Game of Death (45 page)

The sound is louder down here. I can hear the rhythmic thumping, and feel the stone shaking ever so slightly around me. It’s enough to give me a slight case of vertigo as I feel my way
along the basement walls, searching out the source. I assume it’s coming from the massive bass amplifiers that are a part of the home-theater system Josh has had installed. But when I work my
way to where I can touch them, I realize I’m wrong. The sound is coming from the bar – or more specifically from behind the bar.

I move my way over there slowly, feeling along the walls, until I’m standing behind the bar, still searching for the sound. I can’t find it, though. It makes no sense; I’ve run
out of places to look in the basement. I know the sound is here, but I can’t find its source.

The heat in the basement is oppressive, and I put the gun on the bar for a moment, so that I can wipe the sweat pouring from my forehead. I lean against the back wall, trying to clear my mind
– to think through the possibilities. As I do, I realize that the sound I hear is coming from behind the wall. I turn and put my palms up against the smooth flat surface, and I can feel the
beating, and I realize that there must be another room behind the wall – one with some sort of a hidden doorway. It would be consistent with Josh’s personality, I know.

My hands fly across the wallpaper, looking for a hinge or a knob, but there’s nothing there. I put my ear up to the wall, and I can hear the low pulse more clearly. I can hear something
else as well. It sounds like screaming, or more accurately
screeching
– like metal dragged across metal, or a cat having its claws pulled out with a pair of pliers. It’s a
sound that – even as faint as it is – cuts through my eardrum and crawls down my spine. Every muscle in my body tenses as my imagination plays out all the horrors to which Josh may be
subjecting Yvette. I fly into a panic and search the wall again, prodding and pulling at every inch of it.

‘Yvette!’ I call out, no longer worried about being discovered. The only thing I can think about is her, and doing anything I can to keep her alive and safe.
‘Yvette!’

I’ve searched the wall as best as I can without the benefit of light. It occurs to me, though, that there could be a flashlight or matches under the bar. I turn my attention there and
start opening the drawers and cabinets, my hands shaking as they fumble over tumblers and mixers and glasses, desperate for anything that might supply some light. I find them in the third drawer I
pull open –
matches
. I feel the distinctive cardboard of kitchen safety matches and, when I pick up the box, I hear the familiar rattle of a full pack. I pull out a match and feel
for the strike pad, slide the match across it. My hands are sweating so badly that the first match slips from my fingers and falls to the floor. I curse myself and pull out a second match, strike
this one more carefully.

The flame from the match casts a light that feels, in the utter darkness, as bright as the sun. I look around the basement and confirm that I am alone, and that the place is as I remembered it.
By the time I’ve adjusted, the flame is down low enough on the wooden match that it burns my fingers and I drop it into the sink. I pull out another match and light it.

I get down on my knees and let the match lead me through the cabinets beneath the sink, hoping to find a candle that I can light to provide more consistent illumination. I see nothing useful,
and go through two more matches in what seems a fruitless effort.

There is only one cabinet I haven’t gone through, and I use my fifth match to look through that, the steady rhythmic beat from behind the wall keeping half time with my heart, and the
screeching setting my every nerve on end. This cabinet seems bare, except that there is a switch deep along the side. I wonder whether that might control the power to the basement, and I flip it,
hoping for the best.

For a moment nothing happens, and I curse my luck. Then I hear something behind me. It’s like the whoosh of a pneumatic seal being broken, and there is a rush of air that rustles my hair.
At the same time the volume of the beating and screeching increases tenfold, and my hands go to my ears defensively. Another second later, a faint light glows from over my shoulder.

I pull back from the cabinet, slamming my head against the frame, and turn to look at the wall behind me. There is a crack at the far corner, like the wall has come unsealed, and the light and
noise are coming from behind that crack.

‘Yvette!’ I scream.

I don’t hesitate. I’m on my feet, scrambling over to the narrow opening, clawing at it with my fingers, trying to pull it wider. The door is heavy and it takes several seconds for me
to get it to budge. Eventually, though, it begins to move. It’s agonizingly slow, and I can barely breathe. ‘I’m coming!’ I scream, no longer fully rational. Eventually I
force the door open wide enough that I can squeeze through and I slide my shoulders in, petrified at what I might find.

I’m in a room that’s roughly twenty feet by thirty. The walls are rough stone, carved out of the earth’s natural ledge, and there are electric torches hanging
every ten feet, casting a flickering light throughout the place. Against one wall there is a variety of whips and chains and torture devices. The noise I’ve been following is coming from two
black speakers that blare a recording of what sounds like disjointed machine sounds. It’s like background music from some twisted dream. The details of the place barely register with me,
though. There’s only one thing I can focus on.

She’s there.

She’s stripped to her underwear, her wrists bound in leather-buckled restraints, raised high above her head. Her knees are slightly buckled and she’s dangling, her entire weight
borne by her arms, her shoulders twisted at an awkward, lifeless angle. Her head is flopped forward and her hair covers her face. She isn’t moving.

‘Yvette!’ I scream.

Nothing. I sprint to her and take her body in my arms. Her head flops back, loose on her neck, and I pull it forward again. ‘Please,’ I beg her. ‘Say something!’

She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and I can feel my heart beat so fast I think I’m going to pass out. ‘Please,’ I say again, this time not to her, but to a God
I’ve never actively acknowledged before. ‘Let her be okay.’

I put my head to her chest, listening for a heartbeat, but with the soul-shattering music I wouldn’t be able to hear anything even if she was alive. I lean her back against the wall and
feel her throat, but my hands are shaking so badly it’s useless. Finally, I put my face up to hers and close my eyes, trying to feel her breath on it. There’s nothing, and all hope
rushes out of my body. ‘No!’ I cry. ‘No, please!’ The tears run down my cheeks and I lean into her, hugging her with what strength I have left. I have no idea how long I
stand there, probably only a few seconds, but it seems an eternity. And then I feel it. A tickle along the damp tracks on my face. I don’t even realize it at first, but then it feels
stronger, and I pull back and look at her.

‘Are you alive?’ I’m holding her head now, putting my face close to hers again, making sure that I’m not imagining it. ‘Are you breathing?’

She says nothing, but her head moves and I can see a flutter in her eyelids.

‘You’re okay,’ I say, willing it to be true. ‘You’re okay,’ I say again. ‘You’re going to be okay. I promise, I’m getting you out of
here!’ I bend down and unhook the buckles around her ankles. I stand up, and support the weight of her body by wrapping my arm around her again and lifting her from under her arms. Her head
is forward now, her mouth lolled open against me.

‘Josh,’ she mumbles into my shoulder.

I’m so startled to hear her voice that I pull my arm away and drop the full weight of her body back onto her shoulders. She lets out a soft groan.

‘It’s Nick,’ I say. ‘You’re going to be okay.’ I grab her again and lift the weight off her. With my other hand I straighten her head, so that I’m
looking into her beautiful face. Her eyes are struggling to open. I can see that her pupils are fully dilated. She’s been drugged, I suspect. ‘Yvette? Are you okay? Stay with me.
I’m getting you out of here!’

She’s coming to, but slowly, mumbling something I can’t understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m here. You’ll be okay.’ I continue to hold her
weight with one arm and work on the wrist restraint with my other. It isn’t locked, but the buckles are pulled tight, and it’s difficult to get them free with one hand. ‘Can you
stand?’ I ask her.

She’s still trying to say something, and as she wanders further and further toward consciousness, her ramblings become more urgent. ‘Josh!’ she blurts out.

It suddenly dawns on me for the first time since I saw her dangling against the wall that we are probably not alone. ‘He’s still here?’ I ask her.

Her eyes are blinking open, but she can’t focus. ‘Josh,’ she says again.

‘Where is he?’ I hold her head, trying to let her focus. Her eyes dart past me, over my shoulder, and I spin, expecting to see him there. We are alone, though. I look back at her.
‘Where?’

Her eyes are still looking toward the other side of the room, toward the wall along which a series of sadomasochistic tools hang. There, in the middle, is a large upright box. It’s black,
around six feet high, narrow. Positioned as it is in the room, it looks as though it must contain additional implements, perhaps even more grotesque in nature, but it is large enough for a man to
hide in it.

I look back at her. ‘In there?’ I ask.

She nods, and then her head collapses forward onto me again. ‘Josh,’ she repeats.

She’s awake enough that her legs are starting to come back to life a little. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to stand, but she can lean against the wall to take some of
her weight. I prop her up and approach the box.

There is a knob on the door that forms the front of the box. It’s studded and ornate, and something about it makes me shiver. If he’s inside, I wonder what he’s waiting for. I
wonder whether he can see out, and it occurs to me that he may be gauging the moment when I’m close enough to leap out at me. I reach into my pocket for Ma’s gun, but realize I’ve
left it on the bar in the other room. I look around me and see a wooden paddle hanging on the wall, almost large enough to be a cricket bat. I grab it off the wall and hold it in my right hand as I
reach out with my left.

I touch the knob, and it’s cold. I take a deep breath and turn it, as I pull the door open in one swift motion.

The sight sends a shock through me. Josh is in there, staring back at me, dressed in leathers, a horrid look on his face. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s coming after me,
leaning forward, his features twisted and anguished. I raise the club in my hand as his head hits my chest. I scream and swing at him. It feels like I’ve barely made contact, but he goes down
at my feet. I jump back, raise the club again, staring at him, waiting for him to spring up at me.

He lies there, motionless.

I move forward a little and poke him with the club. He shifts slightly, and then comes back to rest as he was, when I take the club away. ‘Josh!’ I yell at him, but he doesn’t
react.

It doesn’t feel as though I’ve hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious, and I keep the paddle raised high as I reach down with my free hand and roll him over.

He stares up at me, his eyes meeting mine and yet missing me somehow. It takes a moment for me to realize that he’s dead. Looking more closely, I see a thin red line around his neck.

A thousand thoughts run through my head – and as many questions bombard my brain – flying at me with such speed that I can’t separate them. I stand there for a moment, just
staring down, trying to make sense of what I’m looking at, but I can’t. Finally I remember where I am, and that Yvette is still in the room with me. I turn and look at her. She’s
awake enough now that she can keep her head up, though not steadily, and she’s looking at me. ‘It’s him,’ I say. ‘It’s Josh. He can’t hurt you
anymore.’ It’s all I can think of to say.

She shakes her head, and I can sense the frustration in her. ‘No!’ she groans. ‘It’s not Josh!’

I hurry over to her. Now that she can stand somewhat, I can use two hands to work on the wrist restraints, and using two hands makes it quicker work. ‘It’s okay, he’s dead.
Trust me.’

‘It’s . . . not . . . Josh!’ she says. Her voice is still shaky, but she says it with emphasis.

‘I’ll get you out of here,’ I say. The first wrist restraint comes free and I start working on the second.

Suddenly there is a voice behind me that I recognize. ‘She’s right,’ the voice says. ‘It’s not Josh. It’s me.’

‘Tom.’

I say his name even before I turn around, but I have to see him to believe it’s true. I turn slowly to face him. Tom Jackson is standing in the door that leads back out to the rest of the
basement.

‘Nick,’ he says.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry it has to be this way.’

I still can’t comprehend what’s going on. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘What way?’

‘This way,’ he says, taking a gun from behind his back and pointing it at me. ‘I never wanted you to be involved. Not you or Yvette. I like you both. But sometimes things
don’t turn out the way we planned.’

The pieces are swirling, trying to find their place in the puzzle, but they don’t form an image that makes sense yet. ‘The way you planned?’ I ask. ‘You did
this?’

He nods. ‘I’m afraid so.’

Another thought nearly knocks me down. ‘You killed Kendra, too?’

‘I had to. I had no choice.’ He moves toward me. ‘Step away from Yvette,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m telling you to.’

I shake my head. ‘I mean, why did you kill Kendra?’

‘She knew too much,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

He points the gun at me, motions for me again to step away from Yvette. ‘She was smart, you know? She should never have left school; she would have been great in business.’