Endgame (2 page)

T
he
train rounded a corner as the whistle blew overhead in a high-pitched whine. Verna Temple checked her makeup in the compact mirror. She was nearing forty, but most people took her for a decade younger. She made a pert
moue
, pouting at her reflection as she licked a spot of lipstick off a tooth. Those lips were something to behold. Full and red, as if they'd been stung by bees into a plump, round smoothness. Two quick injections and
voila!
Perfect for life. She smoothed a platinum lock across her brow. It was funny how she'd become such an old-fashioned sort of girl. Not at all what anyone would have predicted.

She picked up the magazine in her lap and turned the pages: Taylor Swift, William and Kate, more Taylor Swift. Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber, George Clooney, and One Direction. She knew them all. The faces changed, but the news was the same: romance, marriage, betrayals, drug abuse, babies, divorce. A column called “Toxic Love” caught her interest briefly — she was an old hand at that — and on the next page an ad for Sexi-Nitee. All the usual trash glittering at the bottom of the barrel.

The waters of Puget Sound twinkled up ahead. Verna watched the craggy hills approach. She hadn't been to the west coast since she was a child, on one of those endless car trips with her parents and her younger brother. The experience hadn't been so great. Nor were the memories. She had Bill and Audrey to thank for that, of course. It had turned out to be another one of their drinking and arguing binges. Not much as parents went, that's for sure. Sometimes she wondered how they were — or if they were even still alive. But these days she wondered less and less about them. Her brother had been a total shit, of course. He always was, but you don't speak ill of the dead, Verna reminded herself.

The past was past. And what you couldn't change, you put behind you. That was another thing Verna knew. She'd done plenty of putting behind her in her time. What you didn't like or couldn't live with, you could reinvent. That was her credo. From that poor, homely creature she'd once been had come the ultimate femme fatale: Marilyn Redux. All the right curves and moves.

Since leaving home, her life had been a balancing act of sobering fact and startling fantasy, of harsh truths and the little white lies she told to make it through the day. She couldn't afford a slip, not even in the things others took for granted: the stories about her mother and father, about her brother, even her work history. She rehearsed them carefully until she was exactly what and who she claimed. No more and no less. No ripple, no shimmer of doubt to mar the surface of the image she had so carefully built up all these years. If anyone looked for the person she'd once been, they would never find her. Those days were long gone. With any luck, the memories would be better on this trip.

Verna tucked her compact back in her purse and looked up. The woman sharing her compartment had got on somewhere south of Seattle, but they hadn't said a word past a quick hello. Verna studied her plain features and sallow skin — nothing a little makeup couldn't improve. Funny how some women couldn't be bothered to make the most of what they had naturally. Dull brown hair parted on the side. She looked like a Debbie or a Karen. Dull name, dull hair, Verna reasoned.

The woman turned and caught Verna watching her. She smiled, but it didn't help her appearance. Verna saw the signs. The pallid, lifeless skin said she was some kind of user. Alcohol could do that after a few decades, but drugs would do it sooner, and this woman wasn't that old. Verna hadn't touched any sort of illegal substance since she was a teenager. She'd learned her lesson back then — painfully so. There were better kinds of highs.

“You've got such beautiful hair,” the other woman said in a husky alto.

Verna melted a little. Why be unfriendly? She smiled and crinkled her nose. “Thanks,” she said breathily, reaching up to her curls. “It's a lot of work.”

“I know.” The woman listlessly touched her own hair. “Too much work for me, though I've never been blessed in the looks department.”

“Oh, sweetie!” Verna exclaimed. “Never say that about yourself. It's just not true.” She smiled and crinkled again, as though to prove her sincerity. “You'd be amazed what can be done these days.” She took a good hard look at the woman. “Your hair, for instance. I can recommend a good conditioner and cream rinse that does wonders. I mean, just look at me — colour for days, and I still have great shine.” She batted her eyelashes. “As for the rest, well, a nip and tuck never hurt a body.”

“You mean you …?”

Verna shrugged. “Just a little. To enhance the natural. It never hurts.”

The woman looked a little shocked. “I've never really considered surgery. You see, I was — I mean, I
am
— a nurse, and the thought of it … well, it's just not me.”

Verna's interest was piqued. She was fascinated by surgery and anything medical. “A nurse! How exciting. Do you get to sit in on operations?”

The woman shook her head sadly. “Not anymore. I used to work in hospitals. Now I mostly work for private sources. I'm on my way to a new job, in fact. It's a place called Shark Island. I doubt you've heard of it.”

The look on Verna's face was pure astonishment. “Why — I'm going to Shark Island, too.”

“Are you? How peculiar.”

Verna laughed suddenly. “That's amazing. I mean, to think we both ended up in the same compartment. Are you going for the reunion?”

“What reunion?”

“You mean you don't know?” She shrugged. “Oh, it's nothing, really. Just a band getting together again after quite a few years. I'm sort of a … a groupie.”

The woman gave her a funny look. For a moment, Verna had an intuition. Then again, it was hard to say, especially with women.
Wouldn't it be ironic
, she thought,
if this woman hit on me? She definitely looks the type.

Verna shook the thought aside. “But why Shark Island? What are you going to do there?”

“I've been hired as a domestic, to look after the owner and his guests. I'll only be using my medical expertise as required.”

“How fun!” Verna's mind retreated to the rumours she'd heard. “Is the island really owned by Bono?”

The woman laughed. “Oh, I don't think so! Who told you that?”

“That's what I've heard. I'm just dying of curiosity. Who hired you? Can you say?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I'm sorry. It's none of my business, anyway. But surely you must have heard the rumours?”

The woman shook her head. “I hadn't, to be honest. I … I've been out of touch. All I know is I was hired by some rich entrepreneur to work on his island for the summer. The offer came completely out of the blue when I needed it most.” She paused and gave Verna a timid smile. “Sorry — that's probably TMI.”

What she didn't say was that she'd been only too happy to accept. With her past, jobs weren't easy to come by. And she wasn't about to tell this glamour queen sitting across from her that she'd been incarcerated as a guest of the government for the last eighteen months after borrowing a few painkillers from the hospital she'd worked at. Or that she'd lost her previous job for exactly the same reason. The first time it had been hushed up, but now she'd lost her licence and was no longer eligible to work in medical facilities.

“My name is Sandra,” she said.

“Verna,” the platinum blonde said enthusiastically, extending her hand.

“Good to meet you,” said Sandra.

“Likewise,” Verna said, crinkling her nose again. “Well, Sandra. Whoever hired you, I predict it's going to be a thrilling time for us all!”

D
avid
Merton left the dining car and made his way along the swaying passageway. Just inside the bar, a dark-haired woman caught his eye. Her pink, V-neck sweater showed off her cleavage. A plaid skirt and high-heeled boots completed the outfit. She was a cougar, but David didn't mind them a little older. And this one obviously took care of herself.

He glanced around. All the other booths were occupied.

“This seat taken?” he asked, trying not to be thrown off balance by the train's sudden movements.

The woman looked up, taking in the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, trim body, and muscular arms.

“Why, yes it is.” She flashed an inviting smile. “By you, I think.”

David laughed and sat across from her. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. I'm Janice, by the way.”

“Good to meet you, Janice. I'm David.”

“A pleasure.”

David took another look at her face. For a moment, she reminded him of someone else. Someone he hadn't thought of in years. The past vanished as the woman's smile faded.

A waiter came by balancing a tray. David ordered a Coors Light. Janice asked for a refill on her rum and Coke. Small talk ensued. The weather was mentioned.

Their drinks arrived. Janice picked up her glass and sipped.

“So what brings you to Washington, David?” she asked, unwrapping a stick of gum and inserting it lengthwise into her mouth.

David smiled. He preferred to be asked instead of bringing up the topic himself. Not that he was overly proud of what he did. It just seemed less like bragging. When he mentioned what he did, people usually assumed he was rich, though that was far from the truth.

“Real estate. I'm a broker. I'm here to assess an island off the coast. Apparently I've got what it takes to sell offshore property.”

An interested look. “And what is that, if I may ask?”

“A big client list.” He winked.

For a moment, he stopped to wonder yet again why the owner had requested him personally. He didn't have much of a track record, getting by mostly on small apartment rentals and bungalow sales in the suburbs. Who would ever think him qualified to sell an offshore island — particularly one rumoured to have been the site of highly suspect government experiments? Not that the owner had told him anything about it — he'd done his own investigating before accepting the invitation. But no matter. The letter said he'd come highly recommended. That was good enough for him. In his business, referrals were everything.

Selling real estate wasn't the worst thing in the world, though there was a time when he'd been a high-flying moneymaker who got his kicks selling tricks of a very different kind. But he'd lost his claim in the sweepstakes of life. Or rather, his claim had been tossed aside when he took the fall. He'd been compensated, of course, but those days were definitely over. If he knew what was good for him — and he thought he did — he would stay on the straight and narrow, making the odd sale and picking up over-the-hill sweethearts like this one. Strange how she reminded him of that other girl he hadn't seen in nearly twenty years.

“What's that funny look for?” Janice asked.

David shook his head. “Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.”

“Someone good?” She licked her lips and sat back in her seat to watch him. “Or someone bad?”

He smiled. “Good. Sort of. Though it ended badly.”

She picked up her glass and raised it in a toast. “Story of my life,” she said. “Drink up.”

David took a swig of beer and set his bottle down. “What did you say you were doing in Washington?”

“I didn't.” She raised her chin and looked at him smugly, exactly the way Sarah used to. “I'm here for a reunion,” she said. “Some old friends I haven't seen in a while. Quite a while, in fact.”

He held up his bottle. They clinked. “Here's to old friends,” he said. “And a few new ones.”

Two booths over, a white-haired man turned at the sound of their voices. His clear blue eyes moved over the crowd. The word “reunion” had caught his ear, but the piped-in muzak swelled and drowned out the rest of their conversation.

Crispin LaFey, world-renowned music critic, was on his way to a reunion, too. He was about to witness the return of the Ladykillers after more than fifteen years. Though for Crispin it would be a metaphoric witnessing, of course, since he was legally blind.

The get-together was expected to be an historic event. Still, Crispin wondered whether they would live up to their reputation as one of the most badly behaved groups of all time. Once an anarchic thrash band of the loudest, most garrulous sort, the Ladykillers' reputation had rested as much on their off-stage antics as anything they could reasonably claim to have created musically. After more than a decade, they managed to produce only three slim recordings, since re-released on CD, two of which Crispin believed stood the test of time — but just barely. The third and final album had been crap. Tellingly, it was their most popular work. A much-anticipated fourth record was never finished, though it was rumoured to be just waiting in the wings for a few finishing touches.

Crispin knew the Ladykillers well. He'd covered them since the early days when they were little more than a garage band from the wrong side of the tracks in Spokane. Long after The Who, long after Hendrix or the Motor City Five, the Ladykillers were known for destruction — and not only in the midst of their sets. Loud, violent, and bad-tempered, at times it seemed annihilation had been their intent more than anything that smacked of music-making.

Back then, of course, you could always chalk it up to artistic excess. Nothing succeeded — or sold — like excess. Then came that unfortunate incident at a CD release party where a young woman died. At the time, she'd seemed like just one more victim of an excessive age. Fingers had been pointed all around. Someone went to jail for it for a few years. But if the truth be told, more than one person had been responsible. Even the critics had to shoulder some of the blame. They'd stroked the band's egos and made them into something far bigger than they deserved. Ultimately, their legend had grown to such an extent that everyone thought they were the only important band around. The second coming of punk rock. And for that, he, Crispin LaFey, had been as much a part of it as anyone.

The music died down as a Carpenters tune came on. Crispin heard the couple talking again. She was asking about the island he was heading for.

“It's called Shark Island,” he replied.

For a moment, there was a lull broken only by the shushing of the rails beneath them.

“But that's where I'm going,” the woman said, placing a hand on his forearm.

The real-estate agent gave her a knowing smile. “Then let's order another round. We'll have a good time getting to know each other.” He looked over his shoulder briefly then turned back to Janice. His voice took on a smooth, practised sound. “I know we haven't known each other long,” he said, “but I feel I know you already.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is. So I'm just wondering — is there any chance you'd like to help me in my bid to become a member-in-good-standing of the Ten Foot High Club?”

She looked at him quizzically. “The what?”

He nodded over his shoulder at the washroom door. His eyebrows arched coyly as the tip of his tongue traced the outline of his lips. “The Ten Foot High Club. Seeing how this is a train and not a plane …”

She sat back in her seat and shook her head. “Brother, you are forward.”

“Never hurts to ask,” he said, taking another pull on his beer.

She smiled. “And sometimes you end up getting what you ask for.” She picked up her purse. “Give me thirty seconds. Then follow me.”

He watched in the mirror as she headed over to the washroom, unlatched the door, and let herself in.