Everyone's Dead But Us

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Bobby Feige stood in the doorway of the room. His gun was aimed away from me. He said, “Come out from behind there.”

  I stepped up behind him and whacked him with the golf club. It bent. He went down but didn’t lose consciousness. His gun skittered away. I leapt for it. He stayed on his knees. He shook his head.

  He spoke, “You’re not dead.”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  We both looked at the rust-encrusted putter.

  He said, “That hurt.”

  “It was supposed to.”

  He looked around. “Where’s your buddy?”

  “We got separated.”

  “Not good.”

  “I know. Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  I sat in the comfy chair. He stayed on the floor and crossed his legs in a yoga position. He was young and trim, maybe in his late twenties. I kept the gun on him.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked.

  “I’m the local Israeli secret agent. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be the liaison between my government and this island.”

  “Who’s doing all the killings?”

  “It’s a conspiracy. I think. I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

  “Why is there an Israeli agent here?” I asked.

  “Two reasons. There’s no ice for my head is there?”

  I said, “If there’s a freezer that hasn’t been opened somewhere on the island, I don’t know about it. What’s the story here?”

  “Someone visits here once a month or so. I and my people make sure no terrorist group gets a grip on the island.”

  “There were terrorist threats?” I asked.

  “Yes. Any piece of real estate in this part of the world has value of some kind. The Israeli government, with the tacit consent of the American and British navies and the Greek government, keep an eye on this place. You really think this could be an independent operation in this day and age?”

  “When I’ve thought much about it,” I replied, “I assumed this place was under the control of the Greek government.”

  “The other reason is that this place is a real conduit for stolen Nazi art getting back to its real owners. There are many places and people who are either caught with what doesn’t belong to them, or are feeling guilt about having what doesn’t belong to them. The people on this island give them a way to give it back without any subsequent publicity.”

  “What’s wrong with publicity?” I asked.

  “Some people would never come forward if they knew they, or their family were going to be exposed. Sometimes people need a little nudging to do the right thing. Quiet nudging can often be as effective as violent nudging. We like to keep our options open. The first looted art appeared here in the early fifties. The owner contacted my government. The owner wanted to be left alone. We wanted to leave him alone. The owners here were more than willing to help move items from point A to point B and get our protection in the bargain. Over time it became a sensible relationship.”

  “What’s been going on here for the past thirty-six hours?”

  “Not terrorism. Not as far as I can tell. I was supposed to meet Henry Tudor. I never got to see him. He was dead when I got here.”

  “You guys came in this storm?”

  “We try to keep my visits secret. I came with Gavin. I’m also a legitimate archeologist. I love this place for all its Minoan treasures.”

  “Does anyone else know your real role here?”

  “Tudor might have told Derek Harris, I’m not sure. No one else was supposed to know.”

  “Gavin didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Were there artworks to be transferred?” I asked.

  “Two.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened. This is out of my control. For quite a while I guessed you were the killers although I couldn’t figure out why.”

  “Were you working with Thasos?”

  “We’d been in contact.”

  “Why did he confide in Craveté?”

  “The fool came upon some of Dimitri’s notes. Certainly Thasos didn’t tell him everything. Craveté was a nuisance.”

  “We found a real treasure room.”

  “Yeah, I was surprised the thing existed. We funneled the Nazi artwork through O’Quinn’s galleries. It was the perfect conduit for transferring all that we found or needed to return. But actual stolen items from the past, real treasures. That was new.”

  “Are they real?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Gavin?” I asked.

  “She and a contingent have left in our boat to go for help.”

  “In this storm?”

  “The wind is down. There hasn’t been thunder and lightning in several hours. They thought there might be a chance.”

  I listened. The absence of thunder and lightning was eerie. I didn’t remember when it had stopped. The quiet was blessed.

  “Did they take Thasos with them?” I asked.

  “They were afraid to move him,” Feige said.

  “Afraid to touch him or worried it might make his injuries worse?”

  “Maybe both,” Feige said.

  He plopped himself on a couch. He rubbed his head where I’d hit him. “That hurt,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “Why were you missing?”

  “I wasn’t. I was investigating. Gavin is kind of an asshole. Usually, I hook up with various fishermen or food suppliers. She wasn’t the first archeology team I’ve joined up with in these waters. It’s a great cover, and it is my expertise.”

  “Why didn’t you go with them?” I asked.

  “My job isn’t done. The artwork I came for has to be transferred. I haven’t found it yet. Plus, I’m as close to law enforcement as this island has right now.”

  “Who left with Gavin?” I asked.

  “Craveté, Oser, Matt McCue, Ed Bracken, Martikovic, and Henry Tudor’s valet.”

  I looked out at the rain. I said, “I still wouldn’t leave the safety of the harbor.”

  “They were petrified of staying here.”

  “What time did they leave in the boat?”

  “Just before I came up here.”

  “Thasos is alone?”

  “He was asleep when I left.”

  “Can I trust you?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure who or what to trust,” Feige said. “You guys I’m reasonably certain aren’t killers. After that I’m stumped.”

  “Who is actually left on the island alive?” I asked.

  Feige said, “Thasos. I haven’t seen a corpse of Movado, or Rufus Seymour, or Pietro.”

  “Seymour is dead.” I told him what I’d seen and about the Pietro/Barney Crushton connection. Then I said, “So either Movado or Crushton is the killer?”

  “Unless the killer has cleverly gotten onto the only boat out and is on his way to Santorini.”

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  Feige said, “This ‘we’ is going to try and radio for help. The storm is abating. Help should be here soon. You should hide here. I assume you’ll be safe. Anybody who shows up, just bash them in the head.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to find Scott. I can’t leave him out there alone.”

  “If you go, you’ll be out there alone.”

  “If someone you loved might be in danger from a killer, would you stay or go?”

  He stood up. “Are you going to give me my gun back?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m a secret agent,” he said. “You don’t think I’ve got more than one?”

  “Yeah, you’ve probably got a machine gun in your crotch and a grenade behind your left ear.”

  “Ballpoint pens that explode and car keys that turn into rocket ships to the moon.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Staying here would be safest.”

 
“I’ve got a gun again. It makes me somewhat equal to the killer. I’ve got to find Scott. If possible, I can see how Thasos is. I’ll be careful.”

  “No one was tending to Thasos when I last saw him. I’m going to try and get some of this electronics stuff in the house here cobbled together to send a signal out. I was supposed to rendezvous with a British agent in a couple days. One of their helicopters from the fleet was supposed to drop him off.”

  “There’s a connection to the British fleet here? A real one?”

  “Everything in this part of the world is connected. Everybody keeps track of everybody else. This island gets to be a bit of a mystery for several reasons. Mostly because international governments keep a close watch and hands off.”

  “It’s possible to do both at once?”

  “It was up until now. I’m going to try and contact him. I know there’s electronic equipment here. And supposedly there’s another one of those damned secret rooms with more electronic equipment. I’ve got to try the stuff I know. It could take years to dismantle these old places and then find nothing, your treasure room notwithstanding.”

  I looked out the window. “I wish there was some way we could get from here to one of the minarets about a hundred feet from Apritzi House without being seen.”

  Feige smiled. “How long have you been coming here?”

  “A few years.”

  “I don’t know if you’d ever have been initiated fully.”

  “Were you?”

  “No, but there was more than one reason they assigned me to a gay island.”

  I said, “You mean there’s another way to get around the island.”

  “Around parts of it, yeah. The rumors that everyone talks about this island are sometimes more true than not. Ancient pirates and secret treasures? Hell, you found one. What’s not to believe? Hidden rooms? Secret passages? Why not? Before it became a gay haven, they had a millennia to build and rebuild their defenses and hiding places. The gay owners have had more than a hundred years to find them, expand them, perfect them. Actually it’s a rather pleasant tunnel from the lowest basement here that connects all the way to that top blue minaret. After you get there, you’ll be exposed for a short while. Two owners ago wanted the help to not have to waste the time walking up to the headland and around to the house. The rich can get done whatever they want.”

  He showed me the way. The tunnel was beautifully tiled in candlelit glows of blue and yellow. I didn’t care. I was fed up. I didn’t want any more secrets, any more treasures, any more death. Peace and quiet and warmth. I didn’t want to go out in the rain. I thought I’d need to be convinced to take a shower or bath again.

  The end of the tunnel had a very modern door with an emergency bar like any other modern door in a modern building. I put out the candle and eased the door open. No movement came from the other side of the door. I crept forward. I looked out the window of the minaret.

  It was long past noon on a New Year’s Day. The rain fell in straight sheets in front of me. I observed the harbor, villas, and Apritzi House spread out below me. The home nearest to me down the slope looked empty. I had no idea which way to go. I’d found a little food in the house. Hunks of cheese and salami in the refrigerator. They were warm, but I wasn’t picky. At least they weren’t spoiled. And as I always say, if I don’t have to cook it, and I don’t have to clean it, then it’s gourmet.

  From my position, I could see only the top bit of the burned remnant of the castle tower. The yacht listed far into the water. I could see the top third of the burned-out boat in the castle bay. I couldn’t see the archeologists’ vessel. So Gavin was really gone. I wouldn’t miss her. I could see no one on the paths. Where was Scott? Where was the killer? I leaned my head against the wall. I don’t know what I would do without Scott. He’d been part of my life for a long time now. I would sacrifice everything for him.

  I saw a flutter of movement halfway along the parapet about a quarter of a mile away. A trick of the eye? I watched carefully. Moments later the movement came again only closer to me. Someone was crawling along the landward side of the parapet. He was shielded somewhat by the overhang. I couldn’t see who it was. I couldn’t tell if it might be Scott eluding the killer and/or looking for me or the killer eluding Scott and/or looking for me. By this point it was becoming fairly ludicrous with the roles of cat and mouse depending on whose script we were following. Whoever it was had on a yellow poncho. This was not a help at identification as everyone had been issued one of the damn things within hours of the original explosion.

  I caught a glimpse of blond hair. No ski mask. Scott.

  A second later he was on his feet and running down the parapet toward me. He made no sign that he’d seen me. Then I saw a second movement. Between him and me. I saw a glint of metal in the other person’s hand. Ski mask, wide-brimmed hat. The killer. Scott hadn’t seen him, but I didn’t shout, because I wasn’t sure the one with the gun had seen Scott.

  I left my hiding place and began moving toward Scott. From my vantage point, it was over three stories down to the parapet. I raced downstairs. As I ran, at various points I lost sight of both of them. I was still ten feet above the parapet when I saw Scott come to an abrupt halt. The person with the gun stood up. Scott whirled, and dashed the other way.

  I heard a gunshot. I saw a bit of parapet two feet from Scott fly off into the sea. My lover was totally exposed to the killer who could keep randomly shooting as he strode forward. There was no way off the parapet for a hundred yards back the other way.

  Scott leapt to the edge and scrambled over. I had no idea what was in his head. Maybe trying anything to get out of the way of the gunfire. I remembered there was a sort of ledge about two feet down from the top of the parapet at some points. It was maybe all of an inch wide. After that came a chunk of space eternal with nasty jagged rocks far below.

  I took out my gun. Running and firing wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but I had to get to him before he fell and I had to stop the killer. At my first shot, they both turned. I don’t know if Scott recognized me or not, but the killer turned and let off several rounds in my direction. I ran and zigged and zagged and slipped and fell. My gun flew out of my hand toward the killer.

  He ducked. I dashed. As I flung myself forward, I could see Scott’s hands gripping the side of the parapet. From my perspective I couldn’t see much between him and the rocks and the sea except several hundred feet of air, after which he would he smash into the ground.

  I saw Scott’s hand begin to slip. The killer said, “Die, you shit.” I didn’t recognize the voice. He raised the gun. I lunged forward. I knocked the killer off his feet. I heard a thud. His head was between me and the cement balustrade. His gun flew over the parapet and into space. I saw Scott’s other hand begin to slip.

  I could hang onto the killer and pummel him until he was unconscious and see who it was, or I could grab for Scott. The choice was instinctual. I grabbed for Scott. “Hold on!” I yelled. I heard him gasping and puffing. I gripped his hand. I felt him halt then slip slightly. I got to my feet and jammed my thighs and feet against the parapet. I reached my other hand for him and got his upper arm.

  I felt a stunning smash against my back. I almost lost Scott, but both of his hands were now on the near side of the parapet. I yanked my elbow back. If I hadn’t still had hold of Scott, I might have done some real damage to the killer’s sternum. As it was, he backed away hacking and stumbling.

  I snatched at Scott’s jacket, the sleeves, anything that would give me any kind of purchase. I looked back for the killer. He was on his knees shaking his head.

  I focused completely on Scott. I leaned over and pulled. “I’ve got you,” I said. He gripped my jacket and shirt. I heard seams begin to rip. Scott was halfway over the parapet with one foot on the one-inch balcony two feet down when the killer slammed into me again. Scott grabbed the edge of the parapet nearest land. I pitched nearly halfway over. I kicked backward with both feet. I connected with som
e part of the killer’s anatomy because for a moment, he backed off.

  I got myself back on the parapet and turned toward the killer. He was scrabbling at Scott’s hold trying to pitch him into the sea. I could only see shadows. I smelled damp, sweaty human. The ski mask, hat, and hooded sweatshirt concealed his identity.

  Scott began to slip backward. I grabbed him. For several moments my face was inches from the killer’s neck. We were in shadow. He didn’t turn toward me.

  I pulled at Scott. The killer pushed. Scott slipped some more. Every hour of every workout I’d ever done was in play as I battled the killer in trying to save Scott’s life. The killer shifted his feet in an attempt to get a better grip on Scott. But the move exposed him more to me. I kicked the killer in the nuts. He stopped trying to push Scott. I felt myself losing my grip on my lover. I lunged for him. Grabbed. Pulled. It took a few seconds to get Scott completely over the side and onto the parapet’s cement.

  I turned to look for the killer. There was a bent-over shadow hustling toward the minaret I’d been hiding behind. In seconds he was lost to sight. Scott and I were gasping for air. I pulled him to me.

  I kissed him. Held him. Felt his arms around me and mine around him. I never wanted to let him go. Maybe we’d engaged in an embrace as fierce before, but I couldn’t remember it.

  “We can’t stay here,” I said. I’d have stood in the rain with him for hours. We had to get under cover. I glanced around for my gun. It was in pieces against the parapet.

  We got to our feet quickly enough and headed away from the minaret. We got to the shelter of a set of steps that led down to Apritzi House. We huddled under them.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Now I am,” he said. I checked his head wound and the back of his hands. He looked pale and sick.

  “We’ve got to get inside.” We could follow the steps into Apritzi House. Following the killer didn’t make much sense. I remembered Henry Tudor’s empty gun cabinet. The killer could have an arsenal.

  We entered on the bottom floor. We were in the kitchen. Near the refrigerator a number of empty boxes and cartons were scattered over the countertops. People had eaten here.