Everyone's Dead But Us

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  I asked, “Did you hear about any mob connections that might be angry at him?”

  “Not that I heard of.”

  Scott said, “The mob can be very angry and very persistent.”

  Crushton asked, “You know that from personal experience?”

  “I’ve seen ballplayers get in some trouble with the mob. Fixes were in. A few groin pulls had a lot more to do with threats to the permanent state of a guy’s health than the muscles in his crotch.”

  “Who is Bracken?” I asked.

  “You know about the insider trading scandal?”

  We nodded.

  “Bracken is one of those wild types. The kind of guy with a blond dye job who’d been left out at the party too long. A hip-hop guy who could get hung up on his gold chains. He’s about five years past the prime for that kind of lifestyle, but he’s rich and still in pretty good shape. He’s the youngest son of one of those Hollywood marriages. He came in somewhere between the third and fourth divorce on his mother’s side and the fifth affair and the second divorce on his father’s side. He was into mountain climbing, off-road biking, on-road biking, car racing. The insider trading scandal would have been a joke except he made so much money in such a short time. He met Fitzgerald in a stunningly exclusive china shop outside of Dresden. Why he was hanging around with Fitzgerald wasn’t a mystery. Bracken’s trust doles out money every July first. Bracken is usually broke by Christmas. This is the fourth or fifth time he’s shown up here in early January with some rich lover or other. He sponges off them for enough months to tide him over.”

  “Nobody caught on to what he was doing?” Scott asked.

  “Doing what?” Crushton asked.

  “Milking a cash cow,” Scott said.

  “In one way or another most of the people who come to this island are milking a cash cow. It’s just some are more obvious than others.”

  “Come on,” Scott said, “we’ve met guys here like us.”

  “Which means what?” Crushton said. “ ‘Normal guys’? You come here once a year for a few days. I don’t mean to offend, but you stay in the least expensive rooms. All the other accommodations are luxurious villas. You get a few rooms, which are very pricey, but it’s not in the same league. Now, I’ve been working here since the early seventies. Trust me. Somebody’s always milking someone for either cash or cum. ‘Normal’ achieves a whole other definition when you’re on this island. I like you guys, but you’re among the rich, too.”

  I thought his speculation was more gossipy/tacky than informative/helpful. We’d met some decent people here in the past. Crushton probably had seen a whole lot in his thirty-plus years on the island. Had he seen enough to help us? As for us, yeah, I knew we had it better than a lot of people. I’d been lucky to meet Scott. Money can’t buy happiness, and it would never have bought my love for Scott or his for me. At the moment our cash had landed us in this mess and all the money printed in the world wasn’t going to stop the storm or get us out of this.

  “How did Bracken become broke every year?” I asked.

  “A few drugs. Speculative investments. Stupidity. He’s been a mess since he dropped out or got thrown out of any number of exclusive prep schools. Daddy was thinking of simply buying a prep school, but he gave up on wasting his money and put the kid on a strict allowance.”

  “How strict is strict?” Scott asked.

  “Two million and somebody to be a gold digger to.”

  “Why would guys put up with him?”

  “He’s pretty. He’s fun. He’s charming in an immature frat boy kind of way. There’s a lot of excitement there.”

  Scott said, “But why wouldn’t pretty boys be trying to glom onto him for a free ride?”

  “My dearest, you don’t know how this place really works, do you?”

  Obviously we’d missed something.

  “The rich may permit themselves to indulge in an attractive young thing, but, in fact, it is a fairly closed world. There may be boy toys on parade in this corner of paradise, but most of the secretaries or bodyguards or both are designed to make sure the rich are not parted from their money. And what could some nameless hussy from the backwaters of Europe, Asia, or the Americas do against these people and their money? There’s no reason to kill the gold diggers. You just drop them off in Morocco and say, ‘Have a nice life.’ If they aren’t dead from drugs in two months or dead of thirst in the desert, they’re back in Keokuk for the rest of their lives with stories to tell that no one will believe. The rich tend to stick with the rich.”

  “You’re saying Fitzgerald and Bracken were equals?”

  “The difference wasn’t much between the cash value of their fortunes and their expectations of the way the world would be. Their mind-sets were certainly equal. It’s an expectation of how you will be treated, of how your life will work out fine for you. An expectation that the world will be a benign place for you. Fitzgerald was a reasonably benign old poop, and Bracken was a wild child personified. Despite their age difference, they were poster boys for the spoiled, indulgent rich. They also happened to be gay. It’s the same for the heterosexual rich.”

  “Don’t seem to be a lot of normal people around here,” Scott said.

  I was sorry he said it. It was going to be a debate.

  “Depends on how you define normal,” Crushton said. “Normal for a resort of this kind, straight or gay? Yeah, it was pretty normal. Normal for your plumbers and schoolteachers, well, no. Would you expect it to be and if so, why would you?”

  Ignoring a possible philosophical debate, I said, “There’s got to be a reason why these people are dead. What’s the connection between all of them?”

  “You sure it’s not random violence?” Crushton asked. “Why kill the help?”

  “Maybe that was collateral damage. The help died in the collapse of the Atrium or were injured fighting the fire. Since then only the rich or their minions have bitten the dust.”

  “Why destroy the Atrium?” Crushton asked.

  I said, “It could have been a side effect of blowing up the castle. It may have been an unintended consequence.”

  Scott asked, “Why blow up the castle?”

  “The electronic equipment on the roof and the spare generators in the basement. No messages can get out. No power for us. We become cold and without some basic services.”

  “But what does the killer gain by all that?” Scott asked. “Is there a benefit here on the island? It just all seems so pointlessly random.”

  “Not to the killer,” I said. “This is too well planned for a random madman.”

  Crushton said, “Random madmen don’t come here. We cater to a narrow clientele.”

  “You get a lot of nonrandom madmen?” I asked.

  I got a look from Scott who said, “There’re loons in any clientele.”

  “The rich are protected,” Crushton insisted.

  “Obviously not,” Scott said.

  Crushton looked frustrated.

  Scott said, “Bracken seemed to be genuinely grieved. The tears seemed real.”

  “I’ve seen him weep before,” Crushton said.

  “I haven’t,” Scott said. He was testier than he’d normally be. I thought Crushton’s was a fairly cruel comment to make at this moment. We were all under a lot of tension. The bodies were piling up and we were no nearer a solution than we had been twenty-four hours ago.

  I said, “We’ve found other dead bodies.” I told him all that had happened.

  Crushton said, “My god, Bobby Feige is alive? An agent? He could be doing all this. I don’t know him. I’ve got to warn the others.” He dashed off.

  I said, “We better go have a look at Fitzgerald, although I’m not sure what for.”

  Our flashlight battery was running down. There were no others and no batteries for this one. We left Bracken with Thasos. I had no idea if either of them would be safe. We had to decide, do we stay by Thasos and hope he doesn’t die, or do we take actions that might lead to sav
ing our own and others’, even his, lives? At least Thasos hadn’t dramatically pointed at any of them and passed out. Maybe he hadn’t had enough time. Or maybe he needed to concentrate his energy on taking each breath.

  We walked up the sloping road to the villa. Scott said, “You know, we keep telling these people to go to Apritzi House. They keep not going or they keep leaving it. They keep dying. Why don’t they all just stay there?”

  I said, “I don’t know. Maybe they do go there and that’s why they die.”

  About halfway up, I thought I heard a motor running. I glanced around. From around the corner at the top of the hill I saw one of the pedicars careening down the slope toward us. It was covered in dents and scrapes. The windows had been smashed in the collapse of the Atrium. Matt McCue, Rufus Seymour’s lover, had said he’d try and get the thing running. Through the rain I saw a vague, indistinct shape at the wheel. The thing came down the slope straight toward us. The pedicar probably wasn’t big enough to give a squirrel much more than a headache if it hit it head on; still, steel versus human was seldom a good thing. Kind of a variation on the old theme—if the egg hits the rock or the rock hits the egg, it’s going to be bad for the egg.

  The road was narrow. We leapt to opposite sides of the road. The pedicar lurched past. Its headlights described swirling arches as it bounced and rattled. In moments it struck the rail on the seaward side of the path. It careened crazily for several moments. It hit the wall again ten feet above Apritzi House, lumbered to the other side of the path and banged into a storage shed. The engine fuzzled and rumbled for several moments. A shower of sparks erupted from the undercarriage. The rain quenched any attempt at fire. The engine died. The lights failed.

  We rushed to the pedicar. It didn’t have a driver. The shape at the wheel was a slew of books stuffed in a sack and tied to the steering wheel to hold it straight. The gas pedal had a cinder block wedged on top of it. Half of the charred electric engine lay on the concrete. The car wasn’t going anywhere.

  I said, “We need to get under cover.”

  We hustled to the next doorway and crouched within. We peered through the wind and rain to the curve the pedicar had come around. Scott said, “We’ve got to get up there to see what’s going on. The killer could have waited for us and simply opened fire when we got closer. We weren’t taking a lot of precautions. We weren’t trying to skulk secretly to the house. This doesn’t make sense. Why not simply shoot us?”

  “We’re armed, alert, and ready? There’re two of us and all the other killings have been done to a person alone? He needs us closer? He flunked the ambush course in terrorist-training school? He was absent the day they covered ambushing in school? We’re not part of the plan? Help me out here. I’m stumped.”

  He muttered, “Stumped bordering on stupid.”

  I said, “The famed teenage mumble-under-the-breath is no more attractive in an adult. And it’s not stupid. Nothing makes sense. Whatever the plan is, maybe we’re part of screwing it up, and it’s not a good plan or the killer is a raver and can’t plan. I’m at the end of my suggestions, and don’t say good. You got any better ideas?” It was cold. I was exhausted and exasperated. I said, “Whichever one of us figures out what the plan is first, please be sure to tell the other one.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t helping.”

  I said, “Whoever was trying to kill us was up there not more than five minutes ago. If he didn’t wait for us, why not simply start walking down here?”

  “Maybe he’s a lousy shot?”

  “Feeble attempts at humor are not any better than sarcasm.”

  I felt his body pressed against mine. We looked at each other. He said, “I’m sorry for what I said. I know we’re both frightened.” He leaned his head over and kissed me. “I love you,” he said.

  I breathed deeply, appreciated his warmth, returned the sentiment, then said, “We gotta get out of here.”

  He said, “We’re in a doorway. Let’s enter the house.”

  The door was locked. We tried several of the kick-the-door-above-the-keyhole type kicks from the movies. The door didn’t budge. Either we’d been watching the wrong movies, or we were in trouble.

  Seconds later the door began to creak open. We both eased back into the street. Shots rang out from above us. We rushed to the door and bashed it open.

  We came face-to-face with Rufus Seymour and Matthew McCue. They were in their early twenties. Seymour’s looks tended toward the more austere British aristocrat who might have been a few calories short of beginning to be pudgy. McCue was tall with narrow shoulders and jet black hair swept back in complex swirls. He was a rail-thin supermodel who, I suspect, struck smoldering poses while he was taking a shit. Scott had spotted McCue a few times in the weight room in the past few days. His father owned a string of Australian right-wing newspapers. I thought he and Seymour made a great couple in their superior dourness. Neither had deigned to speak to us before the current tragedy.

  “What’s going on?” McCue asked.

  We hurtled past them and slammed shut the door, locked and bolted it behind us. Neither of them was pointing a gun. This was a plus.

  When we were secure behind the door, I said, “You didn’t hear the gunshots?”

  They both nodded.

  “You didn’t check it out?”

  McCue said, “The top room of our villa has an access stair to the roof. The roof connects to the King’s parapet. We got a great view of everything,” McCue said.

  “And you didn’t come down to help?” I asked.

  “Well, really,” McCue said, “what could we have done? And we couldn’t see a lot with the electricity still out.”

  “People are dying.” The oblivious rich. I was enraged by their callousness. The only subspecies of human I considered lower than them were the willfully stupid. And here we maybe had a combination of both. Sigh.

  McCue said, “The rain is pouring down. The help should have all this mess under control. They always do. Movado’s guard told us we’d be safer inside.”

  I said, “We watched him die.”

  McCue looked troubled for the first time. “You have guns. Did you kill him?” He began to back away.

  I said, “No, you twit. Someone is trying to murder all the people on the island. If we were here to kill you, we could have done it without all the drama and dialogue. There was a killer on the street above us. He was probably up there somewhere near where it connects to the parapet. He tried to have one of the electric cars run us over.”

  “They’re such little things,” McCue said. “It can’t have been that hard to jump out of the way.”

  I said, “We could try it with you.”

  McCue giggled. “Well, really, that can’t be true.”

  “You were trying to fix it,” Scott said, “what happened?”

  McCue said, “It would sort of work. We put it in the garage at the top of the slope above here.”

  I said, “Did you think of telling anyone else this news? Maybe we could have used it to get around, maybe gotten a lot less wet.”

  “There wasn’t much to do,” Seymour said.

  “Find a killer,” I suggested.

  “Help will arrive,” McCue said.

  “In time?” I asked.

  Seymour said, “This really sounds like nonsense. Why murder all of us?”

  Obviously the murderer had started with the wrong victims and blown up the wrong structure.

  I said, “Maybe he’d murder you because you’re selfish, hedonistic morons.” After the last election campaign for United States Senator from Illinois, I’d been tempted to wear a button that said Selfish Hedonist for Jesus. Amusing and sarcastic. Scott said it would probably also be pointless. Probably just as pointless now as it would have been then.

  Seymour said, “You’re a little out of control.”

  I did my best to keep my temper in check as I said, “I don’t know why all the killings are happening. We found the treasure room. When we talked to Dim
itri Thasos, he talked about danger connected with a secret treasure. We found it. We’re not dead. Others are. Did you know about the treasure room?”

  They looked at each other. That told me enough. Lack of knowledge didn’t require that look.

  I said, “So many people have died. Don’t you think the truth is necessary about now?”

  Seymour spoke. “I can’t help you.”

  “You could die.”

  “Is that a threat?” Seymour asked.

  I said, “I give up.”

  Scott normally intervenes at this point when my anger has gotten the better of my reason. I looked at him. He kept gazing from one to the other of them. He looked as if they’d just delivered the shit-dip for his raw broccoli.

  Scott said, “Where were you from nine o’clock last night until now?”

  McCue said, “We don’t answer to you. You’re not the boss of us.”

  The childish formulation did it. I said, “You moronic twits. Haven’t you got the slightest clue about how this world really works? Death and destruction are in control of this island at the moment. You could both be killed.”

  “Nonsense,” McCue said.

  I gripped McCue by his skinny throat and rammed him up against the wall. His head hit with a satisfying thud. “Look, you rich, asshole, punk.”

  I looked at Scott. He had Seymour restrained in an arm hold. Seymour asked, “Are you going to kill us?”

  “No,” Scott said. “We are not your problem.”

  I eased up on McCue. He gasped for breath. He was crying. “We need answers,” I said.

  Scott eased his hold. They both recovered as much dignity as a surly teenager caught in his room in a compromising position with his own fist. They leaned near to each other.

  “Fine,” Seymour said. As an adult, he’d probably never been closer than a traffic altercation to real violence. He repeated, “Fine,” straightened his shirt, shrugged his shoulders. “After we helped with the fire, we had some champagne here by ourselves. I helped out with Thasos from time to time. Mr. Movado assured us we had nothing to worry about.”

  “With people dying?”