Fosgate's Game, David C. Cassidy [top romance novels TXT] 📗

their names—not that they would have proceeded—but of course they weren’t listed. Chances were, none of their circle were.

“The pen … and the shears,” Fosgate said. He took them and set them aside.

Chadwick spied the poker—imagined himself reaching for it—and froze. He cursed his indecision.

Fosgate drew a drawer from the side of the table and produced a pair of small, pyramid-shaped items. One was white, one charcoal, the constitution of which Chadwick could only speculate. They struck him as aged things, yet they bore no symbols or script. Closer inspection of the white one revealed a scarcely visible line separating its peak from the base, indicating a cap, and on further consideration, two thoughts struck him: it would fit snugly into the case in one of those vacant spots … and its diabolical purpose.

Fosgate handed him the white pyramid. It was surprisingly weighty, a pound if an ounce. Curious but cautious, Chadwick tried to open the top to no avail. He turned it clockwise, felt no give, and only a counter-clockwise move did the trick. It clicked loose and he removed the top, revealing nothing save an empty vessel.

He looked to Fosgate, and watched with trepidation as the man placed his clipping inside the black receptacle. Fosgate stuffed it in with his left index finger, careful not to set off the pistol’s trigger with his right hand. Chadwick followed suit and capped his container with a click. The rather innocent sound seemed to echo deep inside his brain.

“Part and parcel,” Fosgate explained, capping his. “The old man’s instructions were clear. Simply insert something to identify the … target, if you will. A lock of hair … a ring, perhaps.”

“Or just a name.”

Fosgate nodded. “Apparently that’s all it needs.”

“Apparently all you need,” Chadwick said.

~ 11

Chadwick launched the experiment—an experiment he prayed was doomed to fail—by leading his Queen’s Knight. As he set the piece down, a small, lonely voice inside his head tasked him: Don’t do this. A grueling forty-five minutes later at the strike of one, he moved his surviving Knight into position, his hand trembling. His ulcer threatened to double him over, and he faltered as he muttered that single, deadly word. “Checkmate.”

Fosgate met him squarely—his eyes seemed to blacken—and offered no more than a mischievous grin. He had lost the match, but the real game was about to begin.

~

Silence slipped between them, and for the longest time the only sounds were of driving rain and crackling fire. When thunder struck like a resounding cannon, Chadwick shivered with terror; his gaze whipped to the west window. Impatient with him during one of his longer moves, Fosgate had opened the drapes there, the storm blowing more fiercely from that direction, knowing full well it would put him off his game.

“May I draw those?” he asked, getting up with his drink. At the window, he drew one panel and then the other. He moved quickly to the southern side with the intent on closing the drapes there too, but as he did, lightning lit up the estate, illuminating it for several seconds. He held short, a sharp cold rippling through him. His Mercedes beckoned in the roundabout driveway.

He held his back to Fosgate. “And now?”

“We’re in the news game,” Fosgate said dryly, as if they were discussing possible headlines for the outcome of a dreary economic summit. “We wait.”

~

A dim glow from a bedside lamp kept Chadwick calm until four; they had retired at two. The storm ended, mercifully, and he, feverish and terrified, slipped into a drunken darkness. He did not dream.

At breakfast (which was hot black coffee for the listless Chadwick, a hearty meal of poached eggs, potatoes, and various muffins for Fosgate, the weekend help dismissed for the duration afterward), they waited wordlessly for the report at the top of the hour. The breakfast room boasted a large plasma television, and even Fosgate rippled with gooseflesh when the crawl at the bottom of the screen flashed the headline.

THREE LONDONERS BEHEADED

“God help us,” Chadwick gasped. His ulcer bled.

~ 12

Still dressed in yesterday’s best, Chadwick did not wait for the details in the news report. He ignored the pain and fled the breakfast room, hurrying to the study.

Wrapped in a thick gold bathrobe over silk pajamas, Fosgate followed. “What? What is it, man?”

Chadwick stood at the chessboard, fearful. The receptacles lay amid the vanquished pieces at the side of the board. His heart raced. He almost turned and ran. Only guilt forced his hand. He snatched up the dark receptacle and removed its cap. He peered inside.

A sliver of paper. A life spared.

“Chadwick—”

Chadwick shushed Fosgate angrily. He swallowed something thick as he took up the white container. A part of him stood cold in disbelief. The other part, a darker one, spoke softly, spoke only the truth. The truth he already knew.

This is real.

Slowly, he turned the top of the receptacle, and it clicked open. The sound resonated inside of him as if he’d drawn a stone door to an ancient tomb. He removed the top, and his heart sank.

He turned to Fosgate—neither said a word—and slowly dumped the contents onto the board.

Ashes.

Chadwick’s eyes glistened as they grew. He found the directory and began flipping through it like a man possessed. Fosgate told him to get a hold of himself, but he heard none of it. At last, he stopped at the listing where Stanley, D, had been.

“What, man? What?” Fosgate said.

Chadwick whirled around. “There were three, you bastard. Three—”

His voice choked off, and he had to gather himself. Without a word, he moved to the south window. His Mercedes called for him in the warm morning sunshine, as it had called to him during the storm. If only he’d listened; if only he’d risked the drive home. Even if he hadn’t made it.

He turned and faced the hunter. “Do you see, Fosgate? Do you see what you’ve wrought?”

“Chadwick—”

“Don’t Chadwick me, you bastard. Don’t you understand?”

“Certainly. I’m not stupid.”

“No. You’re not. You knew this would happen.”

“I knew nothing of the sort. But I admit, I had considered the possibility. A variable in our little experiment.”

“A variable? A VARIABLE?” Chadwick snatched up the directory, offering it like a game show host teasing with a handful of cash. “What do you say, Fosgate? There are three pages of Stanleys. Why not just leave off the D?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not cut out every last fucking name?”

“Chadwick, your ulcer—”

The big book struck the floor as Chadwick doubled over. The agony brought him to his knees, and when Fosgate approached, he struck a defiant hand. Fosgate hurried from the study, and when he returned with a cold glass of water, Chadwick took it quickly with a pair of antacids. Fosgate helped him to his seat.

“You’ve murdered three innocent people,” Chadwick said feebly. “Their families—”

He looked up, to a face of cold stone.

“Rubbish,” Fosgate said plainly, clearly more concerned with retrieving the directory. “But I’d think twice about what you’re thinking. The fact is, even if the police did believe you, you’re as guilty as I.”

Chadwick was ill-equipped for rebuttal. Things were happening too fast. He felt dizzy. His hands fell cold, and his head ached with a hangover. He held his tongue.

“That’s a good lad,” Fosgate said. “Cheer up. We’ve no need for concern. It’s not as if the police could ever connect us with … what the devil?”

Chadwick followed Fosgate’s gaze, which had fallen upon the Knight that Chadwick had used to best him. Blood spattered the broadsword.

Fosgate drew a handkerchief from his pocket and ran the Knight’s sword across the silk. Carefully, he slid the tip of his finger along the glistening blade.

“Be careful, Fosgate—”

“Remarkable,” Fosgate said, under his breath.

“Remarkable? Is that what you think?”

Already, Fosgate was going for the radio on his desk. The report offered little details on the murders, the police even less. He lowered the volume as the next story began, about a two-bus collision near Trafalgar Square.

Chadwick’s insides were knotting, like worms in a bait box. Suddenly, the name Albert Stewart leapt into his head, the name he’d blacked out with ink. The report made no mention of him. Perhaps his body hadn’t yet been discovered. Or—and he prayed to God he was right—the man had been spared from the dark force they’d unleashed. “We’ve got to stop this. Now.”

“To the victor go the spoils,” Fosgate agreed. “Our wager was clear.”

“I’ve no intention of keeping that,” Chadwick bellowed, pointing to the set as if it were some kind of rabid animal. “It’s cursed.”

Fosgate laughed. “Listen to yourself. Now who’s mad?”

Rising slowly, Chadwick mustered: “Fine. I’ll drown it in the Thames. I’ll see to it on my way.”

But the sly hunter soured. Fosgate slipped the pistol from the deep pocket of his robe. “I think not.”

“We agreed. Fosgate … please.”

“Shall we?” Fosgate said, drawing a seat at the table. When Chadwick resisted, he motioned with the pistol.

“I’d rather a bullet,” Chadwick said, though his game face was wanting.

“You would indeed. There are worse ways to go.”

Chadwick’s attention slipped to the chessboard. To the Knight’s blade. “You wouldn’t. Fosgate. You wouldn’t.”

Fosgate slipped the pistol in his pocket. “Perhaps not,” he said, making himself comfortable. “But I expect your best efforts. No deception. We play to win.” He blew the ashes from the board, and then his eyes narrowed. “I trust you do understand, eh?”

“Fosgate—”

Fosgate ran a hand above the board as he scanned the pieces, finally settling on a menacing Rook. The black thing looked as if it could crush a person’s skull with a glance. “Dreadful, isn’t it,” he said, more statement than question. “I can’t imagine what such a beast might do to your dear Eydie.”

Chadwick felt as if a blade had pierced his heart. “Bloody Christ,” he said, and sat.

~ 13

Fosgate decreed that further experiments were needed. This time, however, they had been careful to select “targets” unique in their listing. As a further precaution—to narrow the variables, eh, Fosgate had quipped—for each name, they included the address and the telephone number. Three grueling matches drew long into the afternoon, and Chadwick, despite his failing spirit, had become quite efficient with his Knight, having twice dispatched Fosgate with some deft strategy. The third and final victory—if one could call murder victory—came with his Rook, and after a rather subdued tea in the breakfast room, he followed Fosgate to the study. Cognac in hand, he sat at the south window fearful of the growing cloud cover, while Fosgate tuned to the BBC. Chadwick prayed for a miracle, not really believing one would come to pass.

Anchored by a woman bearing a thick European accent, the radio report began with an update on the so-called “Phonebook Phantom,” what one quick-witted newshound had dubbed the serial killer who had beheaded three victims, all unrelated other than by last name and first initial. Police were baffled, admitting they possessed not a single lead, yet were hopeful that London’s latest murder, that of nineteen-year-old Thomas Crowley, an employee of a filling station in Romford, would turn out as the break they were seeking. Crowley had been crossing in front of a parked vehicle when, according to one witness, was attacked—the anchor paused for effect—by the air. The young man had scrambled about the lot screaming as if chased, and to the shock and horror