The Assassin Game (21 page)

I'm woken up with a knock.

I peel myself off the small sofa. How long have I been asleep? I stand carefully and pull my clothing into shape. I feel bedraggled and creased and kind of like I want to take a shower. Not all of that is due to Daniel, but some of it.

The knock comes again. I really hope it isn't him.

“Cate! Are you in there?”

Not Daniel. The voice is female and familiar, but in my haze I can't immediately peg it. I open the door, and Ms. Lasillo is standing there, looking impatient.

“There you are,” she says, as if she's wasted all morning looking for me in far more sensible places. “It's your turn.”

I frown, and then I see Rick lurking behind her, and I catch on. We both have last names at the end of the alphabet; it must be time for us to go and talk to the police.

“Come on!” Ms. Lasillo trots her little legs quickly down the corridor. “Everyone else is at lunch. The dining staff has been instructed to keep you each a plate warm for after your interview. It shouldn't take long.”

“Ms. Lasillo?” Rick says. “I need to pee.”

She sighs. “Quickly, Rick. I'll wait for both of you outside. Now, hurry!”

Rick goes off on his special excursion, and I follow slowly as Ms. Lasillo strides down the corridor, then pauses, looking into a study room. By the look of her face she likes what she sees there even less than us. “Marcia? Alex! You were told to proceed to the dining hall. Please go there immediately.” She resumes walking at a clip.

I reach the doorway of the study, and as I do, I see Marcia and Alex both looking like they were disturbed deep in conversation. No doubt comparing notes on how the interviews have been going. I flash a smile at them. Only Marcia meets my eye. Alex looks like he's closing down his laptop.

“Quickly, everyone!” Ms. Lasillo is calling for us as she exits into the quad. Alex walks past me and out with her, giving her a winning smile. Marcia hangs back a moment.

“You OK? You look weird.”

I nod. I need to tell her about the Daniel thing but not now. “Just woke up.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Left you a cupcake in the common room.” She goes to follow Alex. “They turned out well. I had to fight to keep you one.” She winks at me. “Most of one anyway. You know what they say: never go to a police interview on an empty stomach.”

“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. “Never heard that one before.”

“Cupcake? Where's mine?” Rick appears again, pulling up his fly, but it's too late. Marcia is not turning back. He looks at me. “Race you for it!”

I let him run and fetch it, like I know he will, and as I reach the door to the outside, he's there by me, holding out a little chocolate cake that resembles a lopsided turd in a paper case.

“Don't you want it?” He waves it at me at arm's length. “It's got your name on it.”

I squint. On the top of the turd there's a squiggle of icing, white letters barely spelling out “Cate.”

Rick sniffs the cake. “Mmm!”

I make a grab for it, but he whips it away, laughing. As he does, I catch a glimpse of more letters on the crinkled side of the paper case, but I can't read them.

“What does it say on the side?” I ask him.

“Eh?” Rick says, then turns the cupcake over. “Ooh, ‘Eat Me!'”

My arms feel suddenly drained of blood. “Let me see.”

“Not. On. Your. Nelly.” He slowly unwraps the cake from its papery dress.

“Seriously, Rick.” I hold out my hand for the cake. “Give it to me.”

“Nope!” He scrunches the paper case and chucks it at me. I smooth it out in my hand, my heart beating. There are the letters, in red, in that writing. Rick opens his giant maw, eyes glinting at me, the cake looking even smaller in his huge fingers. He licks the side of it with a huge bovine tongue then begins to cram it into his mouth, all the while looking at me.

“Rick, what do you think you're doing?” I try to keep my voice even. “We are playing the Game, and something says ‘Eat Me,' and you shove it in your mouth? Are you a complete amateur?”

He stops. Spits the cake out whole into his hand. Swears. Then he thinks about it a second. “Wait. This cake was meant for you, and Marcia made it. I even watched her ice it. If she is meaning to off you, she just did it in front of a whole common room full of witnesses. Plus”—he looks at me, victorious—“Marcia took a nibble. A bit fell off the top when she was icing it, and she gobbled it right up.”

I shake my head. “No, look, it's been sitting there in the kitchen since then, and—”

“Come along, people!” Ms. Lasillo flings open the door, stormy faced.

“Yeah, come on, Cate!” Rick tuts, then flings the mashed cupcake into his mouth again, crumbs flying, jaw chomping.

I follow, out into the open, the paper cupcake wrapper still in my hands, struggling to keep up with him and Ms. Lasillo as they head to Main House. Rick's not allergic to anything, is he? But then…Marcia meant that cake for me. But Marcia's not the person who rigged that spider for Emily, is she? Marcia's not Skulk? My head hurts with the effort. Maybe Skulk got to the whole batch of cakes, maybe everyone's going to get a particularly nasty case of the runs. Serves Rick right anyway. I shove the cupcake wrapper into my pocket.

We reach Main House and walk through the big oak door and into the foyer that leads to Ezra's office. Ms. Lasillo points to some chairs outside the room.

“Sit there. You'll be called in one at a time.” She knocks on the door, opens it a crack, and leans inside. “The final two. Ready for you,” she says to whoever is in there.

Rick sits, grinning at me, chocolate still around his lips like he's a toddler.

I sit carefully, watching Ms. Lasillo happily scuttle off, now that she's done her duty and deposited us.

Rick doesn't seem to be ailing at all. He manages a highly tuneful burp, then slumps back in his seat and scratches his groin, contemplatively. “You'll be first,” he says to me unnecessarily. “Wish I had another cake to keep me going, yum-mee.”

Actually, if Rick is Skulk, and the whole batch is yucky, wouldn't this be a great way to divert suspicion?

The door swings open. A gingery young man in a police uniform leans out. “Catherine?”

I stand up. “Cate.”

“Cate.” His Welsh accent makes my name sound much nicer. He gives me a slightly tired smile and disappears inside.

I take a last backward glance at Rick—who has slid so far down the chair his huge legs sticking out make him look like some kind of modern art chair-boy hybrid—and then follow the policeman inside.

I've only been in Ezra's office twice before: once during my interview for the school, and once when Marcia, Daniel, and I did the graffiti talk and got crazy with the spray cans. It's cozier than I remember, filled with bookshelves and a series of overlapping Turkish rugs. There's a high painted ceiling depicting some kind of holy war between fat, cherubic babies and six-winged seraphim. The ceiling was created by art students a couple decades back. Wish I'd gotten in on that gig, must have been fun to decorate Ez's ceiling with copious little willies. Although if it had been up to me, I would have opted for a flying spaghetti monster.

The room is dominated by a huge window, which has a spectacular view over the rolling lawn, down toward the cliffs and sea in the background. Two policemen are blocking the view today, however. They are both perched uncomfortably on wobbly wooden chairs. The younger one who came to the door is balancing a notebook. An older, very tall policeman looks me up and down as he clutches a tiny cup of tea on his knee. Mrs. James is beside them, and she gives me a brief smile.

“Hello, Cate. Come in.”

Ezra sits to the left of the window, barely visible behind a large desk. He flaps a welcome with one papery hand.

“Ah, it's Catherine. Sit down.”

He has glasses balanced on his thin nose, and static is making some of the long, fine gray hairs stand up on his head, floating in the air as if we were all sitting at the bottom of the sea. I fight the giggles.

“Here.” A voice comes from behind me, and I turn around, mouth open.

It's Mr. Flynn, proffering a chair. Suddenly I lose all desire to laugh. Oh no. This makes me nervous. Lie in front of Ezra, Mrs. James, and two random cops? No problem. But Mr. Flynn is a different matter. Why is he here? It's not like he's particularly senior. Maybe it's because he dealt with Emily when it all went down? I really hope he's not going to throw me under the bus with the whole beach thing with Vaughan. But that has nothing to do with this, and if it were the case, then Vaughan would have given me the heads up. Surely.

Mr. Flynn shoots me a look I can't read as he places the chair down and retreats into the shadows to one side of me. I sit on the chair, not sure who I should be facing. I shift my gaze between them all, probably looking like the epitome of dodgy.

“We will keep this as quick and as painless as possible.” The older policeman flashes a chunky watch. “There's no messing with these tides, and we're all a little peckish.”

I nod, trying not to look too pleased.

“So, Cate, you were in the ballroom when the incident of Emily's assault occurred, were you not?”

I nod. Wow. Just like Clue.

He nods back and smiles. “And would you say you were a friend of Emily's?”

I nod again. The young policeman's pen is hovering over his pad expectantly. Oh—I'm expected to actually answer.

“Yes,” I croak, then clear my throat. “I mean, a bit. We weren't—aren't—close or anything.”

“But you would say she's in your circle?” he presses.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“The Assassins' Guild, you call it?” he says. “And your friends have already told us that this term you were playing a Game.” He leans forward slightly. “A Game called Killer.”

I swallow. OK, are we going there already?

“Yeah.” I glance at Ezra and try to think of something else to say. Ezra appears to be dozing; this morning must have been a long one for him. Outside the door, I can hear Rick coughing. I look at the door. He's coughing quite a lot; what did he do, light one up? I wouldn't put it past him, the idiot. The coughing stops; there's a thump.

“Cate?” The policeman looks at me questioningly.

“Inspector Yates asked you a question.” Mrs. James looks pointedly at me. “Was this incident connected with the Game?”

“Um…” I can't help but look back to the door. “No. Definitely not. It's against the rules to actually hurt anyone.”

“Can you think of anyone who would do this to Emily?” Inspector Yates says. “Had she had any arguments with anyone lately? Trouble over a boy?”

There's a sort of tapping out there now. What the hell is Rick doing? I look back at the teachers and the cops—aren't they hearing this?—and then the tapping becomes much louder, more of a thump, thump, thump, and I hear a low moan. I stand up.

“Cate?” Mrs. James frowns at me. “Sit down.”

I glance at her and point at the door. There's a scratching, and that moan again. Suddenly, as ridiculous as this is, I'm frightened. Is that Rick out there? Or is it the thing that's eaten him?

Thump.

“Is that a knock?” Ezra squawks, suddenly awake.

I move over to the door, mesmerized.

Thump, thump, thump.

“Mr. Flynn?” Inspector Yates says. “Can you check that for us?”

Mr. Flynn is already at my side, and he moves past me and puts his hand on the doorknob, face grim. “Just give me a minute.”

He opens the door, and Rick falls into the room and lies there, facedown on one of the Turkish rugs.

My first thought is, Rick you utter, utter prat. So what if you're bored out there? This is a stupid thing to pull with policemen in the room.

But then Rick rolls. Over onto his back he goes, trembling from head to toe. His eyes wide, face aghast. Mrs. James gasps, the policemen move forward as one, and Mr. Flynn puts a hand out to stop me getting any closer.

“What's going on?”

The thumping is now coming from Ezra, who is penned in behind his desk, trying to move his wheelchair out to get a better look.

Mrs. James has regained her composure. “Rick, get up off the floor, you fool!”

There's a slightly embarrassed second, when everyone else around Rick wonders how to break it to Mrs. James that this isn't a joke. But then Rick does it for us, the trembles turning to convulsions, his whole body jerking on the floor like he's wired to the mains.

The two policemen kneel to hold him.

“Eyes dilated, sir,” the younger one says.

“Son!” Inspector Yates says. “What did you take? Answer me.”

Rick can't answer, except to convulse some more, as if he's trying to kick off his shoes.

“I'll call the ambulance!” Mrs. James utters. But before she can move, Rick sits up, opens his mouth, and projectile vomits all over her lower half. She squeals as chocolatey bile drips off her tweed skirt and onto her patent court shoes.

Rick slumps down, gasps, and stops moving.

The edges of the room close in on me, and as I back away, I almost tumble over Ezra in his wheelchair. Mr. Flynn and the policemen are pumping Rick's chest and breathing into his sick-coated lips, but it looks like Rick has left the building. I see it in his eyes, his floppy hand, his already-gray skin. The men continue, regardless, pumping him. I want to tell them to stop. It's obscene.

“I think we've…lost him, sir,” the young policeman says finally, with a catch in his voice.

“He's still breathing,” mutters Mr. Flynn, but I think he's kidding himself.

“Give him a drink of water to bring him around!” Ezra says helpfully. “I've got one, somewhere.”

“I've called the ambulance.” Mrs. James is standing at Ezra's desk, dabbing at her dripping skirt; there are chunks of something on her legs and a blob of chocolate on one toe.