Endgame (18 page)

“Why would she do that?” Pete asked.

“Maybe Verna's right,” Sandra said with a stricken look. “Maybe she was jealous.”

They looked around at one another.

“Between you and me,” Spike said, “I've always hated the bitch. I never trusted her. I thought she was capable of anything. She was far worse for the group than Harvey. It was Sami Lee who turned Max against the rest of us.”

“Having bad feelings toward someone is never a good reason for believing them capable of committing murder,” Crispin's rational voice spoke up. “She's peevish and hard to get along with, but let's not write her off as a killer just because of those qualities.”

“Then who do you think it is, sport?”

A grim smile played over Crispin's mouth. “In my estimation, it could just as easily be you or Sandra or Pete or even me.” He paused to let this sink in. “Let's not make silly insinuations without something to back up our suspicions. We'll all be raving lunatics before the day's out if we start suspecting everybody.”

Spike stared at him. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we all go upstairs and get dressed and carry on with our daily activities. Surely I'm not the only one with things that need attending to? Or did you want to carry out another search of the island and risk catching pneumonia? I don't think there were any antibiotics in that medicine kit.”

“No, there weren't,” Sandra confirmed.

“Well, there we go then. Let's all just concentrate on staying alive and healthy. This can't go on for much longer.”

U
p
in his room, Pete sat on his bed and tried to think. The silence in his head was deafening. The Voice hadn't spoken all morning. He remembered distinctly the first time he heard it. It was a few weeks prior to the trial, during the
build-up
of hysteria over the death of the girl, Zerin Ames. At first he wasn't sure whose voice he was hearing that morning as he stood staring at his haggard face in the bathroom mirror. He'd been on a
week-long
heroin bender. Then suddenly he heard it loud and clear. It told him to keep calm and get into a methadone clinic. If he did, it promised, the case would go well for him and the other band members.

Pete hadn't paid much attention at the time. His mind was too distracted to think. But each day as he woke it was there speaking to him, insisting he listen and do as it said. Like following a yellow brick road. And so he finally did. The very next day, he learned the charges against the band had been dropped.

The Voice came and went. It seemed to be around most whenever he needed a friend. And that was what it seemed to be, for the most part. A bossy friend, but a friend nonetheless. Like a distant conscience. At first, Pete hadn't fully trusted it, but as time wore on he realized it never intended harm. He grew to accept that it was always there with him, unheard by anyone else.

He never knew when it would speak. At times when the Voice got too insistent, Pete would try to drown it out with alcohol. Even good friends needed to learn when to back off. The tactic was effective at first, but alcohol soon became a constant. Only after a while it wasn't always so effective at keeping the Voice out. Somehow, it knew when to come looking for him. And it always found him. These days, it came through in his dreams if he managed to block it out during his waking life.

Pete sat and thought about the others in the house. Over the past few days, he'd been quietly observing their movements and waiting to see what they would do next. He felt reasonably sure the Voice knew who the murderer was, and that it would eventually reveal the secret to him. For now, it was biding its time. He could never prompt it to speak until it was ready. That's just how the Voice was.

Pete was vigilant and tried hard to listen whenever it spoke to him. It knew things, he realized, and therefore it had to be listened to when it spoke. The only thing he didn't trust, and didn't like, were the blackouts. They could come and go without warning, catching him off guard. Sometimes the Voice warned him when they were coming. When they did, he would crawl off to bed and wake hours or sometimes even days later without remembering a thing. There were no dreams during these blackouts, just a never-ending darkness that pulled him into its depths and kept him unconscious. He often wondered why the Voice never spoke to him then, but the Voice did what the Voice wanted to do. It wasn't his place to ask why.

Spike passed his doorway. He paused, looking in at Pete, who sat mumbling to himself on his bed. Sometimes he wondered what went on in his head. It had to be a strange world in there. Still, he refused to believe that Pete was dangerous.

Spike waved at him and continued down the hall to Max and Sami Lee's room. He stood before the green door a moment then let himself in. He stood looking down at Max's body. Max looked more like he was asleep than anything. Spike was half convinced he would see a slightly imperceptible rise in Max's chest as he breathed in and out.
You old faker,
he wanted to say.

But nothing happened. Spike just stood there looking down at his friend's lifeless body.
So this is it
, he told himself.
Endgame.
Checkmate. I've won, buddy. Who would have thought after all these years it would be me to survive and not you? Too bad for you, Max. But as you see, I've clearly emerged the winner. And when I leave here tomorrow, or maybe the next day, this will all be in the past. But I'll make you a promise: I'll sign those contracts to finish the recording. I'll finish it for both of us. It will be our epitaph.

He crept back out of the room and headed downstairs.

T
he day wore on. Sami Lee returned, drenched, and went upstairs without speaking to anyone. Most of the others stayed holed up in their bedrooms, but Spike preferred to sit in the drawing room staring at the chessboard that seemed to rearrange itself of its own accord. In fact, there was something different about it now, but try as he might, he couldn't bring to mind what it was.

He looked over at the stage with its setup of instruments that would never be played. The thought of finishing
Endgame
stayed with him. He and Pete could finish the tracks they recorded before the group split up. Max's part was pretty much finished. And now that Max was dead, the rivalry between them could be laid to rest forever. It seemed appropriate. The album would serve as some sort of tribute, however belated, to Max and Kent. Yes, when he got off the island and returned home, he would do it for his late bandmates.

In the other room, the bowls of goodies beckoned. He traipsed out to the parlour. It was a toss-up between the grass and the white powder. The powder won out. He took one sniff and then another. This was the most dope he'd done in years. He'd have to pull back soon or he'd be looking at another full-fledged addiction. He tried to recall the next verse for the “Twelve Days of Shagging.” Then it came to him: “seven crystals shining.” But he'd been using the stuff since he arrived.

Spike went back to the drawing room and relaxed in his chair. Despite the chemicals he'd put up his nose, he was still able to make out the smell of something burning. It was foul, like a soup pot left too long on the stove. No matter. He could feel sleep coming at last. His high was finally winding down. It was about time. He hadn't slept for days. Of course, he hadn't told anyone that he'd been awake when Max was killed. That would have been too much information for them. Obvious conclusions would have been drawn and the suspicion set to fall on him.

He'd just drifted off when he felt a prick in his neck like the sting of a bee. He tried to sit up, but his physical reactions had already begun to fail. His eyelids drooped. His muscles stopped fighting. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a scream. It was his last conscious sensation before everything went black forever.

Upstairs, everyone rushed to the aid of the screamer. Sami Lee stood in her room breathing tensely. She clutched her head with both hands while the others congregated in the hall.

“I'm going to scream again if someone doesn't get rid of it,” Sami Lee said.

Verna looked around, but could see nothing out of order except for Max's body.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The chess piece!” Sami Lee replied angrily. “Who left it there?”

There, on Max's chest where the covers had been pulled back, lay a small black king.

Verna looked around with an accusing stare. “Someone,” she said, “has a very sick sense of humour.”

“Indeed, someone has a rather diabolical sense of humour,” Crispin agreed, standing behind her in the doorway. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

Pete showed up at that moment. “What's happened?”

“Look,” Sandra said, pointing out the offending piece.

“Where were you just now, Pete?” Sami Lee demanded in an accusing tone.

“I was in my room — trying to sleep,” Pete replied. “It took me a while to break out of the fog I was in.”

“Where's Spike?” Verna asked suddenly.

Everyone looked around. Spike was not among them.

“Maybe he went outside,” Pete said. “He's probably sick of being cooped up in here for so long.”

“I think we should look for him, in any case,” Crispin said.

Verna went out into the hallway. “Spike?” she cried out.

An ominous silence came from the rest of the house in answer to her call. There was also a terrible odour coming from downstairs, as though something had died and been set on fire.

“I don't like this,” Verna said. “Will someone please come downstairs with me to check?”

“I'll come with you,” Sandra said.

Together they made their way down to the main floor. They looked outside on the porch first, thinking Spike might be sitting out there smoking a joint. Next they peeked into the kitchen where a small dish of ashes seemed to be responsible for the burning smell.

“What is that vile concoction?” Verna asked.

“I don't know,” Sandra said, tossing it in the garbage. “It looks like someone was cooking something and left it to burn.”

When they entered the drawing room, Verna saw Spike's green hair sticking up over top of the chair as he sat with his back to them.

“Spike!” Verna said. “You gave us quite a start.”

There was no movement as they approached.

“He's sleeping,” Verna said.

“I don't know,” Sandra said nervously.

Spike's eyes were closed and his hands clasped peacefully on his lap, as though clutched in prayer. White powder stained his shirt front. If it hadn't been for the hypodermic plunged into his neck, they might have thought him asleep. Sandra felt his wrist for a pulse and shook her head.

“This just happened,” she said. “His body is still warm. While we were all upstairs, he was down here dying.”

Verna began to gasp. “But how? We were all upstairs together!”

Sandra looked at her coldly. “We thought we were all upstairs, but Pete took a little longer to get there than the rest of us, didn't he?”

“Oh, no!” Verna cried, shaking her head. “It can't be. It can't be.”

Sandra grabbed her wrist in a grip that was hard enough to hurt. “It's got to be! Don't you see?”

Verna just stood there shaking her head. “I can't believe it. I can't believe it's any of us, really. I just can't.”

“Don't panic,” Sandra said. “You've got to keep calm.”

Verna looked around the room. “Oh my god!” she gasped.

Yet another chess piece had been toppled. Now the white king lay on its side, leaving two queens, a bishop, a knight, and a pawn.

Sandra turned her head in the direction of the stairs where footsteps could be heard approaching.

“Is everything okay down there?” they heard Pete call out.