A rocky outcropping. A simple shadow. A nothing. Safe again for the moment. I lowered my head. I was cold. I scooted back to get my clothes. Damp as they were, I threw them on.
Not setting a watch. Were we exhausted emotionally and physically? Certainly. But it had been stupid. A mistake. Perhaps not our first one since we found Henry Tudor’s body. We were alive and safe. For the moment.
I eased my way back toward the front of the cavern. The surf pounded. The rain poured. The usual. I stepped around the last sheltering rock outcropping. Waterfalls cascaded from the lip of the entrance. If it wasn’t a mostly flat rocky island, there would have been massive flooding. I no longer saw gusts of horizontal rain. The wind was down. I stepped the last several feet to the entrance.
Blake Klimpton lay three feet beyond the threshold.
I leapt back into the cavern. I watched from behind the outcropping. I didn’t see the chest rise and fall. He wouldn’t be quarterbacking any more games. Rain pelted the wrestling singlet he wore. It was totally soaked. I hurried back to Scott. He was just waking up. I announced, “There’s a dead body in the doorway.”
Scott looked at me. He wakes up slowly. “You sure?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“I didn’t do an autopsy.”
I got a nasty look for that crack.
I said, “It’s Blake Klimpton. I didn’t see him breathing. He’s soaking wet.”
He pulled his damp clothes on. We both shrugged into our ponchos then we both crept to the opening. Scott gazed on the presumed corpse.
Scott said, “The killer was here.” A thrum of fear hummed through his hushed voice.
I said, “Did he know we were in here? Is this a message?”
“We don’t know why he’s killing. What message would he have to give us, except be afraid, be very afraid? I’m way past very afraid. If I was into that kind of thing, I’d be ready for a mad blind panic.”
I felt Scott’s body shivering. Outside the warmth of the inner cavern and without the covering of the blankets, meager as they had been, it was cold. And there was a dead body not more than ten feet from us and a killer had been close enough to commit murder sometime in the night.
I put my arm around him. A few moments later, he whispered, “We didn’t set a watch.”
“I know.”
“We could be dead.”
“Yep. We screwed up.”
He lowered his head. “I’ve never been so scared,” he whispered. “I’ve never been so frightened.” His shivering increased. In the darkness I held him until I felt his body become calm.
I said, “We were exhausted. We made a mistake. We’re alive. We can get through this.” He nodded. I said, “We’ve got to look at the body.”
He said, “Why? What difference would it make if we knew how Klimpton died?”
“We’d know what questions to ask the next person.”
“Why? Are you expecting to find someone actually alive on this island?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I think we’ll be lucky to survive. I don’t hold out much hope for anybody. Until this storm stops we are at the mercy of whoever has planned these murders.”
“We’ve got to figure out who and why. We’ve got to take preventative steps.”
“We thought we’d be safe here. We weren’t. Hiding didn’t work all that well. All the running around we’ve done since we found Henry Tudor’s body hasn’t done us much good.”
“Maybe the killer didn’t know we were in the cavern.”
“Why drag a body all the way out here if not for some purpose? It’s not easy toting around a corpse.”
“It’s an aesthetically pleasing spot for a corpse?”
“There’s a tortured title if I ever heard one.”
“The killer is into corpse art and this is his entry in a ‘corpse placement’ competition?”
“Is this much humor appropriate?”
“It’s better than running along the cliffs screaming at the top of our lungs. Nobody’s going to come to help us if we remain calm. Nobody’s going to come to help us if we panic. Panic might feel good for a little while, but I think calm is going to be a bigger help.”
Scott said, “But somebody was trying to scare us? Why bother? Why not just kill us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he thought we were still armed. Until our ammunition ran out, we could hold off a siege. If we had any ammo.”
“Or guns,” I added.
I looked out at the rain and then at the corpse. I knew it was futile, but we had to make a final check to see if Klimpton was alive. I approached the corpse carefully. Scott stayed back a few steps.
I thought the wrestling singlet was a singularly inappropriate costume for such cold weather. He had on gym shoes and white sox. The singlet, as all singlets I’d ever seen, not that I’d noticed, bulged obscenely at the crotch. The rain had further tightened the garment to his body. Enough details were readily apparent to qualify for “corpse porn.” It was gross.
I had to examine him partly in the rain. I didn’t see the wound until I turned him over. He had a bullet hole in the side of his head away from us. Blood was still seeping and being washed away by the rain. We wouldn’t have heard a distant shot. Or maybe the shot disturbed my sleep and led to my eventual awakening.
I scuttled back. “Bullet hole. Still bleeding.”
“We didn’t hear anything.”
“You mean I didn’t. You never wake up.” This is true. Scott could sleep through the Last Trumpet.
“Some of the others had bullet holes.”
“The shot might have come from far away. Maybe he was trying to take refuge in the cavern just like we were. Or maybe he got shot somewhere else and managed to stagger here.”
“A shot to the head?”
“It would depend on what part of the brain got damaged. Death is seldom as fast as it is portrayed in the movies and on television.”
“Why come here?”
“It would be out of the rain. It’s unlikely anyone could sneak up on you. It might be safe. Maybe he saw us come in here.”
“This is really creepy” Scott said. “Why is he wearing the singlet?”
“No idea.”
We heard footsteps approaching the cavern. We stepped back into the shadows. The steps seemed slow and deliberate despite the pouring rain. The figure was muffled inside a gray poncho, hooded sweatshirt, ski mask, and wide-brimmed hat. The person looked to be about average height. He wore jeans. I couldn’t tell who it was. The person walked directly up to the corpse. He stooped down and turned it over until he saw the bullet hole. I heard a grunt, of satisfaction? I neither saw nor heard a startled or violent reaction. Then he took the corpse and began rolling it the few feet to the edge of the cliff. It was not an easy task, and whoever it was had to get on his knees, roll the dead body, move closer again, and repeat the procedure.
“We’re trapped in here,” I whispered. “If he knows we’re here or suspects or even decides to just check it out, we have no exit.”
“We can’t just take off running.”
“We may have to.”
Scott said, “But he must assume we’re still armed. Only we know we aren’t.”
“They blew up a castle. This cavern is made of solid rock, but I’m guessing getting crushed by one hell of a lot of stone would not be a plus, and they’ve got all the rest of the guns. Or while it could be damp, all they’d have to do is sit out there and we’d starve.”
“We’ve got water. The storm has got to end. Help will come.”
“The rich can get away with anything.”
“I don’t believe that,” Scott said.
Sometimes he was wonderfully naive and it was charming. This was not one of those moments.
I said, “We’re stuck with some awful choices. Staying or leaving could get us killed.”
“Are we sure the killer knows we’re here?”
“I don’t know.” And the uncertai
nty was almost worse than the actual danger.
The corpse roller had the body halfway to the cliff. He paused in his work. He didn’t seem tremendously hurried, or afraid of being interrupted. Was everyone else on the island dead? Was everyone else on the island in league with this killer? Was he just cleaning up some mess? For that matter, why move the corpse? He got to the edge of the cliff, and with a final shove from the killer, the corpse disappeared from view.
“Jesus Christ,” Scott said.
The killer rose to his feet and began walking back toward us. I hefted one of the rocks from around the long dead fire. Scott did the same. I let him take the most advantageous spot for throwing. He was a major league pitcher. If one of us was going to hit something, it was most likely going to be him.
I whispered, “I could throw first and distract him.”
But my words must have been a shade too loud, or maybe he caught our movement. The killer looked to the opening behind which we hid. It was far dimmer in the cavern than out, but we might have given ourselves away. Scott didn’t hesitate. He stepped out, cocked his arm, and threw. Scott can heave a fastball at nearly one hundred miles an hour. Even without warming up, the rock took off at high speed. As the projectile flew, the killer began to raise his gun. The rock arrived a second later. Perhaps he never saw it. Scott’s rock banged him just above his left eyebrow. He staggered to his knees. I tossed my rock. It hit him in his midsection. I heard an “oof.” The gun swung wildly in our direction. He began firing.
We dashed out the entrance of the cavern. Unfortunately, Scott and I turned in different directions.
Seconds later when I realized Scott was no longer near me, I turned back. By now the killer was on his feet. He was staggering in my direction, gun pointed. I was soaked again. I kept running. At least he wasn’t going after Scott. I heard a gunshot. A bullet scored the mud in the path ahead of me. Rain quickly filled in the small declivity. I sped on.
The very thing I was determined to not have happen, splitting up, and now it had.
I was on the inland path. Scott must be on the coast-hugging route.
I zigzagged to make myself a more difficult target to hit. Running in the rain can be pleasant and romantic, I suppose. This was definitely not one of those times. I had to be careful of slipping in the mud.
And I wasn’t shooting back. The killer could logically conclude that I was no longer armed, that I was a total pacifist, an antigun nut, or that I was a raving looney who wasn’t going to shoot back. Either way, I was screwed.
The path itself twisted somewhat. Soon I was heading inland over rocky, unpleasant side paths that wandered among stunted trees and furze bushes. I was thankful for any bits of vegetation. The farther I went inland, the ground rose and fell somewhat and the cover became to some extent more constant. There were no real places to hide. A clump of bushes might shield me from eyes racing behind me, or provide a temporary cover, but a close examination would quickly reveal my presence. The island did not lend itself to concealment.
I ran on. I knew I would be exposed at a far headland in about a mile. I had to be well ahead. I sprinted along taking the declivities and the high spots with equal speed. The surf was down somewhat. I wondered if the tide was out. I hoped Scott wasn’t dodging waves that crashed above the normal shoreline. I ran. The years of working out never paid off more.
I worried about Scott. I wondered where he would go. I wondered if I shouldn’t slow down to make sure the killer kept chasing me and didn’t go after Scott. I heard a shot and saw the splinter of stone about five feet from my left foot. So, it was me. Unless there were two of them, or all the rest of them were after Scott with only one after me.
I kept running. As I neared the headland, I looked back. I couldn’t see anyone. I was panting only slightly by this time. I was used to running. At the start of the headland, I made a mad dash for the shallow gully on the other side. Now my breathing began to come in ragged gasps. I heard no shots and saw no remnants of scored ground. As I turned the corner that led to the decline I slipped on the muddy surface.
I tumbled downward. I stuck out my hands to grasp anything. I got a hold of a few weeds that helped slow me, but my grasp quickly slipped from them. I hit my shin on a boulder. I began rolling over in a somersault. I used to love doing them as a kid. I heard my poncho rip. I came to rest among and atop several boulders. Six inches from a two-hundred-foot drop into the sea below.
I stood. Everything was very sore. Nothing seemed to be broken. I needed to keep moving. I tried setting my legs in motion. Various parts of my body tried to protest. Some places hurt more than others. Since I was ambulatory it was pointless to waste time checking for specific injuries. I ran on.
I was now in a less exposed area. I slowed some. Where was I going? There was no way to get off the island. I had to catch the killer before he caught me. I had to find Scott and make sure he was safe. I had no idea how to do any of this. I decided to head for one of the empty villas near the port. I would climb to the roof. At least that would give me the best rain-obstructed view of the island. Of course, the killer could have the same thought. Perhaps it was like the killer in a teen slasher movie, no matter what thought I had, he had it first. No matter how fast I ran, he’d catch me. No matter where I went, he got there first. Such bullshit. In case the killer was a mind reader, I sent the message, die you scum, while I hustled toward the highest point I could find.
I had no idea if the killer was working alone. With this many corpses you begin to suspect a conspiracy, an extremely active killer, or an extremely lucky psychopath. If I found anyone else alive, I couldn’t be sure if they were the killer or a possible ally. No one was to be trusted at this point.
I arrived at the nearest point of the parapet thirty minutes later. I dropped out of sight behind the first building. I was higher than any other point so I couldn’t be seen from above. This villa had been empty. I could try to reach the roof for an even better view. If the castle tower had still been there and someone had a telescope, they might have been able to see me. I hunched down between the wall of the house and the wall of the parapet. There were eaves over me. At least the rain was no longer pounding down on me. My shoes squished under me on the cement. I scrunched down and moved as far back as I could.
Then I stopped. I wasn’t alone. I saw a hand and a gray running shoe, the same brand as Scott’s. They weren’t moving. I felt sick. I inched forward. The person was wearing jeans. So had Scott been. I surged forward. A purple jacket. That wasn’t Scott’s. I saw the face. Eyes staring. A bullet hole in the middle of the forehead.
It was Rufus Seymour. He was out of the rain and a bit of blood had gathered around the bullet hole. I wondered who’d killed him and how he’d gotten here. So the villa I was hiding behind contained an enemy? An armed enemy? I’d approached cautiously. And the rain would obscure the killer’s vision as much as mine. Should I chance an entry or try slipping quietly away? Could the killer have doubled back all this way that fast in the rain? I didn’t think so. Then again, had this killing also happened during the night?
I made my way to Henry Tudor’s villa. We’d been armed once. It was the only place I knew of with weapons. The magic plastic key had disappeared along with everything else.
Breaking in was easy. I just busted a window and strolled on in. No one was on guard. They didn’t expect this stuff to be stolen. The gun cabinet was still empty. I searched the rest of the villa. More nothing.
They had all the weapons, all the ammunition. I had to assume “they” was everybody else on the island.
I might have considered sitting and weeping. I would have been tempted to crawl into a hole and tremble. So much death. So little hope. But I had to help Scott. As long as he was alive, I would keep trying.
I headed for the top of Tudor’s villa. I looked in each direction. While the storm was less, the view was still obscured by the rain. I was in the middle of a cluster of graveyard furniture, white wrought iron and uncomfo
rtable. Someone had built a sun screen that I huddled under. For the moment it wasn’t pouring on me. I thought of getting towels, drying off, and changing clothes. Not with Scott still out there somewhere. I needed to go looking for him.
As I was about to turn away, I saw someone approaching. I hurried inside. I had to be careful rushing down the marble stairs. My shoes were still squishy wet. At the bottom of the stairs, I took them off. Because my socks were damp, I would leave a trail. I looked back up the stairs. A trail of wet an exceptionally inept blind mole could have followed.
I opened a nearby closet. Umbrellas, shoes, overcoats. I thrust them aside. Against the wall in the back a rusting golf putter and a few old rags. A putter wouldn’t be much of a weapon. It was better than nothing. I grabbed it and the rags. I heard the person at the front door. I made a path to the comfiest chair in Henry Tudor’s living room. The chair had its oversize back to the door. Then I scurried behind the farther door, wiping the floor after me.
I heard the front door open. I didn’t move. I heard noises of someone slipping into the house. There was silence for a moment then the footsteps resumed. They were moving toward the comfy chair. I ducked out of the room and came back into the main hallway. Effectively I was behind him.
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