he was killed here.”

  Scott nodded. He looked even paler and dizzier than before. The light in the room wasn’t great, but he looked like he could use a vacation in a quiet, out-of-the-way resort. Perhaps we’d have to try the planet Pluto for our next getaway.

  He saw the look of concern on my face. He said, “I’m fine. Or as good as I’m going to be until we get out of here.”

  I said, “Somebody clubbed him and shot him, although I’m not sure what order those happened in, and then dragged him down here and stuffed him into this hole. Why? They left Henry Tudor in our room. How would anyone know to come down here?”

  “The killer has to be one of the rich who knew it was here.”

  “Or one of the help who was smarter than Thasos, or who has lied to us about their knowledge. I don’t see any burns on Morgan. We saw him after the fire. He was screwing his boss. So he leaves us, leaves his boss unguarded.”

  “Unless his boss is the killer.”

  “I don’t think his majesty is strong enough to take on his bodyguard.”

  “You don’t need a lot of strength for a bash from behind or a gunshot to the head. No matter which one you do first, your victim is pretty well incapacitated.

  “We’ll have to talk to his kingship,” Scott said.

  “If we don’t find him dead as well.” A distinct possibility.

  “Moving a body around means you’d have to be pretty strong,” Scott said.

  “A fireman’s carry and a tote here and there. And it would have to be someone who knew this room was here. We didn’t. I wonder how many of the guests did know about it.”

  Movado stirred. We stood on either side of his chair. He opened his eyes, looked at each of us, and then scrambled to his feet. He glanced at Morgan. Movado wiped at his face with his left hand. “This is not possible. People are dying. Someone is trying to kill us.”

  A little late on board, but he was finally on the right bus, so who was I to disagree? He began edging away from us. “Maybe you’re the killers. It would probably take two people to overcome Virl Morgan. He was an excellent bodyguard. You two are strong. Maybe you’re the killers.” He edged closer to the stairs.

  I said, “Why would we kill all these people?”

  “Somehow you found out about the cache down here.”

  “We didn’t know about it until we figured out the clues Thasos gave us. We don’t even know if this stuff is real.”

  “Oh, it’s real all right. It is valuable beyond your wildest imaginations.” He turned and ran up the stairs.

  I said, “He’s going to try and shut us in down here.”

  Good thing we’d taken precautions. We rushed to the stairs. He was trying to shove crap over the opening. I led the way and bulled my way through his first efforts. He’d managed to get two chairs awkwardly over the opening. When I was halfway out of the hole, he turned and ran. He was heading inland. We headed for Apritzi House.

  We reached our destination in a few minutes. We slapped the rain off our coats. I wondered when I would ever feel totally dry again. Crushton and Craveté were continuing to minister to Thasos. Oser was running down the batteries on a series of cell phones, making useless attempts to connect with the rest of the world.

  “Where’s Movado?” Crushton asked.

  “He took off. We found Virl Morgan’s body. He was in the art room. Dead.”

  “My God,” Crushton said.

  “Blood, death, and destruction,” Craveté said. “We’re all going to die.”

  “Not if we can help it,” I said.

  “Is all that stuff real?” Scott asked.

  Oser said, “I’ve never seen it. The staff has never been allowed in. Only a few even knew of its existence. No one knew what was really down there. People suspected. We pretty much thought it was some kind of private sexual chamber where the rich did dirty with each other or with their bought-and-paid-for pals.”

  Crushton said, “I figured snuff films at the least.”

  I said, “Not a torture instrument in sight. No blood except for Morgan’s. Just artwork. It might have been a library in the very wealthiest English country house.”

  “That’s who the first owner was,” Crushton said.

  “What do you mean artwork?” Oser asked.

  We told him.

  Oser said, “Those works of art could be the real thing. The people connected with Korkasi are very, very wealthy. Stolen art has to go somewhere. Why couldn’t the owners of this island have had a hand in art thefts? Certainly, they wouldn’t be the only ones. It’s not like some international gay conspiracy, but they could buy the art like anyone else on illegal markets.”

  “Where’s his majesty?” Scott asked.

  They hadn’t seen him. I said, “If his guard is dead, I don’t hold out much hope for the health of the one being guarded.”

  Scott said, “We should check their villa.”

  We hurried back out into the storm. The day had been slightly better than the night, in that the blackness didn’t look like the end of the world, although the clouds and wet had done their best to try to look like the end of the world. But evening had come, and the rain seemed to be intensifying.

  We headed up the paved way toward Deplonte’s villa. When we were just outside Klimpton’s posh hideaway, one of the doors creaked open. The Czech porn star peeked out. He beckoned to us. We hurried over. He stood under the lintel. He began speaking passable English.

  “I am worried,” he said.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Mr. Klimpton is missing.”

  Not good.

  Scott said, “You mean he stepped out, and you don’t know where he is, or he didn’t tell you where he was going, or do you mean he’s missing, and if he is, how do you know that?”

  He looked confused.

  I said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “He went out about half an hour ago. He said he must find someone. He did not say who. I am fright
ened. I came here because he paid me. People are dying. What is going to happen to me?”

  I saw bruises on his arms. “How did you get those?”

  He said, “I fell.”

  Yeah, he fell and I was the Easter bunny. I said, “Maybe you should go to Apritzi House. You might be safer with the others rather than here by yourself.”

  “I cannot go down there. We are forbidden to do so. I can only do what my master says or I do not get paid.”

  “You aren’t a slave,” I said.

  “A slave?”

  I said, “You make choices. You can choose. This is an emergency. If you stay here, you could die.”

  “If I go, I could die.”

  “Do you want to come with us?” Scott asked.

  “No. That is forbidden, too. We cannot talk to other guests unless the master is here.”

  “You’re talking to us now,” Scott said.

  “I am not stupid. I am scared. I must be careful. I have looks, for now. In a few years…” He shrugged.

  At least he seemed to be self-aware enough of his status and the possibilities of his future appeal to the rich.

  I said, “Do you know anything about a hidden room in the castle?”

  “No. I have not been in the castle.”

  “Was your master?”

  “I do not know.”

  Again we urged him to join the others. He slowly shut the door.

  “That’s not good,” Scott said. We hustled into the storm.

  At the top of the cliff and the turn to Deplonte’s home, I thought I saw someone slip out of a side door of Klimpton’s villa. I called out. It was hard to be sure with the pouring rain and the darkness, but I thought it was Deplonte. I hollered his name.

  He turned toward us for a second or two, then took off the other way. He was a few steps away when someone followed him out of the house. I called out again. A well-muffled figure was following Deplonte. This second person turned toward us. I couldn’t see who it was. Neither of them looked like Klimpton or Mylon Drak. I could see the glint of metal. A bolt of lightning lit up the headland. Seconds later I saw the flash of gunfire and heard the report. A bullet gouged the dirt three feet from my left foot.

  We ducked behind an escarpment.

  “We should go for help,” Scott said.

  “There’s nobody around to help. Somebody is trying to kill his majesty. We’ve got to stop them.”

  “The gun just got fired at us. We could get ourselves killed.”

  “We’ll avoid that.”

  “And your well-thought-out plan is?”

  I said, “Well, we sneak around the other way and come back from the middle of the island.”

  Scott gazed at me carefully.

  My eyes didn’t waver. “No,” I said, “it is not at the same level as planning for the invasion of Europe. I’d need more than a few seconds for that. We’ve only got a small island here. And the person could be after us. We got shot at. We’ve got to be careful.”

  We inched into the gloom.

  The next villa up the road was Rufus Seymour’s. It perched precariously between the road and the cliff. Waves crashed loudly below us. We passed a small turning that led to a series of stairs down the cliff face. I saw Deplonte dash down. His pursuer was maybe thirty feet behind him.

  This place was called “A Thousand Stairs.” It wasn’t. I counted on one vacation, one hundred forty-seven. Although going back up could feel like a hell of a trek. The stairs ended about ten feet above the waves. There was an outcropping and a small declivity behind it. Just beyond this was a front door and golden-flecked marble stairs. There were any number of these alcoves with rocky outcroppings around the island all inaccessible by boat or path. From a distance, most of them didn’t look large enough to hold much more than a hefty man or a very skinny couple. I remembered this one as being wide enough for a little romantic trysting if you didn’t mind getting drenched at regular intervals by the pounding waves.

  The path ended at the front door of the villa. This was one of the ones we’d examined that was supposedly uninhabited. The door was wide open. Rain was quickly collecting on the floor inside. We rushed in and slammed the door shut.

  Scott said, “Should we be slamming at a time like this?”

  A definite oops. No side paths existed down the bluff. Someone or several someones were very possibly inside, one of them a killer. Then again, why would a killer leave the door open? Why not close it and kill quietly and not let anyone get suspicious about an open door? Did he know we were following?

  We crept through the place. When we got to the third floor, for the second time we were outside a door, behind which emanated noises, perhaps from Louis Deplonte.

  “Are we going in unannounced again?” Scott asked.

  I held my ear to the door. Didn’t sound like lovemaking. We were armed. We drew our weapons. I opened the door. Gavin’s other assistant, Bobby Feige, the missing one, was leaning over Movado’s bodyguard, Chester Rechetel. Rechetel was gasping for breath. Air and blood gurgled from a wound. He was moaning weakly.

  I saw a gun in Feige’s hand. I held out my arm to stop Scott. Feige looked at us. He put his gun in a holster under his jacket. “Help me here,” he said.

  We went forward.

  My knowledge of first aid doesn’t go much beyond put a Band-aid on it and take an aspirin. Feige grabbed a sheet, tore it off the bed, and tried holding it against the man’s wound. Rechetel gasped briefly. His breathing got weaker.

  Feige said, “I’ve got to go after Deplonte.”

  I grabbed onto his arm. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  He tried to yank his arm away. I held on. I wanted answers. “Why the hell were you missing?”

  Feige said, “I had work to do, just like I have now.”

  “What work?”

  Perhaps he figured it would be faster to argue with me than to fight. “Rechetel and I have been trying to catch the killer. We were in here investigating. Deplonte came in. He saw us with guns and ran. Someone came in after him. He shot at us.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked.

  “An Israeli agent.” He yanked his arm out of my grasp and stood up.

  “There’re terrorists on the island?”

  “No. Help Chester.” He ran out of the room.

  I looked down at the wounded man. Scott was holding the sheet against the wound. As it got soaked with blood, Scott would put another section over it.

  “I don’t know if this is helping,” Scott said.

  I got another sheet. This one too quickly became sopped with red. Rechetel’s breathing was becoming more and more shallow. I felt helpless. Awful. This man was going to die and there was nothing I was going to be able to do to stop it. Rechetel’s breathing became even shallower for a few seconds.

  Then he died. I didn’t know him, and he was dead. It was no doubt tragic to those who knew and loved him. It is said that any man’s death diminishes one. I felt more frightened and lost and helpless than diminished.

  Scott said, “Trust no one.”

  That mantra had been running through my head. “Do we trust Feige? If there aren’t terrorists, why is he here? Did he shoot this guy and try to fake us out? Why didn’t he try to shoot us?”

  “We were both armed.”

  “Do we trust him? Maybe he was the one who was following Deplonte. Was he trying to kill him or protect him? Did Deplonte kill Rechetel in self-defense?”

  Scott said, “There’s a killer and a king and an Israeli agent in this place somewhere.”

  “Let’s keep our guns handy” I said.

  We covered the body as best we could.

  This villa hugged the cliff face, an overgrown Swiss chalet plastered like an enormous zit against the precipice. We ascended and descended silent stairs in Escher-like confusion. We arrived at what must have been a master bedroom suite at the very top of the building. The view out to sea was spectacular. She
ets of rain pummeled the ocean. The sliding glass door to the outside was open. Curtains billowed as is their wont when they are exposed to a howling wind. We shoved aside the flapping curtains. A balcony the size of a postage stamp had a set of rock-hewn stairs leading up. We crept toward and then up them. When we neared the crest, we were only a few feet below the rim of the headland.

  As our gaze passed the top of the stairs, we saw a muffled figure shoving and pushing at Deplonte. The other person didn’t look like the agent. As we got closer we saw that he wore a ski mask, and had a wide-brimmed hat on over a hooded sweatshirt. The two figures were inches from the edge of a wide balcony. Deplonte was screaming in French and flailing at his attacker. In seconds Deplonte lost his balance. We rushed toward them. Deplonte started to tip over. Save Deplonte or grab the attacker? I snatched at Deplonte. The attacker rushed toward the landward side of the balcony. Scott’s impulse too had been to grab for the pretender.

  We both missed.

  The body landed on the small outcropping that was the front stoop of the chalet. Gunfire rang out. Chips of stone joined the rain falling into the abyss below. We rushed back to the stairs. From their shelter, I took out my gun. I looked up and over the edge. The killer was a hundred yards away and rounding a corner of the headland. It took a few seconds to raise my gun. Too late. He was gone.

  We hurried back down to the entrance. Deplonte’s smashed body was breathing, but just barely. One knee was bent backwards. Both arms hung crazily The rain could barely wash the blood away fast enough. We shielded as much of his body from the rain as we could. I wasn’t about to attempt to move him. No, I knew paramedics weren’t going to arrive who would know what to do, but moving him was useless.

  His opened his eyes. He moaned then gasped, “Virl?”

  I cradled his hand in the palm of mine. I was afraid the slightest pressure might crush more bones. I’m not sure he felt my touch. His fingers waved spasmodically.

  “Virl?” he called again. It was a small, feeble voice.