Ultimate Hide-and-Seek
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"They say the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys," Andre Truffaut said when he addressed the people who were crowded into the Edwardian Room of New York's Plaza Hotel. "I personally feel that it is the danger of their games that sets the men apart from the boys."
Did he detect an undercurrent of apprehension in the laughter of the crowd? Probably.
"I remember the first time I went skiing. The thrill of racing down a snowy mountain in Switzerland was amazing! Adrenaline flowing. Heart pumping. What a rush! And that was just the beginning. I tried snowboarding, surfing, whitewater rafting, bungee jumping, hang gliding, mountain climbing and skydiving. The more extreme the sport, the better I liked it. Alas, eventually even those pastimes grew tame. So, I decided to create my own sport."
There was a low hum of whispers in the crowd, and people turned toward each other with questioning expressions on their faces.
"You all came here tonight because you saw my post on social media. I've never met any of you; I know nothing at all about you. But I would bet my entire fortune that you all have one thing in common: you're in desperate need of money. I ask you this. To what extremes are you willing to go to get it?"
As the men and women in the room looked up at him, he could practically read their minds.
"About now, you're probably asking yourself two questions. One, what does this guy want me to do? And two, how much is he willing to pay me to do it? In answer to the first question, I want you to play a game with me. In answer to the second, I will pay you each one hundred thousand tax-free dollars if you succeed."
The fear in the audience was palpable and so was the greed.
"Remember that old children's game of hide-and-seek? Well, I've amped it up. I will take all willing players to a location in New Jersey where there are ample hiding places. I, of course, will be 'it.' The doors will be locked, and you will hide. I will have twelve hours to find you. If I don't, I will pay you the hundred thousand. Sound easy? Just think about it. You'll have to remain quiet in a confined space for an entire half day. You may sleep; you may not. But you can't eat or drink, and you can't get up and go to the bathroom.
The seeds of doubt he had sown in the minds of the audience started to sprout.
"I can see from your faces that some of you aren't so sure. Here's something else you might want to take into consideration before signing up. As I said, if I don't find you, you'll walk away a hundred thousand dollars richer. But what will happen if I find you?"
An unpleasant smile spread across the multibillionaire's handsome face.
"The answer is simple. I'll kill you."
There was uneasy laughter in the crowd.
"You think I'm kidding? I'm not. I'm deadly serious—no pun intended. If I find you, I'll kill you. That's what sets this apart from the traditional hide-and-seek game. It's what makes it fun."
Nearly one-third of the people in the audience craned their heads toward the exits.
"You don't have to make up your minds right now. Why don't you all sit down, relax and enjoy the meal and the open bar? If you decide you don't want to play, then at least you've gotten free food and drinks from me. However, if you decide to risk it all for the chance of getting the money, then I will meet you back here next week at the same time. Thank you."
His speech over, Andre Truffaut stepped down from the elevated podium and exited the room.
* * *
"Where did you find this place?" Jay Macomber, Andre's assistant asked when Andre's Bugatti pulled up in front of a massive building near the Passaic River.
"I inherited it," his employer replied. "Back in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Paterson, New Jersey, was known as Silk City because of the textile factories located here. My great-great-grandfather, Gilles Truffaut, came over from France as a skilled silk finisher. He was a hard worker, and before long, he earned enough money to buy his own factory. He married a woman named Claudette and built a house—not a normal house, mind you, but a castle."
"There ought to be a lot of hiding places here," Jay opined, admiring the splendor of the massive structure. "That will give the players a fighting chance at least."
"It sounds as though you're rooting for them to survive," Andre laughed.
"You know me. I like backing the underdog."
"Maybe you ought to play."
"No, thanks. I'm getting married in three months. I'm not about to risk my life. Besides, I'm not desperate for money. You pay me a good salary."
"Let's make sure everything is ready for tonight's festivities," Andre suggested and unlocked the front door.
Upon entering, Jay's attention was drawn to two suits of armor. The sole purpose of these silent sentinels was to give a more authentic feel to the castle.
"Are you planning on going medieval on someone?" he joked, eyeing a five-foot-tall halberd.
"One never knows," his employer laughed.
Claudette's Castle, named after Gilles' beloved wife, was only a short distance from Interstate 80 and a fifteen-mile drive to the George Washington Bridge. Once they saw to the game's final preparations, the two men made it back to Manhattan in less than an hour. Before going to the Plaza, Andre stopped by his apartment on Central Park West.
"Are you coming in?" he asked his assistant.
"No," Jay answered. "I think I'll head home."
"And miss all the fun tonight? Where's your sense of adventure?"
A worried look darkened Macomber's boyish features.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this? You could wind up spending the rest of your life in prison. And for what? A quick thrill?"
"It's much more than that. I've spent months planning this event. Besides, I'm not likely to get caught. I've hired a team of people to dispose of the bodies and clean up any mess that is made."
"What if there are survivors? They could go to the cops or the press."
"They're all aware that if the truth gets out, Uncle Sam will come around to collect taxes on the prize money. No one is going to want to share any part of the hundred thousand with either the federal government or the state they live in."
"Still, something might go wrong. Please call it off."
"Stop worrying. If I get caught—which I seriously doubt will happen—I'll hire the best lawyers in the world to defend me. They'll be even better than O.J.'s so-called dream team."
* * *
Andre was disappointed by the number of people in attendance. He had expected many more.
Nine people! That's all? he wondered. Maybe I should have offered more money. Perhaps a hundred thousand wasn't enough of an incentive.
"This is a poor turnout indeed," he told the driver who was waiting outside to transport the players to the castle. "It looks like we're only going to need one bus."
Although he prided himself on always being punctual, he told the man to wait another ten minutes before leaving for New Jersey in the hope that latecomers would show up. No one did.
"This is some place!" Darby Sickert, an accountant from Danbury, Connecticut, exclaimed when he got his first glimpse of the century-old castle.
"It looks like it belongs in Europe," Janina Klingel, a single mother of four from the Bronx, added.
"Go on inside," the driver instructed. "The doors are open."
Andre did not greet his nine guests in person. Instead, a recorded message was played on a large video screen that was set up in the entrance hall of the castle.
"Good evening," the multibillionaire said. "You have all agreed to join me in this game of ultimate, high-stakes hide-and-seek. The doors will be locked precisely at 6:00 p.m. You have until then to change your mind. If you do, the driver will take you back to Manhattan. If you choose to play, I strongly suggest you use the bathroom facilities now as there are motion detectors throughout the castle to prevent people from changing their hiding spots. If you are caught going from one room to the next, you will be eliminated from the game.
"At six, the clock in the tower will chime. You will then have exactly sixty minutes to find a hiding spot before the game begins. There are three floors and a basement in the castle, containing more than sixty rooms spread out over three wings. Once you find a place to hide, make yourself comfortable because you could be stuck there for twelve hours.
"The game will come to an end at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Again, the clock in the tower will chime. You may safely come out of hiding at that time. Before you leave the castle, you will be given a suitcase containing one hundred thousand dollars in cash."
In the video, Truffaut opened one such suitcase and showed them the contents.
"Don't worry. In the highly unlikely event you all survive, I have more than enough money to go around."
Nine faces glowed with hope at the prospect of walking away with such a prize.
"That's all I have to say," Andre announced. "I'll let you all visit the restrooms now. When you hear the clock chime, go to any wing of the castle and search for a hiding spot. Choose well. Your life depends on it."
The video screen went dark.
"You don't think he's really going to kill anyone?" asked Garrison Ely, the youngest of the nine players.
"I don't see how he can. He'd go to jail if he did," replied Elise Liddington, who by the designer outfit she wore, looked as though she did not need money.
"Are you kidding? With all his dough, he'd get away with murder," laughed Mick Zehner, a man who had seen his fair share of trouble with the law.
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm going to find a bathroom," declared middle-aged schoolteacher Georgina McDivitt. "My bladder must be the size of a walnut. I hope I can make it all night without peeing."
"There's a hundred grand at stake," claimed the androgynous Ashley Towers, who was either a feminine man or a masculine woman. "For that kind of money, just pee in your pants. You can buy new ones."
After the nine players relieved themselves, they waited in the entrance hall for the clock in the tower to chime. They frequently checked their watches, counting down the minutes until six o'clock.
"It's almost time," Sylvester "Sly" Cowles, who was selected for the College Football All-America Team three times, announced. "I've got 5:58."
"Me, too," Elise Liddington said, looking at her diamond-studded Chanel watch, a wedding gift from her wealthy husband.
"Good luck, everybody," Ashley Towers cried. "I hope we all make it back here alive."
"Don't worry," Mick Zehner assured her. "We will."
"This is something we can tell our grandchildren about someday," Garrison Ely joked.
The tower clock made a resounding gong, and the nine players split up. Three headed to the east wing, two went to the west wing and four walked straight ahead to the north wing. There was no sign of fear on their faces, only the look of hope that they would not be found.
* * *
None of the players had advanced knowledge of the layout of the castle, so when the clock chimed, Sly Cowles arbitrarily chose the east wing. Janina Klingel walked behind him, and Ashley Towers trailed by several feet. Upon entering the east wing, they came upon a staircase. Sly had to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. Should he go up, down or straight ahead? Although his life literally depended on his choice, he made up his mind in a childish way.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe," the Pennsylvania man recited, pointing his index finger in the three directions as he spoke. "Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe."
When he came to the end of the counting rhyme, his finger was pointing toward the staircase that led to the second floor.
"Up it is," he announced.
The woman he assumed was a mousy-looking housewife went straight while the person he dismissed as a "whatever" headed to the basement.
At the top of the stairs, Sly found a long hallway with close to a dozen doors opening off it. The first three led to guest rooms. They were similarly furnished: a bed, dresser, night table, chair and writing desk. Given his size (he was 6'3" and weighed 274 pounds) the only place he could hide would be under the bed.
"That's probably the first place Truffaut will look."
As Sly continued to walk down the hall and open doors, he reminisced about his short-lived glory days when he was considered one of the best college football players in the country and a sure bet to be a first-round pick in the NFL draft. Tragically, an injury during his senior year at Notre Dame brought a sudden and decisive end to his athletic career. Although he could no longer play the game, football remained the center of his life.
After graduating college, he was hired as a sportswriter for his hometown newspaper. He was on the job for less than two months when the assistant editor invited him to join the office football pool. It was a harmless game with a buy-in of only five dollars a week, but for Sly, it was the start of a gambling habit that would spiral out of control. The football pool led to lottery tickets and eventually to online sports betting. He soon found himself in debt, and like many gamblers before him, he believed that if he could just win one big pot, his troubles would be over. That philosophy led him to place more bets and dig himself deeper into debt.
"Once I get that hundred grand, I can wipe the slate clean," he mused.
When he neared the end of the hall, he looked at his watch, hoping he had time to return to the first floor should he find nothing but more bedrooms and bathrooms. The next door, to his surprise, opened to a staircase that led up to the third floor.
"Eureka!" he exclaimed when he saw the huge attic.
Filled with crates, trunks and old furniture, the dark, cavernous room was cold since the builder deemed it wasteful to install heat in a storage space. By the light of his phone, Sly made his way to the far end of the attic where an antique armoire stood, collecting dust.
Shivering, he sat on the floor and breathed warm air on his cold hands. He looked at his watch again. It was ten minutes to six.
"I gotta stay here for twelve hours and ten minutes. I may be half-frozen in the morning, but I'll be rich."
* * *
While Sly was climbing the staircase to the second floor, Ashley took the steps down to the basement, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the former football player. As a transgender male, he had suffered harassment by those macho types in the past.
He was born Ashley Mary Towers, and with all the appropriate feminine parts, he was given a female sex assignment at birth. Accordingly, his mother dressed him in pink, frilly frocks; put bows in his long, curly blond hair; and bought him "girl" toys as gifts. Eventually, the boy inside him rebelled. The first thing to go was the dolls. By the time he was ten, he traded his dresses for jeans and masculine shirts. At fifteen, his long curls gave way to a buzzcut. Finally, on his sixteenth birthday, with his parents' permission, he changed his legal name. Although he kept the given name Ashley since it was traditionally a male name, he changed his middle name from Mary to Mark.
"It's only one letter," he said when he saw his revised birth certificate. "But like Neil Armstrong's small step for man, this is a giant leap for me. With a simple "K," I'm declaring to the world that I'm a boy."
At eighteen, he began receiving hormone therapy. The testosterone shots lowered his voice and caused his body hair to grow thicker. However, he was still biologically a female. To successfully transition to a man, he would need surgery.
"Out with the old, and in with the new," he joked.
But chest reconstruction and gender affirmation surgery cost a great deal of money, more than he made as an EMT. The hundred thousand he would get if he survived the game of hide-and-seek would allow him to take the final step in transitioning from female to male.
As he walked down the stairs to the basement, he realized he was entering a different world from that on the main floor. This was the "below stairs" area meant for servants. Unlike the first floor, where the wings were separated by the grand entrance, the downstairs featured one long hallway that led from the laundry room in the east wing to the kitchen in the west wing.
The laundry room had been built at a time when servants washed clothes by hand and hung them on a line to dry. Other than a large sink, folding table and ironing board, there was no other furniture in the room. He opened the door to the wine cellar next. Inside were racks of bottles, empty and full, but nothing else. The third room was more promising. It contained wall-to-ceiling cabinets, the top half of which had glass doors to reveal the dinnerware inside.
"How many sets of dishes did they need?" he wondered, amazed at the various patterns of china and porcelain the Truffauts owned.
Ashley opened the door to the bottom half of the cabinet. Inside was an assortment of soup tureens and meat platters.
"I'm only 5'4". I can easily fit inside here if I can find another place for this stuff."
He quickly reorganized the contents of the lower halves of the cabinets, leaving one empty. Then he climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze, but if he bent his knees toward his chest, he could close the door.
"It'll no doubt be uncomfortable," he concluded. "But, hell, that's been the story of my life so far."
* * *
When Janina came to the east wing staircase, her initial inclination was to follow Sly to the second floor, not because she thought she would find a good hiding spot up there but because all her life she had followed behind men. Even as a child, she obeyed the instructions of her father and older brothers without question. After she was married, she steadfastly adhered to her wedding vows, particularly her promise to "love, honor and obey" her husband. Judah's word became her command.
She never objected to her subordinate role. Letting others take the lead made life much easier. Thus, when Judah walked out on her after ten years of marriage, leaving her to raise their four children alone, she was devastated, not because she loved him or resented his preferring another woman but because for the first time in her life, she had to make her own decisions.
As she watched Sly ascend one staircase and Ashley descend another, she temporarily froze. When both players vanished from view, she walked straight ahead, choosing to remain on the ground floor. The first room she encountered was a games room. She immediately ruled out both the billiard table and the card table as potential hiding spots since they offered little in terms of concealment. The same was true of the furniture in the smoking room and the library.
Walking down the hall, Janina thought about Gilles Truffaut, the man who had made his fortune in silk and built this castle. Why couldn't she have married a man like him? His wife probably never had to worry about money. Most likely, she lived like a queen with servants to do her bidding.
"I'll bet she never would have had to put her life on the line to feed four hungry kids."
The thought was an exaggeration. Food was not a problem in the Klingel household. Once Judah left, Janina applied for welfare and food stamps. She lived in subsidized housing and relied on CHIP to cover the children's medical bills. In short, the necessities were covered. It was the small luxuries her kids wanted: a Sony PlayStation, iPhone and iPad. They longed to take yearly vacations like the ones their friends went on; they had never been to Six Flags much less Disney World. The closest they got to a theme park was the church fair which had three rides: a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round and a large slide.
"With a hundred thousand dollars, I can buy them what they want and take them where they want to go. Of course, I'll have to be discreet in my spending. I don't want my caseworker to cut off my benefits."
After leaving the library, Janina walked to the end of the hallway and crossed the threshold into an immense room with three large crystal chandeliers. Silk-covered chairs and loveseats lined the walls, and a piano stood in the far corner. Images of Cinderella waltzing with the prince flitted through her mind. But now was not the time to dream about scullery girls in fancy gowns and glass slippers. She had to find a hiding place.
"There's nowhere here to ...."
As she was about to turn and head back to the hallway, she noticed the velvet drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were more than a dozen pairs. What was the likelihood that Andre Truffaut would look behind each and every panel?
Once concealed behind the lining of the velvet curtain, she turned sideways so that the toes of her shoes would not stick out.
"I'll have to stand like this for twelve hours," she groaned, knowing she would most likely suffer from a backache afterward. "But at least I can lean on the wall. Besides, life is like dieting: no pain, no gain."
* * *
Darby Sickert, the man from Danbury, and Elise Liddington, the wife of Emmanuel Liddington, the Internet entrepreneur, were the only two players to cross over to the west wing. As was the case with the previous three, they came upon a staircase and had to choose whether to go up, down or straight ahead.
"There's probably nothing but bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs," the accountant surmised.
"And judging by shows like Upstairs Downstairs and Downton Abbey, I'd say that's where the servants worked," Elise declared, pointing to the lower level.
"I suppose there will be more hiding places down there," the accountant said and began climbing down the stairs. "Are you coming?"
"No. I'll see what this floor has to offer."
Although he knew nothing about Elise, it was obvious she had money. The Versace outfit, the Jimmy Choo shoes and the Louis Vuitton bag were not cheap knockoffs.
"Why is she risking her life for a hundred grand?" Darby wondered.
Only one explanation came to him. The clothing and accessories were expensive gifts from a man. It was quite possible her lover had grown tired of her and was no longer footing the bills. Desperate people would do anything for money. He should know. He had gotten himself into trouble, and he hoped the hundred thousand would get him out. Whether you called it embezzlement, misappropriation of funds or just plain theft, it was a serious crime. If caught and convicted, he faced a ten-year jail sentence.
"Why did I do it?" he wondered.
The answer was simple: he was greedy. He certainly wasn't in dire need. He had a good job and a house in an upscale community. His wife could not be blamed. Jackie would have been just as happy with a dress from JCPenny as one from Prada. The fault should be placed squarely on Darby's shoulders. He was the one who envied the lifestyle of his wealthy employer.
It had started small. Fifty here, a hundred there. When no one caught on, he became braver. Two thousand here, five thousand there. Before he knew it, he had embezzled more than ninety thousand dollars from the company. Although no one had yet to accuse him of a misdeed, he believed it was only a matter of time.
Darby told himself to keep his mind on the game. His only thought should be to find a good hiding place.
At the bottom of the stairs, the first door off the long hall led into the largest kitchen he had ever seen. There was a long prep table in the center of the room, above which hung dozens of copper pots and pans. Multiple stoves and ovens lined the outer wall. Although the ovens were large enough to roast two turkeys at a time, they were too small for a six-foot-tall man to hide in.
"The formal dining room must be on the second floor," he assumed. "I doubt servants would be expected to carry all that food up the stairs. They probably used—ah ha! Just as I thought!"
Discreetly placed in a niche in the corner of the kitchen was a dumbwaiter. If he removed the shelf from the car, he might fit inside. Remaining curled up in a fetal position for twelve hours would be hell, but after finding no other hiding spots in the pantry and servants' dining area, he returned to the kitchen and hunkered down inside the dumbwaiter.
* * *
Elise was more at home on the main floor of the castle than in the basement. Although she came from humble beginnings, she married well. A bus driver's daughter, she wed Emmanuel Liddington, nicknamed in the press the King of the Dot.com Moguls. Much to her chagrin, despite the Cinderella story of her life, she was not living happily ever after. Emmanuel had truly gone from rags to riches; subsequently, he shied away from wasteful spending. He was one of the richest men in America, yet his wife was not permitted to spend more than her allotted monthly allowance.
While Elise spent more on clothes in one week than the average woman did in ten years, she was not satisfied. She wanted more, but her husband held on to the purse strings like a dying man holds on to a lifeline. Before he put the ring on her finger, he made her sign an ironclad prenup. In case of divorce, she would walk away with only one million dollars.
The way she spent money, she would blow through that million in no time at all. But the dark cloud that hung over her head had a silver lining. Since Emmanuel had no living relatives, his will named Elise as the sole beneficiary of his estate. Much to his wife's dismay, though, the Internet tycoon was in excellent health. He could easily live another thirty or forty years.
It was seeing House of Gucci that gave her the idea of having her husband murdered. If Patrizia Reggiani could hire someone to kill her estranged husband, Maurizio Gucci, then so could Elise. (She ignored the fact that the conspirators were tried and convicted.)
"I'm smarter than Patrizia Gucci. I'll hire a reliable hitman."
To her credit, the bus driver's daughter was not stupid. Her allowance went directly into a bank account each month. If she used that money to hire a paid killer, she would leave a paper trail. As she was exploring other ways of financing her plan, she came across Andre Truffaut's social media post. Curious, she attended the meeting at the Plaza Hotel. His hide-and-seek challenge proved to be the answer to her prayers.
Once she got her hands on that suitcase full of cash, she would hire Rocco Balducci, a distant cousin, who was a paid killer for a New York crime family. As her husband once told her, if you want a job done right, hire a professional. But first, she had to play the game.
When Elise parted ways with Darby, she continued walking down the west wing hall. She passed a small butler's pantry but did not bother to enter it. Instead, she walked straight ahead into a formal dining room that rivaled Biltmore's banquet hall in size. At the center of the room was a table that seated twenty. The once-white damask tablecloth, now yellowed with age, hung down to the floor. Although she cringed at the thought of lying prostrate on the carpet in her Versace crepe dress, she considered the space beneath the dining table the best hiding spot available to her.
"I suppose it will have to do. But what's the worst that will happen if Truffaut finds me? He's not stupid. There's no chance he'd get away with killing me."
As far as hiding places went, Mrs. Liddington found the most comfortable one. She stretched out on the carpet beneath the table and took a nap.
* * *
After three players ventured into the east wing and two headed west, the remaining four walked forward to the north wing where an elaborate double-sided staircase led to the second floor.
"This reminds me of a set from Gone with the Wind," schoolteacher Georgina McDivitt observed.
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," joked Mick Zehner, quoting Rhett Butler's famous line.
"We haven't much time," young Garrison Ely announced. "We better go find a hiding place."
He and Georgina climbed the staircase while Mick and Giovanni Nardone remained on the first floor.
At the top of the staircase, the schoolteacher turned to the right; the young man turned to the left. There were two master suites: one for Gilles Truffaut and the other for his wife. Each suite consisted of a bedroom, a dressing room and a bath. Claudette's also included a morning room where the lady of the house could review the day's menu or see to her personal correspondence.
As Georgina imagined Lady Cora Crawley sitting at that desk, writing a note to the Dowager Countess, a sharp, stabbing pain in the small of her back interrupted her fanciful reverie. She reached into her pocket for the bottle of OxyContin that, since being injured in a car accident, was her constant companion. The New Jersey schoolteacher popped open the top and swallowed one of the round white pills. She anticipated needing to take more before the night was over.
She considered the oxies both a godsend and a curse. They helped relieve the chronic pain in her back, but she had quickly become dependent on them. Unable to get any more prescriptions from her doctor, she was forced to buy them from a street dealer who charged an exorbitant price. Teaching was not a high-paying profession. Her salary barely covered her rent, utilities, food and other necessities. Paying for her "habit" put her in debt.
"I used to think a drug addict was some poor wretch shooting up heroin or smoking crack in a dark alley. I never dreamed I would become addicted to a painkiller. But then I never imagined I would have a head-on collision with a drunk driver either."
Now was not the time for self-pity. Her fifteen-year-old Honda was on its last legs. She needed another car to get to and from work but she could not afford one. That hundred thousand dollars Andre Truffaut dangled in front of the players' faces would not only cover the cost of a decent used car, but it would also ensure that those little white pills would keep coming.
Since Georgina could find no hiding place in the morning room, she explored Claudette's suite further. She passed through the dressing room, which was the equivalent of today's large walk-in closet. Someone had removed the clothing, leaving behind what amounted to an empty box with a mirror on the wall. The Victorian-era bathroom had never been modernized. The clawfoot tub was original to the house as was the toilet. There was not even a shower curtain to hide behind.
Finally, she entered the room where the mistress of the house slept. The bed had a canopy above it and matching curtains that covered the four posts. The bedspread was made from the same fabric as the canopy and bedcurtains. With only minimal discomfort—thanks to the OxyContin—she leaned over, lifted the spread and examined the space beneath the bed.
"I could easily fit under there."
Holding onto the mattress, she went down on her knees. Slowly, she leaned forward. Once she was lying on her stomach, she shimmied until her entire body was under the bed.
I must remain here for twelve hours! she thought with dismay and reached for the pill bottle in her pocket.
* * *
As Georgina was wandering through Claudette's suite, Garrison explored her husband's rooms. Like his wife, Gilles Truffaut had a dressing room sans clothing, an outdated bathroom and a bedroom filled with antique furniture. But where his wife had a mourning room, the silk tycoon had a study.
He was not impressed by either the leather wall covering or the mahogany furniture. The grandeur of the castle's décor was lost on him since he considered everything that predated the invention of the computer as belonging to the Dark Ages.
To hear the young man from Staten Island dismiss Gilles Truffaut's collection of rare books, some of which were priceless first editions, as a waste of paper, one might think Garrison did not have a sentimental bone in his body. They would be wrong. He was, in fact, a diehard romantic—at least where women were concerned. One woman, in particular, tugged at his heartstrings: Lara Pingree. Whenever she was near him, he felt like a lovesick schoolboy. Although they had only been dating for two months, he knew she was the girl for him. He planned to propose to her on Valentine's Day. But first, he needed to buy an engagement ring.
The smile faded from his lips and the twinkle disappeared from his eye. Money—or the shortage of it—was the bane of his existence. Crippled by student loans and car payments, it might be years before he could afford to get married. By that time, Lara may get tired of waiting for him and marry someone else.
"A hundred thousand would pay off what I owe," he reasoned, his smile and twinkle returning. "Then I can marry the girl of my dreams."
Sadly, finding a place to hide for twelve hours was nowhere near as easy as he had imagined. There were plenty of chairs, sofas, cabinets and tables throughout the castle but none offered a means of concealment.
Garrison turned and faced Gilles Truffaut's massive desk. It reminded him of the Resolute desk in the Oval Office of the White House. He recalled seeing a photo in a magazine of President Kennedy sitting at the desk and little John-John playing beneath it. Although he was no child, he was not a big man either. He might be able to squeeze into that space.
He sat down on the floor beneath the desk. With his back against the front panel, he bent his knees into his chest and leaned his head slightly forward. It was not a comfortable position, but in the words of Meat Loaf, he "would do anything for love."
* * *
While Georgina and Garrison were ascending the double staircase, Mick Zehner and Giovanni Nardone examined the rooms on the main floor of the north wing. Mick headed directly into the great room, which was where the Truffauts once entertained their guests beneath four huge crystal chandeliers. The wing chairs, settees and accent tables were of the highest quality as was the oriental rug. Mick eyed a stunning silver tea service on an antique cherry tea cart.
There was a time when he would have given serious thought to pocketing a few pieces of silverware, but those days were over. Since the age of twelve, he had racked up a long list of misdemeanors and felonies. On three occasions, he spent time behind bars. During his last incarceration, he found Jesus.
Once he was released from prison, he joined a church, was baptized and became a devout born-again Christian. Regrettably, he not only had a record but also lacked marketable job skills. Sure, he could hotwire a car, snatch a purse and pick a lock, but these talents would not find him steady employment.
An avid Bible reader, Mick was familiar with the parable of the birds of the air and the lilies of the field wherein Jesus told his followers not to worry about food, drink and clothes. He advised them to first seek out God's kingdom and righteousness. If they did so, then all those earthly things would come to them.
"I believe in you, Lord," the ex-con said. "But I ain't no bird or lily. And my faith ain't putting food on my table or a roof over my head."
Then he recalled his father's oft-spoken motto: "God helps them who help themselves."
With a hundred thousand dollars, Mick could purchase a food truck. Such vehicles were growing in popularity across America. While he was no chef, he could grill hot dogs and hamburgers.
As he looked for a place to hide, he could not help noticing the expensive artwork on display. In addition to the paintings on the walls, there were delicately carved ivory and jade figurines in a curio cabinet. A silver snuff box and a Chinese vase were placed on an end table. While there were many valuable items in the room that caught his attention, he saw no place he could hide.
His gaze then went to the fireplace. To the right of the firebox was a trifold stained glass fireplace screen.
"When God closes a door, he opens a widow!" he declared with joy.
The born-again convict ducked his head and stepped inside the fireplace. The faint smell of smoke and creosote tickled his nose. As he placed the screen in front of the opening, he offered a prayer of thanks. His faith in the lord had been justified, or so he hoped.
* * *
Ironically, both Mick and Giovanni intended to spend the money, should they get it, on a food-service business: the former, to establish one, and the latter, to save one.
Since 1945, when Pasquale Nardone returned from active service in the Pacific, his pizzeria had served hungry clientele in Brooklyn. Given the success of his eatery, the veteran could afford to marry a nice Italian girl, buy a modest home in Bensonhurst and contribute three children to the postwar baby boom.
The only son, Giovanni, was groomed to take over the family business. While other kids were learning to ride bicycles, he was being taught to make tomato sauce. No one in the Nardone family, least of all Giovanni, ever brought up the subject of college. The day after high school graduation, the teenager donned a white apron and became a full-time employee of the pizzeria. It was only natural since both his two older sisters took over their mother's duties behind the counter.
Throughout the Sixties, the small family-run business continued to grow; however, the Seventies brought not only a recession to the nation but also unwanted progress to Bensonhurst in the form of Pizza Hut and Domino's. To compete with the national chains, Pasquale expanded his menu, adding calzones and strombolis. This addition helped the pizzeria pull ahead of its competition. Then grocery stores became supermarkets and offered one-stop shopping. They had fully stocked produce, meat, seafood and dairy departments. Mom-and-pop fish markets, butchers and farmstands faced extinction. Soon, these mega markets added pharmacies, liquor departments and—to the Nardones' dismay—salad bars and hot food counters.
"First, we had to deal with Pizza Hut and Domino's, and now we have to worry about the supermarkets cutting into our business!" Pasquale complained the day he became a grandfather.
"Maybe it's time for us to grow, as well," the proud new papa suggested.
Thus, Pasquale's Pizzeria became Pasquale's Ristorante, moving from its simple storefront location to a brick building with a large dining area that seated sixty. Hoping to add ambiance to the dining experience, Giovanni hired a local artist to paint a mural of Venice on the wall. Vetoing his sister's suggestion to stock inexpensive cardboard plates and cups, plastic utensils and paper napkins, he insisted all food be served on ceramic dishes. Customers would eat their meals with stainless steel utensils; drinks would be served in glass tumblers; and when the meal was over, people would wipe their mouths with cloth napkins.
The greatest change for the business came not in its name, location or décor but in its bill of fare. The diners could order full meals from fried calamari as an appetizer to tiramisu for dessert. Pasquale and Giovanni, who both had years of experience making pizzas, experimented with different recipes for lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs, fettuccine Alfredo and veal parmesan. They also hired a trained chef to prepare osso bucco, zuppa de pesce and veal valdostano.
To finance the expansion, father and son mortgaged their homes and borrowed money from the bank. The investment paid off. Over the next two decades, the business flourished. By the time Pasquale died in 2011, all bank loans and mortgages had long been paid off. Pasquale's Ristorante, run by Giovanni and his two sons, Gino and Leonardo, was well-established and profitable.
Then came 2020 and COVID-19. Initially, Giovanni was forced by state mandate to limit the restaurant's capacity to fifty percent. When the number of cases continued to rise, Governor Cuomo prohibited indoor dining, limiting service to takeout and delivery only. Once Americans were vaccinated, restrictions eased up. Phase 4 of the mandates allowed Pasquale's to run at almost full capacity, but the previous months had taken their toll. The restaurant was operating in the red.
Just when Giovanni was considering closing the restaurant, Gino, his older boy, told him about Andre Truffaut's social media post. Now, here he was in a Gilded Age dinosaur, looking through overly large, ornate rooms filled with gaudy Victorian furniture.
"At my age, I ought to be retired and living in Florida, But here I am in New Jersey, of all places!"
It was not in his nature to wallow in self-pity. He had always met life's challenges head-on with optimism and determination. But playing a kid's game with an adult psychopath was out of his comfort zone. He reminded himself that he was risking his life to save the restaurant for his children and grandchildren. As his father had passed Pasquale's down to him, he would pass it to his Gino and Leonardo. Hopefully, they, in turn, would pass it on to their children.
It was the image of his smiling sixteen-month-old granddaughter, Luciana, the most recent branch on the family tree, that was foremost on his mind when he left the lounge and returned to the main hallway.
"Where the hell am I going to hide?" he wondered.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, he debated whether to go up to the second floor or make his way to one of the other wings. He looked at his watch, a gift from his grandson Enrico. Time was running out. Soon the game would begin. He decided to head to the great room, but as he walked past the rear of the staircase, he saw a door nearly hidden behind a large, leafy plant.
"Please let there be room enough in there for me to hide!" he prayed.
Although the heavy marble planter prevented him from opening the door all the way, he was able to squeeze through the gap and enter the storage space inside. Fortunately, the closet was empty.
"It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic," he said as he pulled the door closed behind him.
He leaned against the rear wall of the dark closet and mentally prepared himself for the long wait that lay ahead.
* * *
When the clock in the tower chimed seven, Andre Truffaut put down his glass of wine and crossed the small living room to the front door. For the past hour, as the nine players were scrambling around Claudette's Castle, looking for a place to hide, their host had been in the caretaker's cottage, awaiting the start of the game. Anticipation of the evening's entertainment heightened as he walked across the lawn and entered through the tradesmen's entrance at the rear of the castle.
"Where should I begin?" he asked himself. "East, west or north?"
As Sly Cowles had done at the base of the east wing staircase an hour earlier, the multibillionaire relied on a childish rhyme to reach a decision.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe," he intoned. "The east wing, it is."
There was no need for a repeated chorus of the rhyme at the foot of the staircase. Andre instinctively headed up to the second floor. He would start his high-stakes game where he had begun his career: at the top. As he walked down the hall, opening each guest bedroom door and peeking beneath the bed, he did a quick mental calculation.
"Nine people in twelve hours. That’s eighty minutes per person. It's almost too easy. It will be like shooting fish in a barrel."
He took his time. Why rush? Unlike his guests, he knew the layout of the castle. As he approached the door to the attic stairs, he tightened his grip on the weapon. He was sure at least one player would be hiding up there. Effortlessly climbing the steep stairs, he began to hum "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.
Andre made his way to the rear of the attic, shining his flashlight over and around the trunks, wooden crates and discarded furniture. When the beam illuminated the armoire, he smiled.
"I don't see anyone up here," he announced and took several steps back toward the door, sadistically letting the player hiding behind the armoire believe he was safe from detection.
Sly Cowles who held his breath when he heard Andre approach, breathed a little easier. But his relief was short-lived. The footsteps grew louder once more.
"Ready or not, here I come. There you are!" the host cried. "Congratulations. You have the distinction of being the first player I found."
"All right," Sly said. "Let's go downstairs. At least, it'll be warm down there. I'm freezing my ass off."
When the former football player came out from behind the armoire, Andre pointed a .44-caliber Deringer pistol, similar to the one John Wilkes Booth used to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, in his direction.
"You can't be serious!" the athlete said.
The last sound he heard was the discharge of the antique gun.
* * *
At the foot of the east wing staircase, the hunter turned to the left. He searched the games room, smoking room and library but found no one. Before leaving the library, he exchanged the Deringer for a different weapon. Armed now with a fireplace poker, Andre entered the ballroom. Several years earlier, he had given his permission for a wedding reception to be held there for the daughter of the serving mayor of Paterson. Now, in his opinion, it was being put to better use.
"If I were playing this game," he asked himself, "where would I hide?"
His eyes immediately went to the windows where the full moon was clearly visible in the star-filled night sky. He walked to the nearest one and drew aside the lined velvet curtain. No one was hiding behind it. As he neared the next panel, he began to sing an old Creedence Clearwater Revival song.
"I see the bad moon risin'."
Another window, another curtain. Nothing.
"I see trouble on the way."
He continued in the same vein, window after window.
"Don't go around tonight. Well, it's bound to take your life."
Andre pushed aside one more velvet panel and found Janina Klingel quaking with fear behind it.
"Please don't hurt me," she whimpered. "I'm a single mom with four kids. Who's going to take care of my babies if ...?"
The fireplace poker came down, and the point was buried in the mother's head. The killer had struck with such force that he had difficulty extracting the weapon. When he finally removed the poker, Janina's body fell to the ground. Feeling no pity or remorse, he stepped over her lifeless form.
"There's a bad moon on the rise," he continued to sing as he left the ballroom and went in search of the next player.
* * *
Having heartlessly done away with the single mother of four, Andre walked down the east-wing staircase to the basement. Although the laundry room had not been used since the Twenties, the wine cellar still contained unopened bottles of alcohol. He picked up a 1904 Chateau d'Yquem and estimated its worth to be more than seven thousand dollars.
"After the game is over, I may celebrate with a glass of this," he said, putting the bottle aside.
Now was not the time to think about celebrating, however. He still had seven more people to find. From the wine cellar, he crossed the hall to the china room. He deduced that none of the men would fit in the bottom of the china cabinets, but a petite woman might. He opened a set of doors. No one was hiding in either the first or second cabinet, but the hunter sensed prey was near.
"And what have we got behind door Number 3?" he laughed.
He threw open the last set of doors and found Ashley Towers curled up in a fetal position.
"Hello, there, little lady," Andre said.
"I'm not a lady; I'm a man."
The sex of his victim mattered little to the insane killer. With the grace of a ballet dancer, he opened a drawer, removed an antique Sterling silver carving knife and plunged it into his unsuspecting victim's chest.
As Ashley Mark—with a "K"—Towers took his last breath, his biggest regret was that he would die in the body of a woman. Unbeknownst to him, his death certificate, like his original birth certificate, would identify him as female.
* * *
Rather than go back up to the east wing, Andre continued walking down the basement hallway. The servants' dining hall was empty as were the other rooms he passed. Maybe he would have better luck in the kitchen.
The initial inspection was disappointing as there appeared to be no one in the room. Still, it was a good place to pick up a new weapon. He was about to go upstairs and search the rooms in the west wing when he remembered the dumbwaiter. Smiling, he walked to the niche in the corner.
"Olly olly oxen free," he called.
When the door slid open, Darby Sickert climbed out of the dumbwaiter.
"Okay," the crooked accountant said with a sigh as he stretched his legs. "You found me. Now what?"
"You lose."
Andre's arm rose above his head, and before Darby realized the extent of the danger he faced, his host wielded the meat cleaver to split both his skull and brain in two.
"It's just as I thought," the jaded multibillionaire complained. "No more difficult than shooting fish in a barrel."
* * *
Although Andre toyed with the idea of riding the dumbwaiter up to the dining room as he did when he was a youngster, he decided to take the stairs instead. When he reached the top, he sauntered into the formal dining hall. In an area that contained only sideboards, chairs and a table, there was only one logical place to hide.
"And now," he announced in a loud, theatrical voice like that of a circus barker, "for his next trick, Andre the Magnificent will pull the tablecloth away without upsetting the Waterford crystal vase on top of it."
Taking a handful of fabric in his fist, he yanked it with tremendous force. When the yards of damask were pulled away, the expensive vase fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. The killer leaned over and saw Elise Liddington lying on her back on the Aubusson rug.
"Gotcha!" he cried triumphantly.
Elise got up on her knees and crawled out from beneath the table. She stood up, adjusted her Versace outfit and straightened her hair.
"You win, you bastard," she said angrily. "I suppose I ought to thank you for sparing me the indignity of having to lie on the floor until morning, but I won't. I'm a sore loser. Now, if you can get me a car, I'm going back to Manhattan."
"Perhaps you didn't understand the rules of the game. You're not going anywhere."
Improvising, Andre discarded the icepick he had brought from the kitchen, picked up a large shard of crystal and approached her.
"You can't be serious! Do you know who I am? Who my husband is? They'll send you away for life if you harm me."
"You, of all people, should know the prerogatives of great wealth, one of which is that the rich can get away with murder."
In one deft swoop of his hand, Andre slit the trophy wife's throat from ear to ear.
* * *
Finding no one hiding on the upper floors of the west wing, the hunter descended the stairs and walked toward the entrance hall. He then climbed the large double staircase and headed for Claudette's suite. He searched the morning and dressing rooms without success. Then he stopped temporarily in the bathroom to wash the blood from his hands. As he stepped through the door into the bedroom, his eyes went to the canopy bed. It was easy to imagine one of the remaining four players hiding beneath it, watching his feet enter the room and praying they would not draw near.
To prolong his victim's apprehension, he took a slow, circuitous route around the room, stopping at the cheval mirror, the vanity, the chaise lounge and the dresser. Moments later, believing it was time to put the poor soul out of his or her misery, he went to bed.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he cruelly taunted.
He heard a soft whimper and what sounded like a plastic cap coming off a pill bottle.
"Come on out. Let's get this over with."
"I've got a bad back," the schoolteacher said, almost apologetically. "It may take me a while."
"Give me your hand," he offered.
A thin arm appeared from beneath the bedspread. Andre took it in his firm grasp and pulled the woman out.
"Thank you," she said meekly.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked when he saw her put a little white pill in her mouth.
"Everything hurts me. Just breathing hurts."
Andre smiled down at her.
"Then why don't I put an end to your pain once and for all?"
Suddenly, a pillow was placed on Georgina McDivitt's face. She briefly struggled with her attacker but every movement she made increased her agony.
"Why fight it?" she wondered and ceased resisting.
When the Grim Reaper carried her soul away, the muscles in her hand relaxed. She let go of the pill bottle and her precious OxyContins spilled onto the carpet. If there was one bright spot in the evening's tragedy, it was that she would not need painkillers anymore.
* * *
While six of his fellow players were being murdered in Claudette's Castle, Garrison Ely remained hunched up beneath Gilles Truffaut's massive desk. Visions of Lara Pingree, the woman he adored, kept him company as he waited for the game to come to an end. In his mind's eye, he saw her dressed in a wedding gown, promising to love, honor and cherish him for the rest of their lives. It was as the young man imagined raising her veil and kissing her lips, that the clock tolled 1:00 a.m.
Andre grinned as he crossed the study's threshold.
"That's the halfway point. If this were the Super Bowl, there would be a star-studded halftime show about now."
The hunter's voice took Garrison by surprise, and thoughts of Lara immediately left him.
Go away! he silently prayed.
The young computer programmer did not fear for his life. Rather, he hated the idea of having his dreams of wedded bliss slip through his fingers. He trembled as Andre tapped on the top of the desk.
"Is anyone under there?" the killer called. "You can't be comfortable folded up like a letter in an envelope. Come on out and straighten up."
Garrison, who had only recently celebrated his twenty-first birthday, did as he was instructed.
"God, look at you! You're practically a baby. Whatever possessed you to play this game?"
"I was going to use the money to pay off my student and car loans so that I could marry the girl I love," he explained.
"Well, in that case ...."
Andre picked up a silver letter opener from off the desk and plunged it into Garrison's chest. Tears came to the young man's eyes.
"Don't cry, kid. I'm doing you a favor. Better a little pain in your heart now than a lifetime of heartache if you were to get married."
The young man fell to the floor and with his last breath, called Lara Pingree's name.
* * *
Not finding anyone else on the second floor, Andre descended the double staircase and went into the lounge, one of only two rooms on the north wing's lower level. He found no one hiding there. That left only the great room. As he neared the doorway that was guarded by the two suits of armor, he took the halberd from the one on the right.
"This is the only room I haven't searched yet," he called. "That means two of you must be hiding in here."
Despite it being the second largest room in the castle—only the ballroom was larger—there were no good hiding spots there.
"Could I have missed someone in either the east or west wing?" he wondered. "I'd hate to have to go back and search every room again."
He looked at his watch. If he did intend to revisit the previous wings, he had better get to it. As he turned to leave the great room, he saw the trifold stained-glass fireplace screen.
Someone could easily fit inside that firebox. Perhaps even two people, he thought.
As he walked in the direction of the fireplace, he recited a stanza from Clement C. Moore's immortal poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas."
"As I drew in my head and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound."
As he said the word bound, he dragged the fire screen aside, revealing the feet, legs and lower torso of Mick Zehner who had been hiding behind it.
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"
The petty crook he uncovered then emitted a string of four-letter words that would have shocked his fellow born-again Christians.
"Is that any way for Santa to talk?" Andre asked with mock horror.
"You think this is some goddamned joke, do you?" Mick cried as he emerged from his hiding spot.
"No, I don't."
The killer did not wait for his victim to straighten up and assume an upright standing position. Instead, as the man was bent at the waist, the halberd came down on his neck, decapitating him.
"Sorry, Virginia," the killer laughed, "but there is no Santa Claus—not anymore."
* * *
Since no one had been hiding in the fireplace with Mick Zehner, that meant Andre would have to retrace his steps if he wanted to find the last player.
"Perhaps another person was hiding under the bed with that middle-aged woman. After I pulled her out, I failed to look."
Certain he was on the right track, he intended to return to Claudette's bedroom on the second floor. But as he walked past the rear of the double staircase, he remembered the small closet that had been built into the structure.
"Could my last victim be hiding there and not beneath the canopy bed?"
After depriving the second suit of armor of its weapon, he headed toward the closet. He stood beside the marble planter, curled his hand into a fist and knocked. There was no sound from within, so he knocked again. This time, he accompanied the action with lines from a Bob Dylan song.
"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door."
When Andre, at last, opened the closet door, Giovanni Nardone emerged from the darkness. The oldest of the players hung his balding head down in despair. Not only would he not be getting the money to rescue his failing business, but he would never see his wife, children and grandchildren again. He saw the mace that hung at Truffaut's side and knew what was in store for him.
"And you call this a game?" he asked, defiantly.
"If it's any consolation, I almost didn't find you. I was about to return to the second floor and quite possibly begin my search all over again. If I had, you probably would have lived."
"Would have, could have, should have. It makes no difference now. Go ahead. Get it over with."
Andre obliged. He swung the mace and brought it down on the old man's head, leaving his snowy white hair covered in blood and bits of cracked skull and brain matter.
"Don't ever let them tell you it's how you play the game that matters," he said to the corpse of his ninth and final victim. "It's definitely whether you win or lose that counts more."
* * *
As Andre Truffaut drove his eighteen-million-dollar Bugatti La Voiture Noire east along Interstate 80, he telephoned Vladimir Novikov, his clean-up man.
"I'm sending you a fax containing floor plans of the castle. I've indicated on them where each of the nine bodies is located."
"I'll take care of it right away," the Russian said.
By the time he arrived at his penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, the thrill of the game was already beginning to fade. And as he stood in the shower, letting the hot water wash away his sweat as well as his victims' blood, the exhilaration he felt during the hunt gave way to apathy and languor.
"What I need now is sleep."
But when Andre slid between the sheets and closed his eyes, the cell phone on his night table rang.
"Who the hell can that be?" he cried.
He looked at the screen before answering. It was Vladimir Novikov.
"Yeah," he said. "What's up?"
"That's what I'd like to know," the clean-up man answered. "There are no bodies here. I checked each of the nine locations on the floor plans you sent me and couldn't find a single one."
"That's impossible! Check again."
"I've already checked twice. There are no corpses. No blood stains. Nothing."
"Stay there. I'm on my way."
Forty minutes later, Andre entered the front door of Claudette's Castle. He was certain Novikov was lying. No doubt the man hoped to get more money out of him by holding the bodies as evidence of a crime.
"Vladimir!" he shouted. "Where are you?"
His question was met with silence. While he had hunted the players in the game, he felt a thrilling sense of adventure. As he waited for his lackey to appear, though, only rage filled him.
"I killed nine people tonight. Why not make it ten?"
Suddenly, he heard the heavy front door slam shut behind him.
"Vladimir!" he yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"
He tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge.
"That greedy bastard! He's a dead man!"
Unable to get out the front, he would go out the back. He walked into the north wing and saw that the floor behind the double staircase was clean. Not a trace of the old man's murder was left behind. Seeing that the halberd and mace had been returned to the suits of armor, he examined each weapon for blood and hair.
"They're both clean!" he exclaimed.
Andre next walked into the great room. The fireplace screen had been returned to its original position. Mick Zehner's body was not on the floor or in the firebox. And again, there was no blood to bear witness to the ex-con's murder.
"I don't get it. Vladimir didn't have time to do such a thorough job cleaning up the crime scene. He must have had help."
When the killer returned to the entrance hall, the television screen came on again, but it was not his recording that was broadcast.
"Good evening, Mr. Truffaut," Sly Cowles greeted him from the video.
Behind the former football player, whose shirt was stained with blood where the Deringer's bullet had entered his chest, stood the other eight victims. Only Georgina McDivitt, who had been smothered with a pillow, did not look like she had stepped off the set of a slasher movie.
"What the ...?"
"As you told us when we arrived at the castle, we all agreed to join you in this game of ultimate, high-stakes hide-and-seek."
Giovanni Nardone, his head bashed in by the mace, stepped forward and explained, "You thought that after you killed me the game was over, but you were wrong."
"Did you forget how hide-and-seek is played?" young Garrison Ely asked. "When you find someone, he or she then becomes 'it' and the search begins again."
"When you hear the clock chime, you will be given exactly sixty minutes to find a good hiding spot," Sly continued. "Then we will all come looking for you."
"You call that fair?" Andre screamed. "Nine against one?"
"As I always told my kids," Janina Klingel replied. "Life isn't fair."
The clock in the tower began to toll, each gong ringing a death knell for the multibillionaire.
"Better hurry," teased Elise Liddington, whose Versace outfit was ruined after her throat was cut. "The clock is ticking."
"Oh, and be sure to find a comfortable spot to hide in," suggested Darby Sickert, who had spent the last hours of his life squeezed into a dumbwaiter.
Andre fled the room, but no matter the direction he took or the room of the castle he ventured into, one of his dead tormentors suddenly appeared. It was indeed the ultimate hide-and-seek game, and it would go on for the rest of eternity.
"Bad Moon Rising" written by John Fogarty and performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" written and performed by Bob Dylan (and various cover artists)
"I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)" written by Jim Steinman and performed by Meat Loaf.
Claudette's Castle was inspired by Lambert Castle in Paterson, NJ. It was built in 1892 by silk mill owner Catholina Lambert. On a more personal note, I took inspiration for Gilles Truffaut from my own family history. My great-grandfather was a silk finisher who immigrated from Lyon, France, to Paterson. He and a partner later opened their own silk milk. He did not, however, have a castle. By the time I was born in a hospital in Paterson, (my family lived in nearby Woodland Park, then known as West Paterson), the silk industry had long since died out—and so did my great-grandfather's fortune!
And Salem wonders why he never wins at hide-and-seek!
