Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Frankie
T he purple wristband indicates a Sinner, which is code for a serial killer. The kind British man, the little elderly couple, and my handsome roommate all sport those purple bands, and I can’t rationalize any of that in my brain.
Nothing feels right about this. That’s what I keep thinking as I walk behind Maverick. I expected to be uncomfortable around these people. I expected my sixth sense to ping off the charts in the presence of serial killers. The reality is much different.
Maverick stops in front of the elevator and swipes his wristband over the metal plate. The elevator doors swish open soon after. We step inside, and he leans forward to press the button with a large glowing C in its center. My stomach lurches as the elevator car drops.
“So, what’s your killer name?” Maverick asks. The gas mask muffles his words, making him difficult to understand. “I’m the Midnight Masochist.”
“I’m the Fisher,” I say with a little too much confidence.
Maverick’s gas mask turns toward me. “The Fisherman?”
Drat. I’ve been alone with this man for less than an hour, and I’ve already made a misstep. I really need to be more careful. “Yes, the Fisherman. That’s what I said. The mask...muffled it.”
He shifts his weight between his feet and clears his throat, but he doesn’t pry any further.
Thank fuck. I had to memorize my cover story on the flight to Miami, and I made sure I picked the most obscure killer I could find.
The online resources were few and far between, and something’s wrong with the Wi-Fi on the ship, so I’m running on memory.
Thankfully, I don’t need to utilize the Fisherman’s MO.
Our inside source explained that many of these killers choose to explore other avenues of murder while they’re at the retreat.
I can only hope I won’t have to use any methods of violence at all.
Despite being a government agent, killing isn’t really in my wheelhouse. I’m not inclined to start now.
The elevator stops, and the doors open once more.
We step into another dark hallway, and I’m beginning to see a trend.
Silvers, whites, and other bright colors fill the areas for the average guests, and darker woods and moodier colors suffuse the serial killers’ spaces.
The strong visual differences make it much easier to discern what’s what, and it definitely feels like two different worlds on the same ship.
Maverick looks around, but he seems to know as much as I do. No one else lingers in the hallway, and no signs point us in the direction of the lounge. Despite being thin, the hoods attached to our suits muffle all sound. If there’s some sort of party going on nearby, I can’t hear it.
A flash of silver emerges from a door behind Maverick, and I tap his shoulder and point that way. He gives me a thumbs-up, and we head toward the other figure. Noticing us, the person waves and motions us toward the door.
Maverick begins talking with the stranger as we draw closer. They seem to know each other, which is all well and good for them, but I just want to see what’s in the next room.
I mentally kick myself for not grabbing any of my gear before this first major event. My button cameras would have come in handy, and my service pistol would have put me more at ease. Though, I’m not sure how at ease one can be when you’re trapped at sea on a ship filled with murderers.
As the men talk, I push open the door and step into the lounge. The name is apt, as the space looks like a stereotypical upscale jazz lounge. A small stage faces a cluster of tables, many of which already have silver-clad bodies seated in their chairs.
I step into the sea of tables and realize there are name placards at each setting.
Ezra, Kindra, Cat, and Bennett are seated together, whoever they are.
I only recognize the British man’s name.
After wandering through the rows, I finally find my name at the central table, right in front of the stage.
And then I realize why I’m in such an important position in the room.
I’ll be seated at a table with Jim Madigan.
Maverick and someone named Aven will also be seated with us, but it doesn’t matter. This setup puts me directly inside Jim’s circle, and that’s all I need. An opening.
I slide into my chair and tap my gloved nails on the table as I look around the room.
More silver figures fill the space with each passing second, and after a few minutes, nearly every table is fully occupied.
I do some quick math in my head and determine there are roughly thirty killers seated in this room.
The group is larger than King and Castle anticipated, but not me.
When I first heard about these retreats, I figured that?—
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
I turn my head and face the source of the twangy Southern voice. “Oh, I think the seats are assigned, but you’re welcome to hang out until the rest of my table arrives.” I offer the man a smile he can’t see, but I have to go through the motions. It’s more convincing this way.
“We switch seats all the time at these things. I take it you’re new? My name’s Ice P... I think we met in the hall.” His suit muffles the end of his name as he reaches across the table and grips Jim’s name card, clearly intending to swap it for his own.
I lean forward and swat his hand without thinking. It’s an instinctual reaction to the panic swirling through my guts. “Sorry, but I’d prefer to follow the host’s intended seating arrangements. Being new, I’d hate to ruffle feathers. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m being too pushy again, ain’t I?” He raises his hands to his gas mask and covers his “eyes” with his gloves. “I really suck at flirting. No matter what I do, women don’t like me.”
“Well, my rejection has nothing to do with you,” I say. “In my line of work, relationships are sort of frowned upon, so I steer clear of flirtations. Maybe you’re just picking the wrong sort of women.”
“What do you mean?” He drops into Maverick’s seat and leans forward, clearly enraptured by the topic at hand. “I don’t really pick anything. It happens with all women. Skin color, body type, personality—I’m not picky at all.”
I feel bad for the guy. I truly do. But I’m on a mission here, and this man’s relationship woes aren’t very high on my list of priorities. He’s creating a distraction, and the last thing I need is something that takes my eyes off the prize.
“Listen...Ice Pig, I’d love to help you, but I’m the last person you should come to for relationship advice.
I would rather step inside a church and risk bursting into flames than watch a romantic chick flick.
I would sooner skinny dip in a lake of sulfuric acid than go on a blind date.
Frankie and romance are like oil and water. ”
Ice Pig’s shoulders seem to droop as his gas mask bobs up and down. “Okay, well...thanks anyway, Frankie. I’m really sorry I bothered you.”
As he slinks away, guilt grips my lungs and squeezes.
I feel like shit for running him off, but I wasn’t lying when I said I fucking hate romance.
Yeah, maybe that’s because I’m jealous of the people who get to experience it, but I have an amazing career.
My bed may be empty, but my heart is filled.
Mostly.
I turn in my seat and look toward the open doorway. A few silver suits mill about in the hallway, and a few more hover near the bar. We haven’t been instructed to take off our masks, so I can only assume they’re patiently waiting for the go-ahead.
The room darkens further, and the muffled voices drop to whispers as a spotlight illuminates the dark stage.
Four people are led onto the stage by a person in a suit like mine, but it’s all black instead of silver.
The four people wear similar but different-colored suits as well.
One is pink, one is red, and one is yellow.
The fourth suit looks like an oil slick, with an array of colors gleaming on the metallic material.
All of their ankles have been cuffed, and they’re held together via a daisy chain that’s also bolted to the floor.
The tall man in the black suit removes his gas mask, revealing his face. It’s Jim Madigan.
“Sinners, please keep your masks in place for the time being,” he says as he strolls to the front of the small stage.
His voice booms through overhead speakers, so he must be wearing a mic.
“We’ll eat and drink and be merry very soon, but first, I wanted to provide a little pre-dinner entertainment and a hint at our secret game. ”
Spit gathers under my tongue, and a wave of unease moves over me. It’s a collective feeling, shared by others in the room, and it charges the air.
Something isn’t right.
I’ve never been to one of these retreats, and we don’t have any intel on what occurs, but this isn’t how things are usually done. I feel this more than I know it, but either way, I trust it. My anxiety blossoms for a very different reason, but I’m not the only one who feels it.
“By now, most of you know of the scavenger hunt I’ve arranged among the Normies,” he continues, “but did you know there are other scavenger hunts to be had?”
He steps up to the first person in the line—a tall figure in a red suit. Jim lowers the red hood, then removes the gas mask to reveal a terrified man. Dried blood gathers around threads that hold his lips together. They’ve stitched his mouth shut.
I should be horrified. Disgusted. Completely aghast.
But I’m not.
I’m intrigued, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the fear in that man’s gaze. He knows his time on this earth is very limited, as is evidenced by the puddle of piss forming at his feet.
“Here we have a sad little man who thought it would be fun to slip drugs into a woman’s drink before assaulting and strangling her.” Jim smiles at the man. “You were due to get out of jail in a few months, weren’t you?”
Tears stream from the man’s eyes as he nods.
“Do you feel you’ve served enough time? You’ve only been in prison for what, twelve years?”
The man’s eyes clench shut. He doesn’t know how to answer. Not honestly, anyway. I’m certain he feels he’s served enough time, but he doesn’t know what answer is expected of him here.
“Kill him!” someone shouts, and a few other muffled voices offer the same sympathies.
“All in good time,” Jim says to the crowd. He strolls to the next in line and pulls away the pink hood before looking out at us again. “How do we feel about child predators?”
The room fills with boos, and I join them. We can agree that these people are disgusting at the very least. It’s too bad we can’t agree on how to handle them.
Jim pulls off the mask and reveals an older woman with a short black bob. “She owned a daycare and thought it would be a good idea to line her pockets with the pain of her small charges. Millions of sick individuals tuned in for the abuse perpetrated at her hands. Should she die as well?”
The room fills with a loud cheer, and the woman collapses on stage. Jim steps to the side so that he doesn’t slow her descent, and her head cracks against the stage floor.
“Whoopsie!” Jim says with a laugh. “I guess she’s not used to being the one in the spotlight.” He steps over her prone body and stops beside the yellow suit.
I’m seeing a trend here. Everyone on the stage was chosen for a particularly heinous crime. Sexual assault. Child predation. But what could yellow mean? Or iridescent? Surely they don’t take down fellow murderers. What sense would that make?
Jim peels back the yellow hood and strips off the gas mask to reveal another woman. Blood coats her chin, and her lips are in tatters. Thin strips of skin dangle where she’s ripped out the stitching.
“I’m not like those criminals!” the woman screeches. “Tax fraud! And I scammed some people, but that’s it. I never hurt women or children.”
Jim brings his finger to his lips, encouraging the woman to be quiet. Surprisingly, she listens.
Like some macabre game-show host, he turns to face the crowd once more. “She has a point, people. I mean, tax fraud?” His shoulders rise in a shrug. “Does she really deserve to be subjected to some of the horrific things we do to our victims?”
Mutters and mumbles fill the silence, followed by the shuffle of fabric as dozens of silver suits shift uncomfortably in their seats.
“No, she doesn’t deserve it,” a female voice calls from the back of the room.
“Ah, the Confessor,” Jim says. “The crime is important to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very important. I think it’s important to most of us.”
“So should we let this woman keep her gas mask?” Jim looks at the woman, who’s been reduced to a quivering, crying blob. Snot slides into the lip wounds, and I want to puke.
Something shuffles behind me, and two silver-clad beings take a seat on either side of my chair as Jim and the Confessor continue to debate. The one on my left is Maverick, so the body to my right must belong to Aven.
“Enjoying the show so far?” Maverick asks, and I nod.
I am not.
The second figure—Aven—leans closer. “I’m a first-timer too. My name’s Aven. Nice to meet you.” He holds his hand toward me, and I shake it, noting the Scottish accent. “I spoke to Jim earlier, and he let it slip that the fourth person on the stage is going to be a doozy. I didn’t want to miss it.”
Biting my lip behind the safety of the gas mask, I turn my attention back to Jim. He’s finished debating with the Confessor, and it appears he’s going to let the yellow-clad woman live. After securing her mask and hood once more, he steps up to the final figure.
And as he pulls back the hood and mask, I want to scream.
It’s Castle.