Everyone's Dead But Us (19 page)

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 uncomfortable. 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.

Bobby Feige stood in the doorway of the room. His gun was aimed away from me. He said, “Come out from behind there.”

I stepped up behind him and whacked him with the golf club. It bent. He went down but didn’t lose consciousness. His gun skittered away. I leapt for it. He stayed on his knees. He shook his head.

He spoke, “You’re not dead.”

“Not yet,” I said.

We both looked at the rust-encrusted putter.

He said, “That hurt.”

“It was supposed to.”

He looked around. “Where’s your buddy?”

“We got separated.”

“Not good.”

“I know. Did you see him?”

“No.”

I sat in the comfy chair. He stayed on the floor and crossed his legs in a yoga position. He was young and trim, maybe in his late twenties. I kept the gun on him.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“I’m the local Israeli secret agent. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be the liaison between my government and this island.”

“Who’s doing all the killings?”

“It’s a conspiracy. I think. I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

“Why is there an Israeli agent here?” I asked.

“Two reasons. There’s no ice for my head is there?”

I said, “If there’s a freezer that hasn’t been opened somewhere on the island, I don’t know about it. What’s the story here?”

“Someone visits here once a month or so. I and my people make sure no terrorist group gets a grip on the island.”

“There were terrorist threats?” I asked.

“Yes. Any piece of real estate in this part of the world has value of some kind. The Israeli government, with the tacit consent of the American and British navies and the Greek government, keep an eye on this place. You really think this could be an independent operation in this day and age?”

“When I’ve thought much about it,” I replied, “I assumed this place was under the control of the Greek government.”

“The other reason is that this place is a real conduit for stolen Nazi art getting back to its real owners. There are many places and people who are either caught with what doesn’t belong to them, or are feeling guilt about having what doesn’t belong to them. The people on this island give them a way to give it back without any subsequent publicity.”

“What’s wrong with publicity?” I asked.

“Some people would never come forward if they knew they, or their family were going to be exposed. Sometimes people need a little nudging to do the right thing. Quiet nudging can often be as effective as violent nudging. We like to keep our options open. The first looted art appeared here in the early fifties. The owner contacted my government. The owner wanted to be left alone. We wanted to leave him alone. The owners here were more than willing to help move items from point A to point B and get our protection in the bargain. Over time it became a sensible relationship.”

“What’s been going on here for the past thirty-six hours?”

“Not terrorism. Not as far as I can tell. I was supposed to meet Henry Tudor. I never got to see him. He was dead when I got here.”

“You guys came in this storm?”

“We try to keep my visits secret. I came with Gavin. I’m also a legitimate archeologist. I love this place for all its Minoan treasures.”

“Does anyone else know your real role here?”

“Tudor might have told Derek Harris, I’m not sure. No one else was supposed to know.”

“Gavin didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Were there artworks to be transferred?” I asked.

“Two.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened. This is out of my control. For quite a while I guessed you were the killers although I couldn’t figure out why.”

“Were you working with Thasos?”

“We’d been in contact.”

“Why did he confide in Craveté?”

“The fool came upon some of Dimitri’s notes. Certainly Thasos didn’t tell him everything. Craveté was a nuisance.”

“We found a real treasure room.”

“Yeah, I was surprised the thing existed. We funneled the Nazi artwork through O’Quinn’s galleries. It was the perfect conduit for transferring all that we found or needed to return. But actual stolen items from the past, real treasures. That was new.”

“Are they real?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s Gavin?” I asked.

“She and a contingent have left in our boat to go for help.”

“In this storm?”

“The wind is down. There hasn’t been thunder and lightning in several hours. They thought there might be a chance.”

I listened. The absence of thunder and lightning was eerie. I didn’t remember when it had stopped. The quiet was blessed.

“Did they take Thasos with them?” I asked.

“They were afraid to move him,” Feige said.

“Afraid to touch him or worried it might make his injuries worse?”

“Maybe both,” Feige said.

He plopped himself on a couch. He rubbed his head where I’d hit him. “That hurt,” he said.

“Sorry,” I replied. “Why were you missing?”

“I wasn’t. I was investigating. Gavin is kind of an asshole. Usually, I hook up with various fishermen or food suppliers. She wasn’t the first archeology team I’ve joined up with in these waters. It’s a great cover, and it is my expertise.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I asked.

“My job isn’t done. The artwork I came for has to be transferred. I haven’t found it yet. Plus, I’m as close to law enforcement as this island has right now.”

“Who left with Gavin?” I asked.

“Craveté, Oser, Matt McCue, Ed Bracken, Martikovic, and Henry Tudor’s valet.”

I looked out at the rain. I said, “I still wouldn’t leave the safety of the harbor.”

“They were petrified of staying here.”

“What time did they leave in the boat?”

“Just before I came up here.”

“Thasos is alone?”

“He was asleep when I left.”

“Can I trust you?” I asked.

“I’m not sure who or what to trust,” Feige said. “You guys I’m reasonably certain aren’t killers. After that I’m stumped.”

“Who is actually left on the island alive?” I asked.

Feige said, “Thasos. I haven’t seen a corpse of Movado, or Rufus Seymour, or Pietro.”

“Seymour is dead.” I told him what I’d seen and about the Pietro/Barney Crushton connection. Then I said, “So either Movado or Crushton is the killer?”

“Unless the killer has cleverly gotten onto the only boat out and is on his way to Santorini.”

“What do we do now?” I asked.

Feige said, “This ‘we’ is going to try and radio for help. The storm is abating. Help should be here soon. You should hide here. I assume you’ll be safe. Anybody who shows up, just bash them in the head.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to find Scott. I can’t leave him out there alone.”

“If you go, you’ll be out there alone.”

“If someone you loved might be in danger from a killer, would you stay or go?”

He stood up. “Are you going to give me my gun back?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m a secret agent,” he said. “You don’t think I’ve got more than one?”

“Yeah, you’ve probably got a machine gun in your crotch and a grenade behind your left ear.”

“Ballpoint pens that explode and car keys that turn into rocket ships to the moon.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“Staying here would be safest.”

“I’ve got a gun again. It makes me somewhat equal to the killer. I’ve got to find Scott. If possible, I can see how Thasos is. I’ll be careful.”

“No one was tending to Thasos when I last saw him. I’m going to try and get some of this electronics stuff in the house here cobbled together to send a signal out. I was supposed to rendezvous with a British agent in a couple days. One of their helicopters from the fleet was supposed to drop him off.”

“There’s a connection to the British fleet here? A real one?”

“Everything in this part of the world is connected. Everybody keeps track of everybody else. This island gets to be a bit of a mystery for several reasons. Mostly because international governments keep a close watch and hands off.”

“It’s possible to do both at once?”

“It was up until now. I’m going to try and contact him. I know there’s electronic equipment here. And supposedly there’s another one of those damned secret rooms with more electronic equipment. I’ve got to try the stuff I know. It could take years to dismantle these old places and then find nothing, your treasure room notwithstanding.”

I looked out the window. “I wish there was some way we could get from here to one of the minarets about a hundred feet from Apritzi House without being seen.”

Feige smiled. “How long have you been coming here?”

“A few years.”

“I don’t know if you’d ever have been initiated fully.”

“Were you?”

“No, but there was more than one reason they assigned me to a gay island.”

I said, “You mean there’s another way to get around the island.”

“Around parts of it, yeah. The rumors that everyone talks about this island are sometimes more true than not. Ancient pirates and secret treasures? Hell, you found one. What’s not to believe? Hidden rooms? Secret passages? Why not? Before it became a gay haven, they had a millennia to build and rebuild their defenses and hiding places. The gay owners have had more than a hundred years to find them, expand them, perfect them. Actually it’s a rather pleasant tunnel from the lowest basement here that connects all the way to that top blue minaret. After you get there, you’ll be exposed for a short while. Two owners ago wanted the help to not have to waste the time walking up to the headland and around to the house. The rich can get done whatever they want.”

He showed me the way. The tunnel was beautifully tiled in candlelit glows of blue and yellow. I didn’t care. I was fed up. I didn’t want any more secrets, any more treasures, any more death. Peace and quiet and warmth. I didn’t want to go out in the rain. I thought I’d need to be convinced to take a shower or bath again.

The end of the tunnel had a very modern door with an emergency bar like any other modern door in a modern building. I put out the candle and eased the door open. No movement came from the other side of the door. I crept forward. I looked out the window of the minaret.