The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  “Mr. Wells?” a voice asked.

  It was Anna, who, unlike Bryan and Elaine, looked more vibrant than ever. Perhaps channeling Amanda Wells, Anna had chosen a black sundress, only Anna’s revealed more cleavage.

  Wells’s expression was stern. “Unless this is urgent, Miss Holloway—”

  “It is.”

  “Well?”

  “Could you tell us what you’re after during these readings?”

  Wells cocked an eyebrow. “What I’m after, Miss Holloway?”

  “What do you want from us?” she said. “When Lucy reads, for instance. Let’s say it isn’t good…”

  Asshole, Lucy thought.

  “…should we give feedback?”

  Sherilyn sat forward. “Truthfully, I’ve wondered the same thing.”

  Anna tossed her scarlet hair over her shoulder. “Do our opinions have any bearing on whether someone is eliminated?”

  Lucy stared at her, thinking, Colossal asshole!

  Wells laughed silently. “Come now, Miss Holloway. You’re pupils, not editors.”

  “Why are we here then?” Sherilyn asked.

  “Why indeed.” Wells leaned back. “Have you ever played a team sport, Miss Jackson?”

  “Not my thing.”

  “You, Miss Kovalchyk?”

  Elaine offered a shrug. “In seventh grade I was on the volleyball B-team. Someone spiked me in the face and broke my glasses.”

  “The rest of you?”

  Will, Rick, and Anna nodded. Bryan frowned at his hands.

  Lucy thought, Can I sit down now?

  “A good coach differentiates his instruction because no two players learn the same way. However, embedded in his public correction will be lessons for the rest of the team, universal truths from which they can all benefit.”

  Anna leaned forward. “So when you tell Lucy everything that’s wrong with her piece—”

  “Take it easy,” Rick said.

  “—you’ll really be addressing all of us?”

  Wells narrowed his eyes at Anna. “You speak as though you want Miss Still to fail.”

  Anna shrugged. “I’ve read enough of her work.”

  Lucy’s belly gurgled. Of all the things she needed at the moment, diarrhea was the least of them.

  Wells looked at Lucy. “We’re waiting.”

  So Lucy read, her voice dry and croaky at first, but gaining lubrication after Rick handed her a bottle of water. As she took a couple swigs, he said, under his breath, “I used to get dry as a bone when I’d give a speech.” His tone went lower, so she had to strain to hear him. “The good thing is, you’ve got a script. Read it proudly. Taste the words. I know how dumb that sounds, but it works. Your words have texture, different flavors. Savor them. Know this is a great story.”

  Anna gave Rick a caustic look. “Knight in shining armor, huh?”

  He shook his head. “Lucy doesn’t need to be saved.”

  A warm wave spread through her belly, her innards no longer churning.

  She looked down at her pages. Thought, Fuck fear.

  And read, “‘Unfortunately for Jenna Carter, the ice pick in her cerebellum didn’t bring instant death.’”

  Chapter Four

  When Lucy finished, there was a thick silence. Amanda Wells and Miss Lafitte had entered the courtyard at some point. She must have gone on for at least fifteen minutes because the gloaming light had all but drained from the sky.

  To Lucy’s surprise, Elaine was the first to applaud.

  Her clapping wasn’t ironic, either; her accompanying smile seemed genuine. Will and Sherilyn joined in, applauding lustily. Rick did as well, though Lucy looked away from him quickly when she felt her eyes begin to burn.

  Miss Lafitte headed back inside the house, but Amanda set aside her drink to join in.

  Lucy became aware of muttered words. Wells and Wilson conferring.

  Wells waited for the adulation to die down. “Yes, Miss Still, that was rather good.” He rose. “Would you mind sitting while I share a few thoughts?”

  There was no sensation in her feet as she made her way to her chair. Sitting, she glanced at Rick and exhaled powerfully. He extended his fist, and after a confused moment, she bumped it with her own.

  Feeling better than she could remember feeling, she listened to Wells, who had taken her place before the group.

  “I selected Miss Still tonight because the early chapters of The Fred Astaire Murders showed considerable promise.” He favored her with a look that made her forget his past cruelties. “I’m happy to say the manuscript has only improved since then.” Wells nodded at Elaine. “Miss Kovalchyk, you were the first to applaud. Why?”

  “Surprising, huh?” she said and gave Lucy a mordant grin. “I have trouble admitting when I’m wrong, but…I was wrong. I still think she was given her big break because of her looks and her age—”

  “Hey now,” Sherilyn protested.

  “—however,” Elaine went on, “it’s clear to me she’s learned a lot in the years since. The characters are just terrific. Especially the protagonist.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said.

  Anna watched her with a speculative gleam.

  Wells noticed it too. “Something to add, Miss Holloway?”

  Anna cleared her throat. “What I want to know is how you’ll make it stand out in a saturated suspense market. The plot seems engaging enough. But…I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t strike me as special.”

  Rick gave her a look. “Then you weren’t listening.”

  “Just because you two are sleeping together—”

  “Yikes,” Will said. “No need to get nasty.”

  “That’s what nasty people do,” Sherilyn said.

  “Please, everyone,” Wells said, raising his arms for order. “Let’s keep our heads.”

  They all fell silent, but the antagonism crackled the air like an electrical charge. Rick was staring at Anna as if seeing her for the first time.

  Wells said, “Miss Holloway asked how this novel will stand out in a crowded marketplace, a question I’m happy to answer, having some experience in the industry myself.”

  Sherilyn nodded and winked at Lucy, who found herself smiling despite her nerves.

  “First of all,” Wells said, “the book has a splendid premise. That is essential. Secondly, Miss Kovalchyk brought up the protagonist, and while I’d echo her sentiment, I would assert that it is your villain, Miss Still, that tips the scales in the novel’s favor. He is charming, attractive, and absolutely ruthless. Writing instructors correctly point out that a villain needs to be the hero of his own story, but what they forget is that the villain also needs to be frightening. In fact, I’d argue that the effectiveness of a story is directly correlated to the threat posed by the antagonist.” He turned to Lucy. “Your antagonist, with his slicked-back hair, his rugged good looks, and his elegant attire, is effective because of the brutality lurking beneath. I even like the Florida-shaped birthmark on his neck.” He tipped his head. “Well done, Miss Still.”

  Lucy kept quiet, worried that if she said the wrong thing, Wells might take it all back.

  Wells rose, the warm glow of the courtyard sharpening his handsome features. “Remember that your villain must be both mysterious and comprehensible. You mustn’t allow the audience to know what he will do, yet his actions must always make sense in retrospect.” Wells stopped, looked at Anna. “You must provide him with a motivation. A purpose.” He continued to pace. “Revenge. A desire for power. Even self-preservation.” He nodded. “Make your villains live, my friends. Through them, you shall become legend.”

  Rick shifted in his chair, seemed about to say something. If Wells noticed Rick’s reaction, he didn’t let on.

  “That is all for tonight,” Wells said. “You have work to do,
and I’d like to have a drink with my wife.”

  They laughed and got to their feet.

  They were migrating toward the French doors when Wells called, “Miss Still. A moment.”

  She told Rick she’d catch up with him, returned to where Wells stood gazing up at the nearly black sky. “I wanted to reiterate my appreciation for your pages. They were inspired.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Inspired by what, that’s the question,” Wells said. “The Fred Astaire Killer is able to get close to his victims before puncturing their brains with sharp objects.”

  Lucy nodded.

  “I wonder then,” Wells continued, “if perhaps the idea of betraying someone close to you is familiar.”

  Lucy tightened.

  “Yes,” Wells said, a vicious grin curving his lips. “I suspect it is. I suspect your sister would have a deep appreciation of this theme.”

  Lucy bit down on the scream that arose in her throat.

  Chapter Five

  Eight the next morning, and Anna was waiting. Come on, Lucy, she thought. Get your ass up.

  She imagined Lucy sleeping in, a complacent smile on her face after last night’s triumph. But she wasn’t fooling Anna. Anyone could take a few chapters, polish them, make them glimmer. The rest of the manuscript probably sucked.

  The fact that Wells raved about it in front of everyone – the first time he’d complimented a writer publicly – had kept her up most of the night. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to do her best work today. Not without gallons of coffee.

  A knock next door scattered Anna’s thoughts.

  Rick, Anna thought. Showing up to escort his darling to breakfast.

  Christ, it made her sick.

  Where’d you meet your husband? someone would ask Lucy ten years from now.

  Oh, it’s the wildest story! We were actually part of the same competition. Yes, the Wells writing retreat? Rick was one of the other writers. He helped me win.

  No! Anna thought. Lucy was not going to win this competition. Wells had praised her out of pity. Trying to make the retreat more competitive. The same reason he crapped on Anna’s work. He was propping up the weaker writers to ensure the stronger ones didn’t run away with the prize.

  Footsteps next door. Anna listened as the door creaked open.

  “Hey,” a voice said. Not Rick. One of the women.

  “What’s up, Elaine?” Lucy asked.

  Anna frowned. Now why.…

  “I know it’s early,” Elaine said, “but I wanted to say it before I go—”

  “What?” Lucy asked, a sharpness puncturing the grogginess in her voice.

  “This isn’t a good fit for me,” Elaine explained. “Wells is right. I have a long way to go before I’m ready for the big stage.”

  Anna pumped a fist. Yes.

  “Hold on a second,” Lucy said. The sound of her door closing. Both voices in the hallway now. “You need to reconsider.”

  What? Anna thought. Are you crazy? Let her go! We’ll be down to six!

  “I bet your story is good,” Lucy said.

  Anna made a fist, tapped it against her thigh.

  “That’s sweet of you,” Elaine said, “but yours was on a different level.”

  They both suck, Anna thought. You both suck.

  Lucy started to speak, but Elaine overrode her. “It isn’t just the writing.”

  A pause.

  Lucy: “What else is there?”

  Elaine: “Ghosts.”

  Anna frowned.

  Lucy: “You mean.…”

  Elaine: “I mean what I said. Look, I did something bad once. It was a mistake. But…I’m having nightmares about it.”

  Silence from Lucy. Anna couldn’t breathe.

  Elaine, on the edge of a sob: “I would have left last night, but I was too afraid.”

  Lucy: “It’s okay…here, do you want me to get you—”

  Elaine: “Don’t.” A softening. “Really, it’s very sweet of you. But…before I go I wanted to tell you I was wrong. Too little, too late.” A rueful laugh. “Story of my life.”

  Lucy: “You’re only in your twenties.”

  Elaine: “And emotionally, I’m in my teens. God, my poor parents. I’ve been such a bitch.”

  Lucy: “I don’t think you should go.”

  Elaine: “I’ll stay with my folks while I get myself together.”

  After a long silence.…

  Lucy: “You should call me one of these days. My number—”

  Elaine: “Let’s not pretend we’re pals, all right? What do we have in common, other than being part of this horror show?”

  Lucy muttered something unintelligible.

  Elaine: “I’ve gotta go. I just wanted you to know I was sorry.”

  Elaine finally left, which saved Anna the trouble of projectile vomiting from all their heartfelt words. Anna paced, working herself up to what she had to do. With four writers eliminated, there were fewer who might discover her, but that didn’t ease her nerves. Being caught meant elimination, maybe even prosecution. The risk was extreme.

  The alternative, however, was worse.

  She refused to allow Lucy to win.

  After an interminable wait, Lucy finally left.

  Anna counted to twenty, and when she heard no one stirring, she emerged from her room and hurried next door.

  Which Lucy hadn’t locked. Funny how trusting everyone was around here. She assumed some of them had brought the means to back up their work, but her suspicion was that most of them hadn’t.

  She was counting on Lucy being one of those who hadn’t. Even after all Lucy had been through, there was something naïve about her.

  Anna snatched the laptop from the desk, as well as the printed manuscript, and hurried to Lucy’s door. Listened. If someone came, she was screwed.

  Silence from the hallway.

  Anna slipped out the door and hustled to her room. After locking her door behind her, she opened the laptop on her bed.

  Lucy’s story popped up right away. Though she knew Lucy might return to her room at any moment and discover the missing laptop, her curiosity overcame her, and she found herself skimming several chapters.

  The inside of Anna’s mouth was bleeding before she realized she’d been biting it.

  The story was good, dammit, and what was worse, the writing was confident, strong, the antithesis of the milquetoast whimper of Lucy’s last two books.

  Anna moved the cursor to Edit.

  Clicked Select All.

  She only paused a second before choosing Delete.

  Save.

  Anna closed the now empty file, debated for a moment, then dragged the file into the recycle bin.

  She emptied the recycle bin.

  Anna paused, chewing her lip. The taste of copper filled her mouth.

  She worried the file could still be recovered. She didn’t think so, but what if she was wrong?

  She thought of The Fred Astaire Murders.

  Scowled at the computer.

  No. She couldn’t take any chances.

  The only way to be sure was to destroy the laptop and the printed copy.

  Anna pushed to her feet.

  She moved to her dresser, fetched a baggy gray sweatshirt. She would look absurd in it, but what could she do? She didn’t have a sack to carry the laptop in, didn’t bring a large enough purse. Yet it was at least seventy degrees outside. She’d be a spectacle with the suspicious bulge in her belly.

  Anna paced. She couldn’t smuggle it out. Too many people might see her. The other writers. Wilson. Miss Lafitte. Amanda Wells.

  Roderick Wells.

  Her insides shriveled at the prospect:

  My, my, Miss Holloway. Balmy day for a swe
atshirt.

  I have a sunburn, Mr. Wells. I was just trying to protect my—

  —chances of winning. Yes, I know exactly what you’re protecting. And I know precisely what you have stashed under that ridiculous sweatshirt. I want you off my property within the hour, Miss Holloway, and you’ll be hearing from my attorney.…

  Anna gazed down at the computer, not really seeing it. Seeing only the disbelieving stares of her fellow writers, knowing she’d have to live with yet another bad deed.

  The main floor was crawling with people. Even if she managed to slip outside with the computer, anyone could glance out the window and catch a glimpse of—

  Anna’s eyes snapped open.

  If everyone was downstairs or outside, that left only one option.

  Anna seized the pages, shut the machine with a clap, and hurried to the door. Listened. Emerged from her room, found the hallway empty. If someone saw her now, she could claim the laptop and pages were her own.

  Soon she was on the third floor, her mind racing. She hadn’t spent much time up here, in fact had only visited one place, the ballroom, and she had terrible memories of her night there.

  Still…she did remember several storage cabinets along one wall.

  Anna made a beeline for the ballroom and slipped inside.

  No need for lights, though it was awfully dim in here. The skylights, however, provided enough illumination for her to make out the cabinets. Heart pounding, she hurried across the dully gleaming floor, swerved toward a cabinet. Found it open and bent to slide the machine and the pages onto the bottom shelf.

  The laptop bumped something before she could slide it all the way to the back of the cabinet, and when she leaned down to see what the obstruction was, a white face lunged at her and bit down on her fingers. Anna screamed, attempted to pull away, but the teeth clamped down harder, the white face pinched with hate, and she realized she was shrieking because the face was Justine’s, despite the mud in her black hair and the bluish-white cast of her rotting flesh. Justine was growling, grinning, the middle three fingers of Anna’s right hand tearing loose at the knuckles. Anna writhed, thrashed to be free. It was tugging at her, laughing around her spurting fingers, the blood coating Justine’s cheeks in bright red splashes, and as Anna struggled harder, the fingers tearing loose now, the Justine-thing moved with her, began to lurch out of the cabinet. For a moment Anna believed she could break away from the Justine-thing, but when the dirty, broken fingernails sank into her thighs, she knew there was no escape.