“I suppose,” Hunsaker said, not knowing quite how to respond.
“He’s going to run out of victims, and that will call attention to him,” she said. She sounded angry, as if it personally affronted her that the murderer kept killing even though she didn’t think it wise.
“I don’t think he minds the attention,” Hunsaker said. “Can I help you get your things?”
“There’s not much,” she said, indicating the purchases she had made earlier sitting on top of the chair. “I can get them.”
Still, he took a pair of shoes and a blanket, just because he suddenly felt that he needed to be useful. Not that he hadn’t been useful. He’d been more useful today than he had been in weeks, maybe months. He’d repaired locks on four doors, including Agatha Kantswinkle’s (and then he sealed off that damn room, maybe forever), he’d gotten a whole bunch of rooms cleaned, he’d gotten the kitchen staff up and running again, and he actually had people in his hotel.
Until they murdered each other off, of course.
He left the door to her room open, since someone on his staff would be up here shortly to clean, fix this lock, and close off this room. No one was going to be in the older rooms, not while there were murderers on board.
“Did she suffer?” Carmichael asked as he led her down a flight of stairs, through a corridor, and into the newer—and, once upon a time, more hopeful—wing of his hotel.
He looked at her. She actually seemed concerned. No one had asked this question before. He hadn’t even asked it when he’d been talking with Anne Marie, and he probably should have.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly—or as honestly as he dared. It took time to suffocate. If the death was merciful, she would have passed out like Lysa and then stopped breathing, but if it wasn’t, she would have been gasping for air—
Although, he realized, had she had trouble breathing, all she had to do was step into the corridor and get far enough away from her door. She would have been able to clear her lungs, and maybe even get help.
“I suspect she didn’t suffer at all,” he added, now that he’d thought about it.
Carmichael grunted, which surprised him. He would have expected a “thank heavens” or some other kind of reassuring remark. Instead, she sounded almost displeased.
“Did you know her well?” he asked.
“No one knew her well,” Carmichael said. “No one wanted to.”
“Oh.” He would have suspected as much. “What about the other people who died? Were they unpopular too?”
“What’s it to you?” she asked.
He flushed. He usually wasn’t that nosy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just wondering.”
“Murder really shouldn’t be the subject of casual conversation, now should it?” Carmichael asked.
“I guess not,” he said, refraining from pointing out that right now, the conversation wasn’t as casual as she seemed to think. After all, three people had died on the ship, there was a fire, and now another person had died. Not that casual a conversation. Maybe even relevant.
They stopped at Carmichael’s new room. He unlocked it for her and went in first, feeling a slight surge of adrenaline as he took his first breath. Would he always feel that now in his guest rooms? Would he always be afraid that a single breath could kill him?
“Well,” Carmichael said following him in, “it’s not quite as pretty as the other room, but it does look newer.”
He hadn’t thought of the other room as pretty, although it had personality which this one lacked. This one was like all the other rooms in this wing, big enough for a large bed, a table and two chairs, as well as an entire wall dedicated to in-room entertainment, if someone wanted to pay a premium price.
He didn’t ask Carmichael what she wanted. He figured she could charge it to her bill if she decided she needed entertaining. He didn’t want to be near her any longer.
He set her shoes and blanket on the floor, then backed out of the room. She didn’t seem to notice. She was putting her clothing on top of the table as he left, as oblivious to his presence as a rich woman was to a robotic cleaner.
He hurried down the steps and back to the front desk, feeling unsettled. This group of people was beginning to frighten him. He had no idea when he’d be rid of them either. The ship had to be repaired or some other ship had to come here and get them out of his hotel.
For the first time in a very long time, he missed having some kind of security on the station. Someone other than the burliest member of his staff threatening the guests with increased fees—which was usually enough to calm them down, since Hunsaker already had control of their accounts.
But he didn’t want to threaten anyone here, because who knew how they would react?
He didn’t want to think about it—any of it. Instead, he focused on a cleaning schedule for the vacated rooms. A cleaning schedule and a repair schedule. Time to make sure all the locks worked properly and all the equipment was tamper-proof.
Time he started doing his job.
Again.
* * * *
Hideous man. Odious, actually. Who did he think he was to discuss other people’s deaths as if they were entertainments?
Susan Carmichael sat on the bed in her new room, wide awake now, wondering if she would ever sleep again.
Agatha dead, here and not on the ship. That had shaken Susan as much as figuring out that Remy’s death hadn’t been suicide. Not that the thought of a suicide in the room next to her hadn’t disturbed her too. Any death would have bothered her.
But the murders, the fire—somehow she had gotten it into her head as they fled onto Vaadum that they would be safe here, that their long nightmare was over.
She propped her pillows against the headboard and leaned her head back. She could feel the muscles in her back, so tight that any movement hurt.
She didn’t like this room. The other one had the illusion of safety. She had gotten that room when she still believed that the outpost would be much better than the ship.
Now she knew it was no different. A limited group of people trapped in a limited amount of space.
There was nowhere to run, no way to escape. The ship was incapacitated, and—so far as she could tell—the Presidio was the only ship on the station.
Did the locals (what should she call them? Station rats?)—did they have a way to leave? She wasn’t sure about that either, but she should probably find out.
She had been under the impression that Vaadum was one of the only safe stops between here and Commons Space Station.
But she didn’t even know how far Commons Space Station was from here. Maybe she could convince someone to take her there. Or to hire a ship and have it arrive, getting her out of here.
Of course, some of the others would want to come, and that wouldn’t work, because one of those others might be the killer.
She needed a way to defend herself. She didn’t have one, at least not yet. And now she wouldn’t be able to sleep again. She needed to stay awake, stay vigilant, should anyone try anything.
Susan pulled her knees to her chest. She needed a plan.
She just wasn’t sure where to begin.
* * * *
The captain had found a spot in the bar, toward the back under the dim lights. Richard had to cross most of the room—which smelled of beer and sweat and spilled whiskey—to realize that the captain had five empty glasses