Page 19 of Ship Happens
Murmurs rise from the crowd. Speculations swarm, but Jim shushes us.
“Quiet, quiet. All will be revealed in time.” He shuffles his notecards, then prepares to read the first one. “For the first game of the cruise, let’s play a little trivia, shall we? Table one, we’ll start with something easy. Tell me, which infamous killer was known as the Co-ed Killer?”
Cat shoots from her seat. “Edmund Emil Kemper the third!”
“Thank you, Miss Novak,” Jim says, “but you are seated at tabletwo.”
“Whoops,” she whispers as she takes a seat.
Jim clears his throat and shuffles to the next card, then tries again. “Tableone.” He pins Cat with a pointed stare, and she makes a zipping motion over her lips. “Who was the first to coin the term ‘serial murderer’?”
Table one puts their heads together and begins discussing their options.
“You have thirty seconds to answer,” Jim says through the mic.
“That’s so easy,” Kindra whispers. “Everyone knows Robert Ressler said it first.”
Frankie turns toward Kindra. “Actually, Robert Ressler popularized the term serialkiller, but Ernst Gennat, a German criminologist, used the term serialmurdererfirst. I’ll save you the German pronunciation.”
Fuck, that’s exactly the sort of shit a fed would know.
“What did you say your killer name was again?” Eve asks.
Frankie opens her mouth to answer, and my life flashes before my eyes. If she tells anyone else she’s the fucking Fisherman, she’ll be dead before the clock strikes midnight.
“She’s the Mona Lisa,” I blurt, “because she always wears a smile while killing.”
Frankie looks geared to argue, so I’m grateful when a stranger stands from table one.
“That would be Ernst Gennat,” the man says.
A mischievous twinkle glints in Jim’s eyes as he smiles down at the man. “Mark Lewis, isn’t it?”
The man nods.
“Well, very good job, Mark Lewis. Who on your team knew the answer was Ernst Gennat?”
“That was all me, sir.” Mark blasts Jim with a proud smile, looking and sounding every bit the government agent.
Sir? Ha.
Aven—one of the new guys—stands at table one as his teammate sits. “Jim, permission to kill Mark Lewis?”
The pitifully doomed Mark Lewis jumps to his feet and runs for the door.
“Permission granted,” Jim says.
Aven glances around the room. Seeing no good weapons, he settles on the newly empty chair. His thick arms and barrel chest are so massive that it looks like he’s plucking up dollhouse furniture when he grips it and lifts it into the air. In a few quick strides, he’s reached Mark Lewis, who struggles to open what must be a locked door. Jim really thought of everything.
“He’s going to kill him here? In front of everyone?” Frankie whispers, and I’m glad I’m the only one who heard her.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “We’re all killers here, remember?”
She sits back, but I don’t miss the way her hands can’t keep still in her lap.
A loudthunkcomes from the other side of the room, and I turn in time to see Aven bring the chair down on the fed’s head for a second time. A red freshet burbles from a split running through his scalp. Mark goes down, but Aven doesn’t stop. Evenonce a chair leg flies off and puts a large hole in the wall, he keeps swinging until Mark Lewis’ skull is reduced to pulp and bone shards. His job finished, Aven returns to his seat, and the game resumes.
Our table is next, and I can only hope that Jim doesn’t ask a question that could blow Frankie’s cover. Then again, she’s so busy gawping at the twitching body by the door...I nudge her leg, and she schools her face, finally wrenching her gaze away from death.
