An Unwanted Guest

  “I’ve never told anyone this before,” Ian says nervously. He glances at Lauren. “I was thirteen. And Jason, he was ten. He could be difficult. I didn’t like hanging out with him, keeping an eye on him. Jason wanted to go to the pond that day. He wasn’t allowed to go by himself. So I went with him. But when we got there we got into a fight about something stupid. He was so stubborn. I got pissed off and I left. I left him there alone. I didn’t think he’d go in the water. He knew better.” He pauses, takes a breath, and exhales heavily.

  “When I got home, later, and we couldn’t find him, I went back to the pond. He was floating there, dead. And I knew it was my fault for leaving him. I never should have left him there. I’ve had to live with that my whole life.

  “I lied to my parents. They didn’t know we’d gone to the pond together. I let them believe that he’d gone on his own. That it was just a fluke that I was the one to find him. All these years, I’ve been living with the guilt. And my parents still don’t know.” He looks up at the rest of them. “I don’t know if I’m guilty under the law. I left him there alone, and I’ve been lying about it ever since. I probably knew he’d go in the water. I told you the same story I’ve told everyone, even my parents.” He looks at David—he’s afraid to look at Lauren. “This is the first time I’ve told the truth about it.” He slumps back in his seat, exhausted. “Now you all know.”

  THIRTY

  Lauren watches Ian, her lover, through startled eyes. Then she glances at the attorney, tries to gauge what he’s thinking. He looks as if he believes Ian now. But she doesn’t know what to believe. Maybe it happened the way Ian says. Or maybe Ian pushed his brother in. Maybe he held him down.

  He’d told her about his younger brother before, the original version—the lie.

  He’s sitting close to her, their bodies touching, but now she pulls away. He looks back at her in consternation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” she says, her eyes glancing off his.

  “I didn’t even tell my parents! I couldn’t tell you—I was afraid of losing you.” He looks back at her imploringly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. Do you think I haven’t blamed myself every single day since then? Do you think I don’t feel guilty every time I think about my parents? Every time I talk to them?”

  She turns her eyes away from him.

  “C’mon, Lauren. Don’t let this come between us.”

  She doesn’t answer him for a moment. Then she turns to him in the dark. “You should have told your parents the truth.” It comes out sounding a little too pious.

  “I was a kid,” he says defensively.

  Lauren shifts farther away from Ian on the sofa, and speaks nervously, without looking at him. She feels everyone staring at her. She takes a deep breath and says, “You’re not a kid now. And we have to tell the truth, Ian. It will come out eventually.”

  “What?” Ian says, startled.

  “What is it you want to tell us?” David asks.

  She says reluctantly, “When we went upstairs after lunch—I know I said that we were together, but—I went down to the little sitting room on the third floor to be alone for a bit, to read. Ian said he was going to have a nap. I wasn’t with him.” She feels Ian stir on the sofa beside her uneasily. “We weren’t together all afternoon like we said.”

  “Why did you lie?” Beverly says.

  “Because I didn’t think”—Lauren’s voice falters—“I still don’t think that Ian had anything to do with this.”

  Ian says, “It’s true that Lauren went to read in the sitting room in the afternoon while I was alone in our room. We probably should have said so. But I’m not a killer. That’s ridiculous. It’s not me!” He turns to Lauren. “You don’t think it’s me, do you?” He sounds a little worried.

  “No.” She shakes her head but she sounds uncertain, and she knows it. She can hear it in her own voice. Perhaps they all can.

  “Why on earth would anyone think it’s me?” Ian asks. He looks nervously at the others seated around the fireplace. “Why me? It could be anyone.”

  “It might be you,” Lauren whispers suddenly. “Maybe I’ve just been too blind to see it.”

  “What?” Ian splutters. “Lauren, come on.” He looks genuinely alarmed now. “This is insane.”

  “When Dana was killed—I just assumed that you were with me all night.”

  “I was with you all night! I never left the room. I swear.” He runs his hand through his hair nervously. “And how would you even know? You were asleep.”

  “That’s just it, Ian.” She looks doubtfully at him now. “You know I take sleeping pills. I took two on Friday night. You knew I took them. You could have left our room for hours and I wouldn’t have known.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I did!” He runs his hands up and down his thighs. “So you can’t vouch for me being in the room all night.” He looks uneasily at the others. “So what? None of you can prove where you were all night. Why are you pointing the finger at me?” He says, “I think we all need to take a step back here. We’re all getting a little paranoid.”

  Lauren glances at the others in the room. Their eyes are all trained on Ian. She shrinks farther away from him. “But I wasn’t with you in the afternoon either.”

  “So now you think I might have killed them?” He shakes his head furiously. “No. No. Why on earth would I kill three people?” He looks around at the others as if for validation. “You’d have to be crazy!”

  “Maybe you are crazy.” Beverly has spoken and Lauren turns to look at her in surprise. “I saw the way you looked at Bradley when you brought his body in here.”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ian protests. “You’re mad,” he says, glaring at Beverly.

  “I’m not the one who’s mad!” she cries, her voice shrill, as Ian shrinks back into his chair, a look of fear on his face.

  Lauren watches it all, her eyes wide.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ian sizes up the situation and doesn’t like it at all. He doesn’t like the way everyone is staring at him. “I’m not a killer,” Ian says, more quietly. “Lauren and I weren’t together for part of the afternoon. It doesn’t mean I murdered three people in cold blood. You have no reason to suspect me.”

  Lauren looks at him, her face pale, and says, “But how could you lie to your parents like that for all those years? How could you do that? Maybe you’re not who I thought you were.” She lurches up suddenly and moves to the other sofa a few steps away. She sits down beside Gwen and looks back at him with something like fear in her eyes.

  “Lauren,” he begs her. But she turns her head away. She won’t even look at him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Gwen watches all of this feeling like she’s going to be sick. She wants to vomit up all her fear and grief and guilt and get it all out of her. She doesn’t know what to believe. She doesn’t want to believe that Ian may be the killer. But she has to admit it’s possible.

  They must survive until the police arrive; let them figure it out. But God only knows when they’ll get here. She’s even more frightened now. She no longer feels there is safety in numbers. She thinks of Riley out there in the cold, probably dead. She wonders if anyone else will die.

  * * *

  • • •

  Matthew broods in the dark, staring malevolently at Ian. Suddenly he leans forward and says, “Why should we believe you?”

  “Believe what you like,” Ian growls back. “The police will get here eventually, and they’ll believe me. There’s no evidence at all that I killed anyone. Because I didn’t kill anyone.” He turns to Lauren, “And you’ll know I didn’t do it, too.”

  Matthew sees Lauren looking at Ian, as if wanting to believe him.

  “You lied about your brother,” Matthew says.

 
Ian doesn’t answer.

  Matthew lets his voice grow quieter, and more menacing. “Maybe it still didn’t happen the way you said. Maybe you killed your brother. Maybe you drowned him on purpose. Because maybe you’re a killer. Maybe you’re just made that way!” Matthew glares at him accusingly. Everyone remains frozen, watching.

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Matthew says. “I think you killed Dana. And I have no idea why.” He stifles a sob. “I’d like to strangle you myself.”

  David stirs, as if ready to jump in.

  Matthew finds himself standing now. David rises, too, and steps in front of him and puts a hand on his chest. Matthew is taller, and broader, but David’s hand is firm against him.

  “I didn’t kill her!” Ian protests. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Sit down, Matthew,” David says firmly.

  Matthew hesitates. And then, grudgingly, he sits.

  * * *

  • • •

  David slumps back down into his seat, his heart beating fast. For a moment, it looked like Matthew was going to attack Ian. Emotions are running dangerously high. People who are frightened can be unpredictable, and dangerous. David knows he must not let his guard down for even a minute.

  * * *

  • • •

  Beverly shivers beneath her blanket and watches the others carefully. She’s convinced that she saw something odd cross Ian’s face when he looked at Bradley’s body on the lobby floor. And now Lauren herself has said that she wasn’t with Ian the afternoon that Candice was killed. And that story about his brother—that gave her the chills too. What kind of person can lie to their parents about something like that for years? He’s cold, that’s what he is. Matthew obviously believes Ian is the killer too.

  Beverly asks herself what Ian—or anyone—has to gain from these murders. If there’s a connection here, none of them can see it. Whoever is doing this is mad. And that’s what scares her the most. Because if someone is killing for the fun of it, because they want to kill, because they can’t help it, rather than for a real reason, then all bets are off. You can’t know what they’re going to do, where they’ll stop. You can’t know how much risk they’ll take. Perhaps Ian is planning on killing them all. Perhaps at some point, before first light, he will start laughing and slaughter the rest of them.

  Maybe, Beverly thinks, it’s finally dawned on that foolish Lauren what might happen. She looks scared out of her wits.

  * * *

  • • •

  Gwen wants to close her eyes and sleep. She wishes she were home safely in her own bed. She wishes the police would come. She’s exhausted by fear and grief and guilt. She can’t stop thinking of Riley, out there alone in the freezing cold—and she’s the one who’s responsible for bringing her to this terrible place. Furtively, she watches the others through tear-swollen, half-closed eyes. Her heart breaks for James, who has just lost his son. He looks like he will never recover. Well, that makes two of them. She tries to feel sympathy for Matthew, but she doesn’t trust him. Ian looks frightened; he doesn’t look like a murderer at all. But perhaps that is all for show.

  She must not fall asleep. She gives her head a little shake, trying to stay awake.

  Gwen catches David’s eye across from her, but she cannot tell what he is thinking. Does he think Ian is the killer? If Lauren was in the sitting room, then they can’t be sure where Ian was when Candice was killed. But then, they can’t really be sure where any of them were at the time of the killings. That’s the problem, it’s all so confusing and unclear, and she’s so tired she can’t think it through. . . .

  She drifts off for a moment and then wakes with a start. She shifts her position, fighting to stay awake. This is her second night of almost no sleep. She wishes again that she had something to protect herself with. But the truth is, even if she had a knife, she doesn’t think she could use it. If the killer came for her, or for someone else, could she plunge a knife into his neck? She looks at Ian, staring moodily into the fire. Could she plunge a knife into Ian’s neck? She studies his neck, the Adam’s apple that protrudes ever so slightly. She watches him swallow in the firelight, unaware of her scrutiny, of what she’s thinking.

  She doesn’t think she would have the guts. She shivers beneath the thick wool blanket that covers Lauren and her. She reaches for Lauren’s hand beneath the blanket and holds it. Lauren squeezes her hand back.

  Sunday, 4:05 a.m.

  “We should kill him,” Henry says into the dark without warning, “before he kills us.”

  David feels the small hairs on the back of his neck stirring. It’s as if everyone has stopped breathing. He takes a deep breath and says, his voice outraged beneath the evenness, “Don’t be ridiculous, Henry—we don’t know that Ian killed anybody.”

  Henry says recklessly, “It’s him or us!”

  He’s in no mood to listen to reason, David realizes. They are all reaching the breaking point; perhaps Henry has just reached it first.

  David glances quickly at Ian; he looks petrified.

  David gets angry then, at the recklessness of it. “We can’t just murder him.”

  “Why not?” Henry says. “It would be self-defense!”

  David shakes his head at Henry. “You fool,” he says, raising his voice. “It would be murder in cold blood. We don’t know that he killed anyone. Look at him, cowering in his chair. There are seven of us, and only one of him. Do you really think you can kill him and get away with it? You want to be judge, jury, and executioner all at once?” He can’t help it; the outrage has taken over, and comes through loud and clear.

  Henry grudgingly settles back into his chair, his face hidden in shadow.

  Sunday, 4:59 a.m.

  Henry’s eyes flutter. He’s having a dream, a very unpleasant dream, that he is paralyzed, that he can’t move, can’t act. He’s had this dream before—it’s symbolic of course, but it has never seemed so real. He’s held fast inside this nightmare. He can’t move his arms, or legs, not even his fingers or toes. He cannot move his tongue, which feels thick in his mouth. The only thing that is alive is his brain, his mind.

  He realizes now that something is terribly wrong. He’d been sleeping, but this isn’t a dream. He tries to speak, but he can’t open his mouth, can’t form any words. It’s difficult to swallow. He thinks his eyes are open, but he can’t move his eyelids, and all is darkness. He can’t see anything—it’s as if a black film has fallen over his eyes, like that moment before you pass out. He knows he’s dying but he can’t tell anyone. He wants to flail and thrash to get their attention, but he is unable to. He knows where he is, even though he can no longer see. His sense of smell is still working, and he recognizes the scent of the logs burning in the fireplace; it reminds him of Christmases as a boy. He’s still in the lobby of Mitchell’s Inn, and the murderer has got him too.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sunday, 6:30 a.m.

  Outside the hotel, wild things scurry and howl in the forest. The wind has dropped to a whimper. The sky is just beginning to lighten in the east, but inside, it is still dark, and quiet as the grave. Suddenly the chandelier overhead flickers and turns on, flooding the lobby with light. The remaining guests stir and look up in surprise. There are sounds of whirring and clicking as various parts of the hotel come back to life. The power is back on.

  David, who hasn’t closed his eyes all night, glances first at Gwen, who appears to be asleep, her dark lashes a smudge against her pale face. She’s breathing peacefully, for the moment at least. Lauren is curled beside her. He shifts his eyes next to Beverly. She’s looking at him, blinking in the sudden brightness.

  “The electricity’s back,” she says with feeling. “Thank God.”

  At the sound of her voice, Gwen stirs, opens her eyes.

  Lauren straightens up suddenly on the sofa. “Hallelujah,” she says.

&
nbsp; Matthew and Ian shift beneath their blankets; David doesn’t know if they were ever really asleep, but they’re wide awake now. James is slumped in his chair; his eyes are open, and David can’t tell if he’s slept at all.

  Now Beverly gives a startled cry, and they all quickly turn her way. She’s staring at Henry.

  “Henry!” Beverly cries. Her face is aghast, and she shakes his arm.

  But there’s no mistaking that Henry is dead. He’s perfectly still in his chair, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth open. In the light of the chandelier his face has a hideous pallor.

  “Henry!” Beverly shrieks again, shaking him harder, panicking.

  David rises swiftly and goes over to Henry, but there’s nothing to be done. Beverly is now sobbing hysterically. David looks up and meets Gwen’s eyes, and sees pure fear.

  James slowly gets up and makes his stumbling way to the reception desk. David watches as James dials the number, his hands shaking, and realizes he’s holding his breath. To his profound relief, the phone appears to be working. At last.

  James speaks into the phone, his voice breaking, “We need help.”

  Sunday, 6:45 a.m.

  Sergeant Margaret Sorensen, fortyish, stocky, blond hair going gray, always an early riser, is enjoying her Sunday morning coffee at home in her favorite, least flattering flannel pajamas when she gets a call from one of the officers at the station.

  “Ma’am, we’ve got a situation out at Mitchell’s Inn.” Officer Lachlan sounds tense, which is unusual. He’s generally a laid-back sort, especially good with community events.

  “What kind of situation?” she asks, putting her coffee cup down.

  “We just had a phone call from the owner there. James Harwood. He said at least three people have been murdered, maybe more.”

  “Is this a prank?” she asks in disbelief.