Everyone's Dead But Us (9 page)

“You could get your laundry done the minute you stopped wearing it on the island,” I said. A satellite radio sat on the nightstand next to the bed. It was simply a receiver, not a communication device. In the drawer we found his passport and his wallet. He was thirty-six. His address was listed as the Hamptons in Rhode Island.

“No threatening notes,” Scott said. We opened O’Quinn’s laptop computer. It was not set up to connect to the Internet. The battery had two hours and seventeen minutes of memory left on it. There were three documents listed on the computer desktop. One was a grocery list that had three items: ketchup, aspirin, and toothpaste. Another had a list of four addresses with the fourth not finished. They were for people whose names I did not recognize. The third document was a letter written to the Pope. I could make no sense of much of this and none of it seemed to be a motive for murder.

I said, “There’s got to be some rationality behind these murders.”

“I hope not,” Alice said. “I hope it’s some crazy person. And doesn’t a person have to be crazy to perpetrate this kind of madness? Rationality behind madness? Does that really qualify as rationality?”

I said, “Maybe that depends on your definition of madness.”

“Or rationality,” Scott added.

Wayne Craveté swept into the room. He wore his rain poncho as if it were a royal robe. Of any of us, he would be able to carry such a thing off. He motioned to Scott and me. “I must speak to you two.”

Craveté ignored the suspicious looks given him by the archeologist and her helper. Craveté, Scott, and I took refuge in a living room whose vast windows gave a view of the lightning and rain. Wayne Craveté was either a disgraced Polish aristocrat, a distant claimant to the czar’s throne in Russia, or a gossipy queen who happened to parlay an Internet investment into riches beyond his wildest dreams before the crash of the late 1990s. Craveté always had the wildest rumors of treasures piled in secret caches, or Euro-trash in clandestine trysts, or pool boys run amok. Scott repeated the various bits of drivel to our mutual amusement.

We could hear nearly continuous booms of thunder. Craveté snuggled into a black leather chair. The gloom between lightning flashes was relieved only by a series of candles I had lit and placed on cast-resin raindrop tables around the room. One was next to Craveté. I sat with my back to the window. Scott faced me. Craveté was at a perpendicular angle to both of us. On the floor between us was a hand-knotted rug, with a floral pattern made of wool and silk flowers.

Craveté said, “I found out who the investigator is. I found out that all the rich people currently on the island are under suspicion. And it must have something to do with all this death and destruction.”

“Under suspicion of what?”

“Of looting the treasuries of Europe and Asia, for centuries.”

“They haven’t been alive for centuries,” Scott said.

“They’re complicit in a long line of theft.”

Scott said, “But the first rich guy only bought the island back in the eighteen nineties.”

“He supplemented his family fortune by selling and trading looted items from around the world. Sort of eBay for the rich that got started in the horse and buggy era. The elite thieves of the world knew where to go. He was the latest in a long line that goes back centuries.”

“There’s proof for this?” I asked.

Craveté looked hurt. “Proof? Well, really, there’s just things that make logical sense that you know are true.”

Scott said, “Can you tell us who gave you this information?”

“I’ve pieced it together. I’ve talked to everybody. There’s a lot of people very upset by what’s happened. Who wouldn’t be upset? All this death and destruction.”

If his rumors and gossip led to a murderer, great. I would be patient. I would definitely want facts, but if his scandalous tittle-tattle led to them, I’d be happy with the result. Besides, neither our list of leads nor our roster of allies was terribly long.

“How’d they get away with it?” I asked.

“They’ve got their own private island here. There’s supposed to be all sorts of places to hide secret caches. Hidden dungeons. Ancient ruins. That cavern everybody uses for back-to-nature trysting supposedly used to be the entrance to an extensive gold mine.”

And I’d thought of it as our place.

Scott said, “I’ve never noticed anything that suggested it went any further.”

“It’s a rumor. I tried looking once. I didn’t find anything.”

“But if it was rumored there were riches,” Scott said, “why haven’t half the adventurers on the planet been after the loot? They could have landed a small Nazi division on the island in the late thirties and just taken everything.”

“Well, they didn’t. Supposedly, herds of people have come and never found anything. Supposedly some of those same people have died or disappeared over the years, including every investigator.”

I said, “What? There’s a gay militia? Homosexual vigilantes? Queer commandos on the island killing investigators, holding off legions of Nazis?”

“A fabulous idea,” Craveté said, “But who knows what the rich can get away with? They’re very good at concealing things.”

“You’re rich,” Scott said.

“I only made my money in the past ten years. I’m looked down upon and despised. The old money here doesn’t let anybody in.”

His face looked eerie in the candlelight. For the moment I thought I detected doubt and suspicion or, more likely, resentment.

I said, “You were pretty quiet when we asked for help earlier.”

“Well, yes. How could I defy the whole crowd when they were assembled?” Peer pressure. It’s a wonderful thing at any age and in any socioeconomic class.

“Who is the investigator?” Scott asked.

“Dimitri Thasos, the member of the staff who was burned so badly in the fire at the castle.”

“Who told you this?” Scott asked.

“Well, I can hardly say.”

“It would help us to know. If we’re going to stop a killer.”

“Well. ..” He snuggled farther into his chair, pulled his knees nearly to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. “I guess I can tell you. I don’t think Pietro much cares for some of these people. He and I have had some long talks.”

I remembered that at least I’d gotten a bit of a sympathetic nod from Pietro when the rest of the aggregation was busy bailing on any kind of investigation.

Craveté said, “I think he’d like to talk to the two of you. He likes you. You aren’t impossible to take care of like so many visitors to the island. Of course, you don’t take any of the villas.”

“I can’t afford to stay in the villas,” I said.

Craveté cleared his throat. “Pietro likes you.”

“We’ll try and talk to him,” Scott said. “Do you know why he told you this?”

“I think he thought I might be able to help him. I’m awfully good at getting hold of gossip. He wanted information. I was ready to give it to him. We’ve been swapping stories for years. He’s a dear in those late nights when the wealthy don’t need you or want you, when the pool boy is as shallow as you suspected he would be, and you’re thinking of things that no one should think about on an island like this.”

“How did Pietro find out Thasos was an investigator?” Scott asked.

“Pietro watches everything around here. I suppose all the help do. Dedicating your life to the pleasures of the super-rich can’t be easy.”

“Can we talk to the investigator?” I asked. “He seemed pretty bad off.”

“We can see,” Scott said. “If he’s too bad off, we’ll leave him alone. He may have the key to the killings.”

I asked Craveté, “Do you know who inherits the island next?”

“Jeff O’Quinn does. A nice man.”

“He’s dead.”

Craveté gasped. “No.” He gulped. “What happened?”

Scott said, “He was shot.”

“No! How awful! And you’re investigating. Thank god!”

When we got back to the room we’d left Gavin and her helper in, they were gone.

We struggled into the storm, dodged the drops to Apritzi House. Rufus Seymour, supposedly fifteenth in line to the British throne, was sitting with Dimitri Thasos. I didn’t see Seymour’s lover.

“Should they be by themselves?” Scott asked.

We approached the luxuriant divan on which Thasos lay. His arms and upper torso were blistered, blackened, and red. His eyes stared out at us. For the first time he seemed not only conscious but somewhat coherent. I was told the worse the burns, the less the pain. I’m not sure I believed that, but what I did see were numerous degrees of burns, so maybe he was in numerous degrees of pain.

Seymour’s face was lined with worry. “We found some Vicodin. Louis Deplonte gave it to us. Thasos is not in as much pain, but he’s still in pretty bad shape. He needs proper medical care.”

Some of the wounds oozed. I didn’t know if it was better to tape a man’s burns or leave them open to the air. It was obviously better to get them treated with something. We needed to get him to a doctor.

I said, “It would help if we could ask him a few questions.”

Seymour said, “I don’t imagine it will make his pain any better or any worse. Do you really think answering questions is going to make much difference to him?”

I said, “It might make a difference to the rest of us if it can help us find a killer.”

We gathered around the bed. I sat on one side of him. Scott on the other. Craveté and Seymour sat at the foot of the bed. Up close the wounds looked grotesque. I heard Scott draw in his breath. In the past few hours, he and I had pretty much had our quota of horror for our lifetimes. Then again, everybody still alive on the island who had helped with the rescue or recovery had pretty much seen plenty enough to keep them up nights.

Dimitri gasped at each breath as if the air was painful as it hit his lungs.

I said, “We’re trying to get you help.” I desperately didn’t want to say, “Are you okay?” “Where does it hurt?” “Everything is going to be fine,” because he obviously wasn’t okay, it must hurt all over, and there was no guarantee anything was going to be alright. In the face of spectacularly mortal injuries, I could barely figure out what to say. I couldn’t bring myself to hold either of his hands. Both were bloody, oozing stumps, with bits of flesh burnt and red and blistered. I touched the first patch of clear skin I could see. It was on his upper arm. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

Thasos turned his head a quarter of an inch toward me. He rasped, “Danger.” His head seemed to sink back on the pillows. He breathed deeply.

“I know this is hard,” I said. “Can you tell us what the danger is?”

His head moved a fraction of an inch up and down. Part of his gray hair had been singed away. I thought he might be in his late sixties. His attempts to rescue paintings in the castle had been above the call of duty. Or was there another reason for his presence? There could be a faction on the island that believed he was an investigator. Certainly they’d be a danger to him if they actually were thieves. Thasos shut his eyes and breathed deeply for several moments. I looked at Scott. Should I back off or continue? Scott nodded at me. I interpreted it as encouragement.

Thasos opened his eyes and gazed at me.

I said, “I know this is awful, but we’re trying to figure out who set off the explosion and who’s done the killings. We’re afraid.” Up until that moment, I hadn’t articulated that thought. Storms and destruction had kept me too busy to reflect, but I was afraid. Very afraid. I hated to pressure anyone so horribly wounded, but as long as he was conscious, I’d give it a shot. I said, “If you can tell us anything.”

He blinked several times.

“Do you feel strong enough to talk?” I asked.

He nodded weakly.

I explained about Tudor and O’Quinn. His eyes were riveted to mine as I told him what we knew about their deaths. When I finished, I asked, “Can you tell us what happened in the castle?”

He looked at Craveté then back to us. I said, “Wayne told us you were investigating art thefts.”

Thasos gasped several times. He clutched my arm. My Marine training and innate sense of sympathy for someone so horribly hurt kept me from flinching from the grotesque touch. I remembered that his wounds couldn’t hurt me. Showing any level of discomfort wasn’t going to help him. The psychic cost to me was less than the pain he was so obviously in.

“Danger,” he rasped again. “Danger.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. He tried to pull himself from the bed, fell back clutching at the air. The parts of him that I could see that weren’t burnt and scarred turned deadly pale.

Desperately as I wanted to ask more questions, he looked a few breaths short of dead. I whispered, “We’ll come back, Dimitri. You need your strength.”

Thasos grabbed my arm with both of his. It felt damp and oozy like the clutch of death, strong, desperate, and unbreakable, but I didn’t flinch or pull away. “No,” he said. “Talk. Now.” Looking down at where he clutched me, I saw that the back of his fingers were charred and raw.

I said, “You don’t look up to it.”

He did not relinquish his grip on my arm. He said, “Now. Maybe never.”

I thought my leaving would bring more agitation. I said, “Okay.” He visibly relaxed, but he retained his grip on my arm.

Thasos tried to rasp out some sounds. He pointed at the end table. I touched the glass of water on it. Thasos nodded. Scott helped him lean forward, and I held the glass so he could take sips. After he gulped and gurgled for several moments, we helped him return to the supine position. His eyes glittered as he spoke. “Just you,” he said.

“You want to talk to only me?”

He nodded.

The four of us glanced at each other. Scott stood up first. Craveté and Seymour followed his lead. The three of them backed off.

Thasos motioned me closer. He rested both hands on my arm. The grip was actually less than before but the feelings of revulsion and concern were no less intense. Everything he said was in a smoke-choked whisper wrapped around gasps for breath. The first thing he said was, “Trust no one.” I nodded. “Three years. Suspicious of everyone. Double-crosses within double-crosses.”

He shut his eyes and breathed for several moments. When he opened them again, he nodded toward the water. I held him up and helped him sip. When he was comfortable again, he said, “Hired by art museums. Bunch of them. Someone suspicious. No proof. Rumors about this island. Rich murder people.”

“Did someone try to kill you?”

“Maybe. Explosion.”

“Why were you trying to save the paintings?”

“Wasn’t. At first. Love art. Worked at Louvre for years. Investigator. Art fraud. Theft.”

“Had you found out anything?”

“Suspicion. More suspicion. Tudor suspected me.”

I helped him to more water.

“Maybe this should wait,” I said after he was resettled once more.

“No! Now!” He was fiercely insistent. He glanced at the others murmuring in the background.

“Why were you in the castle?”

“Meet with Tudor. He didn’t show. Probably dead already.”

“We found some things that don’t make a lot of sense.”

More blinking and gasping.

“Safe ...” Thasos said.

I leaned closer. He smelled like burned roast pork.

“What’s safe?” I asked.

“Room…safe.”

“What room?”

“Find it,” he rasped. “Clues. Almost. Almost. So close.” Dimitri shut his eyes. I looked back at Scott. He shrugged. I waited until Thasos opened his eyes again. I said, “Maybe we should go away.”

Thasos shook his head violently.

“You want us to stay?”

“Solve. Murder. More death. Murder.”

“Do you know who is doing all this?”

He shook his head.

“What room?”

“Castle…save…room.” He shut his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them he looked more pained than ever. His eyebrows had been singed off. Not the most demented Halloween mask could approach the wreck that had been the skin on his face. “Pocket,” he rasped. He touched his left index finger to his pants pocket. “Take,” he said.

I reached in his pocket. It was a set of keys.

“Mine,” he said. “Look.”

Seymour approached us. He said, “Maybe you should leave him alone.”

Thasos opened his eyes. His hand grasped my arm. I stifled the urge to move away from the touch of the violated flesh. “Stay…danger.”

“Are you afraid if we leave you, someone will try to kill you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He looked genuinely confused as he shrugged.

“We need to go investigate,” I said. “We’ll leave some more people here.”

Thasos shook his head violently. Then he gave a violent start, raised his head and shoulders off the couch, and pointed in the direction of the door. I looked. Oser stood in the doorway. Peeping in from behind him was Pietro. Just behind him I saw Alice Gavin and Joe Martikovic. Thasos gasped, gulped, gurgled, and passed out.

Okay, this didn’t take a rocket scientist. A guy connected to the evil cabal walks in. Wounded person points and passes out.

Oser approached us, “What is going on?”

I said, “Thasos saw you, pointed, and passed out. He was warning me of danger just before you walked in.”

Oser didn’t bother to protest. He said, “I don’t know how to handle what is going on. I’m getting very afraid. I’m not one of the rich. They’re huddled together. I don’t trust you, either.”

“Why would Thasos be frightened of you?”

“Perhaps because I was watching him more closely than usual lately. I knew he was up to something. Mostly I thought he was a reporter from some sleazy publication although they don’t usually stay on the job for three years.”

“What made you suspicious?”

“He hung around too much, was just a little too curious.”

“Are you here now to spy for the rich?”

“That’s why they sent me, yes. I’m trying to save my job, and this island’s reputation, and not be accused of murder. Between you guys and the rich, whichever side I could help that would make all three of those things happen for me, would make me happy. I want to keep out of trouble. Some of the others are gathered in Mr. Movado’s villa. They want you stopped.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I said, “Dimitri Thasos told me about some secret room somewhere on the island. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve had suspicions, but I don’t know anything for certain.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Ten years.”

Pietro said, “I’ve been here since the seventies. Yeah, there’s probably a secret room, but none of us knew anything in particular.”

I said, “As owner, Tudor most certainly must have known about such a room. Did Harris, his lover?”

Oser said, “I believe Mr. Harris did not plan to be a permanent resident. It is unlikely that anyone but the most trusted would be let in on the secrets of this place.”

I looked at Seymour. “Do you know anything about a room?”

“No.”

I couldn’t tell if he was lying.

“There were other secrets?” Scott asked.

Oser said, “As you know, the tower of the castle was rented out. The rest of that structure was off limits to everyone else.”

“No one went in and cooked and cleaned?” I asked. “The rich did that for themselves?”

Oser said, “They served themselves in the Great Hall. Certainly there were secrets. It was the most exclusive spot on an exclusive island. While in there, they were not to be disturbed for any reason, ever, and as far as I know, they never were. Servants, employees, and security guards were forbidden to enter. If there was a secret room, I don’t know about it. Even the rich who came here weren’t lightly invited to the forbidden precincts of the castle. No one had keys unless they were given by Mr. Tudor. If you used the library, there was always one of the help on hand. None of the doors from the library to the rest of the castle were ever unlocked. The only door that opened led to the hall and then outside. I certainly never heard of one of the less permanent guests being invited there, much less sneaking in there. No one ever reported an intrusion. This place is small. The help would be aware of anyone going into the castle. Through the stained glass windows, sometimes we saw figures moving about. Mostly they seemed to be sitting and reading. We knew nothing of any secret room.”