Free Everyone's Dead But Us by Mark Richard Zubro

stay with me. We can’t help by hiding out in the villa. We’ve got to be proactive.”
    Deplonte said, “Henry is really dead?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “He was always so efficient,” Deplonte said.
    There’s something I’m not sure I’d want engraved on my tombstone.
    We waited while they threw on some more clothes. The farthest occupied villa along this part of the path was Henry Tudor’s. Past his place all the others were vacant and then the path meandered far inland to eventually meet up with the main road a quarter of the way around the island. Tudor’s villa was the largest on the island. The castle might have had more square footage but this was far more modern. The four of us followed the beam from the flashlight. As we neared the villa, we saw that it was completely dark. I shone the light over as much of the exterior as I could. We saw torrents of water cascading from the downspouts.
    I used my entry card. We entered a massive foyer. Foot-thick Greek columns stood in the four corners of the room. I think they might have come from some real temple of antiquity.
    I said, “According to the list I was given, he had a lover.”
    Deplonte said, “Yes, Derek Harris. He is a real nice guy. Very sweet. Besides his Olympic successes, he’s made a couple of movies. He was very closeted. He came here a lot in the past few years.”
    “He didn’t live here year round?” I asked.
    Deplonte said, “Why would he? Not that many do, actually. There are so many places to be and see and explore. Derek had money of his own, but not enough to afford this place, of course. Few do.”
    I caught a sidelong look at us. I’m not big on interpreting body language. I think it’s bullshit, this nonsense when someone says, ‘by the look on your face I can tell that ten years ago on the last Saturday in October you had cornflakes for breakfast.’ But if I was willing to go out on a limb, I’d say this look meant that we weren’t quite worthy of being on the island either. I’d never noticed any difference in the employees’ treatment of other guests and ourselves. I suppose they were paid to conceal any disdain.
    Scott said, “How long had they been lovers?”
    “I’ve been coming here since I was eighteen, ten years ago. He was here then, before the Olympics.”
    “They must have become lovers when he was in his teens.”
    “Late teens is what Wayne Craveté told me. They met at his first national championship meet.” Tudor hung out at national teenage gymnastic meets?
    The four of us stayed in one another’s presence. We started our search in the living room. The furniture was all plush black leather. One wall had twenty-by-twenty-foot large modern canvases with random splashes of paint or haphazard geometric designs. Another wall seemed to have nothing but cubist art, perhaps some original Picassos. I shone the light toward the third wall. It took me several heart-stopping seconds to realize the man with the raised ax was one of a string of sculptures. I felt more than a trifle foolish for flinching. The fourth wall was mostly window overlooking the sea and fronted by an eighteen-foot bar.
    We found a large-caliber gun sitting on the Louis Quatorze bench in the center of the room. I sniffed it. It sure smelled like it had been fired recently.
    “He had a gun?” I asked.
    “I guess,” Morgan said.
    Scott said, “Somebody could have planted it there.”
    I said, “We’d have to find out who knew about the gun, who had access to this room and wherever he kept it.”
    Morgan turned on us, “You really think you two are going to get cooperation from anyone, answers to probing questions? Have you any idea of who you’re dealing with?”
    I said, “Some very spoiled rich people.”
    Morgan sighed. “The cliché is true. The rich are different and these are among the very richest. You should both understand that. What I’m sure you can’t understand is the steps we would take to protect that which needs