"Where's your gavel? Your jury? What's my offense this time? You're not a judge but if you're going to judge me, well, sentence me to another life!" Easily…

Chapter Six: Five Little Indians, Going in for Law

Dinner, as it were, was even more uncomfortable than breakfast. None of the remaining five knew much about cooking, so Sylvester sent Marianne to make sandwiches. Surely she could do that much, he thought.

The old general lit his pipe and settled back into the chair to wait on Marianne and the sandwiches, his eyes flicking over the others. There was an empty chair between each of them, a blatant show of distrust on the part of all. It really was interesting, he told himself, and was only half surprised that he was enjoying this, The tension, the wary flickering glances, and the fear – especially the fear.

Especially the fear.

It reminded him of the war. He loved savoring the fear on the faces of the enemy, and now that he knew which of the remaining women was Owen he was savoring her fear the same way. She was insane; all killers were. All random killers, all serial killers, he mentally corrected himself. Sylvester had done Blarkett in not for a random reason, but for protection, for Angela, to keep her safe. It puzzled him why she had left after Blarkett's death. Did she suspect he had done it? He had told her, once, that he would kill for her to remain his always and forever. Angela never knew just how passionately he clung to that statement, never knew how true it was.

A tap on his shoulder brought him back to the present. "Bradley, stop doing that old soldier thing where you wander off in your head and forget you have a body."

Sylvester accepted the sandwich with a smile. "Apologies, my dear Marianne. You did remember the honey on mine, yes?"

At the mention of honey, which he suddenly remembered was connected with bees and therefore the last death, Velma choked on her water and, amidst a fit of violent coughing, excused herself. Ah, yes; the fear would be enough to make him content for now. He at least would survive, preferably both he and Marianne if the sneaky little devil didn't kill Marianne first.

He had already figured out the order she would kill them now. Jennifer first as there was plainly animosity between the two, then Daphne for trying to keep the peace rather than encourage uncertain tension, then Marianne, then him. He would be last, of course, because it was right. He simply wasn't supposed to die yet. If he had been asked he couldn't have told why he was sure of this order, but he was. And General Bradley Sylvester was never wrong.

The Indian boy facing him was one of five left. His small brown hand held to his forehead looked more like an army salute than the shading of eyes the others had thought, but maybe that was just Sylvester. The ceramic figure's black hair spilling over his bare brown shoulders matched his dark eyes that held a strangely sorrowful expression. Sylvester had to admit, whoever had crafted the centerpiece was truly an artist with an eye for detail, from the thin strokes of fiber-like hair to the muscles of the bare torso to the wrinkles of the deerskin breeches to the fine stitching on the moccasins. A pity "Owen" was wrecking the centerpiece – centerpiece, he mused.

Centerpiece. A homonym for center peace, which she was also wrecking. How ironic.

What was she doing with the little Indian boys, he wondered? Surely there couldn't be many places to hide or dispose of them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that all was silent – he was alone, and his sandwich lay on his plate only half-eaten while a fly buzzed about it, unsure of whether he would kill it if it landed or not. With a flick of his wrist he shooed it away. "Let me eat in p- silence…"

oOo

Normally she hated anything to do with journaling – diaries were for sobbing, pathetic ninnies, not levelheaded, intelligent individuals – but today Velma couldn't stop scribbling in the notebook. It was fascinating how easily her thoughts spilled onto the paper, and even more fascinating trying to keep up with where they were going. It was almost…frightening, in a way, but it all made sense. She'd wanted to look at this from another angle; here were five falling from her own fingers, dropping out of her mind.

If Sylvester did it – he likes violence. As is proven by the bruises on my wrists. He might be killing in the name of justice because he remembers the wars and believes all mistakes should be punished with death. Trigger-happy old man. Creeper, too…what's with him and Marianne?

If Jennifer did it – she's so self-righteous she probably believes all this is the will of God, like she did with that Evangeline girl. I'll bet she likes the sense of moral superiority it gives her too. It wouldn't be surprising if the next death is literally a Bible shoved down someone's throat. Note to self: do not sleep with mouth open.

If Marianne did it – come to think of it, the first two deaths were poison, and the other three wouldn't be too difficult for her to accomplish. She is fairly fit. Must check apiary for signs of struggle. She's obviously upset about her ex-boyfriend, which raises the matter of most of us having killed for or involving love. (Myself included if you count the significant lack thereof.)

If Daphne did it - …hm. Rather tough to come up with a motive for her. She seems to hate tension, whereas Owen would promote it, and she's pretty much the only one left who even pretends to like me at all. Could be an act though; will keep my guard up. Must study her more for possible motivation.

If I did it – psychodynamic motives, if any. I know I'm innocent, and I haven't been diagnosed with multiple personalities. At least to my knowledge.

She paused a moment. "I'm not crazy," she whispered to herself; then, more fiercely, "I'm not crazy. I'm – I suffer from childhood trauma." Great, that made her sound even more pathetic. With a moan she dropped her head into her hands. "I'm sorry, Trent. I'm not the little sister you had anymore." That was true. Trent's little sister only knew death as a word, and 'blood on one's hands' meant a paper-cut. She wouldn't have dreamed of killing anyone.

Velma shook her head. That little girl didn't exist. She read over the list she had just made, feeling excitement speed up her heart. This was what she'd wanted. Five different ways to look at the puzzle. Five different ways the pieces could fall.

Five little Indians going in for law.

"No!" She stood up, letting the pencil fall to the floor. "I'm not bringing us in for law! I'm doing something about this serial killer instead of passively waiting to die," she hissed at herself to disguise her own fear. In spite of herself she picked up the pencil and added next to her own motive, Subconsciously preparing for next murder?

She hoped not.

"Velma?"

She jumped. "What?" Turning, she relaxed. It was Jennifer. Then she remembered the motives she had just come up with and tensed again.

Jennifer's frown twitched. "I understand you must be feeling like a cornered animal right now. It would be easiest if you would simply tell us the truth. I'm sure the Lord would look favorably upon this whole matter if you repe-"

"But it isn't me," she interrupted quietly. "I can't 'repent' of something I haven't done, and I won't say it's me."

The older woman visibly stiffened. Her eyes flashed and she spun on her heel, tossing over her shoulder, "If you refuse to cooperate then I won't try to help you. The more you deny this sin the more your guilt is proven. Think of what your parents would say!"

"That's why they're dead."

Jennifer clicked away without comment. So much for seeming sympathetic Friday night. Velma exhaled and picked up the notebook, tucking the pencil into its spiral. She would just have to prove her innocence herself then.

And if she could do that and at the same time conveniently let Jennifer be killed…

She bit down on her finger forcefully. That kind of thinking scared her. It also reinforced her 'subconscious' theory, which she sincerely did not like. "Come on, Velma," she told herself. "Let's go sweet-talk some honeybees."

The walk to the apiary wasn't nearly as short as she would have liked. It gave her mind more time to panic. You don't want to go there, it screeched in protest. That's where Shaggy died. Why are you going there?

"Buzz off," she muttered under her breath, then winced. Unconsciously making lame bee puns while walking to the site of a murder?

Yep, she was crazy. Forget denial.

A stray bee alerted her of its presence with a whining bzz. "Hello there," she crouched down to be eye level with it. "I don't suppose you would be a witness, would you?"

Bzz, bzzzz bzzz.

"Really. It would be nice to question a witness. Too bad you don't speak English."

Bzzz.

She sighed and stood again. "And now I'm asking a bee to provide evidence. No, of course I'm not crazy. What leads you to that conclusion?" She glanced down at the bee. "Don't answer that." Turning her attention toward the actual apiary, she studied the ground. It did look like some sort of scuffle had taken place from the marks of heels and feet in the dirt. Scuffling meant he realized he was about to be killed. But who would he follow out to the apiary?

Bzzz bzzzzzz?

The bee was not asking a question. It was not asking a question! Bees did not sound inquisitive! "Well, he didn't come out here with me," she told it. "Unless there's something to the subconscious/multiple personality theory. Which there isn't. You're not really talki- buzzing to me, are you?"

Bzzz…

It wandered off into one of the manmade hives. "Of course not." She blew out at her bangs. Jinkies. She was actually carrying on a conversation with an insect. "Okay," Velma tried to redirect herself back to the matter at hand, "focus on the facts. One: there was a struggle. That means Shaggy figured out it was Owen before he was killed." She stopped. Killed? Marianne had stated he was dead from allergic reactions to the bee stings. So was it really killed? Or was it an accidental death? "Two," she said slowly as she processed this, "he was actually stung by bees. Three: one of us lured - " This word made her cringe, but she continued aloud anyway. " – him out here without him knowing he was being…right." A yawn made her realize she probably should have spent less time reading on the history of the island looking for any hope of a way out last night and more time sleeping like the others presumably had done. "Four," she sat down and leaned back against a tree so she could still observe the apiary. "He was stung three times, but in what order…?" She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the trunk. At least Owen wouldn't be able to find her out here.

Bzzz…

oOo

Daphne looked up from poking the fire when Jennifer plunked down in the grey armchair, mumbling heatedly to herself. "Bad day?"

"Try bad weekend," the woman laughed harshly. Daphne shut her eyes briefly. If she laughed more often it probably wouldn't sound in need of oiling. "You needn't bother with the fire, we'll all be warm enough soon."

She finished restacking the firewood and went to sit down on the couch, facing Jennifer. "Really? Why do you say that? I thought death was a rather cold thing."

"Because we'll be in the fires of hell, my dear!" Her eyes were fiery too. Daphne inched away. "You've sinned, we've all sinned, and there are no signs of repenting among us!" She was breathing heavily and gulping down air now. "I've sinned! I've sinned, alright? Do you hear me? I've sinned! I admit it. I should have let God be the deciding factor in Evangeline's punishment but instead I took matters into my own hands like a typical, stupid human!"

She nodded slowly to pacify her. "Yes, I understand." She was a Christian herself, but Jennifer's zeal for judgment and punishment bordered on obsession. Definitely over the top. Maybe they were all crazy. Obviously Velma, Jennifer's mad need for judgment, Sylvester's love for brutal war stories, Marianne's odd way of drifting off every now and then to what Daphne suspected was Evan-land.

And herself. Incapable of feeling.

From the moment they had arrived she had felt as if she were experiencing everything in third person, as if she weren't really there but only watching someone else who looked and acted like her. The shock of this was why when Freddy had suddenly keeled over she had burst into tears. His death was only an excuse to let out the confusion and panic this new lack of feeling brought. She did manage to bring herself under control again quickly though. That at least was an advantage of depersonalization.

She realized Jennifer had been ranting. "…and I just can't take it anymore!"

This was slightly awkward. How to comfort a woman when you haven't heard anything she's said? "You only have to make it through to tomorrow," she settled on. "The ferry master will be here. Owen only told us we would be here for the weekend."

Horror flashed across Jennifer's face and she suddenly leaned forward. "Don't you see? We were told that because we'll be dead before the ferry master arrives! When that man comes and finds no one on the jetty, he'll come up to the house and find ten dead bodies instead. Owen is going to kill us all by tomorrow, so there's no way out!" She looked about twice her age when she buried her face in her gnarled hands and rocked back and forth, moaning, "No way out, no way out, no way out!"

This was not the reaction she'd been hoping for. "We can still avoid the deaths," Daphne tried.

It didn't work. "No, we can't!" Jennifer snapped. She ticked off on her fingers as she talked. "One got in Chancery, a red herring swallowed one, a big bear hugged one, one got frizzled up and one hung himself. The only one possibly able to be prevented is the hanging, and that will be Owen! There is no way to prevent any more deaths unless we discover who Owen is."

And we already know, Daphne added silently.

The older woman leaned back in the rocking chair and closed her eyes. "I'm going to take a nap," she said tiredly. "This kind of stress can't be good for my health."

Funny. She would have thought Jennifer to be of a sturdy constitution. "I'll go take a walk," she said instead. Rising to her feet, she smiled when a soft snore erupted in Jennifer's throat. If everyone could get to sleep that quickly, she thought, I wouldn't know the meaning of insomnia.

Her feet took over the walk. Daphne let them. What did she care where she went? It wasn't as if there was any real place to go on this blasted island. It would give her time to think. If Jennifer was right and they really couldn't prevent any more deaths, then how would she be able to outwit Owen and survive? She supposed her parents could access her bank account if they needed money, and the royalties from her work with Armani would help them get by well enough. A shame she wouldn't be able to submit her latest designs though. They were inspired by this weekend, and she hated them all. There was a strapless crimson dress that wound around the body, giving it a seamless appearance. That was inspired by the thought of liquid poison, and of blood. There was also a pair of pants with a trail of bees wrapping around the right leg. The one she hated most though was a high-necked shirt with short sleeves. The ribbed material accented the choked look of the collar. That one's death hadn't actually happened yet.

The hanging.

She slowed when she saw where her determined feet were taking her. The apiary? Why here? Maybe she was just walking by it. Whatever her feet would have decided, however, was quickly changed when she spotted a figure curled on the ground. Panic welled up in her. Not another dead body in the apiary! She hurried over to the still form. Velma? But – she – what? As far as she could tell the other girl didn't have any markings on her. So poison? Marianne!

"Quick, Daphne, think of something," she whispered out loud, blue eyes darting back and forth. Maybe she wasn't dead yet. Maybe she could still be saved. She had to check first.

She had just lifted her wrist to check for a pulse when Velma sat up suddenly and smacked her across the face. "Oh! Daphne! I'm sorry!" Surprise was written on her face.

Daphne fell back onto the dirt in a sitting position, silently ruing the dirtying of her dress. "It's okay," she forced herself to say with a smile. "You looked…"

"Oh," she said. "…oh. I think I fell asleep. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

This didn't seem like killer behavior, she pondered. "I will be if I can get the grass stains out of this dress."

Velma laughed. "Come on, there has to be a washer back at the house, and judging by the number of suitcases you brought there has to be at least one more dress you can wear, right?"

"Right," Daphne said. She was getting suspicious now. Why so friendly out of the blue? And why did she have a notebook all the way out here? If she asked she'd be sure to get a lie though. No; she wouldn't ask what she was doing taking a nap out here in the first place.

It wasn't worth it since they'd all be dead by tomorrow anyway.

The two of them were almost back to the house when they heard the scream. "That sounded like Marianne," Daphne cried.

Velma's eyes were wide. "Do you think - ?" Before she finished she took off toward the house. Daphne sprinted after her. She grabbed at the glass door to keep it from shutting, briefly wondering how she could go so fast, and stumbled through into the library, where the others were already gathered.

Sylvester lay sprawled on the floor, eyes bulging, face purplish, mouth gagged with crumpled sheets of paper.

"Uncle Bradley!" Marianne screamed again. "Uncle Bradleeeey!" The name ended in a hysterical shriek. The blonde, normally so calm and collected, now spun to face the other three with wild eyes. "Which of you killed him? Which one of you did this?"

No one moved.

"Who killed him?" Marianne whipped back around to look at the body. "Uncle, Uncle," she whimpered, dropping to her knees beside the dead man. She bowed her head and shook silently for a few moments. When she lifted her head again she was composed, no outward signs of her breakdown. "He's already dead," she said. She examined his throat carefully and pronounced the cause to be strangulation with his own shirt collar. Her hand darted to his mouth to retrieve the crumpled paper. She smoothed it out, carefully dabbing the saliva off on Sylvester's shirt. "I believe these are yours," she said coldly, handing the paper to Jennifer.

"What – no!" She rushed out of the room. The sudden quiet made Daphne remember what Marianne had said. She must have said 'I'm his niece;' that accounted for the n or m sound. Jennifer returned with her King James Bible, white as a sheet. "These pages were torn from my Bible," she said through gritted teeth. "Whoever has torn this will be sorry."

Velma swallowed nervously. "I…I'm going to go to my room for a little while." She darted out before any of the others could speak.

Marianne sat back on her heels as a ghost of a smile graced her face. "And then there were four. Who's next? Who knows? …who cares?"