Endgame (16 page)

I
n
the morning, breakfast was prepared and eaten communally by seven miserable, grim people. The coffee helped lighten the mood a little, but the steady rain outside the window predicted yet another day, and possibly another night, of being stranded on the island.

From the faces surrounding him, Spike could tell that no one had had a great sleep. He hadn't slept at all. His arm felt better, but he'd helped himself to the crystal meth in the bowl in the parlour and stayed up all night, his mind a phantasmagoria of evil-looking creatures and paranoid thoughts.

“First things first,” Spike said, running his fingers through his hair. “I think we need to do another run of the island to make sure Edwards hasn't returned. At the same time, we should investigate the knapsack or whatever it was that Sandra saw floating off the west end of the island yesterday.” He looked at Max. “And I think this time, you should help, Max. We're going to need your muscle to help me get down the cliff.”

Max turned a sullen gaze at him. “Who appointed you fucking king-shit leader of this shithole?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Spike snapped. “Or do you just want to sit here and wait till they come and get us?”

Max shrugged and turned to Sami Lee.

“Will you be okay while I'm gone?”

“I'll be okay,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

Sami Lee, Verna, and Crispin stayed behind in the house. One by one, Spike, Max, Sandra, and Pete suited up and trekked outside. Spike grabbed a long coil of yellow nylon rope as they left. The rain wasn't as heavy as it had been on the previous day, but the mist hung thick in the boughs of the trees overhead.

“Watch out for that dog,” Spike warned. “He's got nasty teeth.”

Before long, the foursome was thoroughly soaked as they pushed their way through the scrub past the low-lying branches of cedars. It was slippery going on the rocks.

They split up in the same location as on the previous day, with Spike and Pete taking the alternate route this time, while Sandra and Max went the other way around. There was no sign of the stray dog, though more then once Sandra sensed it following them and keeping track of the humans who had invaded its home.

As agreed, they met again at the far end of the island near where Sandra had seen the floating object.

Spike looped the rope around a cedar trunk, making a primitive pulley. He looked at the others.

“Anyone want to volunteer to make the first flight?” he asked mockingly. “No?”

“We'll stay here and make sure the tree doesn't pull out of the ground, Spike,” Max told him tauntingly. “Someone's gotta have your back.”

Spike grunted, whether in agreement or resignation. He tied the rope around his waist and tossed the other end over the cliff, slowly lowering himself down.

They waited and watched as he slipped from view, taking care not to stand too close to the edge should the rock crumble and take them all down with it. Spike seemed to disappear in the mist as he got closer to the surface of the water.

After a minute, they heard him call up.

“I see something. Sandra's right — it looks like a knapsack.”

There was silence for a minute. The rope strained as Spike descended farther.

Suddenly, they heard him shout, “Holy shit!”

The rope zig-zagged wildly for a moment as though he might be fighting with something at the other end.

“What is it?” Sandra yelled down. “Are you okay?”

For a moment, there was no answer. Then Spike replied. “Give me a minute. Fucking hell. I'll tell you when to pull me back up.”

They waited as the rope turned and settled. Then Spike called up.

“I'm ready. Pull me up.”

After a good deal of sweating and cursing, Spike's head appeared, followed by the rest of him, soaked to the skin. He collapsed in a heap. For a moment all he could do was lie there and shake his head. Finally, he pushed himself upright.

“What was it?” Sandra asked, agitated. “For god's sake, tell us!”

“It was Edwards,” Spike said slowly and quietly.

“What?” a chorus of disbelieving voices cried out.

“He's drowned down there. I tied the other end of the rope to his body. We'll have to pull him up.”

With more sweating and heaving, they pulled on the rope till Edwards's body appeared and flopped onto the rocks at their feet. They all stood looking in horror at his battered face.

“I saw an oar as well,” Spike said. “It looks like he didn't make it very far. His boat must have been swamped.”

Max glared. “And all this fucking time we've scared ourselves shitless thinking he was coming back for us. What fucking idiots we are!”

“No, Max,” Spike said. “We made a logical deduction. It seemed likely it was Edwards, and we left it at that. So now it looks like it's been Harvey all along.”

“Fucking Harvey!” Max screamed, kicking at a tree root.

Sandra turned to them. Her voice was quietly terrified. “Who's to say he wasn't coming back to get us in the middle of the night?”

The faces that stared at one another betrayed a combination of anger and bewilderment. Spike knelt beside the body and felt around inside his jacket pockets.

“What do you think you'll find?”

“Edwards left here yesterday with the one working cellphone on the island. Maybe he's still got it on him …”

He gave a triumphant yell and pulled out a plastic-encased BlackBerry. He pressed the On button and watched, barely able to stifle a cry of jubilation as the screen lit up. They all watched hopefully as the logo came up and disappeared, followed by the normal display. On it, they read two words:
You're next
. It was dated the morning of the previous day.

“Oh, shit!” Pete said.

“That's why he ran,” Spike said. “He decided to get out while he could, and left the rest of us here to face it. At least he did us one favour — now we can phone for help.”

Suddenly, the text faded. The screen sputtered and died.

“No way!” Max roared.

Spike shook the phone. He powered it off and pressed the On button again, but it refused to restart. “I don't fucking believe this,” he said in a weary voice.

Sandra moaned and dropped to a crouch. She sobbed and wrapped her arms around her knees. No one made a move to comfort her.

Endgame
, said the Voice in Pete's ears.

After a few minutes, Sandra shook her head and stood up. “We'd better go,” she said.

Between them, they hoisted Edwards's body and carried him through the trees back to the house. Verna was waiting for them. She opened the door as they climbed the steps. No one spoke as they carried Edwards into his former room behind the kitchen.

“How many more bodies are we gonna stow away before this place starts to smell to high heaven?” Max asked.

Spike shot him a look. “We aren't going to be there that long, so don't worry about it. Besides, we can't just leave them out in the rain. The dog might get at them.”

Verna shivered. “Four,” she said ominously. “That's four of us now.”

Pete nodded. He was thinking of the five downed chess pieces. “On the fourth day of shagging, my true love gave to me four oceans to drown in …”

“No!” Verna's hand went up to cover her mouth.

Spike looked at Pete, speechless for once. After a moment, he said, “What are the others again? Five tongues of fire …”

“David died of electrocution,” Verna said in a tearful voice.

“Three evil Jujubes …” Spike sang softly.

“And Janice died when she took the codeine pills,” Verna supplied.

They stopped and looked at each other.

“Nobody's been shot, though,” Spike said, sounding a little bit relieved. “No silver bullets.”

Sandra gasped. “The recipe!”

“What recipe?” Pete asked.

“For the drink … the drink Noni asked for. I saw it when Edwards was making it. It's called a Silver Bullet. What he drank was a Silver Bullet.”

“Fuck me,” Spike said.

“And a love song full of hate …” Max filled in. “That's for all of us, is my guess.” He turned to look at Verna. “Except you, sister. How come you're not named in this little charade?”

Verna stood there, eyes wide. “I don't know.”

Max watched her for a while then said, “I don't believe you. You're connected with this sordid fucking history somehow, unless …” Here he stopped and looked around at everyone else in the room. “Unless you're the murderer, of course.”

He let the statement hang in the air.

“I'm not …” Verna said breathlessly. “I'm not a murderer,” she repeated, looking at all of them.

“Then who are you?” Spike said, following Max's lead.

“Her name is Verna Temple, according to my files,” Sandra said.

Spike's head jerked up. “Temple?”

“Yes,” Verna said. “My name is Temple.”

Spike sat back in his chair and watched her with narrowed eyes. “Now isn't that a coincidence? That's the same last name as that kid who used to hang around with us.” He snapped his fingers. “What was his name, Max?”

“Werner,” Max said.

“That's it,” Spike said. “Werner Temple. Have you got a brother, Verna?”

Verna shook her head. “He died.” She looked at Spike. “I told you that yesterday.”

Spike shrugged. “So you said.”

“But it's true!” Verna cried.

Spike glared at her. “You also said his name was Tyler.”

A panicked look spread across Verna's face. “That's true. His name was Tyler.”

Without warning, Max slapped her cheek.

“Think again, Verna. Have you got a brother named Werner?”

She put a hand to her face and shook her head.

Max slapped her a second time while the others watched. “I'm gonna ask you again, Verna, and I want to hear the truth. Do you have a brother named Werner?”

Verna looked up fearfully, her lipstick smeared and hair dishevelled. She rubbed the back of a hand against her mouth to wipe away the blood.

“Please don't hit me agai—” she began, as Max's hand smashed against the other side of her face. She screamed.

“Whether he's dead or alive, I wanna hear you tell us that you have a brother named Werner.”

“I don't have a brother named Werner,” she began, but her words were stopped dead as Max slapped her harder.

Verna sobbed and shrieked, “My brother is dead. My brother is dead!”

“Werner is dead?” Max asked.

Verna hesitated then shook her head,
no
.

“So Werner is alive?” Max asked.

Again, she hesitated before shaking her head,
no
.

Max raised his fist to hit her again, but Spike stopped him.

“No,” he said. “This isn't helping.”

“The fucking bitch is playing games with us, man!” Max shouted. “I'm gonna fucking beat it out of her if I have to kill her.”

He made to strike her again, but Spike stopped him. Verna screamed and fell on the floor cowering, her arms over her face.

“No, no,” she sobbed. “My brother is …”

“Your brother is what?” Max demanded. “Tell us what Werner is.”

“Don't make me say it …”

“Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Werner is … Werner is … me.”

There was a stunned silence in the room.

“I'm Werner,” Verna sobbed quietly. “I'm Werner.”

Max grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “You're what?”

Verna shook her head and took a deep breath. “I'm Werner Temple. I'm Verna Temple.”

“Fucking hell,” Spike said.

Max looked her over. “Holy shit,” he said, and let go of her wrist.

Verna stood upright on her own. She smoothed her clothes and looked around at all of them.

“I'm … I used to be … Werner. Now I'm Verna.”

A
lthough
none of the guests trapped on Shark Island would ever see it, a small notice appeared in that morning's edition of
Noise
magazine, along with the other more prominent music tabloids. Except for
Noise
, where it was featured in a news brief on page two, the announcements were buried at the back of the other magazines alongside the tail ends of longer articles. The news was not considered worthy or important enough to be given more prominence, but was simply meant as an epitaph to an era of excess and deceit that had coloured the music industry in a time now past.

The article read as follows:

Harvey Keill, 54, band manager, was found dead in his Chicago apartment on September 20 just before noon. His cleaning lady, who discovered the body, said he hadn't been answering her calls for at least two days prior.

Keill was once considered a superstar manager, but in recent years his star faded until he was little more than a half-forgotten legend. In his day, Keill was credited with having created the Ladykillers, a group that would form the basis of a punk-rock revival in the late eighties and early nineties. The Ladykillers broke up amidst a storm of controversy, both personal and financial, in the late nineties.

An unsubstantiated coroner's report suggests Mr. Keill died ingesting a poisonous substance mailed to him inside a CD case. A CD containing a copy of the Ladykillers' hit, “The Twelve Days of Shagging,” was found at his desk alongside a half-full box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

A full investigation is pending.

Had the news in fact reached Shark Island, the announcement still might not have been believed, as much as it might have helped round out Pete Doghouse's theory of twelve intended murder victims. To the seven people trapped on the tiny piece of rock in the middle of Puget Sound, however, the presence of Harvey Keill still seemed to be very much alive and well.

“Just another bad publicity stunt,” Spike Anthrax would have said, had he heard the news.

And he might have convinced them that this too was true.