Game of Death (31 page)

‘It’s not my fault!’ The desperation is back in his voice.

‘No? The laptop he used to create these things was yours. It was never lost; you gave it to him, didn’t you?’

‘I did not know what he was using it for!’ he pleads.

‘Maybe not, but you know now. And you knew two days ago, when we first talked about this. If you’d told the truth then, at least one girl wouldn’t have died.’

This concept seems to shake him back to reality a bit. I can see some clarity return to his eyes. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

‘But you do have some idea where he might be.’

He nods slightly; almost an imperceptible movement.

‘Tell me. I can help him.’

‘You won’t hurt him?’

‘I’ll make sure he’s not hurt.’ It’s a lie, but a small one under the circumstances, I figure.

Gunta looks around him, almost as though he’s worried that someone might overhear. I can see that the ordeal has broken him, and I wonder whether he can make it back from this. I doubt it,
but that is the least of my concerns at the moment. ‘He has a key to my house,’ he says. ‘I always said that if he needed a place to be safe, he could come there. We spent time
there together. He was so beautiful. You understand, don’t you?’

‘I think so, Doc. If he’s not there, is there any other place you can think of that he might be?’

He shakes his head. ‘If he is not there, he is lost.’

I stand and walk over to the door, hit the buzzer twice. A moment later the door is opened by the guard.

‘You done?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, I’m done.’ I start out through the door.

‘Nick!’ Gunta calls to me.

‘Yeah?’

‘You’ll make sure he’s not hurt? You’ll protect him, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, Doc. I’ll take care of him.’

Gunta lives in a mansion at the northern edge of Hull, north of Nantasket Beach. It’s only a few miles as the crow flies from downtown Boston, but to get there by land we
have to drive all the way around Boston Harbor and it takes us nearly an hour. Hull is a seven-mile peninsula that sticks up from the south shore of Boston Harbor and curls like a hook back against
the mainland. The beachfront is a honky-tonk with arcades and bars and seaside concessions selling fried clams and fried fish and fried dough. Killkenny’s driving and I’m in his
passenger seat, watching as the shoreline rolls by. It’s too far out, and too much of a long shot, to have backup with us; we’re on our own.

‘How sure was he?’ Killkenny asks.

‘I don’t know. He’s not all there anymore,’ I say. ‘It’s clear he and François had a thing together.’

‘François is gay? How can that be?’

‘I don’t think he’s gay, he’s an amoralist. The Marquis de Sade didn’t discriminate in his sexual tastes. He was originally imprisoned for sodomy with a young boy.
His writings involve violations of both men and women. If François sees himself as the heir to De Sade’s ideals, he would have no problem in using Gunta sexually and playing on the
older man’s obsession with him to get what he wanted.’

‘So he likes boys and girls?’

‘He likes violence. He likes control. He doesn’t worry about who his victims are, one way or the other. He’s looking to wipe away the constraints of morality.’

‘He’s been successful there,’ Killkenny says.

We drive on, past the bungalows in the heart of Hull, where the population is hard and tired. Notwithstanding its proximity to some of the most beautiful beachfront in Massachusetts, Hull has
largely withstood the onslaught of renewal. It’s remote enough that its residents have stood in solidarity against interlopers.

There are only a few outsiders who have taken over some of the large houses at the north end, looking out on Boston. Gunta’s house sits on the cliffs that fall off into the harbor.
It’s a refurbished Georgian-style beach house with broad porches sweeping around the entire perimeter, and decks on the second and third floors. It’s early morning when we arrive, and
the sun is rising over the Harbor Islands to the east. There’s a Mercedes M-Class sedan in the driveway, which is flanked by dune grass rippling in the breeze coming off the water. It looks
like it’s going to be a beautiful day.

‘Does he keep his car here normally?’

I shrug. ‘Sometimes, probably.’

Killkenny and I walk slowly up the broad wooden stairs that lead to the front door, looking around for any sign of trouble. ‘It’s quiet,’ I say.

‘You expected him to be having a party?’

‘Doc may have been wrong.’

‘Maybe, but we’re here.’ Killkenny reaches out and tries the doorknob. It’s locked.

‘Do we ring the bell?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not unless there’s someone else who’s supposed to be here.’

‘He lives alone, as far as I know.’

‘Then we won’t be bothering anyone.’ He pulls out his gun, wraps it in a corner of his jacket and taps one of the small windowpanes near the doorknob. I’m amazed at how
quietly he manages to take out the glass; he’s clearly done this before. He reaches in and turns the knob from the inside and opens the door.

‘You wanna go first?’ he asks.

‘You’ve got the gun.’

He nods and steps through the doorway.

The place is decorated like one of the places featured in design magazines, with lots of natural colors and sisal rugs. The art on the walls is high-end, oils and watercolors of ships and beach
scenes. It’s clear that the place was done by a professional; Gunta would have neither the time nor the style to achieve the effect. In truth, it feels like it’s someone else’s
house – like the leverage he’s taken from the value of his company holdings has been sufficient for him to slip on another identity. It’s like someone’s idea of who he
should be, rather than his idea of who he actually is.

We walk into the living room, and I marvel at the view. It’s an open space with a giant stone fireplace. The far wall is dominated by oversized windows and French doors that lead out onto
the back side of the sweeping porch, with views of the ocean to the east and the Boston skyline to the north.

‘Nice,’ Killkenny comments quietly.

‘Wealth has its advantages.’

‘You think you’ll get a place like this after the company goes public?’

It’s the first I’ve thought about the company’s future since this whole ordeal began. I really have no idea what will happen now. ‘Not my style’ is all I say.

‘We should split up, clear the place floor by floor,’ Killkenny suggests. ‘It’ll take less time, and be harder for him to get by us if he’s here.’

‘Says the man with the gun.’

Killkennywalks over to the fireplace and picks up the heavy iron poker, comes over and hands it to me. ‘Now you’re armed.’

I feel its weight and swing it a couple of times. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You take the north side of the house.’

I head to the south side of the house, which is dominated by the professional kitchen and pantry. It seems safer than the other side, where I could see a library and den where there are more
places to hide. I move around the kitchen, admiring the granite countertops, the high-end appliances and oversized double sink. I hold my breath as I swing open the pantry door, the iron poker at
the ready, but all that’s in there is a heavy stock of supplies.

I head back out to the living room, and Killkenny joins me a moment later. ‘Anything?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, I’ve got him in my pocket,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Upstairs,’ Killkenny says, ignoring me.

The house is large enough that it takes us several minutes to clear the second floor – a warren of five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. I check in closets and under beds, but find
nothing. Every time I go into a bathroom I am convinced that François will jump out of the shower stall, or leap out of the toilet, but everything is in order, all of the rooms spotless. I
wonder how much the maid charges to clean the place, and figure it’s a pretty good deal. It’s a big house, but I can’t imagine Gunta makes much of a mess. He doesn’t seem
like the type to throw big parties.

Killkenny and I regroup at the stairway. He motions toward the last flight, up to the third floor. ‘Last possibility,’ he whispers.

He goes up first, and I follow. It’s clear that the third floor was an attic prior to recent renovations. The ceiling is comparatively low, and the floor plan looks as though it was open,
before walls were thrown up to divide the space into thirds. The center section, into which the staircase rises, is an open carpeted area with a large flat-screen television on the far wall. There
is a pool table that looks as though it’s never been used, and a couch in front of the television that looks as though it has never been sat in. The walls on the north and south sides of the
room have doors that are closed, and Killkenny motions to indicate that he’s taking the section to the south. I nod and move to the other end of the room.

I put my ear up to one of the doors, trying to sense any motion on the other side. It’s pointless, I realize; even here on the unused third floor, the doors are solid wood that no sound
can penetrate.

I take a deep breath and swing the door open, holding the fire poker above my head. It turns out, though, that the door is to a small empty closet. I breathe again, chastising myself silently
for acting like a scared little kid. Moving over to the other door, I open it slowly, the iron poker still in my hand at the ready, though not raised as high. The open door reveals a bedroom that
is large by normal standards, but small compared to those on the second floor. There is a bathroom at one end, and a single glass door leading out to a small balcony at the other. The view from up
here is even more spectacular. On the third floor I am probably forty feet up, and the house is close enough to the edge of the cliff that it seems as though it is a 200-foot fall straight from the
balcony to the water below. I’m rethinking whether I’d want a place like this, if the company still manages to go public. It’s awfully nice.

I check the bathroom first, pulling the curtain on the nautical shower stall and poking my head into a small linen closet. There’s nothing there, so I walk over and look out onto the deck.
No one.

I turn and start to head back out into the common area. ‘I’ve got nothing here,’ I call to Killkenny, no longer worried about raising an alarm. ‘If he was ever here,
he’s gone now.’ Before I get to the bedroom door I notice a half closet next to the bed, and grab the doorknob just to make sure, though I have no thought that there is anyone hiding
there.

As I pull the door open there is a blood-curdling scream from within, and the door swings open, hitting me in the face and knocking me backward. I’m rubbing my jaw as I look up and see
Michael François coming toward me, his face twisted in rage. The fire poker is suddenly heavy in my hand, and I’m too slow in raising it. It’s just above my shoulder when
François hits me on a full run, his shoulder driving into my already bruised ribs, knocking the wind from me. I try to call out, but I can’t breathe.

He continues driving me backward, and my feet struggle to keep pace and prevent me from sprawling on the floor. A moment later my back collides with the door leading out to the balcony,
shattering the glass and sending us tumbling to the exterior decking. I catch a glimpse of his face, and it’s truly a terrible sight; any semblance of sanity has deserted him. I am still
clutching the fire poker and I’m swinging it wildly, trying to connect with him, but he has me by the shirt, his chest to mine, and I’m too close to generate any power. I’m still
gasping, trying to get my breath, as he pulls me up so that we are standing. I try one swing, but I have no strength, and he ducks it easily. He screams again and runs at me, knocking me backward
once more. This time my back collides with the railing at the edge of the deck, and I flip over, landing on the narrow sliver of roof just under the balcony. It’s steep and I start to slide
immediately. I flail out, grabbing onto the railing to keep from going over the edge.

‘Help!’ I scream, as my feet dangle from the edge of the roof. I’m frantically swinging my legs up, trying to gain a foothold, without success. My head is just above the
decking for the balcony, and I see Killkenny in the doorway, his gun drawn.

‘Don’t move!’ he hollers at François. François screams at him and Killkenny raises the gun, aiming it as his chest. ‘Don’t!’

François screams again, but he doesn’t move.

‘Help!’ I call out.

‘Hold on, Nick,’ Killkenny says. ‘Hold on!’ He motions François over to the wall. ‘Hands up against the house!’ François looks at him, and it
seems that he’s debating whether to comply. ‘Now, asshole!’

I’m still dangling, and my ribs are on fire. My hands are sweating in the heat, and I can feel my grip slipping. I look over my shoulder and see the sea below me. I know that there is a
thin stretch of grass between the house and the cliff, so if I fall, I won’t go all the way to the bottom. Still, the chances that I’ll survive the three-story fall are not very good.
‘Paul!’ I call. ‘I’m slipping!’

‘I’m coming,’ he shouts, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He is pointing his gun at François, and the two of them are at a stand-off. Killkenny begins moving slowly
toward him. ‘You still there, Nick?’

‘Yeah,’ I answer. ‘I can hold on.’ As I say the words, though, the railing pulls free at the top from the house and slams down against the roof, dropping me another two
feet, so that everything from my waist down is dangling freely over the edge now. ‘Fuck! Paul!’ I shout. It’s useless, I realize, as my fingers begin the final slip. I look over
my shoulder again to see whether there is a bush or some other spot that might increase my odds of survival. Unfortunately, all I see is a flagstone terrace beneath me. ‘Oh, shit!’ I
shout as my fingers snap open and I feel myself begin to fall. My fear of heights returns, like a full-throated roar in my ears, and I close my eyes, accepting my fate.

I feel a sharp slap against my wrist, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m no longer falling. I open my eyes and see a hand holding onto my wrist, keeping me from slipping. Killkenny is
lying on the balcony, one hand holding me, the other grasping the side of the balcony from which the railing has pulled free. I’m so surprised I’m not dead that I just dangle there for
a moment, until he screams at me, ‘Climb up, for chrissakes!’