Ethan’s pilfered ID badge did the trick, mostly. Every main set of doors opened easily with just a swipe of the card, but while he tried to do the same at the various offices they passed—Captain So-and-So, HR, Intake—none of them opened. The owner clearly hadn’t had top clearance.
But even a top-clearance badge wouldn’t have helped them get their hands on a gun. They passed two weapons lockers tucked into recesses of the wall in each hallway. Locked, of course. And with no discernible means of opening them: no padlocks, no card readers.
It was as if The Postman wanted to make sure that no one had the means to protect themselves unless he allowed it. Not the inmates, not even the guards.
Finally, after two identical lengths of industrial corridors, they entered the residential wing of the facility. Instead of offices and gray hallways, they found an activity room painted a cheerful shade of peach. Ping-Pong, pool table, a video-game system set up on a giant TV. Sofas, lounge chairs, magazines. All the comforts of home.
Including a computer.
Griselda sprinted across the room as soon as she saw it. A rotating skull screen saver bounced around the monitor, which paused the instant Griselda touched the mouse, waking the desktop from sleep mode. As the screen saver vanished, Griselda yanked the chair away from the table and sat, frantically tapping the keyboard.
Dee was right behind her. She leaned over Griselda’s shoulder, eyes glued to the monitor. If they could access the Internet, they could get a message off the island. “Is it working?”
Griselda placed a hand on the side of the monitor-CPU combo. “It’s purring.”
“Awesome!” Ethan said. “I think the mess hall is through here. I’ll find us some snacks.”
“And I’ll do something helpful,” Nyles said. “Like find a phone.”
Dee considered going with him, but he disappeared around the corner just as the computer screen blipped to life, displaying the corporate symbol of Postman Enterprises, Inc. Below the logo was a field labeled PASSWORD.
“Shit,” Dee said. They’d never be able to guess the security password.
But Griselda was unperturbed. “Gimme a sec.” A series of strokes brought up an MS-DOS-style window in the corner of the screen. Griselda keyed in a command, then another, and then the screen went bonkers, pixelating into a massive blur before it cleared itself.
Instead of The Postman Enterprises, Inc. logo, Dee and Griselda were staring at an e-mail window. The last person who had used the computer must have been checking his inbox when he’d been called away to that fatal meeting. He had worked for the intake department, judging by his e-mail, but it was the sender’s address that sent Dee’s heart thundering in her chest. “It’s from Postman Enterprises, Inc.”
“I bet it’s from the big guy himself,” Griselda said. “I heard he doesn’t trust his staff with anything.”
“‘Arrival schedule,’” Dee said, reading the subject line. “‘November ninth.’”
“Yesterday,” Griselda said. Then she read the beginning of the e-mail out loud. “‘Boat A, arriving eight p.m. Contents: HG.’ That must have been the Hardy Girls.” She laughed drily. “Good to know.”
“‘Boat B, arriving ten p.m.,’” Dee read.
“That’s just two hours before everyone else on the island was gassed.”
Dee continued out loud. “‘GA, BB, HB, DIY, CDV, MM.’” The meaning was clear—Gassy Al, Barbaric Barista, Hannah Ball, DIYnona, Cecil B. DeViolent, and Molly Mauler. “If Robin’s Hood and Gucci Hangman never left, that means all of the remaining Painiacs have been on the island since last night.”
“We need to get the fuck out of here.” Griselda glided the mouse over to the refresh button for the guard’s e-mail server, but Dee grabbed her hand. “Wait.”
She spun the scroll wheel, moving the screen down so she could see the rest of the e-mail. “‘Be advised: new executioners en route. Cancel current roster credentials, effective immediately. No exit.’” Dee glanced up at Griselda. “What does that mean?”
“I think The Postman is replacing the Painiacs.”
Dee’s brain whirled. If The Postman was planning to get rid of his current Painiacs, could his stunt with the Hardy Girls have been part of that plan? What if he’d never intended for Dee to be the victim—what if he’d wanted to liquidate his sister-act killers all along?
Griselda whipped the cursor back to the reload button and clicked it. “All the more reason to get off this island.”
Dee held her breath. This nightmare might be over in a matter of seconds if only they could get Internet access. A wheel spun in the middle of the screen, distorting the e-mail text, then stopped. Instead of a refreshed page, an error message popped up on the screen.
NO INTERNET CONNECTION FOUND
“Shit!” Dee smacked her palm against the table. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. The Postman had been a step ahead of them all along. Why would he slip up now?
But Griselda appeared unfazed. She had minimized the browser window and opened another command window. “Could be a firewall,” she explained while she typed frantically. “Which I can bypass.”
Dee waited while she attempted several work-arounds, all of which were totally above Dee’s computer-savvy pay grade, but after a few minutes, Griselda pushed the keyboard away in disgust. “The whole network is down.”
“Any way to fix it?”
Griselda peered over the top of the monitor. “Network cable connected,” she said. “Through the wall. I’m going to see where it leads.” She jumped to her feet and disappeared around the corner.
Dee scanned the activities room. Mara must have gone with Nyles or Ethan, neither of whom had returned. They’d promised to stick together when they entered the station, and now here they were, separated and alone. That’s when they get you.
“There’s a phone in an open office next door,” Nyles said, returning slightly out of breath. “Plus two more down the hall in another common space. All dead like the one in the sentry hut.”
“Of course they are.”
“Where did everyone go?”
“Griselda’s looking for the Internet router. No connection,” she said, before Nyles could ask.
“Figures.”
“And Mara went with Ethan to find the kitchen.”
Nyles frowned. “They should be back by now. This wing isn’t that large.”
Griselda rounded the corner to the activity room, shaking her head. “Found the router. It’s on, but no dice. Also found this cell phone in one of the desks, but something is blocking the network signal.” She held up a newer-model Android phone, the lack of network bars apparent on the home screen.
“Something?” Nyles asked.
“Military-grade network scrambling device, is my guess.”
Nyles pursed his lips. “Can we switch it off?”
Griselda shrugged. “Sure, if we could find it. But it could be anywhere in the building.”
“No phones, no Internet,” Dee said. “We’re completely cut off.”
Nyles dropped onto the sofa. “Well, this is a bloody nightmare. Why did The Postman kill everyone else but not us? It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Yeah,” Dee said. “I know.” Except she was lying. It did make sense. Perfect sense. She thought of the message scrawled on the inside of her linen closet, of her dad’s desperate attempt to tell her about Kimmi, of Kimmi’s probable connection to The Postman.
Kimmi had been released from the Western Sierra State Mental Hospital and was exacting revenge on Dee.
Kimmi had wanted Dee all to herself. A plaything. A toy. A devoted companion. Now she was playing out the rest of their scenario. I’ll kill everyone you love.
As with Monica and Blair, the deaths of her friends would be on her head. Didn’t they deserve to know why?
“I…” she began, but stopped. She’d told Monica about Kimmi, and just days later, Monica was dead. Would she be helping Nyles and Griselda by telling them the tru
th, or signing their death warrants? And at this point, did it even matter?
“Yes?”
But before Dee could finish, Mara burst into the room.
“Ethan!” she said, panting heavily. “Have you seen him?”
Dee shook her head. “Not since he left to find food.”
“Shit!”
Dee had never heard Mara swear before, and the panic in both her face and her voice was apparent. A prickly sensation slowly made its way up the back of Dee’s neck. “What’s wrong?”
Mara’s eyes shifted from Dee to Griselda. “Ethan’s disappeared.”
GRISELDA SEIZED MARA BY the shoulders. “Where did you see him last?”
“We’d found the cafeteria,” Mara said, her voice shaky. “But the ID badge wouldn’t open the kitchen door, so he was going to try and find another way in. I waited, but he never came back.”
“Show me.”
They raced out of the activities room, down a short hallway, and finally emerged into the cafeteria. It looked remarkably like the one in Dee’s high school—cavernous ceilings and lively acoustics, with a dozen round tables flanked by plastic chairs. An enormous video screen was embedded in the wall at one end, still showing the rescue of Nyles and Griselda, the acoustics of the battle in the Shining hallway pinging throughout the room. And at the back there was a cafeteria-style window, closed and locked with metal blinds, where the food was served. Somewhere, on the other side, was Ethan.
“Ethan!” Griselda cried. “Where are you?”
As if in answer, the sickening double-doorbell sound effect pinged through the cafeteria.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
“No,” Dee breathed. “Please, no.”
They all turned toward the TV screen, and there, in the middle of the shot, was Ethan.
He was in a room made of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, penning him in like it was a prison cell. But he wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way, and instead of standing calmly in the middle of the room, he pounded on the glass, trying to break free.
“You won’t take me without a fight, asshole!” Ethan yelled. Then he punched the glass with his bare fist. It gave slightly but didn’t break.
“Can anyone hear where it’s coming from?” Dee asked desperately.
They stood still, ears straining to catch the reverberations of Ethan’s pounding fists coming from somewhere outside the cafeteria, but it was impossible to hear anything other than what came through the speakers.
“We have to find him.” Griselda ran headlong at the locked cafeteria window, leaping up on the counter with the grace of an Olympic hurdler. She pulled at the metal blinds, hopelessly trying to break the lock that held them in place. Mara climbed up to help.
“Goddamn it!” Griselda screamed in frustration. “Why did we leave the ax at the shop?”
Meanwhile, Nyles and Dee tried the doors. The one on the far wall opened easily, and sunlight streamed into the cafeteria. Beyond, Dee could see the main courtyard of the guard station.
“He wouldn’t have gone outside,” Dee said, letting it close.
“Agreed.” There was only one other option—the door beside the cafeteria window.
Nyles rammed his shoulder against the metal exterior, but it didn’t budge.
“Guys!” Ethan’s voice. It almost sounded as if it was coming from inside the cafeteria instead of through speakers, and Nyles, Dee, Griselda, and Mara all stopped and stared at the video.
“This is it for me,” Ethan said, staring straight at the camera. His face was strangely calm. “Gris…” He smiled. “You know I know.”
Griselda pressed her lips together so hard they practically disappeared, and the bulging muscles in her jaw belied the fierce clenching beneath. She must have felt more for Ethan than Dee had realized.
“Stay alive for me, okay? You have to tell the world about…” Ethan’s voice trailed off as a figure moved into the frame. He was in shadow, but he carried an old-fashioned megaphone, like the kind they used in black-and-white movies. Which could only mean one thing.
“Cecil B. DeViolent,” Griselda said. “That son of a bitch.”
Cecil held the megaphone up to his mouth, turning to the side so that the camera caught his full silhouette. “Lights!”
Immediately, dozens of open-faced tungsten lights ignited, flooding the darkness around the glass room with a warm glow.
With the lights on, Dee could see that the set was some kind of office. There were several desks—off-white metal with a row of drawers alongside and computer monitors on top—flanked by wheeled chairs, and a half dozen large pieces of furniture: file cabinets, printer stations, massive outdated computer servers. Definitely an office environment, but not the least bit modern. Even the desktop computers looked like the old Apples she’d seen in a technology museum: big and heavy with black screens and unwieldy keyboards.
And to make the whole thing even weirder, the office was decorated for Christmas. Each desk had a tiny fake Christmas tree, complete with lights, and garlands had been strung along the wall behind the glass cell.
Cecil held up the megaphone again. “Actors to their places!”
He disappeared out of frame. When he returned, he carried a mannequin.
With his back to the camera, Cecil lugged the human-size doll across the set and arranged it on the floor beside one of the desks. It was dressed in black pants and a black button-down shirt, open to the sternum. Or what would have been the sternum if it weren’t made of plastic. It had what looked like a toy machine gun slung around one arm, and on its head a long blond wig.
Somewhere in the depths of Dee’s brain, a memory stirred. This scene was familiar. Something she’d seen before. But what was it?
Once satisfied with the placement of the dummy, Cecil moved across the room and crouched behind one of the servers. Finally, in the light, Dee saw that he was dressed for the location. He wore a dark business suit, light blue shirt, burgundy tie. A full beard, probably fake, shrouded his face, along with a pair of large sunglasses. By his side was a handgun.
Ethan stopped pounding on the glass and watched intently as Cecil set the scene. Slowly, a smile spread across Ethan’s face. “Oh my fucking God, are you serious here? Die Hard ? This is awesome!”
Only Ethan would be excited that his imminent death would mimic a scene from his favorite movie.
“But I need a machine gun, Cecil,” he said, immediately serious. “John McClane has one, remember? You’re not following the script.”
Cecil paused, as if thinking. Was he really going to give Ethan a machine gun? A working one? That would give him a chance. Dee’s heart raced. All Ethan needed was a chance.
But Dee’s momentary hope was immediately dashed. Cecil shook his head, then cupped his hand to his face.
“Roll film. Aaaaaand action!”
“Dude, you suck!” Ethan said.
But Cecil wasn’t listening. He turned to the blond dummy. “Karl,” he said, “schiess auf das Fenster.”
“Cut!” Ethan yelled, his face more irate than fearful. “Hey, douche! Hans says, ‘Schiess dem Fenster!’ Did you even watch the movie?”
Cecil’s shoulders drooped; his head tilted to the side in irritation. He stared at Ethan for a moment, as if he was going to argue the point, then muttered, “Fine.”
“Seriously,” Ethan said, folding his arms across his chest. “I expected a little bit more professionalism from you.”
Cecil took a long, deep breath through pursed lips, then let it out with a slow hiss. “Resetting. Aaaaaaand action!” He snapped back into character and began the scene over. “Karl, schiess dem Fenster.”
Ethan nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”
Karl, the dummy, didn’t respond. So Cecil, a.k.a. Hans, clarified his statement. “Shoot the glass.”
Ethan braced himself. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”
A wall of gunfire erupted. The glass room in which Ethan was imprisoned seemed to explode fr
om the impact, glass and bullets flying in from all directions.
Ethan didn’t even flinch. He stood firm in the middle of the room while his body was simultaneously riddled with bullets and impaled by thousands of razor-sharp shards of glass.
As suddenly as it began, the gunfire stopped. Ethan, bloodied almost beyond recognition, a smile still plastered across his face, collapsed to the floor.
“NO!”
It was more howl than cry, the sound of Griselda’s soul ripping apart as she dropped to her knees.
There was no love lost between the two of them, but Dee raced over and threw her arms around Griselda’s neck. “I’m so sorry.” There wasn’t much else to say. Nothing would bring Ethan back.
“I think,” Nyles began, his voice shaky, “if Ethan could have scripted his own death, that would have been it.”
It was true. Reenacting a scene from Die Hard was practically a dream come true for Ethan, though probably without the bloody, gruesome death part at the end, and even though Dee had never been shot, as with Blair she found comfort in believing that Ethan’s death had been instantaneous and painless.
“Yeah,” Griselda said, her voice craggy. “He would have…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Her body went rigid.
Dee pulled away. “What’s wrong?”
“He would have wanted it that way.” She was watching the screen, which was rerunning Ethan’s death.
“Actors to their places!” Cecil yelled on the video replay.
“Yeah,” Dee agreed. “He would have.”
Griselda’s face hardened; her eyes flashed with anger. “It’s the kind of death that Ethan would have wanted. Ethan.”
“What are you going on about?” Nyles said.
Griselda swung around. “The set, the dummy—Cecil must have planned it all in advance.”
“All of The Postman’s killers plan their murders well in advance,” Mara said.
“Exactly. And there were, what, like ten minutes between when Ethan was taken and the live feed started?”
“That’s weird,” Mara said. “Cecil always uses warehouse two-fourteen-B. It used to be a soundstage for a company that produced dungeon pornography.” She shook her head. “But that’s on the far side of the island. There’s no way Cecil could have gotten over there between the time Ethan disappeared and when that video began.”
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