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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
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unaccounted for, which is possible.”
“Do we keep doing this or not?” I asked.
“I think it’s better if we know who’s where. We can’t make them take precautions. We have no mechanism for arresting them or keeping them in one place. Some knowledge is better than no knowledge. I guess.”
“What’s with Klimpton’s closeted crap?” I asked. “A closet? On this island? Is there a point?”
“He’s frightened. The young man is probably bought and paid for.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “wasn’t that Mylon Drak, the Czech porn star standing behind our star quarterback? Not that I’d know anything about porn stars.”
“I wouldn’t know either. I think it was. Don’t they sell his dildos in all kinds of trashy gay magazines? Not that I know anything about dildos in trashy gay magazines.”
“Is that the one that’s supposedly twelve inches? Not that I would ever notice such ads either.”
“Hard to tell.”
“This is no time for ghastly puns.”
“What better time?”
The storm raged about us. With the mad pounding of the storm, the dawn didn’t seem too eager to show up this day. Perhaps the darkness was beginning to get a little grayer. Still, the flashlight helped barely enough. I could see his wound had continued to bleed. I said, “You’re bleeding through your bandage again.” He lowered his head. I pushed back the hood of his slicker and examined his scalp.
He said, “I’ve been feeling a little dizzy.”
“Do you need to lie down?” He looked pale. The cloth I had applied was nearly soaked through. I lifted it gently off his wound. In the light I could see the angry gash. It did not look pretty.
Scott said, “I’m fine. I hope. I’m not going to leave you running around this island by yourself. Not with a killer on the loose.”
I took off my shirt and tied it around his head. He looked pretty absurd. I hope it helped. I put my jacket back on and the slicker over it. We dashed through the whirling maelstrom to the next house.
We hurried along a low wall, which in normal times, had regularly spaced safety lights that I always associated with California and Hawaii. We passed a number of villas that were supposedly unoccupied. We entered them anyway. After careful inspections we found nothing. The lack of dead bodies was comforting in a sick way. The next occupied mansion was the villa of Louis Deplonte, the son of the pretender to the French throne. It was a quarter of a mile past our quarterback’s residence and sat at the bottom of a tremendously long stairway. This guest house was set mostly into the side of a low hill. The road split here. Half followed the parapet and hugged the coast. About another hundred feet along the main way, that side path turned and led to the castle. It was the only inland way over the rocky escarpment to the castle. The other half turned inland after passing directly in front of the main doors of this villa. At the split in the path, it had dipped to within twenty feet of the sea. Plumes of spray from the violent surf added to the drenching rain. We hurried forward.
We heard no sounds from inside and saw no light. By now they could have had candles lit. Deplonte had been at the end of the pier when we arrived to give our news about finding Tudor. He and Virl Morgan, his guard, had not been seen after the Port Atrium’s destruction or at the fire at the castle, nor had their bodies been found in the rubble. Repeated pounding elicited no response. I used the master plastic door opener. The first room was a foyer. Four rooms led off it. One was a bedroom with the bed linens mussed, but unoccupied. Both bathrooms were empty. We listened at the door to the next room. We heard faint sounds from within.
Scott and I looked at each other. “We need to check,” I said. I opened the door cautiously. There was vague light from dying embers in a fireplace grate. Certainly not enough to illuminate who was in the room. I swung the
“Do we keep doing this or not?” I asked.
“I think it’s better if we know who’s where. We can’t make them take precautions. We have no mechanism for arresting them or keeping them in one place. Some knowledge is better than no knowledge. I guess.”
“What’s with Klimpton’s closeted crap?” I asked. “A closet? On this island? Is there a point?”
“He’s frightened. The young man is probably bought and paid for.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “wasn’t that Mylon Drak, the Czech porn star standing behind our star quarterback? Not that I’d know anything about porn stars.”
“I wouldn’t know either. I think it was. Don’t they sell his dildos in all kinds of trashy gay magazines? Not that I know anything about dildos in trashy gay magazines.”
“Is that the one that’s supposedly twelve inches? Not that I would ever notice such ads either.”
“Hard to tell.”
“This is no time for ghastly puns.”
“What better time?”
The storm raged about us. With the mad pounding of the storm, the dawn didn’t seem too eager to show up this day. Perhaps the darkness was beginning to get a little grayer. Still, the flashlight helped barely enough. I could see his wound had continued to bleed. I said, “You’re bleeding through your bandage again.” He lowered his head. I pushed back the hood of his slicker and examined his scalp.
He said, “I’ve been feeling a little dizzy.”
“Do you need to lie down?” He looked pale. The cloth I had applied was nearly soaked through. I lifted it gently off his wound. In the light I could see the angry gash. It did not look pretty.
Scott said, “I’m fine. I hope. I’m not going to leave you running around this island by yourself. Not with a killer on the loose.”
I took off my shirt and tied it around his head. He looked pretty absurd. I hope it helped. I put my jacket back on and the slicker over it. We dashed through the whirling maelstrom to the next house.
We hurried along a low wall, which in normal times, had regularly spaced safety lights that I always associated with California and Hawaii. We passed a number of villas that were supposedly unoccupied. We entered them anyway. After careful inspections we found nothing. The lack of dead bodies was comforting in a sick way. The next occupied mansion was the villa of Louis Deplonte, the son of the pretender to the French throne. It was a quarter of a mile past our quarterback’s residence and sat at the bottom of a tremendously long stairway. This guest house was set mostly into the side of a low hill. The road split here. Half followed the parapet and hugged the coast. About another hundred feet along the main way, that side path turned and led to the castle. It was the only inland way over the rocky escarpment to the castle. The other half turned inland after passing directly in front of the main doors of this villa. At the split in the path, it had dipped to within twenty feet of the sea. Plumes of spray from the violent surf added to the drenching rain. We hurried forward.
We heard no sounds from inside and saw no light. By now they could have had candles lit. Deplonte had been at the end of the pier when we arrived to give our news about finding Tudor. He and Virl Morgan, his guard, had not been seen after the Port Atrium’s destruction or at the fire at the castle, nor had their bodies been found in the rubble. Repeated pounding elicited no response. I used the master plastic door opener. The first room was a foyer. Four rooms led off it. One was a bedroom with the bed linens mussed, but unoccupied. Both bathrooms were empty. We listened at the door to the next room. We heard faint sounds from within.
Scott and I looked at each other. “We need to check,” I said. I opened the door cautiously. There was vague light from dying embers in a fireplace grate. Certainly not enough to illuminate who was in the room. I swung the
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